第dì三sān十shí七qī回huí 司sī马mǎ徽huī再zài荐jiàn名míng士shì　　　刘liú玄xuán德dé三sān顾gù草cǎo庐lú

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.

Brewitt-Taylor · 1925 · public domain

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.”

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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.

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Aeulogy 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.

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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.

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Worthy was Xu's mother! Her fragrance flows through a thousand autumns!

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Her chastity suffered no blemish, and she brought honor to her house.

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She taught her son in many ways, and lived herself in bitter hardship.

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Her spirit was like a mountain, her righteousness poured from her very heart.

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She praised the Lord of Yuzhou, and reviled the Martial Emperor of Wei.

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She feared not the boiling cauldron, she flinched not before the axe.

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Her only dread was that her descendants might stain their ancestors' name.

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She ranks with her who fell on the sword, and her who cut the loom in twain.

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In life she won her name, in death she found her proper place.

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Worthy was Xu's mother! Her fragrance flows through a thousand autumns!

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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.”

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“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.”

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“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?”

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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.'

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“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.

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“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.

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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:--

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“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.

Brewitt-Taylor · 1925 · public domain

Apoet 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.

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The blue heaven is like a rounded dome, the land is like a chessboard.

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Men of the world are divided in black and white, coming and going to contend for glory and disgrace.

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The glorified rest at peace, the disgraced are doomed to toil.

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In Nanyang dwells a recluse, sleeping deep, never rested enough.

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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.

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A later hand composed a poem in the ancient style, speaking solely of the Sleeping Dragon's dwelling. The poem says:

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Twenty li west of Xiangyang city, a ridge of high hills rests upon the flowing stream.

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The high ridge winds and presses the roots of clouds, the flowing stream murmurs and drips stalactite wine.

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Its form is like a crouching dragon coiled upon a rock, its shape like a lone phoenix in the pine shade.

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The brushwood gate is half-closed before the thatched hut, within lies a lofty man who will not rise.

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Tall bamboos interlace to form a screen of green, wild flowers at the hedge bloom fragrant through the four seasons.

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By the bedside are piled yellow scrolls, and among the seats that come and go are no common men.

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At the door grey apes at times offer fruit, at the gate an old crane listens to the sutras by night.

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In its bag a famous lute is wrapped in ancient brocade, on the wall a precious sword gleams with pine-grain patterns.

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The gentleman in the hut is uniquely refined and graceful, in leisure he himself diligently tends the fields.

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He waits only for the spring thunder to startle him from his dream, one long howl to pacify the realm.

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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?”

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“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.

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“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.

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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.”

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“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.”

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“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.”

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​ “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?”

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“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.

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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.”

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“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.

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“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‘ung-ming, 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.

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“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:—

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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.

Brewitt-Taylor · 1925 · public domain

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.

Brewitt-Taylor · 1925 · public domain