by Lu Xun
After hot water and cornbread had been passed around and Laozi left to rest a while, Xi proposed that his lecture begin. Aware from the outset that resistance would be futile, Laozi readily assented. After a certain amount of hustle and bustle, an audience slowly filled the room: the eight who had escorted him up to the lodge, plus four more policemen, two more customs officers, five more scouts, a secretary, an accountant and a cook. Some brought brushes, knives and wooden slips, ready to take notes.
In the middle of them all sat Laozi, still as a block of wood. After a long silence, he cleared his throat a few times, and the lips within his white beard began slowly moving. Everyone held their breath and leant in to listen.
‘The Way that can be spoken, is not the eternal Way; the name that can be named, is not the eternal name. Heaven and earth began from namelessness; that which is named is the mother of all creatures…’2
Everyone exchanged glances; no one wrote anything down.
‘Only he that has rid himself of desire will see the secret essences,’ Laozi went on, ‘while he that still has desire will see their results. Though both spring from the same mould, they take different names. This sameness of mould is the Mystery; or – the Darker than Mystery. It is the gateway to the secret essences…’
Expressions of perplexed discontent rippled about the audience. A great yawn issued forth from the mouth of one of the customs officers, while the secretary surrendered to a nap, his knife, brush and wooden slips clattering out of his hands on to the mat.
Apparently unperturbed by his reception, or perhaps even encouraged by it, Laozi responded by going on in even greater detail. His lack of teeth, his poor enunciation, and his Shaanxi accent with its Hunan lilt – which mixed his l’s with his n’s, and prefaced everything with an ‘errr’ – ensured no one understood a thing he said. Time crept on, his audience suffering unusual torments all the while.
For the sake of appearances, his audience did not attempt to leave, but as the lecture dragged on, postures slumped, with each listener increasingly lost in his own thoughts. When Laozi finished with ‘The Way of the sage is to act without striving’, no one moved. After a pause, Laozi decided to add one more aperçu:
‘The end.’
At last, everyone awoke – as if from the longest dream of their lives. Even though, having lost all sensation in their legs after remaining seated for so long, they were powerless to move, they still felt a sense of joyful release.
Laozi was escorted to one of the side-rooms, and entreated to rest a while. There, he drank a few mouthfuls of hot water, then sat, still as a block of wood.
In the other rooms, animated conferences were ongoing. Soon enough, four representatives went in to see Laozi, to deliver the following message: because he had talked too fast, and his pronunciation was not what you might call received, no one had managed to take any notes. As a result, there was a lamentable lack of a written record of his talk – could he leave any lecture notes?
‘Arr coodn’t anderstind a worrrrd he soud,’ the accountant complained, in an accent that leaned now to the north, now to the south.
‘Whoo deen’t ya gust writt it orl eet yoorsel?’ tried the secretary, mangling his suggestion with thick south-eastern vowels and consonants. ‘Sar ya wamt huf woosted ya broth.’
Although Laozi struggled to make out what they were saying, from the fact that the other two were laying out a brush, knife and wooden slips before him, he supposed that they wanted him to write his lecture down. Aware, again, that resistance was futile, he readily agreed, but said he would not start until tomorrow – it being too late to begin today.
Well pleased with this outcome, the envoys retreated.
The next morning, the sky was overcast. Although uneasy at heart, Laozi set promptly about his task, because he was anxious to leave – and there would be no leaving until he had produced his transcript. The sight of the pile of wooden slips before him made him even more uneasy.
He sat stoically down and began writing. Remembering what he had said the day before, he gave it some further thought, then wrote a sentence down. Glasses were still some way off invention, and the labour cost his eyes – cloudy with old age – no little effort. Through a day and a half, he wrote, squinting fiercely all the way and breaking only to drink hot water and eat bread – at the end of which he had produced a text of no more than five thousand characters.
‘That should get me out of here,’ he thought.
He then threaded the wooden slips on to string, making two volumes in all, and – leaning on his walking stick – made his way over to the warden’s office to hand over his manuscript and announce his imminent departure.
The delighted warden thanked him profusely and tried his best to keep him a little longer. Seeing that Laozi was not to be dissuaded, however, he reluctantly agreed and ordered the policemen to re-saddle his guest’s black ox. Taking a packet of salt, and one of sesame, together with fifteen bread rolls from his own shelves, the warden placed them all in a white cloth bag that he had confiscated at some previous juncture, and presented them to Laozi as provisions for his journey. He then clarified that this was a special bonus rate for elderly writers. For younger writers, the base rate was ten rolls.
After thanking him repeatedly, Laozi took the bag and led his ox out to the pass with the usual retinue. The warden strenuously urged him to mount the ox, which, after some demurring, he finally did. Having said his goodbyes, he turned the ox’s head and set off slowly down the great, sloping highway to the West.3
Everyone watched from the entrance to the pass as the animal quickly gathered speed. For the first twenty or thirty feet, no one had any trouble making out Laozi’s white hair, yellow gown, black ox and white bag. Beyond that, clouds of grey dust began to blanket man and ox, until all had been swallowed up in waves of powdery yellow.
Intensely relieved, everyone went back inside. Stretching out after the strain of it all, gleefully rubbing their hands at the prospect of reviewing Laozi’s precious transcript, a crowd of them followed the warden back to his office.
‘So this is it, is it?’ the accountant picked up one set of wooden slips and looked through it. ‘Nice clear handwriting. I’m sure we’ll manage to flog it to someone.’
‘ “The Way that can be spoken, is not the eternal Way,” ’ intoned the secretary, glancing down the first slip. ‘Same boring old rubbish. Gives me a headache just reading it.’
‘Sleep’s the only cure for that,’ said the accountant, setting another wooden slip down.
The secretary laughed. ‘I couldn’t keep my eyes open. I was expecting a bit of kiss-and-tell, something about his love affairs. I’d never have sat through that lecture if I’d known how boring he was going to be.’
‘Your mistake, then,’ the warden smiled. ‘He’s never had a love affair in his life.’
‘How do you know?’ the secretary asked, surprised.
‘If you hadn’t dozed off, you’d have heard him say “everything can be done by doing nothing”. He’s as ambitious as a prince, but as weak as a pauper – since he thinks he can do anything, he ends up doing nothing. If he fell for one person, he’d have to fall for everyone. How could he fall in love? How would he dare? Look at you, now – making eyes at every girl you see, whether she’s beautiful as the day itself, or ugly as sin. If you ever get married, you’ll have to rein yourself in a bit – take a leaf out of our accountant’s book here.’
A wind had sprung up; everyone felt the chill.
‘Where was the old man going? What for?’ The secretary took the opportunity to change the subject.
‘He said he was going into the desert,’ the warden said scornfully. ‘Hmph – we’ll see how far he gets. Not much to eat out there – or drink. I reckon his stomach’ll bring him back soon enough.’
‘We’ll get him to write us another book, then,’ the accountant cheered up. ‘Though this one cost us too much bread. Next time, we should say we’re concentrating on encouraging first
-time writers. Five rolls should be quite enough for two volumes.’
‘We’ll see. He might make a fuss.’
‘Not if he’s hungry he won’t.’
‘My worry is no one will want to read this,’ the secretary gestured at the transcript. ‘We might not even get five rolls back on it. I mean, he seems to be saying that if our warden wants to become a great man, he should throw in his job and do nothing all day.’
‘I’m not worried,’ the accountant replied. ‘Plenty of mugs out there who’ll read it. Retired wardens, or hermits waiting to become wardens.’
The wind sprang up again, darkening the sky with yellow dust. The warden glanced out of the door and noticed a crowd of policemen and scouts standing idly about, listening to them chatting.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ he roared at them. ‘It’s dusk! The city walls are crawling with smugglers! Get out on patrol!’
The loiterers disappeared. Those inside the room also drew their conversation to a close, and the accountant and secretary walked out. After dusting his table with his sleeve, the warden placed the two sets of slips on the shelf piled with confiscated goods – salt, sesame, cloth, beans, bread, and so on.
December 1935
ANTI-AGGRESSION
I
It took Gongsun Gao, Zixia’s disciple, several attempts to track Mozi1 down, since he was never at home. Eventually, on Gongsun’s fourth or fifth visit, they coincided at the gate – Gongsun Gao arriving as Mozi returned. They went inside together.
After a brief exchange of pleasantries, the visitor gazed down at the holes in the mat.
‘So it is a policy of anti-aggression that you propose, master?’ he inquired politely.
‘Just so,’ replied Mozi.
‘Then you are saying – a man of honour should not fight?’
‘Precisely that.’
‘But every creature fights – pigs, dogs… and surely men, too…’
‘You Confucians – you waffle on about the sage emperors, but you take life lessons from pigs and dogs. How pathetic you all are.’ Mozi now stood up and strode off to the kitchen. ‘You don’t understand me.’
Heading straight out to the well by the back door, he wound the windlass and drew half a pitcher of well water. After some dozen mouthfuls, he placed the earthenware urn back down on the ground, wiped his mouth and gazed towards a corner of the garden.
‘Ah-lian!’ he shouted. ‘What are you doing back?’
Already trotting over in his teacher’s direction, Ah-lian drew to a halt in front of him, his arms respectfully at his sides.
‘I’d had enough, master,’ he told him, rather indignantly. ‘You can’t trust a thing they say. They promised me a thousand basins of corn, then gave me only five hundred. I had to leave.’
‘Would you have left if they’d given you more than a thousand basins?’
‘No.’
‘So it’s not that you don’t trust them – it’s because they were short-changing you.’
Mozi raced back into the kitchen.
‘Geng Zhuzi!’ he shouted. ‘Mix me some cornmeal!’
The disciple in question, a vigorous-looking young man, now emerged from the hall.
‘About ten days’ worth, master?’
‘That should do,’ answered Mozi. ‘Has Gongsun Gao left?’
‘Yes,’ Geng Zhuzi smiled. ‘In a proper fury. He said we were like animals – preaching universal love instead of honouring our fathers.’
Mozi also smiled.
‘Are you going to Chu,2 master?’
‘Indeed. So you’ve heard, too?’ While Geng Zhuzi added water to the cornmeal, Mozi lit a fire of dry branches with a flint and some wormwood, to bring the water to a simmer. ‘Remember Gongshu Ban3 – our old countryman?’ he meditated, eyeing the flame. ‘Always making trouble – too clever for his own good. With his grapnels and pikes, and his teaching the King of Chu to fight Yue.4 As if that wasn’t enough. Now he’s up to his old tricks again, with siege ladders – encouraging the King of Chu to attack Song.5 Song’s tiny – it won’t stand a chance. I’m going to try to put an end to his mischief.’
When Geng Zhuzi had placed the cornmeal dough in the steamer, Mozi went back to his own room, where he rummaged from out of a cupboard a handful of dried, salted pigweed and a broken copper knife, and from somewhere else a tattered old rag. Once Geng Zhuzi brought over the steamed cornbread, Mozi wrapped the lot up in a bundle. He packed no change of clothes or towel for washing his face. Tightening his leather belt, he went to the entrance hall, put on his straw sandals, placed his bundle on his back and walked out without a backwards glance, his knapsack still billowing steam.
‘When should we expect you back, master?’ Geng Zhuzi shouted from the house.
‘Not for at least three weeks,’ Mozi replied, walking on.
II
By the time Mozi crossed into Song, the laces on his straw sandals had broken three, perhaps four times, and the soles of his feet were burning. Pausing to examine them, he discovered a large hole in the bottom of his sandal, and calluses and blisters all over the soles of his feet. He walked on, ignoring the pain, looking about him as he went. Though there were plenty of people around, the landscape had been slower to recover, and still bore the scars of years of flooding and war. In the three days it took him to reach the capital, he didn’t see a single decent house, tree or patch of fertile land – or indeed anyone with much life to him.
The city wall, too, was looking distinctly run-down. In a few places, it had been patched with new stone, and piles of mud rose up by the moat, as if some dredging work had been carried out. Right now, though, the only people in sight were a few idlers, sitting by the side of the moat and fishing, it seemed.
‘Have they heard?’ Mozi wondered. Examining their faces more carefully, he recognized none of his own disciples.
Planning to cross the city, he entered by the northern gate and headed south along the main thoroughfare. The place was sunk in a bleak quiet: all the shop windows were full of sale notices, but empty of either goods or customers. A fine, claggy yellow dust lay mounded over the roads.
‘Who would bother to attack a place like this?’ Mozi thought.
On he went, greeted only by the signs of poverty and weakness. Maybe they were too used to attacks to be surprised by any news they might have had of the imminent Chu assault. As they had nothing – neither food nor clothes – except their lives left to them, no one thought of running away. Finally, when the watchtower of the southern pass came into view, he glimpsed around a dozen people gathered on a street corner, apparently listening to a storyteller.
‘We’ll show them what the people of Song are made of!’ the man was shouting, as he flung his hands about. ‘We’ll fight to the death!’
Mozi recognized the voice: his student Cao Gongzi.
He hurried out through the southern gate, without pushing his way into the crowd to greet him. On he walked, for another day and through half a night. After a few hours’ sleep under the eaves of a farmhouse, he rose at dawn and returned to the road. His straw sandals, by this point, had disintegrated impractically. As his knapsack was still in service carrying cornmeal loaves, he was forced to tear a strip off his robe to bandage his feet.
But the cloth was too thin to offer much protection against the bumpy country roads, and walking became even more painful. That afternoon, he sat at the foot of a small locust tree to open his bundle for some lunch and rest his feet. Far off in the distance, a tall man approached, pushing a small but heavy cart. When he drew near, the man stopped in front of Mozi.
‘Master,’ he panted, wiping the sweat from his face with an edge of his robe.
‘Is that sand?’ Mozi asked, recognizing his student Guan Qian’ao.
‘Yes – against the siege ladders.’
‘What other preparations are being made?’
‘We’ve raised some hemp, some ashes, a bit of iron. But it’s not easy: those who still have things
aren’t willing to give them up, and those who are don’t have anything to give. A lot of hot air blowing about…’
‘I heard Cao Gongzi on his soapbox yesterday, shouting about “what Song’s made of” and “fighting to the death”. You can tell him from me that he needs to drop his abstractions. Dying is all right in its way – but it’s not the easiest thing in the world; especially if you want to do some good by it.’
‘He’s not so easy to get hold of,’ Guan Qian’ao sadly replied. ‘The last two years, since he started working for the government, he’s not had any time for us.’
‘What about Qin Huali?’
‘He’s busy, too, experimenting with a quick-firing crossbow. I expect he’s just outside the western gate, checking over the lie of the land, so your paths probably won’t cross. Are you off to Chu, to find Gongshu Ban?’
‘Indeed,’ said Mozi, ‘though I’ve no idea whether he’ll listen to me. Carry on with what you’re doing – don’t pin your hopes on me.’
Nodding, Guan Qian’ao watched Mozi set off again, then pushed his creaking cart on towards the city.
III
Ying, the capital of the southern state of Chu, was a whole world away from Song: its roads broad; its houses well maintained; its inhabitants immaculately turned out; its shops brimming with desirable goods – snow-white linen, scarlet chillies, dappled deerskins, fat lotus seeds. Although its people were shorter than the average northerner, they had a confident vitality about them. Next to them, Mozi – with his ancient, tattered robe and feet wrapped in cloth – looked the image of a professional beggar.
Further in towards the centre of the city, Mozi found himself in an enormous public square, packed with stalls and jostling crowds – the city’s main shopping area and crossroads. Finding an old man who looked moderately well educated, Mozi asked for directions to Gongshu Ban’s residence. The language barrier, unfortunately, mired the two of them in misunderstanding. Just as he was starting to trace out the words on the palm of his hand, there was a loud noise and everyone began chorusing Chu folk songs, led by one of the state’s singing stars, Sai Xiangling. When even the old man began to hum along, Mozi knew he wasn’t going to get any more joy out of him, and so off he strode. But there was no escape from the singing – no one was to be distracted until Sai was done. Eventually, after things quietened down, Mozi made further inquiries at a carpenter’s shop.