by Confucius
The Master said, “Qiu [Ran You] tends to hold back, and so I like to urge him on. You [Zilu] has the fire of two, and so I like to restrain him.”
Ran You (Qiu) was not afraid to die on the battlefield, and if he was holding back, it was because he had political ambitions and so was cautious about not offending those who could make or break his career. (3.6 and 11.17 offer examples of such behavior.) And this was the reason why Confucius wanted him to take action as soon as there were things to be done, lest he should change his mind. Zilu was just the opposite. He was someone ready “to wrestle a tiger with his bare hands” and ready “to go to his death without regret.” Confucius was fearful for Zilu’s life, and so he wanted him to think before he acted, and the most effective way to hold him back, he felt, was to ask this disciple to be mindful of the fact that his father and elder brother were still alive. To many scholars, this example clearly illustrates what Confucius was like as a teacher: he guided his disciples each according to his temperament.
11.23 When Confucius found his life under threat in Kuang, Yan Hui fell behind. [Later, when they reunited,] Confucius said, “I thought you were dead.”
Yan Hui replied, “With you, Master, still alive, how would I dare to die?”
The crisis at Kuang, first mentioned in the Analects (9.5), received a lot of attention from historians and writers of the Warring States period and in the Han. They tried to explain why Confucius was surrounded by an angry mob when he entered the town of Kuang and how he managed to disband the crowd and save his own skin. But here we learn that Yan Hui was not with him when his life was “under threat.” This bit of information in the early records, together with the conversation that followed, became, again, fodder for speculation. Scholars ask: Just how did Yan Hui get left behind? Was it chance or did he deliberately stay out of sight? And why did he say that he would not “dare to die” while his teacher was still alive? In addressing these questions, they like to emphasize the love Yan Hui had for Confucius—like that of a filial son for his father, they say. And just as such a son would not act rashly while his father was alive, for fear that his death might leave his father all alone, Yan Hui, who unlike Zilu was cautious and “good at planning,” made himself scarce until it was safe to emerge. But how did he know that Confucius would survive the mob in Kuang? Han writers seem to think that Confucius’ integrity eventually would have become apparent to the people there and that when the people realized the man that he was they would have let him go. Such arguments are built on hindsight—they let Yan Hui off the hook too easily if his absence in Kuang was unintended.
11.24 Ji Ziran asked, “Could one consider Zhong You [Zilu] and Ran Qiu to be great ministers?”
The Master replied, “I thought you were going to ask me about other things, yet you are only interested in questions about You [Zilu] and Qiu. The term ‘great ministers’ applies to those who serve their lord in a moral way. If they simply cannot, then they stop. Now You and Qiu are men appointed to fill the ranks of a supervisory staff [in a hereditary family].”
“Does this mean, then, they will always do what they are told to do?”
The Master said, “Not if they are told to kill their father or their ruler.”
Ji Ziran was probably a member of the Jisun family, scholars say, and so was interested to learn from Confucius if Zilu and Ran Qiu were fit to be called “great ministers.” Confucius, at first, seemed irritated by his question, and when he did respond, it was not with the glowing evaluation one might expect from someone who was devoted to his students and who wanted them to fare well in the world. But this was the kind of teacher Confucius had made himself to be, clear-eyed and exact, and when Ji Ziran pushed him further, when he wanted to know whether Zilu and Ran Qiu were officials of the kind who would simply follow orders since they lacked the scrupulosity and courage of great ministers. Confucius said no, there were still things they would not do—they would not kill their father or their ruler even if ordered to do so.
11.25 Zilu wanted to find a way to let Zigao become a steward of Bi. Confucius said, “You are going to do harm to someone else’s son.”
Zilu replied, “But there are people for him to govern and the altar of grain and soil for him to look after. Why must one read books to be considered to have learned?”
The Master said, “It is for this reason that I dislike glib men [ningzhe].”
Zigao was one of the youngest of Confucius’ disciples, and when Zilu wanted to recommend him to the Jisuns, to let him be a steward in this family’s stronghold, a town called Bi, Confucius raised strong objection, saying that if Zilu decided to follow through with such a plan he would be doing a disservice to this young man—to “someone else’s son.” Zigao, in Confucius’ view, was not ready to accept an appointment from this powerful political family, which had nearly always gotten their way both with those who were above and those who were below them. Even someone as savvy as Ran Qiu, we learn in 11.17, could only follow orders when he was in their service. This, I believe, was what Confucius was afraid of, that Zigao would be powerless against the Jisuns because he, by nature, was “simpleminded” and had a long way to go in his education. Zilu, in defense, argued that Zigao could learn on the job—that learning should not just be “reading books.” This, of course, was how he had learned, which, Confucius would say, accounted for Zilu’s rough and stubborn character and for his tendency to act without thought. And as for Confucius’ final comment, it could refer to Zilu, that Zilu’s retort was glib (ning ), or it could also refer to those whose education consisted only of worldly experience, without the benefit of history and poetry.
11.26 Zilu, Zeng Xi, Ran You [Ran Qiu], and Gongxi Hua were seated in the Master’s company. The Master said, “Just because I am a little older than you are, don’t let that stop you [from speaking your mind]. You have often said, ‘No one understands me.’ If someone did understand you [and appreciate you], what would you do then?”
Zilu quickly offered a response: “If I were to govern a state of a thousand chariots, one that was squeezed between two powerful states, worn out by unwanted warfare, and made even weaker by famine, I would be able, within three years, to give the people courage and let them know the right way to put their lives in order.”
Confucius smiled at him.
“And Qiu [Ran Qiu], what about you?”
“If I were put in charge of a place measuring sixty or seventy li square, or even fifty to sixty li square, I would be able, within three years, to meet the people’s needs. As for the practice of rites and music, I will have to leave them to the gentlemen.”
“What about you, Chi [Gongxi Hua]?”
“I am not sure if I can do this well, but I am willing to learn. I would like to be a minor official, assuming the role of either an assistant in ritual affairs at the ancestral temple or a junior diplomat, dressed in a black robe and ceremonial cap, at a conference of the regional rulers.”
“And you, Dian [Zeng Xi]?”
Zeng Xi had been playing the zither. Now his playing was coming to the end. With the last note still vibrating in the wind, he put down his instrument, stood up, and said, “What I would like to do is different from what we have just heard from these three.”
Confucius said, “There is no harm in that. We are all telling each other what’s on our mind.”
Zeng Xi replied, “In late spring, when the spring clothes have just been made, with five or six young men or six or seven young boys, I would like to go bathing in the River Yi and enjoy the breeze at the rain prayer altar, and then come home singing.”
Confucius sighed and said, “I am for Dian.”
When others had left, Zeng Xi stayed behind. He asked, “What did you think of what those three said?”
The Master responded, “Each spoke what he had set his mind on.”
“And why did you smile at Zilu?”
“One should govern a state by way of ritual propriety, but his words lacked modesty, and so I smiled at him.”
“[Despite what he said,] was Qiu [Ran Qiu] not concerned with governing a state?”
“How can an area of sixty or seventy—or even sixty or fifty—square li not be considered a state? [And so you are right, he was talking about governing a state.]”
“And what about Chi [Gongxi Hua], was he also talking about governing a state?”
“If performing the ceremonies in ancestral temples and performing them at diplomatic gatherings are not the business of regional rulers, what are they? If Chi thinks that [in assisting the ruler in fulfilling these duties] he plays only a minor role, who, then, has the major role?”
The major portion of the translation of this passage is from my work The Authentic Confucius. And since my understanding of the passage and of its relationship to Confucius’ life and teachings has remained nearly the same as in that book, I have decided to include my comments here with minor revision:
One can read a lot into this scene. Over the years, followers of Confucius from the right and the left did exactly that. Some claimed that the conversation was fabricated and then appended to the Analects by a rival school, most likely the Daoists, either as a tease or as proof that even Confucius in the end had come around to their point of view; that even he had given up the state, the ancestral temple, music, and ceremony, to join them in the immaculate water. Others, such as the sixteenth-century thinker Wang Yangming, insisted that a kin in spirit at “a playful moment” drew out in plain sight a Confucius at his truest. Wang said that “the other three disciples had useful talents,” but Zeng Xi alone “was self-possessed wherever he might be,” whether he was “among the barbarians” or “in the middle of a crisis.” Wang’s reading tallies with what we learned about Confucius’ secret self in 5.26 and 7.19, for instance, about what he wanted most and what gave him satisfaction. Yet if we were to settle on this view, we would not be able to explain why for so long Confucius had been singularly stubborn in his search for political opportunities to fill his ambitions. His resignation—and the calm that ensued—was a late thing in his life, but it was not a form of surrender.
BOOK TWELVE
12.1 Yan Yuan [Yan Hui] asked about humaneness. The Master said, “Restrain the self and return to the rites [keji fuli]. This is the way to be humane. If for one day you are able to restrain the self and return to the rites, this means that your capacity to be humane will open up to the world. Humaneness rests with the self. How could it come from others?”
Most of the discussion in the traditional commentaries is about keji fuli. Did Confucius say, One should rein in the self so that it does not swerve from the measure of ritual propriety (which is how the Han scholars understand the sentence)? Or did he say, One should suppress one’s selfish desires and realize a higher, a universal, set of principles (which is how the Song Confucians explain it)? The second reading is a reflection of Song metaphysics, but it is not what Confucius meant to say, as later scholars point out, because the concept of a universal principle is simply not present in the Analects.
The second part of Confucius’ response also needs some explanation. Traditional scholars understand the sentence to read: “If for one day you are able to restrain the self and return to the rites, the whole world will gravitate toward humaneness.” Qian Mu, however, holds a different view. He says that Confucius’ point about making an effort “to restrain the self and return to the rites for one day” is that this will enable a person to have a quicker and more effective start in cultivating his humanity. “The importance of such an effort has to do with tending the self,” Qian Mu notes, and “not with effecting a change in other people.” My translation reflects Qian Mu’s reading.
• • •
Yan Yuan [Yan Hui] asked, “May I ask about the specific steps to go about this?”
The Master replied, “Do not look at anything that is contrary to ritual propriety. Do not listen to anything that is contrary to ritual propriety. Do not speak in ways that are contrary to ritual propriety. Do not act in ways that are contrary to ritual propriety.”
Yan Yuan said, “Even though I am not that smart, I will do my best to put into practice what you have said.”
It is up to the self to make the effort not to look at and listen to anything that is contrary to ritual propriety, and not to speak and act in ways that are contrary to ritual propriety. But who sets the standard of ritual propriety? Again it is the self: each person has to rely on his sense of humaneness to find what is right in his relationship with the world. But he also needs direction—guidelines with a moral orientation—that can point out for him just how much is too much and how much is not enough. On this subject, Confucius says in 3.3, “Being human yet lacking humaneness—what can such a man do with the rites? Being human and yet lacking in humaneness—what can such a man do with music?”
12.2 Zhonggong asked about humaneness. The Master said, “When abroad, conduct yourself as if you were receiving an honored guest. When employing the people in your state, deport yourself as if you have been put in charge of a grand sacrifice. Do not impose on others what you do not desire for yourself. In this way, you will not incur any resentment whether your work is in the state or in a hereditary family.”
Here Confucius reinforces what he says in 12.1. But he is more precise about what he considers the correct performance of the rites, and since its operating principle is “do not impose on others what you do not desire yourself,” the performance must be an expression of one’s humaneness. And in order to become truly humane, a person must always hold his actions to that measure. Confucius tells Zhonggong: Whether you are abroad or at home, in charge of a mission or administering a state, whether you are dealing with officials or the common people, “conduct yourself as if you were receiving an honored guest” and “deport yourself as if you have been put in charge of a grand sacrifice.”
12.3 Sima Niu asked about humaneness. The Master said, “A humane person is reluctant to speak.”
“Being reluctant to speak—is that what it means to be humane?”
The Master replied, “When it is difficult to carry it out, how can this person not be reluctant to speak [about it]?”
Most scholars assume that it is the realization of humaneness that is difficult to carry out, and that a humane person would not think to speak about it before he tried to fulfill it in action. This, of course, is consistent with what Confucius says throughout the Analects about the relationship of words and action—that a gentleman is “hesitant to speak but quick to act” (4.24); that he would “let words follow action” (2.13) because he “would feel ashamed if [his] action did not measure up to [his] words” (4.22). Liu Baonan, however, thinks that to say that someone is “reluctant to speak” could imply that this person has a “heavy heart”—he is hesitant to speak because he is in a hard place about how to act—and that this is the reason why Sima Niu’s question about humaneness ended up being a conversation about words and action. Sima Niu, Liu explains, was the brother of Huan Tui, a minister of military affairs from Song, who at one time tried to waylay Confucius when Confucius traveled through that state. This Huan Tui was a favorite of the ruler of Song, but he let his ambition get ahead of his sense of duty. And so at the height of his career, he decided to challenge the authority of his lord. Sima Niu learned about his brother’s plan before it became unraveled, and he did not know what to do: whether to keep the plan a secret and thereby “bring disaster to his state,” or to inform on his brother and “let his whole clan be exterminated.” The historicist approach suggested by Liu assumes that Confucius knew about the problem Sima Niu faced and so when the latter asked about humaneness, Confucius assured him that it was all right “not being able to bring himself to talk about it”—this, he said, was in fact a sign of one’s humaneness. Such a reading may seem forced at first, but it makes sense when we put it in the context of the next two entries, where Sima Niu again is the interlocutor.
12.4 Sima Niu asked about the gentleman [junzi]. The Master sai
d, “A gentleman has no vexations and no fears.”
“Having no vexations and no fears—is that what it means to be a gentleman?”
The Master said, “When such a person looks into himself and finds that he has done nothing wrong, what vexations and what fears could he have?”
Again, if we accept as true that Sima Niu was in a quandary about his brother Huan Tui, then Confucius’ response to his question about the gentleman seems to be directed toward the set of problems that troubled Sima Niu. Confucius says that a gentleman has no vexations and no fears because he finds nothing reproachable about his intention and his action. This, of course, implies that as long as Sima Niu, through introspection, uncovers nothing wanting about himself, he, too, should be free of vexations and fears. But Sima Niu’s predicament was especially taxing because he was the younger brother of someone whose mischief making could have violent consequences for his family and state. And according to Liu Baonan and Qian Mu, Confucius could not have been unaware of this, but he also felt that such were the grounds for testing one’s moral resolve.
12.5 Sima Niu, in a state of distress, said, “All men have brothers. I alone have none.”
Zixia responded, “I have heard it said, ‘Life and death are a matter of destiny; wealth and honor rest with Heaven.’ The gentleman is respectful and [tries to be] free of errors. He is courteous toward others and conducts himself with ritual propriety. All men within the four seas are his brothers. Why should he be worried about not having brothers?”
We learn from the Zuo Commentary that after Sima Niu’s brother Huan Tui failed in his attempt to usurp the authority of his lord, the ruler of Song, he fled to the state of Cao, and members of his clan also had to take off, which explains why Sima Niu ended up in the state of Lu. Sima Niu gave up his fief when he left Song, and he had short stays in Qi and Wu, but none of these places worked out for him. And since most of his brothers were on Huan Tui’s side, he felt quite alone in the world. But Zixia said to him that he was told that though men had no control over destiny, they had the potential to perfect their character; and therefore a gentleman knew that when he set his mind to act with propriety and to be respectful to others, he would always have brothers “within the four seas.” Most scholars assume that Zixia was quoting what he had learned from Confucius.