Chapter 2: Spring, or the Wisdom of Jen
March 1 Jen slept, his hammock suspended between a pine tree and a bamboo hut. At dawn he woke up, looked down for his slippers, arose and descended the hill into the valley. He knelt beside the river and cupped his hands, immersing them in the water. Leaning over, he washed his face. Afterward he sat on the bank in meditation, the sky above, the earth below. Haze enveloped everything. His meditation emptied his mind, which had no thought until he began it. Meditating, he thought of everything. The sun arose over the far horizon. The universe came into being. Jen needed only to look at the moon for it to appear in the morning sky, an image of himself. He thought of the great beginning. He thought of the revolutions of the earth. He thought of the end of life. He thought of the unity.
Again Jen considered the beginning. Man, he concluded, was born of nothingness and assumed form from necessity. Having taken form, he was governed by things; but he sought always to return to that from which he was born. Jen finished his meditation and returned to himself. Arising, he climbed the hill to begin the day.
March 2 Jen Yao Shun descended from his father and his mother. Like his father, Yao, Jen was intelligent, reverent, accomplished and mild. He was sincerely respectful and capable of modesty. Like his mother, however, he was also deceitful, religious and cunning. Like his father he lit the world, his light covering the four extremities of the empire, extending to Heaven above and Earth below. Like his mother he was loving and lazy. He wasted his time and came to no good.
Some say his mother had borne two children: Ho, a son, to follow the course of the sun; Si, a daughter, to follow the moon and observe the variation of the tides. Others say she also bore another child, an hermaphrodite, So, to follow the rest of the heavenly bodies. Truly she bore but one, for Jen followed all the heavenly bodies and, though of low estate, he alone inherited the kingdom.
Though a good man, Yao was blind in choosing his wife, Shun, who, though a loving mother to Jen, was also a whore. Thus she begot another son Hsiang, half‑brother to Jen. Hsiang was greedy for the patrimony of Jen and stole from his blind stepfather. Nonetheless, Jen lived with all in filial harmony.
In old age Yao gave his inheritance outright to Jen, who made forthwith many sacrifices. Observing all things, he worshipped them all equally. He counted and acknowledged the six elements, and added himself thereto. Discerning in river and mountain the nearest approach to divinity, he made an offering before them. Daily he visited the river; daily he climbed the mountain. With diligence he studied the text, mastered the characters, and worked each day in his garden. Each week he visited the city, each month a forest retreat. And once a year he left his native land altogether to study and enjoy another part of the empire.
Finally, he put in accord the seasons, the months and the proper days. He established the musical tones. He measured all distances and weighed all things. He drew the boundaries between the twelve provinces, raising an altar on each of the twelve highest mountains of the empire. He deepened the rivers, restored the past, and created an island for himself, for his work, for the rest of mankind.
March 3 Having set the universe in order, Jen stopped to consider the reason for all these things. Evidently, he said to himself, there is more than one reason. There is the reason behind these things, but there is also the reason behind the reason. Which, he wondered, of these was first? And what, he wondered, would happen should he pursue this mode of thought? But for only a moment did he think these things. With characteristic good sense he stopped for a cup of tea.
March 4 The next day Jen spent looking at his specimens and studying the ways of nature. This led to further observations which, in turn, provoked conclusions that appeared inescapable. There is, he observed, no design in nature. God, he reasoned, does not exist. Though I see many beautiful things, I doubt them to have been created by an intelligent being. Alas, I find no more intention in the beauty of the wings of the locust than in the ways in which the wind blows.
March 5 Luckily, the next day the sun came out again. Jen decided he would reckon things afresh. Conclusions, he thought to himself, must not be based on logic or scientific observation. One’s thought instead should be closer to the ways of the bee and the butterfly. Accordingly, Jen set aside nine days to put his mind in order. On each of the nine days he would make his observations. On the tenth day he would then decide what it was he thought.
March 6 On the first day Jen woke up and felt hungry. He got down out of his hammock. Without putting his slippers on he walked into the forest to the ancient oak tree which he had often observed. At its base he filled his pockets with acorns. Returning to his hut he broke them open, placing their meat in a bowl of glazed clay. Taking the earthen bowl in his hands, he walked out into the pasture. The field was green and lovely, the deep blue sky above serene. A white goat grazed in the field. First Jen patted her, then he milked her, filling his bowl to the brim. Returning once more to his hut, he ate his breakfast.
“Everything,” he reflected, “is its own self; everything is something else’s other.”
March 7 On the second day Jen woke to find his wallet missing. The money for his rent was gone. At noon a friend came walking down the road and stopped. Together he and Jen drank a cup of tea and fell to talking of the neighbors. His friend had visited the hut of Wu that morning. “The widow,” Jen remarked, has no food to feed her sick daughter. “True,” said his friend, “yet this morning, as I spoke to her, I noticed a fat wallet on her table.” “Her daughter will eat,” said Jen.
In the afternoon, as the sun was going down, he thought to himself: “It is because there is right that there is wrong; it is because there is wrong that there is right.”
March 8 On the third day Jen arose and, according to his custom, drank from the river. He sat on the bank and reflected. The water I drank yesterday has become my blood. I, therefore, am the river. Likewise, the water I gave has become the river. Thus the river and I are one.
Later that day he questioned the nature of things: “Do self and other truly exist? Do right and wrong? Do the river and I?” Of course not. I will cease to approach things at this level. Instead I will simply reflect the light of the world about me. This day he marked on his calendar.
March 9 The following day the sun shone very brightly. Jen walked to the city and returned. Everything he saw stood out clearly. All he heard was distinct. At noon a man in a golden robe handed him a message. Though the characters were clear, Jen could not decipher their meaning. Nonetheless, he put the piece of parchment in his pocket. On his way home he took delight in everything he saw and heard, forgetting about the message.
March 10 The next day Jen labored hard to earn again the sum of money that Wu had taken from him. Clouds were in the sky, and his thoughts were melancholy. At dusk he finished work and had his supper. Afterward he took out the piece of parchment again and studied its characters. For hours he could not fall asleep. Yet when he did, he dreamt the meaning of the message.
March 11 Arising, Jen meditated. After he had finished, he observed: “The wise man leans against the sun and against the moon. He carries the universe under his arm. He blends everything into a unity. Unmindful of confusion and oblivious to pain, he equalizes right and wrong, left and right, light and dark. The silver of night and the yellow of day he makes into gold. He sees all things for what they are, and thus he brings them together.”
March 12 Jen awoke remembering a dream. He had dreamt of the center of the earth. There he had come upon a golden skull. When he awakened, he studied his dream. Those, he concluded, who dream of success, may the next day wail and weep. Those who wail and weep in their dream may go off the next day to find their fortune.
March 13 Jen awakened to find that again he had dreamt. In his second dream he had completed the interpretation of his earlier dream. He thought to himself: “While I dream I do not know that I am dreaming. Only when I awaken do I know that I have dreamt. One day the great awakening will come. Yet all the while the fool thinks that he is awake.”
March 14 On the last day Jen thought about knowledge and its relation to life. Though he had not lived forever, and though he knew very little, he concluded his thought on the subject. “Whereas life,” he said, “is finite, knowledge is infinite. Therefore, one must pursue the middle course. Do not seek to know everything. Do not seek to live forever.”
March 15 Then came the Ides of March. Jen, as he had planned to, decided what he believed. But first he decided the form of his belief. It began with light and ended with divinity, taking the shape of a serpent. Light, however, was only the beginning, divinity was only the end. In between were the heavens and the earth, the days and the seasons, the cities of men and the councils of the gods. All was according to his own lights; the divinity was the divinity within; yet all arose from necessity. In addition to light he made a place for right, though in the end divinity, light and right were all one. He meditated upon them and upon the universe, thinking of the sun, of the moon and the stars; thinking of the earth, the wind, the rivers and mountains; thinking of those who came before and of those who would follow.
March 16 The early years of the Han were marked by a long slow struggle to recover for the empire the advantage effected by the harsh unification of the years of the Ch’in. In one sweeping stroke the Ch’in had abolished feudalism, yet it arose again among those who followed the founder of the Han. Succeeding leaders had to set about quietly and patiently whittling away at feudal rights until they were finally and for all time reduced to an empty formality. In the realm of thought the Han again succeeded in accomplishing, by gradual and peaceful means, what the violent proscriptions of the Ch’in had failed to secure. The conclusions of the Han philosophers undoubtedly embraced many far‑fetched and absurd ideas, as some men of the day were quick to point out. But taken together they reveal the powerful urge to organize all knowledge into one coherent whole, filling in with conjecture where necessary.
Spring, in a word, had not yet quite arrived. Light had dispelled confusion. The truth was evident. Order had been achieved. Jen now understood the world, and the world understood Jen. But something was lacking. All that clarity seemed but a trick of nature, a game of wit. Having cleared away the dark, Jen now lived in the darkness of light. Having found the truth, he reflected upon its falsity. Having ordered his life, he lived in a new disorder. From these paradoxes others depended.
March 17 Jen awoke to regard his universe. He was happy with its extent. The more he thought, the larger it grew. It became the greatest thing. Having created such abundance, Jen grew humble. He became the smallest thing.
“The greatest thing,” he thought to himself, “has nothing beyond itself; the smallest thing has nothing within itself.”
March 18 At midday Jen took a walk about the village. He regarded all things equally with impartiality and circumspection. “The chimney on the cottage of Tu,” he observed, “is not a living thing; however, it will heat his house longer than the largest tree flourishing in the forest of the Emperor.” Other examples occurred to him.
“The heavens,” he concluded, “are as low as the earth; mountains are no higher than marshes.”
March 19 Jen arose early, put a crust of bread in his satchel, and set off for the sea. By midday he arrived. He ate his crust and lounged on the beach, regarding the infinity of waves. Each differed from the next; all were similar. Dozing, he thought he heard a voice. It spoke a different language, yet he understood it. From deep within the sea it came. Sitting upright, Jen listened more attentively and scanned the horizon. Soon a crest appeared, an arching back, a tail, and then a head. It was a dolphin. Understanding Jen’s perplexity, it had come to offer comfort. Approaching the beach the dolphin spoke with him. After they had talked a while, Jen recognized the dolphin’s superior intelligence and wisdom. They were similar, yet they were different. Jen felt the force of tragic thought. He fell asleep and dreamt of an earlier life.
March 20 In the morning he returned to his village. When he had arrived, he observed: “I return from my journey today, but I have not yet made it.” Later he again observed, “I made my journey yesterday. When I began it, it was already complete.”
Thus it was that Jen looked up to observe the phenomena of the heavens and gazed down to observe the contours of the earth. He observed the world about him and himself. He studied the contradictions and their resolutions. Yet much remained unfinished. The people did not know how or when they should plant and reap. The story of the war had not been told. Jen did not yet comprehend the principle of change. Still, he was happy and expectant. The equinox approached.
March 21 “In keeping your soul and embracing unity can you follow the right path forever?” Jen, about to awaken, wondered. “In opening and shutting the gates of heaven can a man like you play the part of the female?” He listened as the cock began to crow. He rolled over and opened his eyes. The sun was not yet up, but the room was light. Jen heard the voice again. “In perceiving all and comprehending all, can you still renounce all knowledge?” Who was this speaking to him? It was the voice of a woman. She had leaned her head through the window of his hut. “Come on out,” she said, “Let’s go for a walk.”
Throwing off his coverlet, Jen arose naked. He dressed himself, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Stretching his arms, he yawned, breathed deeply and began to feel much better. “Are you coming?” the woman asked, looking in the door. “Yes,” said Jen. He stepped across the threshold.
What a sight, the two of them! Jen’s beard was white as snow. Her straight white hair reached the earth. Jen rubbed the wrinkles on his forehead. He took her by the arm. As a swallow flew past, her bright blue eyes caught its motion. The rooster crowed again. She cocked her ear. The little bird settled on the topmost branch of a nearby tree and began to sing. A light breeze started up. A strand of hair falling across her yellow face, she brushed it back and smiled.
Jen had never married, though he had sired many offspring. However, by this woman he had none. She was his mistress, his companion, the ornament of his old age. The night before, when he retired to sleep, Jen had been eighty years old. Upon rising he was eighty‑one years old. His mistress sang for him a birthday song, as they walked beside the river:
“‘Birds,’” she sang, “‘are whiter against the river’s blue. / Against the mountain’s green the flowers burst in bloom.’” Jen laughed at such music. She too smiled, though tears were in her eyes. “‘I watch another spring go by,’” she sang. “‘Yet when will we return? What day will we return?’” She was older than Jen. At the summer solstice she would be eighty‑nine. Jen plainly loved her dearly. Through her eyes that day he saw what he had never seen before, the coming of spring.
Together they walked to the valley and sat by the river’s edge. Later, they wandered into the forest. The wind arose from the East to keep them warm. Passion took its course. The flies and bees began to buzz, a toad hopped over the path. Deep within the wood they slept. Awakening, they strolled again. They came upon a pond, fed by a mountain stream. Fish came up to the surface, as though to see the sun. The otter, with his paw, snatched one from the water. Above the clearing the wild geese continued north, making their clatter.
As the sun rose higher, the wind fell. Light clouds drifted overhead. Jen remembered his first love and the words they had spoken together. Beside the path he came across a violet and recalled his lover’s face. Together the three of them passed the hermit’s hut. The breeze quickened, causing a white cloth hanging in the door to billow. The path led on to a meadow. Cattle grazed, the dew still heavy and cool. Where, Jen wondered, would he see her again? One day perhaps at Jade Mountain, one day perhaps beneath the moon.
By another route they returned to Jen’s hut. It now appeared before them as a bright green hall. Standing at the entrance, a great belled chariot, drawn by dark green dragons, fluttered with pennants. On the doorstep to the hall someone had left a necklace of green jade. Jen placed it around his mistress’ neck. She smiled again. The dragons departed, drawing the great car. Jen and his mistress had returned to themselves.
When hunger stirred within them, Jen built a fire of pine logs. His mistress brewed tea and Jen slaughtered a lamb. Then they, who had not eaten for three days, feasted. They drank from silver goblets; they ate from wooden bowls.
Afterwards Jen once more grew reflective. “The Grand Astrologer,” he said, “must cherish the laws and observe the planets. He must calculate their courses, using the ancient rule.” Again she smiled and embraced him. “He must practice humanity and righteousness,” she said. Respecting her age, Jen submitted to her authority. By listening to her he had learned heavenly wisdom and the principles of nature.
But Jen also respected worldly wisdom. Accordingly, he decided he would seek the counsel of the wisest man; for woman, though she may know everything, does not always speak, and speaking, she is not always to be trusted. “The South,” said Jen by way of paraphrase, “has no limit and yet has a limit.”
His journey was a short one. At dusk he had reached the school and was warmly greeted. The master placed his hand upon his brother’s shoulder and showed him his table. Together they ate in silence. On the morrow the master would speak.
March 22 “In the morning we drink our tea,” said the master upon arising. “At midday we eat. In the evening we drink from the cup of wine.” Jen drank his tea, and the master spoke: “I transmit the word,” he said. “I do not create it.” That day he said no more.
March 23 On the second day Jen arose and prepared the tea. The master smiled. He had known many disciples, though none as old as Jen. He had seen a hundred winters, yet he had the face of a newborn child. The master raised his own food, heated his house and fetched the water; but he let other men do for him what he could not do for himself. His wife, a bride at nineteen, was ninety‑nine years old. He had never wished her harm.
The master took his tea and studied his disciple. He understood at once why Jen had sought him out. He spoke to him as to a child. “Jen, do you suppose,” said he, “that I merely learned a lot and then spent my life attempting to remember it?” Jen smiled and understood. He inquired as to principles, mentioning loyalty. “Loyalty and reciprocity, those are the principles,” the master said. That evening he poured two bowls of wine.
March 24 The next day Jen inquired about gentlemanly conduct. “The gentleman,” the master explained, “is broad‑minded, not partisan; it is the opposite with the inferior man. Three things,” he added, “the gentleman fears: (1) the will of heaven, (2) great men, and (3) the works of the sages. The inferior man does not know the will of Heaven and therefore does not fear it. He treats great men only with contempt. He scoffs at the words of the sages.”
March 25 Jen surveyed the grounds of the master’s school. Only a handful of disciples were in evidence. Most of these were busy teaching one another; the rest were engaged in meditation. Jen and the master spent the day in pleasant talk. That evening, when the wine was not delivered, the master proposed that they walk instead. When both had grown thirsty, they drank from the river.
March 26 On the fifth day the master proposed a longer walk. He and Jen, along with five other disciples, studied the natural world together. The master asked that Jen impart his knowledge and received it. The sky cleared. The sun shone, but not too brightly. At midday they ate together and shared a jug of wine. Afterwards they dozed beside a stream.
At dusk, as they returned, the air grew chill. In sight of the school they smelled smoke and saw the stables smoldering. A stable hand met them on the road. The master was calm, asking if anyone were injured. He did not inquire about the horses.
March 27 On the following day Jen asked about “requiting injury with kindness.”
“How then,” the master replied, “will you requite kindness? Requite injury.” he said, “with justice, kindness with kindness.”
At dinner Jen again expressed a provincial point of view. The master forgave him.
March 28 On the seventh day Jen and the master did not speak of serious things. Yet they did not tire of one another’s company. At midday they ate a great meal with all the master’s family. He made the fire but did not cook the food. Instead he played with the youngest of his nieces and nephews, recounting the past and entertaining them. He did not speak of his own concerns in the present before the younger people.
March 29 The master never tired of observing the changes in the natural world. Likewise, he never tired of conversation. And yet he spent little time out‑of‑doors and little time with other men. Jen inquired about solitude and action. “The superior man,” the master said, “abides in his room. If he speaks his words well, he meets with assent at a distance of more than a thousand miles. How much more then from nearby! If he abides in his room and his words are not well spoken, he meets with contradiction at a distance of more than a thousand miles. How much more then from nearby! Words go forth and have their effect. Deeds too are born close at hand and become visible at a great distance. Words and deeds are the hinge and bow spring of the superior man. As hinge and bow spring move, they bring him honor or disgrace. Through words and deeds the superior man can move heaven and earth. Must one not be cautious then?”
March 30 Having heard such wisdom, Jen nonetheless wondered whether the master himself were capable of living by his own precepts. Accordingly, the next day he sought out other disciples with the purpose of inquiring about the master’s conduct. He heard many stories; one especially struck his fancy. It appears that, once upon a time, when the master was in Ch’en, the supply of food was exhausted. Some of his disciples grew so weak that they could not stand up. At this Tzu Lu then came to the master, saying in disgust, “Even a gentleman, I see, can be reduced to straits.” In reply the master said: “A gentleman may indeed be so reduced. But an inferior man in such straits would be likely to do anything.”
March 31 Early the morning of his last day with the master, Jen dreamt of his father and his mother. His father remained aloof in heaven, while his mother appeared in the field below. Both took the form of the dragon, he headless, she sprouting wings to fly. His mother ascended as his father approached earth. Rain fell and his mother returned to the ground. Many dragons fought in the meadow below. As they wounded each other their blood flowed yellow and black.
In the morning Jen awoke, troubled by his dream. He spoke of fear. After the master had spoken, he was calmed. “The elements,” he said, addressing Jen, “have merely come together. Act as the dragons act, in fruitfulness. As for fear, when the gentleman looks into himself and finds no cause for self‑reproach, he has no reason to fear.”
At midday Jen and the master broke bread. Afterwards Jen thanked him for his wisdom. They shook hands, bade one another farewell, and Jen departed. On his way home he thought of what the master had said of the gentleman: “He acts according to the situation he is in; he does not desire anything outside it. If he is rich and highly esteemed, he acts like one who is rich and highly esteemed; if he is poor and unrecognized, he acts accordingly. Among barbarians, he does what one does among barbarians; if in trouble, he acts like one in trouble. There is no situation in which the superior man is not himself. If he is above subordinates, he does not abuse them; if he is below superiors, he does not fawn. He assures his own rectitude and seeks nothing from others; thus he has no cause for resentment. He does not blame Heaven, nor does he blame men. Thus he lives in calm and safety, in accord with necessity and the laws thereof.”
As he walked along the road, Jen noticed the buds on the trees beginning to blossom. The dragon’s work was finished. Nature, for Jen, had become itself a vision of nature, and of this vision Jen partook. At the age of eighty‑one his life had begun again. What, he wondered, did this new incarnation hold for him? He did not know. Returning to his hut, weary of travel, he fell into a deep and peaceful sleep, eager to embark tomorrow on his new life.