The Siren's Lament

According To the chronicles of Zuo Qiuming and Meng Ke, of Sima Qian and others, at the beginning of spring in the year 493 before the birth of Christ, in the thirteenth year of the Duke Ding’s reign in the state of Lu, when the ruler was celebrating the Festival of the Heavens and the Earth, Confucius, together with a handful of disciples attending his carriage, left the land of his birth to preach the Way abroad.

On the banks of the Sishui river, fragrant green grasses were sprouting, and although the snow was melting on the summits of Mount Fang, Mount Niqiu and Wu Peak, a northern wind that swooped down, like hordes of Huns whipping up the sands of the desert, still brought back
memories of a harsh winter. Full of energy, Zilu led the group, his lilac robes with their marten trim flapping in the wind. Behind him followed Yan Yuan, his gaze pensive, and with him the zealous and devoted Zeng Shen, both of their feet clad in shoes of bast. The very embodiment of virtue, the driver Fan Chi gripped the reins of the four horses, and, between furtive glances at the wizened face of the Great Sage riding in the carriage, he would ponder the bitter lot of this wandering teacher and let fall a tear.

One day, when at last they had reached the frontier of the state of Lu, each of the men looked back wistfully towards his native land, but the road by which they had come was hidden in the shadow of the so-called ‘tortoise’ mountain, Mount Gui. Then Confucius, picking up his zither, sang in a mournful, hoarse voice:

I long to see my land of Lu, But it is shaded by Mount Gui.
Should I now go and bear an axe And hew its tortoise shell away?

They journeyed further and further to the north and, after three days, found themselves amid a vast plain where they heard a voice singing a peaceful and carefree song. It was an old man garbed in deerskin and with a rope for a belt, humming to himself as he gathered ears of grain that had fallen by the wayside.

‘You, what does this song say to you?’ asked Confucius, turning to Zilu.

‘The old man’s song has not the lofty melancholy that echoes in those of the Master. He sings freely, like a bird in the sky.’

‘Quite so. This is none other than a disciple of the late Laozi. His name is Linlei and he must be a good hundred years old. But, with the arrival of spring each year, he comes out into the fields and sings as he gathers grain. Let one of you go over there and speak to him.’

No sooner had Confucius’ words been spoken than Zigong, one of the disciples, rushed over to the edge of the field and greeted the old man, asking him:

‘You sing your song and gather up the fallen ears of grain, old man, but have you no regrets in life?’

Without turning around, the old man just went on picking the fallen ears of grain diligently, all the while singing in time with the steps he took. Zigong followed him and called out again. The old man finally stopped singing and looked at Zigong intently.

‘What should I have to regret?’ said the old man.

‘In your youth, you were unobservant. As you grew, you did not contest your time. And in maturity, with neither wife nor child, and though the hour of your death approaches, you take some pleasure in gathering ears of grain and singing songs.’

The old man roared with laughter.

‘My pleasures are known to every man, though they turn them into sorrows. Yes, I was unobservant in my youth. Yes, I let my time go uncontested. Yes, I have neither wife nor child in my old age. And yes, the hour of my death does approach at last. This, therefore, is why I am happy.’ ‘But if to wish for a long life, as every man does, means to fear death, then how is it that you can rejoice in its approach?’ Zigong asked again.

‘Life and death are but a departure and a return. To die here is to be born there. I know that to cling to life is a futile act. To die today, to be born yesterday: I doubt there is much difference.’
Having said this, the old man carried on singing. Zigong had failed to apprehend the meaning of his words, but when he returned and relayed them to the Great Sage, Confucius said:
‘The old man can certainly talk, but I can see that he has not yet fully understood the Way.’

They journeyed on for many days and more, and crossed the Jishui river. The black cloth hat worn by the Sage was covered in dust, and his fox-trimmed robes had faded in the rain and wind.
‘The Sage by the name of Kong Qiu has arrived from the state of Lu. May he teach our tyrannical sovereign and his consort a lesson in grace and wise government!’

Such were the comments made in the street as the people pointed to the carriage and its procession as it entered the capital of the state of Wei. The people here had grown emaciated with hunger and toil, and the walls of their houses sighed with grief and sorrow. All the lovely flowers of this land had been transplanted to the palace to delight the eyes of the sovereign’s consort, while the plump boars had been taken and served up to please her sophisticated tastes. And so, the tranquil spring sun shone in vain on the grey, deserted streets of the city. And, perched atop a hill in the centre, the palace, shining with the five colours of the rainbow, towered over the corpse of the capital like a beast of prey. The ringing of a bell from the depths of the palace thundered throughout the four corners of the city like the roar of a wild animal.

‘What does the sound of that bell say to you?’ Confucius again asked Zilu.

‘Its sound is unlike the fleeting, spontaneous songs of the Master that call up to the heavens, nor is it like the melodies of Linlei that are freely entrusted to the cosmos. Rather, its tolling speaks of something terrible, glorifying sinful pleasures that run counter to the will of heaven.’

‘Quite so. That is the so-called Grove Bell, which in former days the Duke Xiang of Wei had struck from the treasures and the sweat that he extorted from his subjects. When the bell is rung, its echo reverberates from one grove of the palace garden to the next, producing the most awe-inspiring sound. Its ringing is so dreadful because it contains the curses and tears of those tormented by the tyrant.’

Thus spoke Confucius.

The ruler of Wei, the Duke Ling, had ordered that a mica screen and a sofa inlaid with agate be placed by the parapet of the Tower of Spirits, which looked out over his royal demesne; he stood there in the company of his consort, Nanzi, who was enveloped in a cloud of blue robes with a long, iridescent train, and, while pouring for each other cups of a richly perfumed millet liqueur, they admired the spring fields and mountains slumbering beneath a thick shroud of mist.
‘The beautiful light flows like a stream, flooding both heaven and earth. Yet why do we not see gaily coloured flowers in the houses of our people? Why do we not hear the cheerful singing of birds?’ the Duke asked, furrowing his brow in displeasure.

‘It is because the people, not content with praising the clemency of Your Serene Highness and the beauty of His Serene Highness’s consort, pay homage by bringing all the beautiful plants without exception to adorn the palace gardens; every bird in the land gathers there, attracted by the scent of these flowers,’ answered the eunuch Yong Qu, who was attending his lord and master.

At that moment, breaking the silence of the deserted streets, the jade bell of Confucius’ carriage rang brilliantly as it passed beneath the tower.

The General, Wangsun Jia, who was also in attendance of the sovereign, widened his eyes in surprise. ‘Who is the person riding in that carriage?’ he asked. ‘He has the brow of Yao, the eyes of Shun, the nape of Gao Yao and the shoulders of Zichan! He would have the legs of Yu, as well, were they but three cun longer.’

‘But how sad he looks!’ exclaimed Nanzi, before turning to the officer and pointing towards the speeding carriage. ‘Tell me, General, you who are the fount of all knowledge: from which land does he hail?’

‘In my youth I visited many lands in our realm, but, with the exception of Lao Dan, who served as chronicler at the royal court of Zhou, never have I encountered a man with such a noble mien. This can only be Confucius, the Sage who, having grown disillusioned with the govern- ment in his native Lu, has taken to the road to spread his teaching. It is said that at his birth a chimera—a qilin—appeared, harmonious music filled the sky, and a goddess descended from the heavens. The mouth of the Sage evokes the power of the bull, his hands the strength of the tiger, and his back the hardy shell of the tortoise. Standing at a height of nine chi and six cun, he has the bearing and stature of King Wen. It is undoubtedly he,’ Wangsun Jia explained.

‘This Sage of whom you speak, what art does he teach?’ asked the Duke Ling as he drained his cup.

‘Sages hold the key to all earthly knowledge,’ the General replied. ‘But that man, it seems, is interested solely in bringing to rulers the art of governance: that of ensuring order in their houses, of making their nations prosper and of pacifying their realms.’

‘I searched for earthly beauties and found Nanzi. I gathered treasures from the four corners of the world and built this palace. Now I should like to rule supreme, to adorn myself with the authority befitting of such a wife and such a palace. By all means, summon this Sage here that I may learn from him the art of subjugating everything under heaven.’

With these words, the Duke peered directly across the table at his wife’s lips, for ordinarily the words that issued from them expressed his true sentiments more faithfully than did his own words.

‘I should like to see with my own eyes any and all of the extraordinary creatures in this world,’ said Nanzi. ‘If that man of mournful countenance is indeed a sage, he will no doubt be able to show me many wonders.’

With that, she lifted her dreaming eyes and followed the carriage as it raced off into the distance.