《弘道錄》Vol. 14

Wan Zhang asked Mencius, “The Book of Songs says that when taking a wife, one must first inform one’s parents. If this teaching is trustworthy, surely no one was better suited to follow it than Shun. Yet Shun took a wife without informing his parents. Why?”

Mencius replied, “If he had informed his parents, he would not have been able to marry. Marriage between a man and a woman is one of the most important human relationships. If informing his parents had made marriage impossible, this important relationship would have been abandoned, and his parents would have come to resent him. That is why Shun did not tell them.”

Wan Zhang asked again, “I understand your explanation of why Shun married without informing his parents. But Emperor Yao gave his daughter in marriage to Shun without first informing Shun’s parents. Why?”

Mencius said, “Emperor Yao also knew that if he had informed them beforehand, his daughter would not have been able to marry.”

The Hongdao lu comments: In the twenty-second year of Duke Zhuang of Lu’s reign, when he was already thirty-six years old, he only then began seeking a bride from Qi. Was this not because he would have been unable to marry if he had informed his parents first? If a wise ruler had been in power at the time, punishing Wen Jiang for her lack of maternal care and correcting Duke Zhuang’s lack of filial conduct, then Zhuang would not have been controlled by Ren Shi and Lou Luo, nor would he have been as weak as Ban or as young as Min. The treacherous schemes of Zi Ya and Qing Fu might never have come to pass. Sadly, Duke Huan of Lu was busy pursuing hegemony; no record even mentions his holding a blood covenant. He failed to consider that having no heir was the true danger, and instead concerned himself only with wavering among various difficulties. How does he compare with those who marry without informing their parents? Only by considering all these circumstances together can we understand that the two sages’ marriages without prior notice were reasonable expedients, and appreciate Mencius’s insight in explaining the principle of “acting with discretion”—adapting one’s conduct to the circumstances.

The Book of Rites says: “Marriage is the beginning of the continuity of generations for all time. A man marries a woman of a different surname in order to unite distant kin and make clear the distinctions between close and distant relations. The gifts accompanying the betrothal must be sent with sincerity, and the words exchanged must not be frivolous. The marriage must be announced with honesty and trustworthiness, for treating others with sincerity is one aspect of a woman’s virtue. Once a woman has entered into marriage, she does not change partners for the rest of her life; therefore, after her husband dies, she does not marry again.”

The Hongdao lu comments: This passage from the Book of Rites follows the previous one because the earlier passage concerns sages adapting their conduct to circumstances, while this one concerns the enduring norms of ritual. If we fail to explain first that ritual allows for adaptation, and instead treat its ordinary rules as the sole standard, we end up with violations such as these: marrying a woman of the same surname and calling her “Wu Mengzi”; disregarding honesty and trust, so that the woman of Wu departs in tears; neglecting whether the formal wording is appropriate, then arguing over “rat’s teeth”; and abandoning lifelong fidelity, thereby falling short even of the paired quails and magpies in the Book of Songs. These people are criminals who have harmed generations to come.

The Book of Songs depicts a queen longing for her husband while he is away: “Gathering, gathering, gathering the ear-bow plant; the shallow basket is still not full. Ah, I long for that man, and set my basket down beside the road. I climb the lofty mountain…” The original text continues beyond this point.

My horse is utterly exhausted. I will fill the golden wine cup for now, if only to keep sorrow from lingering too long. We climb the high ridge; the horse is weary, and its coat has turned a dull yellow. I will fill the rhinoceros-horn wine vessel for now, if only to keep grief from tormenting me too long. We climb the rocky hill; the horse is worn out and ill, and the servant is exhausted too. What can I do? I can only heave a long sigh.

The Hongdao lu says: Some believe this poem was composed when King Wen was imprisoned at Youli, where King Zhou of Shang had confined him. Those who understand its meaning may well see it this way. King Zhou’s rule was indeed cruel and violent, yet King Wen still believed that, as a subject, he deserved death for his offense; he did not waver in his loyalty. The queen and her attendants were inwardly fearful, yet outwardly continued to share the duty of serving King Zhou. Did they not place King Wen within the righteous course of the Zhou? The poem speaks of drinking wine to dispel sorrow, but this does not mean that the sorrow was truly forgotten. Perhaps at the time, the slander of Chong Houhu was gaining force, while Hong Yao’s plan to rescue King Wen had not yet succeeded. In the end, there was nothing to be done but give voice to a long sigh. Seen in this light, could the queen and her attendants not be called women of the highest virtue?

The southern states had been transformed by King Wen’s teaching. When their lords and ministers went away to serve, their wives remained alone at home. As the seasons and scenery changed, they reflected on these things and longed for their husbands:

The grass insects chirp, and the locusts leap. Before I see my husband, my heart is uneasy with sorrow. When I see him and we meet again, my heart will settle. I climb South Mountain and gather bracken. Before I see my husband, sorrow leaves my spirit restless. When I see him and we meet again, my heart will rejoice. I climb South Mountain and gather fern shoots. Before I see my husband, my heart is full of grief. When I see him and we meet again, my heart will be at peace.

The Hongdao lu says: Commentators hold that this poem resembles “Juan’er” in the “Zhou Nan.” King Zhou was above, and the Earl of the West, King Wen, was below. Though the lords had privately received King Wen’s teaching, they still had to serve the state in public. Their wives’ sorrow was therefore naturally difficult to dispel. Moreover, at the time there were still places where fugitives gathered, and not all those sentenced had yet been dealt with. When husband and wife met again, their joy allowed both their public duties and private feelings, and the proper distinctions between those above and below, to be upheld. This is an expression of the teaching of the “Shao Nan.” If the poem is viewed only as the affection of a husband and wife holding hands and rejoicing at their reunion after a long separation, then the meaning behind their sorrow and joy is too shallow.

A woman of the state of Wei longed for her husband, who had gone away to serve. She said:

The male pheasant flies, its wings spread wide. I long for my husband, yet we are kept far apart. The male pheasant flies up and down, its cries answering one another. My husband truly fills me with worry. As I watch the sun and moon move on, my longing goes on without end. The road is long; when will he return? Whatever you gentlemen… (The original breaks off here.)

“If you do not understand De, and feel neither envy nor greed, how could you go wrong?”

The Hongdao lu says: Even among Confucius’s disciples, few below Zhong You (Zilu) could truly understand the meaning of this poem. When people compare themselves with one another, envy arises; when they draw a sharp distinction between what they have and what they lack, greed follows. At its extreme, envy is seen when a son is punished by his parents because of his wife; desire reaches its extreme when a father-in-law takes his daughter-in-law into his household for her beauty. The state of Wei was on the verge of ruin, yet the sacrifices to Kang Shu could still be continued, solely because ordinary men and women still understood ritual and righteousness. This shows that the principles of Heaven and human relations are endowed in everyone: ordinary people on the road possess the same nature as Yao and Shun. Did the former kings do little good when they selected poems to guide the people, and Confucius edited and compiled the classics?

A woman abandoned by her husband wrote a poem to tell of her plight:

“Wind sighs through the valley; after the dark clouds, rain falls again. I did my utmost to be of one heart with you, yet you should not have been angry with me. When gathering turnips and radishes, one must not judge only by their roots and stems. Do not break the words you once gave me: we promised to grow old together. Now I walk along the road, my steps slow, my heart full of bitterness and grievance. You saw me out, but went only a short way with me. Who says bitter greens are bitter? They taste as sweet as shepherd’s purse. You are as close with your new wife as brothers.

“The Jing River makes the Wei River look muddy, yet the bottom of the Wei remains clear. You are so close with your new wife that you no longer pay me any regard. Do not let her pass by my fish weir, and do not open my chest. I can hardly look after myself; how could I have time to worry about what comes after me? When the water is deep, cross by raft or boat; when it is shallow, swim across. I did my best to take care of all the things in the household. When the people suffered bereavement, I hurried to help them.

“You could not treat me well, but instead made me your enemy. You rejected my kindness as if it were goods no one would buy. In the past, when we were poor and struggling, we feared we would have no means to live, and we endured misfortune together. Now that life has improved, you regard me as poison. I had fine food stored away, intending it to see us through the bitter winter; when you were close with your new wife, you turned to me to get you through hard times. You are fierce and full of anger; all you leave me is toil. Have you forgotten how, when I first came to you, I brought you comfort?”

The Hongdao lu says: In my view, the ancients used this poem about an abandoned wife as a metaphor for loyal ministers and dutiful sons. Its feelings are earnest yet tactfully expressed, and its language is composed. It is not really describing the plight of an abandoned wife. Why do I say this? Within a household, affection often outweighs principle. Apart from those who make their living through trade and migration, who would lightly abandon a wife? Moreover, in ancient times there were the “Seven Grounds for Divorce”—the seven reasons a husband could dismiss his wife—and also the “Three Grounds for Not Sending Her Away,” which forbade divorce under certain conditions. Ordinary people had no right to dismiss a wife at will and marry another, nor should they rejoice in taking a new bride. Besides, when people are abandoned, their state of mind often…

The wording is jumbled and disordered, and there was no one to take dictation on the author’s behalf; there was little scholarly assistance as well. How could the woman in the poem “Valley Wind” have spoken these words? Perhaps it was because the worthy men of Wei lived in a disorderly state and served a foolish ruler.

When she says, “Do your utmost, and do not go against me,” she expresses a heartfelt bond of trust. When she says, “I come crawling, afraid I will be too late,” she expresses the affection of siblings. When she says, “Though turnips and radishes are humble, gather and store them,” she expresses a kindness that does not discard things for being of little worth. And when she says, “The Jing is turbid, while the Wei is clear,” she reflects on her own Virtue.

But once those newly risen to power begin to exert their influence, they cannot help but treat the old poorly, as though they no longer draw near to those far away and attend only to those close at hand. They also resort to punishment and execution, and affairs fall into turmoil and ruin. As for the gentleman’s heart, how could he willingly endure such neglect? He says only, “I cannot even take care of myself; how could I attend to what will happen to me after I am gone?” The poem conveys both an unhurried composure and a stirring, earnest feeling. It voices resentment without losing restraint, and reveals a lingering concern for those left behind even as the speaker departs. Who could say that a woman had such a heart? The plight of a lone minister or a son who has lost his standing resembles that of the person in the poem. Few can read it without sighing.

The “Zheng Airs” recount the words with which a worthy husband and wife remind and admonish each other. The woman says, “The rooster has crowed.” The man replies, “Day is nearly breaking.” She says again, “Get up and look at the sky: how bright the morning star is. We are about to hurry out to shoot wild ducks and geese. If we hit any, I will cook them and serve them to you. Let us drink together; may we grow old together. With the zither and lute beside us, may our life be peaceful and beautiful.”

The Record of Broadening the Way says: The bond between husband and wife determines whether a household thrives or perishes; whether the zither and lute are in harmony determines whether a person’s life is orderly or chaotic. A household’s stability depends on whether husband and wife diligently manage it from the first crow of the rooster and the break of day. If the husband is indulgent and idle, the household cannot flourish and will surely be hard to sustain. A person’s stability depends on whether husband and wife can walk together into old age. If the husband’s affections are divided, the couple cannot live in harmony; when they are at odds, their feelings grow distant. A peaceful and harmonious life matters greatly. If disorder and ruin are allowed to take hold in the household, its fortunes will be hard to build.

“I knew you were coming, so I gave you an ornament. Knowing you to be considerate and compliant, I gave you an ornament. Knowing that you love me, I returned an ornament to you.”

The Record of Broadening the Way says: When someone gives me a peach and I return a plum, that is an ordinary way of repaying a gift. When someone gives me a quince and I return a piece of jade, feeling has reached its deepest. Thus the poem says, “This is not merely to repay you; I hope we will remain close for a long time.” So, knowing that you…

When a visitor comes seeking counsel with assorted pendants, how should we understand the gifts exchanged in the poems of Zheng?

“Quiet Girl,” “The Qin and Wei Rivers,” and other poems describe lovers meeting and lingering together, reluctant to part. All they prize is a corner of the city or the banks of the Wei River; the gifts they exchange are only things like a red wand or peonies. We cannot expect them to fulfill their duties within the household as they would when drawing close to worthy people or making friends with good companions. Yet even if these poems describe the resonant sound of bells and stone chimes, or the gentle strains of elegant music, their moving, wistful feelings cannot be called false.

A worthy consort of Qi would attend the ruler at night. As dawn approached, she would always remind him, “The cock has crowed, and the ministers who attend the morning court have assembled.” The ruler would reply, “That is not a cock crowing; it is the sound of flies.” She would say again, “The east is bright now, and the ministers attending court have arrived.” The ruler would reply, “That is not daylight; it is only the light of the moon.” When insects were buzzing all around and morning had fully broken, she still had not seen the ruler rise to attend court. So she said, “Would I not wish to sleep with you until we awoke from our dreams? But the ministers waiting at morning court cannot wait for you to appear; they are about to disperse and go home. Surely you will not hate me as well because of this?”

The Record of Broadening the Way (Hongdao lu) says: “In my view, the meaning of this poem is clear and its wording flows smoothly. In ancient times, the inner palace was served not only by virtuous women; palace officials such as the matrons and instructresses also admonished the ruler and recited relevant poems. Thus, when the poem says, ‘The cock has crowed, and the ministers attending court have assembled,’ it is urging the ruler to rise early and hold court. But he replies that it is not a cock crowing, only the sound of flies. The poem then says, ‘The east is bright now, and the ministers attending court have arrived,’ again urging the ruler to rise. But he replies that it is not daylight, only moonlight. When the insects were buzzing and the sky had grown fully bright, she still had not seen the ruler rise to hold court. So she says, ‘Would I not wish to sleep and dream with you? But the ministers are waiting at court. Seeing that the ruler has not appeared, they are about to disperse and go home. Surely you will not come to hate me as well because of this?’ The wording throughout this passage flows smoothly and its meaning is clear. That is why it has often been preserved as a guide for later readers.”

The Great Commentary on the Documents (Shangshu dazhuan) records: “In ancient times, when the queen was about to attend the ruler, her attendants first extinguished the candles, then lit them again. On reaching the bedchamber, she removed her court robes, changed into her informal clothes, and entered the inner room to attend him. At the cock’s crow, the Grand Music Master announced beneath the steps that the cock had crowed. The queen then made her jade pendants ring in the room, signaling that she was taking her leave. Next, the gatekeeper struck a wooden clapper to announce that the palace gates had opened. After that, the Junior Music Master announced beneath the steps that daylight had come. The queen then entered the courtyard and stood there, and the ruler came out to hold court.”

Judging by the meaning of “The Cock Crows” in the Book of Songs, people would not make the mistake of sleeping in and failing to rise early, nor would they have to remove their hairpins and earrings and wait in the secluded palace corridors to be punished.

The Miscellaneous Records in the Record says that King Xuan of Zhou once got up late in the morning. His queen, Jiang, removed her hairpins and earrings and waited in the Eternal Lane, a secluded passage in the palace, to receive punishment. She asked her matron, an older woman responsible for teaching and caring for the women of the palace, to convey this message to the king: “Your Majesty has been so enamored of beauty that you have forgotten virtue and neglected proper conduct, rising late in the morning. The disorder that has arisen began with me, your servant and concubine. Please allow me to accept the blame.” King Xuan replied, “I lack virtue; the fault was indeed mine, not the queen’s.” From then on, King Xuan devoted himself to governing, went to court early and left late, and ultimately earned a reputation for restoring the dynasty.

The Record says that the state of Qi bore the surname Jiang and had intermarried with the Zhou royal house for generations. Thus Yi Jiang and Queen Jiang both came from Qi, and “The Cock Crows” also belongs to the region of Qi. Judging by the chronology, these events were not far apart, and the principles they express are similar. Could “The Cock Crows” be what Queen Jiang said in her remonstrance, which led people of that time to call her a worthy consort? And could the poem have been passed down by her matron, which is why it was not included in the Greater Odes of the Book of Songs? If not, why does “It Is Not Yet Dawn” in the Airs of Qi say that the minor officials and the officer Zi feared daylight and hurriedly put their clothes on backward, yet treat this as an ordinary occurrence? Still, none of these explanations can be verified.

The Spring and Autumn Annals records that in the winter of the first year of Duke Zhuang of Lu, in the tenth month, the King’s daughter married into Qi; and that in the autumn of the second year, in the seventh month, the King’s daughter died.

The Record says that this woman was the King’s daughter, a daughter of the Zhou royal house. After marrying into Qi, she became the wife of the ruler of Qi. Why, then, does the Spring and Autumn Annals still call her “the King’s daughter” and record her death as “the King’s daughter died”? Perhaps the Son of Heaven had by then so thoroughly lost the bearing of a ruler, the Marquis of Qi had become so utterly licentious and devoid of virtue, Wen Jiang—wife of Duke Huan of Lu and younger sister of Duke Xiang of Qi—had lost all sense of restraint, and Duke Zhuang of Lu had cast aside every vestige of shame.

Birds and beasts cannot live together with human beings. How sad that the King’s daughter was matched with the Marquis of Qi, as if the Son of Heaven willingly consorted with birds and beasts. Did they not know that a woman’s resolve to remain chaste cannot be wrested from her? The King’s daughter had only just married into Qi, yet died a few months later. Was she in dire straits, her circumstances changing from one moment to the next, her heart overwhelmed with shame? And when Jiang, that is, Wen Jiang, used her power to oppress her—especially at a time when Wen Jiang herself had been forced to flee Qi—surely anyone with even a shred of humanity should have been moved by it. Did the King’s daughter die so suddenly?

The Book of Changes says: “Blocked and hesitant, with horses circling about; the woman is chaste and does not marry.” This means that the road ahead is difficult, progress is slow, and the horses and carriage linger; the woman holds fast to what is right and refuses to accept a marriage proposal. The King’s daughter’s experience accords with this. Like a phoenix among birds and a jade disk among stones, she should not have been implicated in the ugliness of Duke Xiang of Qi. Confucius recorded this event to curb lust and make chastity shine forth, so that people of his own time would feel ashamed and later generations would be admonished. His intention was profound. Yet since the Spring and Autumn Annals records events primarily from the perspective of Lu, how does it describe the mourning for the King’s daughter and her death?

The Spring and Autumn Annals records that in the third month of the fourth year of Duke Zhuang’s reign (690 BCE), Boji of Ji died; on the Yisi day of the sixth month, the Marquis of Qi arranged her burial.

In the spring of the twelfth year of Duke Zhuang’s reign, in the third month according to the Zhou calendar, Shuji of Ji returned to Xi, where the ancestral temple of the state of Ji was located.

In the winter of the twenty-ninth year of Duke Zhuang’s reign, in the twelfth month, Shuji of Ji died. On the Guihai day of the eighth month of the following year, she was buried.

Hu’s Commentary on the Spring and Autumn Annals says: In the fourth year of Duke Zhuang’s reign, the Marquis of Ji left his state. Shuji did not return to Xi until this time because the Marquis of Ji had only just died, and so she went there then. The classic uses the word “return” in accordance with ritual propriety: the ancestral temple of Ji was at Xi, and Shuji returned to uphold its sacrifices. Lu was Ji’s suzerain state, and according to ritual, a woman could also return to her suzerain state. Yet although Ji had already fallen, she did not return to Lu. She preserved her chastity and upheld righteousness, allowing neither her state’s destruction nor the virtue expected of a wife to diminish her integrity. The people of Lu honored her constancy and granted her more generous rites. For this reason, the records carefully note her return to Xi, her death, and her burial. Confucius preserved these accounts rather than deleting them, to encourage later generations.

The Hongdao lu comments: Principle and power are the forces most opposed to one another in the world, yet they are also the forces power can least overcome. The victory of principle endures through ten thousand generations without changing; the victory of power lasts only for a time and must eventually come to an end. Why is this? The human heart takes principle as its guide, while power depends on force. A state’s power may fall into another’s hands, but a woman’s resolve is hers to determine. The force of Qi could destroy the state of Ji, but it could not erase Shuji’s integrity. A ruler could be taken captive, but the rites for a woman’s burial could not be seized. The Sage included this account in the classic to bring to light the virtue of preserving one’s integrity and fulfilling one’s duty. The wrongdoing of Duke Xiang of Qi and Duke Huan of Lu is thereby revealed without needing to be stated outright. Some say that the record of the Marquis of Qi burying Shuji was meant to show the favor he bestowed on her. Can that interpretation really be right?

(The commentary says: The Marquis of Qi killed the ruler of Lu and destroyed a state bound to Lu by marriage, yet went on to bury Shuji of Ji. This is like first wounding someone cruelly, then laying a hand on them to comfort them. That interpretation is mistaken.)

The Zuo Commentary records that before Duke Huan of Lu had established a marriage alliance with Qi, the Marquis of Qi once proposed marrying Wen Jiang to Prince Hu of Zheng. Prince Hu declined. When someone asked why, the prince replied, “Everyone has a fitting spouse. Qi is powerful, but that does not make it the right match for me. The Book of Songs says, ‘Seek your own good fortune.’ The decisive factor lies with oneself. What does the power of a great state matter?” The gentlemen judged that he was skilled at looking after his own interests.

Later, Prince Hu was defeated by the Rong army, and the Marquis of Qi again proposed marrying Wen Jiang to him. He still refused firmly. When someone asked why, the prince replied, “Even when there was no urgent matter, I did not dare accept a marriage alliance with Qi. Now I have been sent by my ruler in haste to seek Qi’s aid, and to take a wife while seeking that aid would be like using a military emergency as an opportunity to marry. What would the people think of me?” So he declined the arrangement made by the Earl of Zheng.

The editor says: When I read the story of Zheng Hu, I often lament the decline of the age and the weakening of the right way. Before the hegemon arose, a ruler could not protect his ministers from being seized by a neighboring state, nor could a father protect his son from having to rely on the aid of a powerful state. Even the fate of the Five Hegemons could not be changed. Why, then, did Zheng Hu wait until those close to him met with misfortune before taking action? If he was unwilling to install a concubine as his principal wife, why did he have to marry someone else? If refusing a marriage alliance meant losing one’s state, then this was no longer merely a matter of “changing friends when one’s rank rises, and changing wives when one becomes rich and noble.” Why did people make so much of this as a cause for concern?

So what should Zheng Hu have done? Mencius said, “The benevolent are honored; the unbenevolent are humiliated.” To hate humiliation while remaining in a state of unbenevolence is like hating dampness yet choosing to live in a low-lying place. This is what is meant by seeking greater good fortune for oneself. Zheng Hu lived in the time of Duke Zhuang of Zheng, when the bonds between ruler and minister, father and son, and husband and wife had already broken down. Even if he had striven to strengthen himself and do good, he would still have had reason to fear the fall of his state. How much more so when he willingly exchanged himself as a hostage, habitually relied on the Di people to win, and treated a marriage alliance with Qi merely as a bargaining chip for weighing advantages and disadvantages?

Someone asked: Zheng Hu once married before making the proper announcement to his ancestors. Why could he refuse a marriage alliance now? Zheng Hu was probably someone who cared only for the immediate moment and was sure he was right. This is precisely what Zhu Xi meant when he criticized Zheng Hu as weak in character and narrow in understanding. A person who is sure he is right may not be wholly lacking in insight; rather, he is indolent and unable to plan seriously, and his ideas are remote from reality. Thus he is willing to place himself beneath others and does not know how to refuse. The poet mocked him, saying, “That wild young man is truly wild!” Was this not Zheng Hu’s fault?

The Biographies of Exemplary Women records that Lady Xuan of Wei was the daughter of the ruler of Qi. When she was on her way to marry into Wei, the ruler of Wei died as she reached the city gate. Her nurse advised her, “You can go back.” She refused and entered the city, mourning the ruler of Wei for three years. After the mourning period ended, the ruler’s younger brother succeeded him and asked to live with her and share meals with her. Lady Xuan refused. The ruler of Wei sent someone to explain the matter to Qi. Her brothers all wanted to persuade her to accept the new ruler’s request and sent word to her, but she steadfastly refused to listen.

The editor says: On examining the rites, the Questions of Zengzi describes what a woman should do if her parents die while she is on the way to meet her wedding procession, but it does not say what should be done if her husband dies when she has not yet entered the household and has only reached the city gate. The gentleman’s view was that she had not yet formally become the wife of the ruler of Wei, so whether she should mourn for him was uncertain under the rites. Was it excessive, then, for her to insist on mourning for three years? And since she had not yet become his formal wife, was it proper for the ruler of Wei’s younger brother to ask to live with her and share meals? The younger brother behaved like an animal, and Qi had a custom of indulging in licentiousness. It is no wonder that Lady Xuan ultimately refused to comply.

In the state of Lu, there was a widow named Tao Ying, the daughter of the Lu family. She was widowed when still young and raised her orphaned child alone. With no strong brothers to rely on, she made a living by spinning and weaving. Someone in Lu heard of her upright conduct and wished to marry her. When Tao Ying heard this, she feared it would be difficult to refuse, so she sang:

“How sad that the swan, that legendary great bird, lost its mate so early and has gone seven years without a partner. It bends its neck and roosts alone, unlike the other birds. At midnight it cries out in grief, longing for its male companion. Heaven’s decree made it a widow so young; what is there to lament in roosting alone? When a widow thinks of this, her tears flow without end. Alas, how sorrowful! The dead cannot be forgotten. If even birds are so, how much more should those who uphold chastity and honor? Even if there were a worthy male bird, she would not marry again.”

The man of Lu heard her song and said, “A woman like this cannot be married.” After that, no one dared ask for her hand.

The Hongdao Lu comments: “When I read ‘The Song of the Swan,’ I find its purpose sincere and its feeling mournful. It has the moral meaning of the poems in the Book of Songs, yet contains no words of resentment or anger. This is what it truly means to uphold ritual and righteousness. Even creatures of a different kind would be moved by it, let alone human beings. This is a model of women who accord with the balanced way of ritual propriety. Practices such as cutting off one’s nose or arm, or cutting one’s hair or ears, are not in accord with the right way.”

Lady Fan was the wife of King Zhuang of Chu. The king enjoyed hunting, and Lady Fan urged him to stop, but he would not. So she stopped eating the flesh of birds and beasts. King Zhuang then corrected his fault and devoted himself to governing.

Once, King Zhuang returned late from court. Lady Fan asked, “Why are you so late today? Were you hungry or tired?” The king replied, “I was talking with a worthy man and forgot my hunger and weariness.” Lady Fan asked, “Who is this worthy man you speak of?” The king answered, “Yu Qiuzi.” Lady Fan covered her mouth and laughed. The king asked why she laughed, and she replied:

“I have served Your Majesty for more than ten years. I have sent people to seek out beautiful women to present to you. Two were more virtuous than I, and seven were my equal. Did I not wish to keep Your Majesty’s favor for myself alone? But I could not let private feelings obstruct public affairs. I hoped Your Majesty would come to know more worthy people. Now Yu Qiuzi has served as chancellor of Chu for more than ten years, yet the people he recommends are either his own sons and nephews or members of his clan and family. I have never heard of him recommending the worthy or dismissing the unworthy. This means concealing the truth from the ruler and blocking worthy people from advancing. That is why I laughed—is that not reason enough?”

The next day, King Zhuang told Yu Qiuzi what she had said. Yu Qiuzi rose from his seat, so ashamed that he did not know how to reply. He then resigned as chancellor and sent for Sun Shuao to serve as the chief minister, the highest administrative official in Chu. Sun Shuao governed Chu for three years, and King Zhuang thereby established his supremacy among the lords. This was made possible by Lady Fan’s help.

The Hongdao Lu comments: “By refusing to eat the flesh of birds and beasts, Lady Fan can be said to have admonished the ruler through her own conduct.”

Whether she recommended him, however, I do not know. Sun Shuao, the worthy minister of Chu, possessed a virtue that Yu Qiuzi did not know about. But many people knew of Fan Ji’s reputation. Can we really infer that she recommended Sun Shuao simply because she once urged King Zhuang of Chu not to go hunting? In the end, there is no way to verify this story.

Gao Xing was a widow from the state of Liang. She was strikingly beautiful and of good character. After her husband died, she did not remarry. The nobles of Liang competed to marry her, but none succeeded. When the king of Liang heard about her, he sent his chancellor with betrothal gifts to ask for her hand. She said, “I have heard that a wife’s duty is to remain unchanged once she has married, and in this way preserve her chastity. How could I disregard my good name, willingly accept disgrace and debase myself, abandon what is right, and pursue profit? To do so would make me unfit to be human.” She then took a knife and cut off her nose, saying, “I have already ruined my appearance. The only reason I have not died is that I cannot bear to leave my young and frail children without support.” The chancellor returned and reported this to the king. The king of Liang considered her righteous and noble in character, exempted her from taxes and labor service, and honored her with the title “Gao Xing,” meaning “Exemplary Conduct.”

The Record of Broadening the Way states: “In ancient ritual, a feudal lord took one principal wife, while two other states each sent a woman to accompany her as a secondary bride. A ruler was not supposed to take another principal wife, lest he abandon virtue and grow greedy for beauty. Thus it was stipulated that he marry only once. Given this, how could he become intimate with a woman who had violated her chastity?” The king of Liang was arrogant and unruly, and was not worth reproaching. Yet the history records this woman of Liang, and later generations praise only her exemplary conduct. They do not condemn the breach of Han ritual norms, nor the chancellor’s failure to find a way to dissuade his ruler. Alas! How highly a woman’s conduct is praised, and how lowly a ruler’s character appears.

The Book of Han records that Ban Jieyu was the daughter of Ban Kuang, Left Cao and Commandant of the Yue Cavalry. She was virtuous, perceptive, and eloquent. Once, while Emperor Cheng of Han was touring the women’s quarters, he wanted her to ride in the same carriage with him. She declined, saying, “In the paintings of antiquity, wise and virtuous rulers are always accompanied by renowned ministers. It is only the last rulers of the Xia, Shang, and Zhou dynasties who are shown with favored women. If Your Majesty wishes me to ride with you, I fear you may come to resemble them.” The emperor praised her words and gave up the idea. When the Empress Dowager heard of this, she was pleased and said, “In antiquity there was Fan Ji; today there is Ban Jieyu.”

Ban Jieyu often recited passages from the Book of Songs, including “Guanju,” as well as texts that taught women ritual conduct. Whenever she appeared before the emperor, her bearing and actions followed the ancient rites. Later, Zhao Feiyan grew favored and jealous, and falsely accused Ban Jieyu of practicing sorcery and cursing the emperor. When the emperor questioned her, she replied, “I have heard that life and death are governed by fate, and wealth and rank lie with Heaven. Even if one cultivates oneself and acts rightly, one may still not receive good fortune. What, then, could one hope to gain by doing evil? If the spirits know what is happening, they will not accept the false accusation of someone who is disloyal. If they know nothing, what use is there in making an accusation?”

(Editor’s note) Seeing that the Lady Jieyu remained steadfast in her principles, I could not help lamenting Ban Mengjian’s (Ban Gu’s) limited insight.

Envying those who receive favor and relying on power are common practices among women; protecting oneself through clear-sighted prudence, however, is a virtue unique to gentlemen. Treachery and calamity, and the power held by those who enjoy favor, are like a raging fire. The Book of Songs says, “The flames burn fiercely, growing ever stronger.” It also says, “Who can approach a blazing fire? Its heat cannot be resisted.” If this is so, how could anyone draw near and expose themselves to it?

Better, then, to live quietly and discreetly, as Jieyu did when she took refuge in Changxin Palace—the residence of the Empress Dowager—and kept away from the dregs of power, than to let one’s eyes and ears be corrupted and imitate those notorious for their crimes in Yongxiang, where palace consorts were confined. If Ban Gu had understood this principle even a little, would it not have been the noble aspiration of a discerning man, and the outstanding conduct of a clear-sighted gentleman, to be content with study and live in seclusion behind a humble doorway, with no support above and no foundation below?

Yet he actually coveted the company of the powerful, exhausting himself in schemes laid day and night, lingering at the gates of power and setting foot on a perilous road. This is wholly at odds with the principles he set out in Binxi and the meaning of Ban Jieyu’s “Poem of the Round Fan.” Given Ban Gu’s learning, his command of past and present, and his standing as the finest historian of his age, how should we judge his assessment of people’s character and of the crucial choices to advance or withdraw? In this, he proved inferior even to a woman. Thus, Ban Gu was ultimately plain and unadorned where he should have been refined; a gentleman cannot help deeply regretting this.

Empress Wang, the wife of Emperor Ping, was Wang Mang’s daughter. She was gentle and kind, and steadfast in her principles. After Emperor Ping ascended the throne, Wang Mang took power and married his daughter to the emperor. A little over a year later, Emperor Ping died. The empress was then eighteen and often claimed to be ill so she would not have to attend court. After Wang Mang usurped the Han throne, he both feared and pitied her. He wanted to marry her off, so he sent the heir of Sun Jian, the General Who Established the State and Duke Chengxin, dressed in formal robes and accompanied by a physician, to visit her. Empress Wang was furious. She had her attendants beaten with a whip, then took to her bed, claiming illness. Wang Mang did not dare force the matter.

Later, when the Han forces killed Wang Mang and set fire to Weiyang Palace, Empress Wang said, “How could I bear to face the people of the Han?” She threw herself into the flames and died.

(Editor’s note) Can Empress Wang, the wife of Emperor Ping, who refused to comply with her father’s arrangements, really be compared with the Empress Dowager Yuan (Wang Zhengjun, Wang Mang’s mother), who reproached Wang Mang? The longevity of husbands and wives, and of mothers, has long been praised by people through the ages. Who would have thought that things could turn out otherwise? The Han Empress Dowager Yuan, Wang Zhengjun, lived past the age of eighty and saw the reigns of four emperors: Yuan, Cheng, Ai, and Ping.

She was honored with state offerings for more than sixty years as the “Mother of All Under Heaven.” Her brothers, nephews, and other relatives successively seized power, taking turns to control the affairs of state, and thereby brought calamity upon the realm. Only after they usurped the government, exterminated the Liu clan, and replaced the Han dynasty did Empress Lü produce the imperial jade seal to oppose them. Alas, it was already too late! It would have been better had she upheld a minister’s loyalty in her youth.

The Book of the Later Han records that in the first year of Zhongyuan (the year jiashen), Emperor Guangwu sent the Minister of Works to offer a report at the Gao Temple, saying: “Emperor Gao once agreed with his ministers that no one who was not of the Liu clan could be enfeoffed as a king. Empress Lü harmed the King of Zhao, monopolized power, and appointed members of the Lü clan alone. Fortunately, through the protection of the spirits of the altars of soil and grain, Lü Lu and Lü Chan were put to death. The Mandate of Heaven for the Han dynasty nearly came to an end, but the court was rescued from danger. Empress Lü should not be enshrined beside Emperor Gao. Empress Dowager Bo was a loving and benevolent mother, virtuous in her conduct. Emperor Xiaowen was wise and capable in governing the state, and his descendants inherited his blessings, sustaining the dynasty to this day. We now honor Empress Dowager Bo as Empress Gao and enshrine her beside Emperor Gao. Empress Lü’s spirit tablet is to be moved to her mausoleum park and worshiped in the four seasons.”

The Hongdao Lu comments: “As I consider the fortunes of Empress Lü and Empress Dowager Bo, I am deeply struck by how good and ill fortune, waxing and waning, shift with the rise and fall of the times, without the slightest deviation.

“At first, Empress Lü and Emperor Gao of Han were both of humble origins. They endured the turmoil of war together, while Emperor Gao struggled to survive in the countryside. That was one period. Later, Emperor Gao favored Lady Qi and grew close to Liu Ruyi, leaving Empress Lü in a perilous position. That was another period. Later still, Empress Lü ruled in her own right, sitting facing south and governing all under Heaven. That was yet another period. But at the height of her power, she suffered the disgrace of the ‘human swine’—the cruel punishment of maiming a person and leaving them in a privy—as well as calamities like owls and poisoned wine, the destruction of her clan, and the plot to change the dynasty and its ruling surname. According to the moral principles of the Spring and Autumn Annals, this was what is meant by cutting oneself off from Heaven, beyond any hope of prayer or remedy. The Han court’s ministers at the time could not even uphold their oath sworn over sacrificial blood. How, then, could they be expected to judge the Lü clan by the moral principles of the Spring and Autumn Annals? Because this principle was not made clear, the Han dynasty’s mandate was not passed to the Lü clan, but was usurped by Wang Mang. No wonder the emperor honored Empress Dowager Bo and demoted Empress Lü.”

“Wang Ba cherished noble integrity from a young age, and his wife, too, was high-minded and upright. When Wang Mang usurped the Han, Wang Ba cut off all dealings with officialdom. During the Jianwu era, the court summoned him to the capital, but he refused to submit. At first, he was friends with Linghu Zibo, a fellow native of his commandery. Later, Zibo became chancellor of the State of Chu, and his son became an administrative officer in the commandery. Linghu Zibo sent a letter to Wang Ba, accompanied by an impressive carriage, horses, and retinue. At the time, Wang Ba had a son plowing in the fields…”

Zengzi was working in the fields when he heard that a guest had arrived. He put down his farming tools and went home. When he saw Linghuzi, he felt ashamed and dared not raise his eyes to look at his father. His father noticed his troubled expression. After the guest had left, he lay down and did not get up for a long time. His wife found this strange and asked him why.

Zengzi said, “Zibo and I have always been equals. Just now, I saw his son, whose appearance and clothes were immaculate and whose manner was entirely proper. Then I looked at my own son: his hair was unkempt, his teeth were uneven, and he did not even know the rites. The bond between father and son is deep, and for a moment I could not help feeling that I was inferior to others.”

His wife said, “You have cultivated integrity and purity, and do not set your heart on glory or stipends. How can Zibo’s high status compare with your nobility of character? Why have you forgotten your former aspirations, only to feel ashamed because of your children’s appearance?” Zengzi suddenly saw the point, rose, and laughed. “That is indeed so!” From then on, he and his wife lived in seclusion together and never went out again.

The Hongdao Lu comments: Why do people fail to value themselves for what they have striven to achieve, yet compare themselves with others over things they have not deliberately pursued? People find it hard to forget the bonds they formed in poverty and low status; yet when they compare themselves with one another, it is also hard not to feel resentment. Even in such relationships, the slightest trace of ill feeling can affect the affection of the past. Zengzi’s wife truly had great insight. To remain unattached to oneself, to others, and to external things—how much more so should one avoid being swayed by worldly conventions? Those who can truly do this need not wait until they are deep in remote mountains and forests to discipline themselves and hold fast to their aspirations.

Bao Xuan’s wife was from the Huan family; her courtesy name was Shaojun. Bao Xuan had once gone to study with Shaojun’s father. Her father admired Bao Xuan’s diligence and contentment in poverty, and gave his daughter to him in marriage. The dowry he sent with her was lavish, and Bao Xuan was greatly displeased. He said to his wife, “You were raised in comfort and accustomed to fine adornments, while I am truly poor and cannot accept such a lavish wedding.”

Shaojun replied, “My father believes that you cultivate virtue and are content with simplicity. That is why he sent me to marry you and serve you. Now that I am your wife, I will follow your arrangements.” Bao Xuan smiled and said, “If you can truly do this, it is exactly what I wish.” Shaojun then removed her makeup and dismissed her attendants. She changed into a coarse cloth tunic and, together with Bao Xuan, pulled a deer cart—a simple little cart—back to their home village. She paid her respects to her mother-in-law and often went out carrying an urn to draw water. She observed the duties of a wife faithfully, and everyone in the village praised her.

The Hongdao Lu comments: Graceful appearance and a luxurious life can do more than undermine a person’s aspirations; they may also lead to further failings. Sima Xiangru was gifted, yet devoted himself to stirring the emotions through music. Ma Rong was a Confucian scholar, yet took pleasure behind a crimson curtain. I have seen them both alter their principles in poverty and low status, then indulge themselves when they became wealthy and powerful. How could such people possibly remain unbowed before authority? Only with conduct like Shaojun’s could one have the steadfast integrity of a Zidu.

The wife of Huangfu Gui, a native of Anding, was skilled in writing and calligraphy. When Huangfu Gui died, she was still young and beautiful. Dong Zhuo heard of her reputation and sent a marriage proposal with gifts: one hundred carriages and twenty horses.

Slaves and valuables lined the road. His wife, however, wore only simple clothes as she came to Dong Zhuo’s gate, knelt, and pleaded her case in person. Her words were filled with grief. Dong Zhuo ordered his attendants, including Fu Nu, to draw their swords and surround her. “My authority and commands are meant to make everyone under heaven obey. Are they really powerless against a woman?”

His wife rose and cursed Dong Zhuo. “You are of Qiang and Hu origin, and you have ravaged the realm. Is that not enough? My ancestors were upright and virtuous for generations. The Huangfu clan produced many gifted civil and military officials, loyal servants of the Han. You and my husband do not share the same aims, yet you treat him like a petty clerk who runs about taking orders. How dare you commit an outrage against the wife of your lord?”

Dong Zhuo flew into a rage. He ordered a cart brought into the courtyard, hung her head from its axle, flogged the cart, and drove it in every direction. She eventually died beneath the cart. Later generations praised her, had her story depicted in portraits, and honored her with the title “Venerable Lady of Ritual.”

The Hongdao lu comments: How do Huangfu Gui and his wife compare with Cai Yan and Cai Yong? Huangfu Gui refused to bear the shame of being associated with a treacherous faction, while his wife rose up in defiance and preserved her honor. Their convictions and conduct matched; one may say that neither had cause to feel ashamed. Cai Yong, by contrast, remembered Dong Zhuo’s kindness and was ultimately killed; Cai Yan, too, once knelt before Cao Cao and pleaded in anguish. One preserved her honor, the other did not; one lived, the other met her death. The two cases cannot be compared.

Empress Cao Xianmu was Cao Cao’s second daughter. In the nineteenth year of Jian’an, she was given the title of Consort. After Empress Fu was killed, Cao was made empress. When the Wei court received the abdication from the Han, it sent envoys to demand the empress’s seal and ribbons. Empress Cao grew angry and refused to hand them over; this happened several times. Later, she summoned the envoys, rebuked them in person, and flung the seal and ribbons beneath the window ledge. Then, weeping, she said, “May Heaven not protect you!” None of her attendants dared raise their eyes to look at her. In the first year of Jingchu under Emperor Ming of Wei, Empress Cao died and was buried with Emperor Xian of Han at Chanling. Her carriage, clothing, and ceremonial observances all followed the old Han precedents.

The Hongdao lu comments: In the Spring and Autumn period, Yong Ji once asked her mother, “Who is closer to me, my father or my husband?” Her mother replied, “Anyone can become a husband, but you have only one father. How can they be compared?” Yet if a father acts like Wang Mang or Cao Cao, should one still honor the father and slight the husband? In light of the cases of Empress Ping and Empress Xian, neither Yong Ji’s crime of killing her husband nor Zhongmu’s fault in teaching her daughter can escape censure.

Hongdao lu, Volume 21