Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

A wandering warrior from Bian in Lu named Zhong You, styled Zilu, resolved to humiliate Kong Qiu of Zou—the scholar-teacher whose reputation as a sage had recently spread far and wide.
"What could this sham sage possibly amount to?" thought Zhong You as he set out toward Kong Qiu's dwelling—his disheveled hair bristling at the temples, hat tilted precariously, clad in a short-tailed jacket with a rooster clutched in his left hand and a boar in his right.
He shook the fowl and brandished the swine, aiming to shatter the Confucians' harmonious string music and chanted verses with raucous lip-smacking clamor.

With the raucous cries of animals, between the young man who came leaping in with eyes glaring and the gentle-faced Confucius—leaning against an armrest in his round cap and hooked shoes, a jade pendant hanging loosely—began an exchange of questions and answers.

“You—what do you value?” asked Confucius.

“I value the longsword,” the young man proudly declared.

Confucius couldn’t help but smile wryly.
For in the young man’s voice and demeanor, he had seen an excess of childish bravado.
The face of the ruddy-complexioned, thick-browed, clear-eyed young man—vigorous-looking at a glance—yet seemed to naturally reveal an endearing naivety somewhere within.
Confucius asked again.

“And what of learning?”

“What use is learning?”
Since this was precisely what he had come to say, Zilu answered with a roar.

When it came to being lectured about the authority of learning, he could no longer afford to simply smile.
Confucius began earnestly expounding the necessity of learning.
A ruler without remonstrating ministers loses rectitude; a scholar without instructive friends loses discernment.
Is it not that trees, too, only become straight after receiving the rope?
Just as a whip is needed for horses and a straightener for bows, how could instruction to correct humanity’s unrestrained nature not be necessary?
Only when rectified, ordered, and polished do things become useful material.

Confucius possessed an eloquence so persuasive that it could never be imagined from the mere written characters of the analects passed down to posterity.
It was not only the content of his words but also his calm voice and intonation—and above all, the supremely confident attitude with which he spoke—that inevitably compelled the listener’s conviction.
The defiance in the young man’s attitude gradually faded, transforming at last into an air of reverent attention.

"However," he thought—but even so, Zilu did not lose the strength to counterattack.
I have heard that bamboo from South Mountain straightens itself without being worked; if you cut and use it, it can pierce even thick rhinoceros hide.
If that’s the case," he reasoned, "what need is there for those naturally endowed to study?

For Confucius, there was nothing easier than shattering such a childish analogy. When Confucius told him, “If one were to affix fletching and an arrowhead to that South Mountain bamboo you speak of and whet it, would it not pierce deeper than mere rhinoceros hide?”, the endearing simpleton found himself bereft of retort. Crimson-faced, he stood rigid before Confucius awhile in apparent contemplation—then suddenly cast aside fowl and swine, bowed his head, and surrendered with “I humbly accept your instruction.” This was no mere loss for words. In truth, from the moment he had entered that chamber and beheld Confucius’ visage, from the instant he had heard those first measured words, he had recognized the vulgarity of his poultry-bearing intrusion—crushed beneath the sheer immensity of one so incomparably beyond him.

That very day, Zilu performed the rites of a disciple and entered Confucius's school.

II

Zilu had never seen such a human being.
He had seen warriors who could lift thousand-jun cauldrons.
He had also heard tales of wise men who could perceive events a thousand li away.
Yet what resided in Confucius bore no trace of such monstrous peculiarity.
It manifested as nothing more than commonsense perfection.
From intellect and emotion to willpower and physical capabilities—it displayed an ordinary yet exuberantly developed splendor.
This perfectly balanced richness—each excellence rendered so inconspicuous—stood as something Zilu truly witnessed for the first time.
Zilu marveled at its effortless magnanimity, devoid of any moralist's pretension.
He immediately sensed this man had weathered life's trials.
Strangely, even in martial arts and raw strength—Zilu's proudest virtues—Confucius proved superior.
He simply chose not to wield them ordinarily.
The wandering warrior found himself utterly disarmed by this revelation.
Confucius possessed such acute insight into human nature that one might suspect him versed in dissolute living.
Contemplating this worldly wisdom alongside his pristine idealism, Zilu groaned from his soul's depths.
Regardless—this man would endure any circumstance.
He would withstand both ethical scrutiny and worldly pragmatism.
Every greatness Zilu had known until now derived solely from utility value.
They were deemed great merely for serving specific purposes.
With Confucius, it differed entirely.
The mere existence of this man called Confucius sufficed.

At least, that was how it seemed to Zilu.
He had become utterly devoted.
Not yet a month after entering the gate, he had already come to feel himself unable to separate from this spiritual pillar.

Through the long years of Confucius’s later wanderings and hardships, there was none who followed as willingly as Zilu.
It was neither seeking an official career through being a disciple of Confucius nor, ironically, even striving to hone his own talents and virtues by remaining at his teacher’s side.
It was solely this pure affection and reverence—unchanged until death, lacking any extreme demands—that kept this man by his teacher’s side.
Just as he had once been unable to part with his longsword, Zilu now found himself incapable of leaving this man’s side by any means.

At that time, Confucius had not yet reached forty—the very age of "forty without confusion" he would later describe. Though a mere nine years Zilu's senior, Confucius seemed separated from him by an almost infinite gulf.

Confucius, for his part, was astonished by this disciple’s remarkable intractability.
If one were to speak merely of being fond of bravery or disdaining softness, there would be countless examples—but a man who scorns the very forms of things as much as this disciple was rare indeed.
Although it was said that the ultimate end returns to the spirit and that all ritual must begin with form, this man called Zilu would not readily accept entering through that form as the proper path.
“Ritual this, ritual that.
Why even speak of jade and silk?
Music this, music that.”
When he said things like “Why even speak of bells and drums?” he listened with keen interest, but when it came time to explain the detailed rules of ceremonial rites, his face suddenly took on a look of utter boredom.
Battling this instinctive aversion to formalism and teaching ritual and music to this man proved to be quite a difficult task even for Confucius.
But even more so, learning this was a Herculean task for Zilu.
What Zilu relied upon was solely the substantiality of Confucius as a human being.
To Zilu, it was inconceivable that this substantiality could be an accumulation of trivial daily acts.
He said, “Only when there is a foundation do the branches emerge.”
However, because he lacked practical consideration for how to nurture that foundation, he was always being scolded by Confucius.
His devotion to Confucius was one thing.
Whether he had immediately accepted Confucius’s influence was an entirely separate matter.

When Confucius said that the highest wisdom and lowest folly are hard to change, he had not taken Zilu into consideration.
Even though full of flaws, Confucius did not consider Zilu to be among the "lower folly."
Confucius valued the unparalleled virtues of this fierce disciple more highly than anyone else.
It was this man’s pure disinterestedness.
This kind of beauty was so exceedingly rare among the people of this land that Zilu’s tendency was recognized as a virtue by none but Confucius.
Rather, it appeared as nothing more than a kind of incomprehensible foolishness.
However, Confucius alone knew well that Zilu’s courage and political acumen paled in comparison to this rare foolishness.

It was in his attitude toward parents that he had restrained himself according to the teacher’s words and attempted to adhere to form, however awkwardly. Ever since entering Confucius’ school, Zilu the ruffian had suddenly become filial—or so went the talk among his relatives. When praised, Zilu felt a strange sensation. Far from being filial, he couldn’t help feeling like he was just telling lies. The time when he had acted selfishly and caused his parents trouble was, no matter how he considered it, more honest. The parents who were now delighted by his falsehoods seemed somewhat heartless. Though no meticulous psychologist, being an extremely honest man, he had come to notice such things. Much later in life, one day when he suddenly noticed his parents’ aged state and recalled their vigorous forms from his childhood, tears abruptly welled up. From that time onward, Zilu’s filial devotion became unparalleled in its selflessness—but in any case, his makeshift acts of piety until then had been of this nature.

III

One day, as Zilu was walking through town, he encountered two or three of his former friends.
Though one could not quite call them ruffians, they were unrestrained and unbound wandering warriors.
Zilu stopped and talked for a while.
One of them looked him up and down and said, “Hey, so this is your Confucian robe getup?”
“That’s a pretty shabby outfit you’ve got there,” he said.
“Don’t you miss your longsword?” he said.
When Zilu paid them no heed, this time they came out with something that couldn’t be ignored.
“How about it?”
“They say that Master Kong Qiu is quite the smooth talker, don’t they?”
“Putting on that solemn face and earnestly preaching things he doesn’t believe in—looks like he gets to reap some pretty sweet rewards from it, huh?”
There was no particular malice in it—it was just their usual caustic banter born of casual familiarity—but Zilu’s countenance changed.
Suddenly, he grabbed the man by the collar and landed a fierce right-handed punch to his cheek.
After landing two or three more in quick succession and releasing his grip, the man collapsed in a heap.
Zilu fixed a challenging gaze upon the others who stood dumbfounded, but they, well aware of his fierce valor, made no move to approach.
They helped the beaten man up from both sides and sneaked off without uttering a single retort.

It seems this incident had eventually reached Confucius’s ears.
When Zilu was summoned and appeared before his teacher—who refrained from direct mention of the matter—he found himself compelled to hear these words:
“The noble persons of antiquity took loyalty as their foundation and benevolence as their bulwark.
When confronted with wickedness, they transformed it through loyalty; when facing violent aggression, they fortified themselves through benevolence.
Thus they perceived no need for physical force.
Petty men may readily mistake insolence for courage, but a noble person’s valor lies solely in upholding righteousness.”
Zilu listened with solemn attentiveness.

A few days later, as Zilu was walking through the streets again, voices of idlers animatedly discussing something reached his ears from beneath roadside trees.
The conversation seemed to concern Confucius.
“They keep dragging out ‘the past! the past!’ for everything while belittling today,” said one.
“No one’s actually seen antiquity—they can spin any tale they want!”
“If rigidly following old ways could govern smoothly,” another scoffed, “nobody’d break sweat trying!”
“For us,” concluded a voice dripping with sarcasm, “living Lord Yang Hu beats some moldy Duke of Zhou any day.”

It was an age of upheaval.
Political power had shifted from the Duke of Lu to his minister, the Ji Sun clan, and now it was on the verge of passing further into the hands of Yang Hu—an ambitious retainer of that same Ji Sun clan.

The speakers themselves might perhaps have been relatives of Yang Hu.

“By the way，despite Lord Yang Hu having sent invitations multiple times recently to employ Kong Qiu，would you believe it? Kong Qiu himself has been avoiding them.”
“Even though he spouts grand words，he probably has no real confidence in actual governance.”
“That bunch，you see—”

Zilu pushed through the crowd from behind and strode briskly up to the speaker.
People immediately recognized him as a disciple of Confucius’ school.
The old man who had been pontificating until now turned pale, bowed mechanically before Zilu, then retreated behind the throng.
Zilu’s countenance—eyes glaring wide—must have appeared truly fearsome.

For some time afterward, similar scenes repeated themselves in various places.
Whenever Zilu’s figure—shoulders squared and eyes blazing—appeared in the distance, people would swallow their barbed words about Confucius.

Zilu was often scolded by his teacher for this, but he couldn't help it himself.
He wasn't entirely without justification in his heart—in his own way. If these so-called noble persons could feel anger as intense as mine and still suppress it, well, that would be admirable.
However, in reality, they don't feel anger as strongly as I do.
At least, they only feel it weakly enough to suppress.
Surely...

About a year later, Confucius sighed with a wry smile.
"Since You entered my gate, I have ceased to hear slanderous words," he said.

IV

Once, Zilu was playing the se in a room.

Confucius had been listening from another room, and after some time, he turned to Ran You beside him and said:
“Listen well to the sound of that se. Does not a violent and harsh energy naturally overflow from it? The music of a noble person must be gentle and centered, nurturing the energy of growth.”
“In ancient times, Shun played the five-stringed qin and composed the Poem of the South Wind: ‘When the South Wind’s fragrance blows, it shall dispel my people’s grievances; when the South Wind’s season comes, it shall enrich my people’s wealth.’”
“Now listening to You’s music—truly violent and vehement—it bears no resemblance to southern tones but rather echoes the northern strains. Nothing has ever laid bare the reckless negligence and violent self-indulgence of the player’s mind so clearly as this.—”

Afterward, Ran You went to Zilu’s quarters and relayed the Master’s words.

Zilu had always known he lacked musical talent.
He had attributed this deficiency to his ears and hands.
But when told it actually stemmed from a deeper spiritual disposition, he was struck with terror.
What mattered was not manual training.
He needed to ponder more profoundly.
Shutting himself in a room, he contemplated in silence without eating until his frame grew gaunt.
Days later, convinced he had finally understood, he took up the se again.
Then he played with utmost trepidation.
Confucius, overhearing this sound, now refrained from comment.
No reproachful expression showed.
Zigong went to Zilu’s quarters and reported this.
Hearing the master withheld censure, Zilu laughed with cheerful relief.

Seeing the good-natured senior disciple’s beaming smile, even the young Zigong couldn’t help but smile in turn.
The astute Zigong knew full well—
that the sounds Zilu produced still brimmed with harsh northern tones.
And that the Master’s forbearance stemmed solely from pity for Zilu’s single-minded devotion—Zilu who had grown emaciated through his agonized contemplation.

V

Among all disciples, none was scolded by Confucius as frequently as Zilu. There was no one as unreserved in questioning his teacher as Zilu. “I ask: If we were to discard the ancient way and act according to Yu’s intentions—would that be permissible?” he would propose, testing with questions certain to invite reproach—or confront Confucius directly with “What is this?!” None but he would boldly declare things like “How impractical you are, Master!” And yet, there was no one who leaned so completely upon Confucius as Zilu did. His persistent questioning stemmed from a nature incapable of superficial assent to things he could not genuinely accept. Moreover, unlike other disciples who guarded against mockery or reprimand, he spared no such concern.

That Zilu—a man so fiercely independent he disdained standing subordinate to others elsewhere, a stalwart who honored pledges like gold—should attend before Confucius with the bearing of a mere ordinary disciple indeed struck people as profoundly incongruous.
In fact, he was not without a somewhat comical tendency—when in Confucius’ presence—to entrust all complex deliberations and crucial judgments to his teacher and remain completely at ease.
Before mother—even regarding matters he could manage himself—he conducted himself like an infant having everything done for him.
When he withdrew and reflected on this, he could not help but wryly smile at himself.

Yet, even to this peerless Master, there remained an innermost depth within his heart that he would not permit to be touched—this absolute line where he would not yield.

For Zilu, there existed one thing of utmost importance in this world. Before it, even life and death became unworthy of discussion; how much less could trivial matters of gain and loss ever pose a question? To call it chivalry would render it too slight; to speak of trust or righteousness reeked of pedantic moralism devoid of vital energy. Such names mattered not—to Zilu, it was a kind of visceral delight. That which could feel it was good; that which lacked it was bad. This clarity had never once been doubted.

Though far removed from Confucius' concept of benevolence, Zilu selectively absorbed only those teachings reinforcing this simple ethic: "Qiu finds shameful those who use clever words and flattery while concealing resentment," or "Some preserve benevolence through life, others perfect it through death," or "The impetuous seize while the cautious refrain."

Initially, Confucius had tried to straighten these horns, but ultimately desisted—for even thus, this remained a magnificent bull indeed. Some disciples required whips, others reins. Recognizing that Zilu's ungovernable flaws held unexpected value, Confucius settled for broad guidance alone. Reproofs like "Respect without ritual becomes rusticity" or "Courage without ritual becomes rebellion"—these were less personal critiques than admonishments to Zilu qua chief disciple. What charmed in this singular man generally harmed common pupils.

VI

In the land of Wei Yu in Jin, it was said that a stone had spoken.
A certain wise person interpreted that the people's voices of resentment had likely used the stone as a medium to manifest themselves.
The Zhou royal house, already in decline, had now split into two factions locked in conflict.
The ten-odd major states formed alliances and clashed against one another in turn, with never a moment when weapons were laid to rest.
One marquis of Qi, carrying on an affair with his vassal's wife and sneaking into her residence night after night, was finally assassinated by her husband.
In Chu, a member of the royal family strangled the bedridden king and seized the throne.
In Wu, criminals who had their feet severed attacked the king, while in Jin, two ministers exchanged wives with each other.
Such was the age.

Duke Zhao of Lu, attempting to attack his chief minister Ji Pingzi, was instead driven from his state; after seven years in exile, he met a destitute death in another land.
Even when arrangements for Duke Zhao’s return from exile were nearly settled, the retainers who had followed him, anxious about their own fates after repatriation, detained their lord and prevented his homecoming.
The state of Lu, having been under the dominion of the three families—Ji Sun, Shu Sun, and Meng Sun—now came to be manipulated by the arbitrary hands of Yang Hu, steward of the Ji family.

However, after that schemer Yang Hu ultimately fell victim to his own plots and was ousted, the political winds of Lu abruptly shifted direction.
Unexpectedly, Confucius came to be employed as the steward of Zhongdu.
Given that this was an era utterly devoid of impartial officials or politicians who refrained from extortionate taxation, Confucius’s fair policies and meticulous plans achieved astonishing governance results within an extremely short period.
His lord Duke Ding, who was utterly astonished, inquired:
“If we were to govern the State of Lu using the laws with which you governed Zhongdu, what would result?”
Confucius answered:
“Not merely the State of Lu.”
“Even if one were to govern the realm, would that not be permissible?”
Confucius, who was far removed from any inclination toward exaggeration, had uttered such bold words with an exceedingly reverent and composed tone, leaving Duke Ding all the more astonished.
He immediately appointed Confucius as Sikong (Minister of Works), then promoted him to Grand Minister of Justice and had him concurrently manage the affairs of the prime minister.
Through Confucius’s recommendation, Zilu became the steward of the Ji family—a position equivalent to what might be called the cabinet secretary-general of the State of Lu.
It goes without saying that he was the first to act as the executor of Confucius’s domestic reform plans.

The first of Confucius’s policies was centralization of authority—that is, strengthening the Duke of Lu’s power.
To achieve this, they needed to weaken the influence of the Ji, Shu, and Meng—the Three Huan families—who then held greater sway than the Duke himself.
Among these three clans’ private fortresses exceeding one hundred zhi (three zhang in thickness and one zhang in height) stood those at Hou, Fei, and Cheng.
Confucius resolved first to demolish these strongholds, with Zilu personally undertaking their destruction.

That his efforts yielded immediate and visible results—moreover on a scale surpassing any he had previously known—undoubtedly gratified a man of Zilu’s temperament.
Particularly satisfying was dismantling each entrenched system of corruption crafted by veteran politicians—a novel sense of purpose that invigorated him beyond measure.
Witnessing Confucius’s visage—alight with vitality as decades-old ambitions materialized—filled him with profound joy.
To Confucius’s eyes too, Zilu now appeared not merely as another disciple but as a formidable political operator—his figure radiating reliability through concrete action.

When they began to destroy the fortress of Fei, a man named Gongshan Buniu led the people of Fei in rebellion and attacked the capital of Lu.
The situation grew so perilous that even Duke Ding, who had taken refuge at Wuzi Terrace, found rebel arrows reaching his person, but through Confucius’s apt judgment and command, they narrowly escaped disaster.
Zilu once again found himself in awe of his teacher’s practical acumen.
He was well aware of Confucius’s political skill and knew of his personal physical strength, but he had never imagined his teacher would demonstrate such brilliant command in actual combat.
Of course, Zilu himself fought vigorously at the forefront during this time.
The feel of wielding a longsword after so long was not entirely something to be discarded.
In any case, grappling with reality’s rough edges seemed better suited to this man’s nature than picking through classical texts or studying ancient rites.

For the sake of a humiliating peace with Qi, Duke Ding once met with Duke Jing of Qi at Jiagu accompanied by Confucius. At that time Confucius condemned Qi’s discourtesy and roundly rebuked Duke Jing along with all the high officials and nobles. It is said that the entire assembly of Qi’s ruler and ministers—who should have been the victorious party—trembled uncontrollably. While it was an event sufficient to make Zilu cry out in heartfelt exultation, from this time onward the powerful state of Qi began to harbor fear toward Confucius’s presence as the neighboring state’s prime minister and toward Lu’s national strength growing robust under his governance. As a result of their painstaking efforts they adopted a desperate measure truly typical of ancient China—that is to say Qi sent to Lu a troupe of beautiful women skilled in song and dance. In this way they sought to sway the Duke of Lu’s heart and drive a wedge between Duke Ding and Confucius. What was even more characteristic of ancient China however was how this crude strategy—combined with the machinations of Lu’s anti-Confucius faction—took effect far too swiftly. The Duke of Lu became so engrossed with the female entertainers that he ceased attending court altogether. Ji Huanzi and the other high-ranking officials also began to follow suit. Zilu was the first to become indignant and clash with them resigning from his post. Confucius did not abandon his efforts as quickly as Zilu had and continued striving to exhaust every possible means at his disposal. Zilu couldn’t bear wanting Confucius to resign quickly—not that he feared his master would tarnish his duty as minister but simply because he couldn’t endure leaving the master in this licentious atmosphere to watch.

When even Confucius’s tenacity finally had to be relinquished, Zilu felt relief.
Then he withdrew from the State of Lu, gladly following his teacher.

Confucius, who was both a composer and a lyricist, sang as he gazed upon the capital city gradually receding into the distance.

At the words of that beautiful woman, even a Junzi must take flight.
At the summons of that beautiful woman, even a Junzi must meet death and defeat.
………

Thus began Confucius’s wanderings that would span many years thereafter.

Seven

There was one great question.
It was a doubt he had carried since childhood—even as he became an adult and approached old age—that remained something he still could not accept.
It was a matter no one ever thought to question.
It concerned that commonplace fact where evil prospers while righteousness stands oppressed.

Every time he encountered this truth,Zilu could not help but give vent to heartfelt grief and indignation.
Why?
Why must this be?
People claimed evil might thrive temporarily but ultimately receives retribution.
Perhaps such cases existed.
Yet wasn't that merely one instance of humanity's general ruin?
As for examples of good men achieving final victory—of ancient times he knew nothing,but in this present age he had scarcely heard even whispers of such.
Why?
Why?
For Zilu—this eternal man-child—no depth of rage could ever suffice.
He stamped his feet,frustration boiling over as he pondered Heaven's true nature.
What does Heaven watch?
If Heaven itself forged such fates,could he do anything but rebel?
Does Heaven draw no line between man and beast,nor between good and evil?
Are right and wrong mere transient pacts among mortals?
Whenever Zilu brought this matter before Confucius,the master would inevitably lecture him solely on happiness' true essence.

Is the reward for doing good ultimately nothing more than the satisfaction of having done good? In my teacher’s presence, I would feel momentarily convinced, but upon withdrawing to contemplate alone, something inevitably remained that I couldn’t fully accept. I can’t accept such a forced interpretation of happiness. Unless clear and tangible rewards—unquestionable by anyone—come upon righteous people, I simply cannot find it satisfying.

This dissatisfaction with Heaven—he felt it most acutely in relation to his teacher’s fate. Why must this man of unparalleled talent and virtue—this paragon who seemed almost superhuman—resign himself to such misfortune? Why must such misfortunes—being neither blessed with family nor spared from wandering in old age—await this person? One night when Zilu heard Confucius mutter to himself—"The Phoenix does not come; The River issues no Chart; It is over"—he could not hold back the tears that welled up unbidden. Confucius had lamented for the sake of all under heaven, but Zilu wept not for the world—only for Confucius himself.

From the moment he wept upon seeing this person and the era that awaited this person, Zilu’s heart was resolved—to become a shield protecting this person from all encroachments of the turbulent world; to shoulder all mundane toils and defilements upon his own person instead of being spiritually guided and protected; presumptuous though it might be, he believed this was his duty. In both learning and talent he might be inferior to the various gifted scholars who came after him—yet he himself deeply believed that when crisis came, none would surpass him in being first to cast aside life for the Master without hesitation.

Eight

“Here lies a fine gem. Should we store it in a casket and keep it hidden? Should we seek a good merchant and sell it?” When Zigong said this, Confucius immediately responded: “Sell it! Sell it! I am one who waits for the merchant.”

With that intention, Confucius set out on his journey to travel the world. Most disciples who followed naturally sought to sell their services, but Zilu had no such desire. He knew well from recent experience the satisfaction of wielding power to enact convictions—yet this required special conditions like having Confucius above him. If such conditions proved unattainable, he would rather embrace a life of “coarse robes yet jade within.” Even if I end as Confucius’ lifelong watchdog, I’ll harbor no regrets. It wasn’t that he lacked worldly ambition—rather, he believed half-hearted office would only corrode his true nature of unbridled forthrightness.

All sorts of people followed Confucius on his journey. Ran You, the efficient practical administrator. The gentle elder Min Ziqian. Zixia, the inquisitive scholar of ancient precedents. Somewhat sophistical hedonist Zai Yu. Gongliang Ru, the man of unyielding integrity and impassioned rhetoric. Zigao—a short-statured, simple-minded man who stood only about half as tall as Confucius, the towering figure said to measure nine shaku and six sun in height. Whether in terms of age or presence, Zilu was naturally their leader.

Though Zigong was a full twenty-two years younger than Zilu, this youth stood out as a truly exceptional talent. Between Yan Hui—whom Confucius always praised to the utmost—and Zigong, Zilu found himself more inclined to favor the latter. The young Yan Hui, who seemed to have had his robust vitality and political acumen stripped away by Confucius’ influence, held little appeal for Zilu. This was certainly not jealousy. (While Zigong, Zizhang, and their ilk appeared unable to suppress such feelings regarding Confucius’ excessive devotion to Yan Hui,) Zilu’s age difference made him remote from such matters, and by nature he was not one to dwell on them anyway. Yet he could not comprehend the merits of Yan Hui’s passive, flexible talents at all. What particularly displeased him was that faint absence of vital energy he sensed within Yan Hui. By contrast, Zigong—though somewhat frivolous—constantly brimmed with talent and vigor that better matched Zilu’s temperament. Nor was Zilu alone in marveling at this youth’s sharp intellect. While anyone could see Zigong’s human development lagged behind his mental acuity, this was simply a matter of age. Though Zilu would sometimes lose his temper at the young man’s excessive flippancy and deliver sharp rebukes, overall he maintained an unshakable conviction: this youth would command awe in generations to come.

Once, Zigong said to a few of his peers something to the effect of: “The Master is said to detest clever rhetoric—yet I think his own rhetoric is too polished.”
“This demands vigilance.”
“It’s entirely different from the cleverness of Zai Yu and his ilk.”
“As for rhetoric like Zai Yu’s—because its cleverness is too conspicuous, it may entertain listeners, but cannot earn their trust.”
“Precisely for that reason, it can instead be considered safe.”
“The Master’s is entirely different.”
“His rhetoric possesses not fluency but an unshakable weightiness that permits no doubt, wields not humor but metaphors rich in implication—a force none can withstand.”
“Of course, I believe ninety-nine percent of what the Master says constitutes infallible truth.”
“Moreover, what the Master practices—ninety-nine percent of it—should be taken as our model by any among us.”
“Nevertheless, the remaining one percent—a mere hundredth part within his absolutely trust-inspiring eloquence—may at times risk justifying aspects of his character (those minuscule portions not wholly aligned with absolute, universal truths).”
“That’s where vigilance is needed.”

This might perhaps be desire speaking through me—the result of having grown too familiar and presumptuous with the Master. Indeed, should later generations revere him as a sage, nothing could be more natural. Never have I encountered one so near perfection as the Master; nor do I imagine such a man will ever appear again in ages to come. Yet what I mean to convey is this—that even he retains some minute flaw demanding vigilance. For a man like Yan Hui, whose very fiber mirrors the Master’s own, such dissatisfaction as I feel would surely never arise. Is it not precisely this consonance of temperament that makes the Master so frequently extol him? …………

Zilu burned with indignation at this greenhorn’s audacity in critiquing the Master, and though he knew these words stemmed ultimately from jealousy toward Yan Hui, he nonetheless sensed within them something that defied dismissal as mere folly.
As for differences in temperament, Zilu indeed had realizations of his own.
Zilu felt both admiration and contempt as he realized this impudent youngster seemed to possess a peculiar talent for giving clear form to things which we could only vaguely perceive.

Zigong once asked Confucius a strange question.
“Do the dead have knowledge?”
“Or might they have none?”
It was a question regarding the presence or absence of perception after death—or whether the soul perishes or endures.
Confucius gave another peculiar reply.
“If we were to say that the dead have knowledge, I would fear filial sons and devoted grandsons might impede their own lives to attend to death.”
“If we were to say that the dead do not have knowledge, I would fear unfilial sons abandoning their parents and leaving them unburied.”
As this was an entirely off-the-mark reply, Zigong was deeply dissatisfied.
Of course, he understood the meaning of Zigong’s question perfectly well, but Confucius—ever the realist and man centered on daily life—sought to redirect this outstanding disciple’s line of inquiry.

Because Zigong was dissatisfied, he told this story to Zilu.
Zilu himself had no particular interest in such matters, but feeling a slight desire to understand his teacher’s view on life and death rather than death itself, he once asked about death.

"I do not yet understand life."
"How then could I know death?"
This was Confucius’s answer.

"Exactly!"
Zilu was thoroughly impressed.
However, Zigong once again felt as though he had been brilliantly dodged.
That was true.
But what I’m talking about isn’t that.
Zigong’s expression was clearly saying that.

Nine

Duke Ling of Wei was an extremely weak-willed ruler.
He was not so foolish as to be unable to distinguish between the wise and the incompetent, yet ultimately found himself more gratified by sweet flattery than by bitter admonishments.
The governance of Wei was swayed by its inner court.

Lady Nanzi had long been notorious for licentious rumors.
When still a princess of Song, she had been entangled with her half-brother Chao—a man renowned for his beauty—and even after becoming the Duke of Wei’s consort, she summoned this Chao of Song to Wei, appointed him minister, and perpetuated their scandalous liaison.
A woman of sharp intellect who meddled freely in political affairs, Duke Ling never once refused any word from this Lady.
Those seeking Duke Ling’s favor knew to first court Nanzi’s goodwill.

When Confucius entered Wei from Lu, he answered the summons to attend Duke Ling but pointedly refrained from paying separate respects at the Lady’s quarters.
Lady Nanzi tilted her crown askew.
She swiftly dispatched an envoy bearing her message:
“All noble persons from the four directions who would stand as brothers to our lord must first behold the Lady—our humble consort.”
“The Lady desires an audience with you,” concluded the envoy, “and so forth.”

Confucius had no choice but to pay his respects.
Lady Nanzi received Confucius in audience from behind a sheer curtain of thin hemp drapery.
It is recorded that when Confucius performed the northern-facing kowtow ritual, Lady Nanzi returned repeated bows, her jade pendants ringing clearly.

When Confucius returned from the ducal palace, Zilu wore undisguised displeasure on his face.
He had wished Confucius would ignore the demands of someone like Lady Nanzi.
Never did he imagine the Master could be beguiled by that sorceress.
Yet the mere fact that his immaculate teacher had bowed to that defiled harlot already churned his gut.
It must be like those who treasure fine jade recoiling from even a shadow's touch upon its surface.
Confucius observed how within Zilu—that large child dwelling beside a capable man of action—no trace of maturity ever seemed to take root, finding it both vexing and faintly amusing.

One day, a messenger came to Confucius from Duke Ling’s residence. He said he wished to take a ride around the capital together in his carriage and hear various things. Confucius gladly changed his clothes and immediately set out.

That Duke Ling should recklessly revere this tall, gruff old man as a sage was deeply displeasing to Lady Nanzi. For him to outmaneuver her and have the two of them ride around the capital together was utterly beyond the pale.

Confucius had an audience with the Duke, and when he went out to the front to ride together in the carriage, there Lady Nanzi, resplendent in her finest attire, had already boarded. There was no seat for Confucius. Lady Nanzi looked at Duke Ling with a malicious smile. Even Confucius could not help but become displeased and coldly observed the Duke’s demeanor. Duke Ling lowered his eyes shamefacedly but could not say anything to Lady Nanzi. He wordlessly pointed to the next carriage for Confucius.

Two carriages proceeded through the capital of Wei.
In the luxurious four-wheeled carriage ahead, the radiant figure of Lady Nanzi sat alongside Duke Ling, shining like a peony blossom.
In the shabby two-wheeled oxcart following behind, Confucius’s lonely face gazed solemnly straight ahead.
Among the people lining the road, hushed sighs and looks of disapproval inevitably arose.

Amidst the crowd, Zilu too saw this sight. Having witnessed the Master’s joy when receiving the Duke’s summons, he felt his guts churn with fury. While coquettishly toying with some remark, Lady Nanzi passed before his eyes. Startled despite himself, he clenched his fists and tried to charge forward through the press of bodies. Someone restrained him from behind. He whirled around with a glare to shake them off—it was Ziruo and Zizheng. In the eyes of these two desperately clutching his sleeves, Zilu saw tears pooling. At last, he lowered his raised fist.

The next day, Confucius and his entourage left Wei.
"I have yet to see one who loves virtue as he loves beauty." Such was Confucius’ lament at that time.

Ten

The Duke of She was exceedingly fond of dragons.
In his living quarters he carved dragons, on embroidered curtains he painted dragons, and daily he lived amidst dragons.
Having heard this, the genuine heavenly dragon was greatly delighted and descended one day to the Duke of She’s house to catch a glimpse of his admirer.
It was of such magnificent size that its head peered through the windows while its tail trailed through the hall.
When the Duke of She saw this, he was terrified and fled in panic.
He had lost his very soul, his complexion drained of all vitality—such was the depth of his cowardice.

The feudal lords delighted in Confucius’ reputation for wisdom but not in its substance.
They were all of the same ilk as the Duke of She’s dragon.
The actual Confucius appeared far too immense for them.
There were states that wished to treat Confucius as a state guest.
There were also states that employed some of Confucius’s disciples.
Yet there was not a single state that sought to implement Confucius’s policies.
In Kuang they faced attempted humiliation by mobs; in Song they suffered persecution from treacherous officials; and in Pu they again came under attack by ruffians.
The avoidance by feudal lords, the envy of court scholars, and the exclusion by politicians—these were all that awaited Confucius.

Nevertheless, never ceasing their lectures nor neglecting their cultivation through mutual refinement, Confucius and his disciples tirelessly continued their journey through the states.
“Birds choose trees well.
Could trees ever choose birds?”—though their spirit remained supremely noble, this stance sprang not from worldly bitterness; they sought solely to be put to use.
And with complete sincerity—astonishingly so—they believed their being employed served not themselves but all under Heaven, but the Way itself.
Even in poverty they stayed ever bright; even in hardship they never relinquished hope.
Truly, they were a most extraordinary company.

When Confucius’s group had been invited to visit King Zhao of Chu and was about to set out, the ministers of Chen and Cai conspired together, secretly gathering a mob to surround them on the road.
They feared that Confucius would be employed by Chu and thus attempted to prevent this.
Though being attacked by mobs was not new to them, this time they fell into their most desperate circumstances.
Their supply route was cut off, leaving the entire group without cooked food for seven days.
At last came starvation and exhaustion—the sick began appearing one after another.
Amidst his disciples’ utter weariness and terror-stricken panic, Confucius alone remained undaunted in spirit, playing his zither and singing without pause as he always did.
Unable to endure watching the attendants’ suffering any longer, Zilu—his expression darkening—went to Confucius’s side where he played and sang.
Then he asked:
“Master—is this song about Ritual?”
Confucius did not answer.
His hands never stopped moving across the zither’s strings.
Only after finishing his song did he finally speak.

“Zilu.
“I shall tell you.
“The Junzi delights in music so as not to become arrogant.
“The petty person delights in music so as not to become fearful.
“What manner of man is this?
“Those who follow me without knowing me.”

Zilu doubted his ears for a moment.
In this dire predicament, does he play music so as not to become arrogant?
Yet the instant he grasped his teacher's meaning, delight surged through him, and before he knew it he had seized a spear and begun to dance.
Confucius matched his rhythm with three repetitions of the melody.
Those nearby forgot their hunger and weariness for a time, wholly absorbed in this rugged warrior's spontaneous performance.

During the same Chen-Cai crisis, seeing no sign of the siege lifting easily, Zilu spoke.
“Does even a noble person face hardship?”
For according to his teacher’s usual teachings, a noble person should never face hardship—or so he had thought.
Confucius answered immediately.
“Does hardship not mean being constrained by the Way?”
“Now that I, Qiu, embrace the path of benevolence and righteousness yet meet with this chaotic age’s calamity—”
“How could this be called hardship?”
“If you define hardship as lacking food and exhausting the body, then yes—even a noble person faces hardship.”
“But when petty people face hardship, they run wild here.”
That was the only difference, he meant.
Zilu involuntarily reddened.
It felt like having the petty man within himself exposed.
Seeing Confucius’s countenance—knowing hardship to be fate yet showing not a flicker of agitation before great peril—one could not but marvel at such supreme courage.
The courage he had once prided himself on—facing naked blades without blinking—now seemed wretchedly insignificant.

Eleven

On the road from Xu to Ye, as Zilu walked alone along a path through the fields, lagging behind Confucius’s party, he encountered an old man shouldering a load of bamboo grass.
Zilu casually greeted him and asked, “Have you not seen the Master?”
The old man stopped and retorted brusquely, “You keep saying ‘Master, Master,’ but how in blazes am I supposed to know which Master you’re going on about?” After scrutinizing Zilu’s demeanor, he scoffed, “From the look of you, you’re one of those who neither toil with their limbs nor engage in real work—wasting days away on empty theories.”
Then he entered the adjacent field and, without so much as a glance back, began diligently removing weeds.
Zilu, certain he must be one of the recluses, bowed respectfully and stood in the road awaiting his next words.
The old man silently finished his work, came out to the road, and led Zilu to his own home.
By now, the sun was already setting.
The old man slaughtered a chicken, cooked millet, entertained him, and introduced Zilu to his two sons.
After the meal, the old man, slightly intoxicated from the unfiltered sake, took up the zither beside him and played.
The two sons harmonized with it and sang.

Deep dew lies abundant.

Without the sun, it will not dry.

Contentedly, they drank into the night.

Without drunken revelry, there’s no returning home.

Despite the clearly impoverished life, a truly harmonious abundance filled the house.
In the peacefully content expressions of the three family members, it was hard to overlook how now and then something intellectual would flash.

After finishing playing, the old man spoke to Zilu.
“For land travel, use a carriage; for water travel, use a boat—this has been decided since ancient times.
What do you think happens when you use a boat on dry land?
To attempt to implement Zhou’s ancient laws in the present age is precisely like moving a boat on land.
If you dress a monkey in the Duke of Zhou’s robes, it will surely panic, tear them off, and cast them aside.”
He continued... It was clear that these remarks were made knowing Zilu was a disciple of Confucius’s school.
The old man spoke again.
“Only when one’s contentment is complete can they truly be said to have attained their purpose.
To attain one’s purpose does not mean carriages and caps of high office.”
What might be called serene boundlessness must have been this old man’s ideal.

For Zilu, this was not his first encounter with such reclusive philosophies.
He had also met the two men Changju and Jieni.
He had also encountered a man from Chu named Jieyu who feigned madness.
However, he had never before entered into their lives and spent a night with them in this manner.
As Zilu engaged with the old man’s gentle words and serenely content countenance, he could not help but feel a measure of envy—for this too was undeniably a beautiful way of life.

Yet he had not simply been nodding silently in agreement with the man’s words all along.
“Withdrawing from the world may indeed bring contentment,” he countered, “but humanity’s purpose lies not in perfecting personal satisfaction.”
“To disrupt the great order while cleansing one’s trivial self—this violates the way of man.”
“We too have long known the Way finds no purchase in this age.”
“We know full well the peril of preaching it now.”
“But precisely because this is an age without the Way—does that not make it imperative to risk danger and continue teaching it?”

The next morning, Zilu took leave of the old man’s house and hurried on his way. Along the road, he found himself comparing Confucius with that old man from the previous night. There was no reason Confucius’s insight should be inferior to that old man’s. There was no reason Confucius’s desires should be any greater than his. Yet when he considered how he himself had forsaken his own path of self-fulfillment to wander the realm for the sake of the Way, he suddenly began feeling a hatred toward that old man—a hatred he hadn’t sensed at all during their encounter. As noon approached, he finally caught sight of a group of figures far ahead on the path cutting through a vivid green sea of wheat. The moment he recognized Confucius’s form—conspicuously taller than the others in their midst—Zilu felt an abrupt, constricting pain grip his chest.

Twelve

On the ferry from Song to Chen, Zigong and Zai Yu were engaged in debate.
“In a hamlet of ten households, there must be someone as loyal and faithful as Qiu."
Centering on the Master’s words—“None compare to Qiu in devotion to learning”—Zigong argued that despite this statement, Confucius’s supreme perfection derived from the extraordinariness of his innate qualities, while Zai Yu countered that no—the greater contribution came from his acquired efforts at self-cultivation.
According to Zai Yu, the difference between Confucius’ abilities and those of his disciples was quantitative in nature and by no means qualitative.
What Confucius possesses is something all people possess.
It was merely that Confucius had refined each of these to their present magnitude through unceasing diligence.
Zigong, however, argued that when a quantitative difference becomes immense, it ultimately becomes indistinguishable from a qualitative difference.
Moreover, isn’t the very fact that one can persist in efforts toward self-cultivation to such an extent itself the greatest proof of innate extraordinariness?
But when asked what constitutes the very core of Confucius’ genius above all else, Zigong states, “It is—”
“That outstanding instinct for the Mean.
“That superb instinct for the Mean—the one that makes the Master’s every advance and retreat beautiful in all circumstances.”

At their words，Zilu，standing nearby，pulled a bitter face.
You lot—all talk and no guts!
If this boat were to capsize now，how pale those guys would turn.
No matter what they say，when it comes down to an emergency，the one who can actually be of use to the Master is I.
Facing the two eloquent young men，he contemplated how clever words disrupt virtue，and with quiet pride relied on what he held dear—the unmelting shard of ice within his breast.
However，even Zilu was not entirely without dissatisfaction toward his teacher.

When Duke Ling of Chen had an affair with his minister’s wife, wore her undergarment to court, and flaunted it, a minister named Xie Ye remonstrated and was killed.
About this incident from about a hundred years prior, one of the disciples once questioned Confucius.
The case of Xie Ye being killed after upright remonstrance was no different from the remonstrative death of the ancient renowned minister Bi Gan.
"Is it appropriate to call this benevolence?"
Confucius answered.
"No—in the case of Bi Gan and King Zhou, there was a blood relationship, and in terms of official position, he served as Junior Preceptor. Therefore, he abandoned his own life to remonstrate earnestly, expecting that after being killed, King Zhou would come to repentance."
"This should be called benevolence."
"Xie Ye was neither a blood relative to Duke Ling, nor did his position exceed that of a single minister."
"If he knew the ruler was unrighteous and the state unrighteous, he should have withdrawn cleanly; yet without considering his station, he sought to rectify the state’s licentious marriages with his trivial self."
"He needlessly wasted his own life."
"Far from being an act of benevolence."

The disciple withdrew in acceptance after being told this, but Zilu, who stood nearby, could not nod in agreement.
Immediately, he spoke up.
“Benevolence and non-benevolence—let us set that aside for now.
But regardless—within the act of forgetting one’s own peril to rectify a state’s disorder—is there not something splendid that transcends wisdom and folly?
One cannot definitively say that sacrificing one’s life in vain holds no value.
No matter what the result may be.”

“You.”
“In your eyes, only the splendor found in such minor acts of righteousness catches your attention—it seems you cannot see beyond that.”
“The scholars of old would exhaust their loyalty to assist a state that followed the Way, and withdraw their persons to avoid one that did not.”
“It seems you still fail to grasp the splendor of such conduct of advance and retreat.”
“The Book of Poetry states:”
“When the people are steeped in depravity, do not establish your own punishments.”
“Indeed, this seems to apply to Xie Ye’s case.”

“In that case,” said Zilu after thinking for a considerable time. “Ultimately, does the most important thing in this world lie in ensuring one’s own safety? Is it not found in discarding one’s life to accomplish righteousness? Is the propriety of one’s conduct in public service truly more important than the safety of the masses under Heaven? To put it plainly—if Xie Ye had withdrawn in disgust from the scandalous affair before his eyes, then yes, his own life might have been preserved. But what would that have amounted to for the people of Chen? Still, even knowing it’s futile, dying in remonstration would have far more significance in its impact on the people’s ethos—wouldn’t you agree?”

“That does not mean only personal preservation matters—then we wouldn’t praise Bi Gan as benevolent! Yet even when sacrificing life for the Way, there’s proper timing and circumstance. Discerning this through wisdom serves no private gain; rushing toward death isn’t true capability.”

When told that, I did somewhat feel that way, but something still didn’t sit right.
While preaching that one should sacrifice oneself to achieve benevolence, there were moments when I sensed in the Master’s discourse a tendency to regard prudent self-preservation as the highest wisdom.
That was what really bothered me.
The reason the other disciples didn’t feel this at all was because prudent self-preservation clung to them as instinct.
If their benevolence and righteousness were not founded entirely upon that very instinct, then they must have found themselves in precarious danger indeed.

When Zilu left with an unconvinced expression, Confucius, watching his retreating figure, solemnly said: “Even when a state follows the Way, he remains straight as an arrow. When the Way is absent, he remains like an arrow. That man belongs to the same breed as Shi Yu of Wei. He will likely not meet an ordinary death.”

When Chu attacked Wu, a man named Gongyin Shangyang pursued the Wu army. Only after his chariot companion Prince Qi Ji told him, “This is royal duty. You may take up your bow,” did he finally grasp his weapon. When urged with “Shoot them,” he managed to kill one man. However, he immediately returned the bow to its case. Pressed again, he retrieved the bow and slew two more men—each time covering his eyes as he loosed his arrows. After felling three warriors, he declared, “With my current station, this should suffice to report back,” and turned his chariot around.

When Confucius heard this story, he was impressed, saying, “Even in killing people, there is propriety.”
To Zilu, however, there was no tale more outrageous than this.
Particularly in phrases like “For myself, killing three men is quite sufficient,” the mindset he despised—placing personal actions above the state’s welfare—was laid so bare that it enraged him.
He confronted Confucius in fury.
“When a retainer faces his lord’s great affairs, he must exhaust every ounce of his strength and only cease after death!”
“Master, why do you praise such a man?”
Even Confucius was left speechless.
He answered with a laugh.

“Indeed. As you say. I merely value the heart that finds it unbearable to kill people.”

Thirteen

Having entered and exited Wei four times and stayed in Chen for three years—through Cao, Song, Cai, Ye, and Chu—Zilu followed Confucius on his journey.

He could no longer hope that feudal lords would emerge to put Confucius’s Way into practice, yet strangely, Zilu no longer felt impatient.
After years churning through cycles of indignation at the world’s corruption, the incompetence of feudal lords, and Confucius’s misfortune, Zilu had finally begun—however vaguely—to grasp the meaning of their shared destiny: his own and that of Confucius whom he followed.
This stood far removed from passive resignation to fate.
Though still called “fate,” this was now an active awakening—a mission neither confined to any petty state nor bound by era, but rather serving as a wooden bell proclaiming morality to all under heaven throughout generations.
When Confucius stood encircled by Kuang’s mob and declared with unshaken resolve—“Has Heaven not yet abandoned this culture? What can Kuang’s people do to me?”—Zilu now truly comprehended those words.
He understood both the magnitude of his teacher’s wisdom—never despairing in adversity, never scorning reality, always striving within given limits—and for the first time grasped why Confucius carried himself as one perpetually observed by posterity.
Perhaps obstructed by his own surplus of worldly talent, the shrewd Zigong remained scarcely aware of Confucius’s trans-era mission.
Yet Zilu—through his artless nature and utterly pure devotion to their teacher—seemed instead to have seized upon Confucius’s profound significance.

Amidst the accumulating years of wandering, Zilu had already reached fifty years of age.
Though it would be difficult to claim his rough edges had been smoothed, he had indeed gained a certain human gravitas.
The unyielding spirit later generations would call “What could ten thousand measures of grain add to me?” and his piercing gaze had now departed from the vain pride of a mere emaciated wanderer, having fully matured into the commanding presence of a master.

Fourteen

When Confucius visited Wei for the fourth time, he recommended Zilu to serve in this country at the request of the young Duke of Wei and Chief Minister Kong Shuyu among others.
When Confucius was invited back to his homeland after over ten years, Zilu parted ways and remained in Wei.

For ten years, Wei was embroiled in constant conflicts centered around Lady Nanzi's misconduct.
First, a man named Gongsun Xu plotted to expel Lady Nanzi but instead fell victim to her slander and fled to Lu.
Next, Duke Ling’s son, Crown Prince Kuai Kui, attempted to assassinate his stepmother Lady Nanzi but failed and fled to Jin.
Amidst the vacancy of the crown prince, Duke Ling passed away.
Reluctantly, they installed the young Zhe—son of the exiled crown prince—to succeed him.
This was Duke Chu.
The exiled former Crown Prince Kuai Kui infiltrated Wei’s western region with Jin’s support and watched like a tiger for an opportunity to seize the ducal throne.
The current Duke of Wei resisting this was the son.
The one aiming to seize the position was the father.
The state of Wei that Zilu came to serve existed in such circumstances.

Zilu’s duty was to govern the land of Pu as steward for the Kong family.
The Kong family of Wei was a prestigious clan equivalent to the Ji Sun clan in Lu, and its head, Kong Shuyu, had long been renowned as an esteemed statesman.
Pu was the former territory of Gongsun Xu—who had recently been exiled due to Lady Nanzi’s slander—and consequently now adopted a confrontational stance against the current government that had driven out its lord in every matter.
It was originally a place with rough-spirited people, and once, Zilu himself had been attacked by a mob in this land while accompanying Confucius.

Before assuming his post, Zilu went to Confucius and explained the situation in Pu—reported to have "many brave men in the city, making it difficult to govern"—then sought his master's instruction.
Confucius said, “If you are respectful and reverent, you can awe the brave; if generous and just, win over the strong; if gentle yet decisive, suppress the wicked.”
Zilu bowed twice in gratitude and cheerfully departed for his post.

Upon arriving in Pu, Zilu first summoned the local influential figures and dissidents, engaging them in frank discussion.
This was no attempt to tame them.
Knowing full well Confucius’s constant teaching that “one must not punish without first instructing,” he therefore began by clearly explaining his intentions to them.
His unpretentious directness seemed to resonate with the rough-spirited land’s populace.
The brave men all yielded to Zilu’s clear-eyed magnanimity.
Moreover, by this time, Zilu’s name had already resounded throughout the realm as Confucius’s foremost gallant disciple.
Even Confucius’s praise—“Can one who settles lawsuits with half-words be none other than You?”—had become widely known through extravagant embellishments.
One factor that had indeed compelled the brave men of Pu to yield was precisely this reputation.

Three years later, Confucius happened to pass through Pu.
Upon first entering the territory, he said, “Excellent, You! Respectful and trustworthy.”
When he advanced into the city, he said, “Excellent, You! Loyal and trustworthy yet generous.”
When he finally reached Zilu’s residence, he said, “Excellent, You! Discerning and decisive.”
When Zigong, who was holding the reins, asked why he praised Zilu without having seen him yet, Confucius answered.
Upon entering the territory, the fields were all well-managed, the weeds thoroughly cleared, and the irrigation ditches deep and orderly.
It was because the governor was reverent and trustworthy that the people exerted their full strength.
When entering the city, the dwellings’ walls and roofs were well-maintained, and the trees were flourishing.
It was because the governor was loyal, trustworthy, and generous that the people did not neglect their work.
When he finally reached the courtyard, it was exceedingly tranquil, with not a single servant or attendant disobeying orders.
It was because the governor’s words were discerning and decisive that his governance remained orderly.
“Have I not comprehended all aspects of his governance without yet seeing You?”

Fifteen

Around the time when Duke Ai of Lu hunted and captured a qilin in the western wilderness of Da Ye, Zilu had temporarily returned to Lu from Wei.
At that time, a grandee of Xiaozhu named She rebelled against his state and fled to Lu.
The man, who had once met Zilu, said, “If Jilu were to guarantee me, I would have no need to swear any oath.”
According to the custom of the time, those who fled to another country could only settle there with peace of mind after having that country pledge to guarantee their lives; however, this grandee of Xiaozhu declared, “As long as Zilu would stand as guarantor, we would have no need for any oath from Lu.”
Zilu’s trustworthiness and integrity—that he never made empty promises—were so widely known in the world.
However, Zilu bluntly refused this request.
Someone said:
“To disregard the pledge of a thousand-chariot state and yet cling to your solitary word—
A man’s true ambition could hardly surpass this—why then do you consider it shameful?”
Zilu answered:
“If the State of Lu were to have dealings with Xiaozhu and were I commanded to die beneath their walls, I would gladly comply without questioning the circumstances.
But the man called She is a disloyal subject who sold out his state.
If I were to stand as guarantor for that, it would mean approving of a traitor myself.
Whether it’s something I can do or cannot do—is there any need to even think about it?!”

Those who knew Zilu well could not help but smile when they heard this tale.
Because it was all too like him—the kind of thing he would do, the kind of thing he would say.

In the same year, Chen Heng of Qi assassinated his lord.
After three days of purification rites, Confucius appeared before Duke Ai and petitioned to attack Qi in the name of righteousness.
He made this request three times.
Duke Ai, fearing Qi’s military might, refused to heed him.
The duke told him to consult Ji Sun and devise plans.
There was no reason Ji Kangzi would ever consent to this.
Confucius withdrew from his sovereign’s presence and informed his followers:
“I act in accordance with my station behind the grandees.”
“Thus I could not refrain from speaking out.”
Though knowing his efforts futile, his position as national elder compelled this duty.
(At that time, Confucius received treatment befitting a national elder.)

Zilu’s face clouded slightly.
Had what the Master done been merely to perfect the form?
Was this righteous indignation that remained unacted upon—something one could calmly settle for by simply adhering to formalities?

After nearly forty years of receiving his teachings, this chasm remained insurmountable.

Sixteen

While Zilu was in Lu, Kong Shuyu—the political pillar of Wei—died.
That widow, who was both the sister of exiled crown prince Kuai Kui and a schemer named Bo Ji, emerged onto the political stage.
Though Kong Kui had nominally succeeded his father Yu, this existed only in form.
From Bo Ji’s perspective, the current Duke Zhe of Wei was her nephew and the former crown prince Kuai Kui, who coveted the throne, was her younger brother—there should have been no difference in closeness between them. Yet due to a complex history of affection, resentment, and self-interest, she strangely found herself scheming solely for her brother’s sake.
After her husband’s death, she frequently employed Hun Liangfu—a handsome youth who had risen from page—as a messenger to shuttle between herself and her younger brother Kuai Kui, secretly plotting to expel the current Duke of Wei.

When Zilu returned to Wei once more, he sensed that the conflict between the Duke and his son had further intensified, and an atmosphere of impending political upheaval hung thickly in the air.

In the intercalary twelfth month of the fortieth year of King Zhao of Zhou, on a certain day.
As evening approached, a messenger hurriedly rushed into Zilu’s house.
It was from Luan Ning, the elder of the Kong family.
“Today, the former crown prince Kuai Kui has infiltrated the capital.”
“At this very moment, they have entered the Kong residence and, together with Bo Ji and Hun Liangfu, coerced the head of the household Kong Kui into installing him as Duke of Wei.”
“The tide of events has already become irreversible.”
“I am now about to escort the current Duke of Wei and flee to Lu.”
“I leave the rest to you.” was the message.

So it’s finally come, Zilu thought.
In any case, having heard that his direct lord Kong Kui had been captured and coerced, he could not stay silent.
Grabbing his sword, he rushed to the Duke’s palace.

As he tried to enter the outer gate, he collided with a short-statured man who was coming out from inside.
It was Zigao.
A junior disciple of the Confucian school—an honest yet timid man who had become a grandee of this state through Zilu’s recommendation.
Zigao said:
“The inner gate has already closed.”
“Zilu.”
“No—I’ll at least go and see for myself.”
“Zigao.”
“But it’s already futile.”
“It’s not certain you won’t encounter danger instead.”
Zilu raised his voice and said:
“Are you not one who eats the Kong family’s stipend?”
“What reason do you have to flee from danger?”

Shaking off Zigao and arriving at the inner gate, he found it indeed closed from within. He pounded violently—boom! boom! “Don’t come in!” someone shouted from within. Hearing that voice, Zilu roared. That’s Gongsun Gan’s voice. “I am not the sort of man who changes his principles to flee from calamity! Since I’ve benefited from their stipend, I must save them from this disaster. Open up! Open up!” Just as a messenger was coming out from inside, Zilu rushed in, passing him by.

When he looked, the entire courtyard was a sea of people—ministers who had been urgently summoned for a declaration in Kong Kui’s name to install the new Duke of Wei. Each wore expressions of shock and bewilderment, their allegiances wavering visibly. On the terrace overlooking the courtyard, young Kong Kui was being restrained by his mother Bo Ji and uncle Kuai Kui, forced to announce the coup and explain it to the assembly.

Zilu shouted toward the terrace from behind the crowd: “What do you gain by seizing Kong Kui? Release him! Even if you kill Kong Kui alone, the righteous faction will never perish!”

For Zilu, first and foremost came rescuing his master.
When the commotion in the broad courtyard momentarily stilled and he realized all had turned toward him, he now began inciting the crowd.
"The Crown Prince's a notorious coward! If we torch the terrace from below, fear'll make them release Kongshu for certain! Let's set the fires! Fire!"

As dusk had already fallen, bonfires were burning in every corner of the courtyard. Pointing at them, Zilu shouted, “Fire! Fire!” “Those who remember Kongshu Wenzi’s kindness—take fire and burn the terrace! Then rescue Kongshu!” The usurpers on the terrace, greatly fearing this turn, ordered two swordsmen—Shi Qi and Yu Yan—to cut Zilu down.

Zilu fiercely crossed swords with the two men.
Even the valiant Zilu of yore could not prevail against age.
Fatigue gradually accumulated，and his breath grew ragged.
Seeing Zilu’s unfavorable situation，the crowd at last revealed their true colors.
Jeers flew toward Zilu，and countless stones and clubs struck his body.
The tip of an enemy’s halberd grazed his cheek.
The tassel cord—the cap’s string—snapped，and the cap began to fall.
As soon as he tried to support it with his left hand，another enemy’s sword bit into his shoulder.
Blood gushed forth，Zilu collapsed，and the cap fell.
While collapsing，Zilu stretched out his hand，picked up his cap，properly placed it on his head，and swiftly tied the tassel cord.
Under the enemy’s blades，Zilu，drenched in crimson blood，mustered his final strength and screamed.

“Behold! A Junzi dies only after properly adjusting his cap—I tell you!”

Cut to pieces like minced meat across his entire body, Zilu died.

While in Lu and hearing distantly of Wei’s political upheaval，Confucius immediately said，“Chai (Zigao)，you must return．Zilu will die．”

When he learned that his words had indeed come true, the old sage stood still and closed his eyes for a time, then tears streamed down silently.
As soon as he heard that Zilu’s corpse had been made into mincemeat, he had all the salted provisions in his house discarded, and thereafter, mincemeat never again appeared on his dining table.

(February 1943)