Now, that day Lady Dou gave Xiangzi a good talking-to, and Xiangzi had no choice but to do as she said and go to see Luying, just the once.

In a flash several months went by. Han Yu went up to the capital for the metropolitan examination and came out high on the golden list. He was first appointed prosecutor to a surveillance commissioner, then moved to be Investigating Censor for Sichuan, and in less than two years he had risen step by step to Vice Minister of Justice1. He sent for Lady Dou, Xiangzi and Luying, and they all lived together in Chang’an. One day, as he was coming home from court, his way took him over the Sajin Bridge. At the east end of the bridge sat a Daoist with a leopard’s head and bulging eyes, a tiger’s back and a dragon’s waist, a face of ruddy purple and a full beard over his cheeks. His hair was done up in two knots, one for yin and one for yang; he wore a robe of black gauze and held a flute of wrought iron. By the look of him he was strong enough to shoulder a bronze cauldron, stronger than Wu Zixu, with a roar that could break a bridge, mightier than Zhang Fei. At the west end of the bridge sat another Daoist, with fine brows and clear eyes and the hair at his temples trimmed as if with a knife; his face was as white as if it were powdered and his lips as red as if they were painted with cinnabar. He wore a Nine Yang cap and a yellow cloak, and by the look of him he was a Zhang Liang who could raise up the great Han, a Zhuge Liang who could prop up the House of Liu. Han Yu was entranced, heart and soul. These two, he thought, must be no ordinary men. So he went up to them and asked, “The gentleman sitting at the east end of the bridge — where are you from, sir, and where do you live? And why did you leave home to cultivate the Way?” “This old man and Your Excellency are equals,” the Daoist answered, “but not of the same dynasty.” “What do you mean, equals but not of the same dynasty?” said Han Yu. “Your Excellency is Vice Minister of Justice under the Tang,” said the Daoist, “and this old man was a great general under the Han. I had command of the armies on the vital roads and sat in the marshal’s headquarters. Doesn’t that make us equals, but not of the same dynasty?” “Since you served the royal house and opened up new lands and frontiers,” said Han Yu, “you ought to have kept your fief till the Yellow River shrank to a belt and Mount Tai to a whetstone, and shared in the dynasty’s peace for ever. Why did you leave your family to cultivate the Way and get yourself up like this?” “There is something Your Excellency does not know,” said the Daoist. “My king destroyed the three worthies2, so I had no choice but to hide myself deep and far away.” “Which three worthies did he destroy?” said Han Yu. “Han Xin, King of the Three Qi; Peng Yue, King of Great Liang; and Ying Bu, King of Jiujiang,” said the Daoist. “Those three worthies rested on their saddle bows and, when they were thirsty, drank the blood off their blades. They openly repaired the plank roads while secretly crossing at Chencang; at Mount Jiuli they drove Tian Heng into the sea; at the Wujiang ford they hounded Xiang Yu to his death. They helped Gaozu of the Han take the empire from Chu and Qin — and afterwards they died worse than pigs and dogs. That is why this poor Daoist gave up office, fled to Mount Zhongnan and hid under another name. There I studied the Way under the Imperial Lord of the Eastern Flower and won my place among the immortals. This old man is Zhongli Quan of the Han, from Renqiu County in Hejian Prefecture.” Then Han Yu said, “And the gentleman sitting at the west end of the bridge — where are you from, sir, and where do you live? Are you of the same generation as Master Zhongli?” “This poor Daoist is a scholar of the present dynasty,” said that Daoist. “My family hails from Xia County in Hezhong Prefecture. From my youth I read a fair number of books; my writing was the finest of my day and my ambitions were lofty. Once I set out with Li Ziying for the Eastern Capital to sit the examinations. When we reached the Huanghua Inn, ten li from Handan3, I met Master Zhongli under a weeping willow. Three times, four times he tried to bring me to the Way, but I would not turn my heart. Then he changed a reed mat into a hell with the Ten Yama Kings in it, and drew my one true spirit into his gourd. When I woke from the dream and came back to myself, I knew at last that office never lasts to the end and riches never last long. So I gave up Confucian learning to cultivate the Way, and I have attained the true fruit. I am Master Two-Mouths.” There is a poem to prove it:

“From what you two gentlemen say,” said Han Yu, “you truly outdo Confucius and Mencius in letters and surpass Sunzi and Wu Qi in arms. One a man of letters and one a man of arms — such a pair is rarely seen. For three generations my family has loved the Way, and for seven we have honoured the worthy. I should like to invite you both to my house for a vegetarian meal. What do you say?” “Since Your Excellency honours us with your undeserved regard,” said Master Zhongli, “this poor Daoist will certainly call at your residence to pay his respects. But we would not presume to impose on you for a meal.” Han Yu took Master Lü by the hand. “Shall we walk to my house together, you two gentlemen and I?” he said. “Your Excellency is a high official,” said Master Lü, “and we poor Daoists are rustics from the hills and wilds. To trail along in your train would not look well. Please go ahead, Your Excellency, and we will follow shortly.” “You mustn’t break your word, sir,” said Han Yu. “Before Your Excellency,” said Master Lü, “how would we dare tell a lie?”

Han Yu did indeed go home first, and in a moment the two masters arrived too. Han Yu came down the steps to welcome them, and they sat down to tea. Just then Xiangzi happened to walk past in front of them, and he bowed to the two masters. “Who is this?” said Master Zhongli. “He must be fated to be the death of his father and his mother.” “This is my son,” said Han Yu. “If he is your son,” said Master Zhongli, “then this poor Daoist has misspoken.” “He is my nephew,” said Han Yu, “and his name is Han Xiangzi. He lost my late brother when he was three and my late sister-in-law when he was seven, and now I am bringing him up.” “This boy has the fortune of an emperor three times over and the talent of seven generations of Top Graduates,” said Master Lü. “If his whole family does not come to eat Heaven’s stipend, then surely his kin to the ninth degree will all rise to Heaven. Why worry that he won’t have honour, glory, wealth and rank?” “There’s just one thing,” said Master Zhongli. “At present this boy is passing through the phase of the tomb and the vault, and much of what he does goes topsy-turvy. Not until he turns sixteen will he come out of it. You should engage a good tutor to rouse him and wake him up, so that he doesn’t take the wrong road.” “That is just what I had in mind,” said Han Yu, “only I haven’t found the right man. May I ask you two gentlemen: what is meant by Heaven?” “That the ox has two horns and the horse four hooves,” said Zhongli, “that is called Heaven5.” Han Yu asked again, “And what is meant by man?” “Piercing the ox’s nose and girthing the horse’s belly,” said Master Lü, “that is called man. Do not let what is of man destroy what is of Heaven; do not let contrivance destroy fate; do not let desire harm the true. Guard this with care and never lose it: that is called being one with the true.” “Since Your Excellency has condescended to ask us,” said Master Zhongli, “this poor Daoist has a question of his own to put to you.” “I should like to hear it,” said Han Yu. “Heaven, Earth and man are called the Three Powers,” said Master Zhongli. “Why is it that Heaven and Earth pass through age upon cosmic age without changing, and last so long? Man lives between Heaven and Earth; he holds yin within him and embraces yang, he cultivates his nature and establishes his destiny. Why then do some live as long as Peng Keng6 and others die as young as Yan Hui? And there are children who die in infancy besides. Why should lives be so unevenly long and short?” Han Yu pondered a long while in silence, without a word to answer. “Everyone could live as long as Heaven and Earth,” said Master Lü. “People simply don’t wake up to it.” “Shun handed it down to Yu,” said Han Yu: “‘The human mind is perilous7; the mind of the Way is subtle.’ Then can one do without the human mind?” “The road through Jiange may be dangerous,” said Master Lü, “but still more people travel it by night.” “Then can one have the mind of the Way?” said Han Yu. “Gold dust may be precious,” said Master Lü, “but get it in your eye and it’s a sickness too.” “Then should I make no-mind into mind?” said Han Yu. “Once you have suffered snow and frost,” said Master Zhongli, “even falling willow catkins make you start.” “Then should I make mind into no-mind?” said Han Yu. “No need to hang up a mirror to divine the hour,” said Master Zhongli. “When day breaks, the cock crows of itself.” “Then is having a mind wrong altogether?” said Han Yu. “Without the spring wind the flowers won’t open,” said Master Lü, “and once they open, the wind blows them down again.” “Then is no-mind alone the wonder?” said Han Yu. “Before the dawn shows, everyone watches for it,” said Master Zhongli, “and when day has come, it’s nothing out of the ordinary.” Seeing how much the two masters had to say, and how well able they were to teach Xiangzi, Han Yu said, “Within my grounds there is a hill called Shuihu Hill, and on it I have built a round hut laid out on the Nine Palaces and the Eight Trigrams, quiet and peaceful and very pleasant. I should like to prevail upon you two gentlemen to stay in the hut, one of you to teach my nephew letters and the other to teach him arms. If my nephew can master the arts of letters and of arms and sell them to the imperial house, my heart’s wish will be fulfilled. What do you say?” “We poor Daoists are only rustics from the hills and wilds,” said the two masters, “with no gift in our breasts for statecraft or strategy. But since Your Excellency deigns to take us into your service, how could we not do our best to teach the young gentleman? Only, Your Excellency must be the same from first to last, and not listen to slander and hold us to blame.” Han Yu treated the two masters to a vegetarian meal, then told Zhang Qian and Li Wan to take the two gentlemen to the round hut. He also told Xiangzi to study hard and diligently, so as to bring glory and honour to his ancestors. But of that no more.

Our story turns to the two masters, Zhongli and Lü, who went with Xiangzi to the round hut. A whole day passed, and they never opened their mouths to teach Xiangzi letters, nor did they teach him arms. The two of them only sat with their lips sealed and their eyelids lowered like curtains, cross-legged and still. Seeing how the two masters were carrying on, Xiangzi did not dare ask, and so another day went by. On the third day Master Zhongli began to play his iron flute and Master Lü to sing a Daoist song, which went:

When they had finished the Daoist song, they at last called Xiangzi. “Young Master Han, come closer. There is something I want to ask you.” Xiangzi bowed and stood before the two masters. “Your esteemed uncle has asked the two of us to instruct you, young sir,” said Master Zhongli, “and we would not dare do less than our best. But we don’t know which you would rather learn: ‘long life’, or ‘fame and office’?” “May I ask, Masters,” said Xiangzi, “how ‘fame and office’ turns out in the end?” “We would teach you the classics and the most ancient books, the arts of war and the Scripture of the Hidden Tally,” said Master Zhongli. “At the highest you could keep the realm safe and the people at peace; at the least you could put down violence and quell rebellion. If you met the right time and the right ruler, you might win yourself some post or other, sit in lofty halls and great mansions, and go in and out in light furs behind fat horses. As a matter of course you would bring glory to your forebears and honour to your clan, win titles for your wife and rank for your sons, and ten thousand people would cheer you. That is fame and office. But once death comes hurrying, all of it is emptiness, and in the end it bears no fruit at all.” “And what is ‘long life’?” said Xiangzi. “We would pass on to you the work of laying the foundation and refining the self,” said Master Lü, “and the secret of the fire phases of the Celestial Circuit9. You would breathe out the foul and draw in the pure, dine on rosy clouds and swallow the breath of heaven, rise to Heaven in broad daylight and go to the great Peach Banquet. White hair would turn black again and fallen teeth grow anew; you would dwell with the sun and moon, live for ever and never grow old. That is what long life comes to. The two ways are as far apart as heaven and earth. Which would you rather learn, young sir?” “Your disciple would learn long life,” said Xiangzi. “This work is not like letters and the arts,” said the two masters. “It can’t be done carelessly, and it can’t be done by fits and starts. As the saying goes, ‘With the will undivided10, the spirit is concentrated.’” There is a poem to prove it:

The two masters called to Xiangzi, “Disciple, what time is it now?” “Masters,” said Xiangzi, “the drum has struck the first watch.” “There are several grades of immortal,” said the two masters. “Which would you learn to be?” “When licentiates sit their yearly test11,” said Xiangzi, “they are sorted into six grades — first, second, third, fourth, fifth and sixth. But how can there be grades of immortal too?” “Not grades in that sense,” said Master Zhongli. “Immortals come in five different kinds: heavenly, earthly, human, divine and ghost.” “I should like to hear about them in detail,” said Xiangzi. “A yin spirit, most potent but without form, is a ghost immortal,” said Master Zhongli. “One who lives in the world free of sickness and never grows old is a human immortal. One who feels neither hunger nor thirst, whom heat and cold cannot touch, who roams the Three Islands and lives for ever without dying, is an earthly immortal. One who flies through the void and walks on the mist, who goes out of the dark and into the deep, here one moment and gone the next, changing beyond all reckoning, is a divine immortal. One whose body and spirit are both made wondrous, who is one with the Way and true, who walks on the sun and moon and casts no shadow and passes into metal and stone unhindered, whose transformations are endless, who appears and vanishes beyond anyone’s grasp, now old, now young, holiest of the holy and most divine of the divine, whom neither ghosts nor gods can know, nor yarrow stalks nor tortoise shells foretell — that is a heavenly immortal.” “One who cuts off cravings and desires,” said Master Lü, “practises embryonic breathing, nourishes the spirit and enters deep meditation, sheds the husk and enters a new womb, and lodges in yin and yang to be born again by transformation without decaying, may become a ghost immortal, the lowest grade. Those who attain the Way by receiving the talismans and registers of Orthodox Unity12 and the wondrous methods of the Three Grottoes of Highest Clarity, or by the arts of the sword and shedding the corpse, may become human or earthly immortals, the middle grade. One who refines the true and single breath of the Before-Heaven and cultivates the golden elixir, the great medicine, who makes the mercury dragon rise and the lead tiger descend and condenses them into a pearl the size of a grain of millet, becomes a divine or heavenly immortal, the highest grade.” “Your disciple has heard an old saying,” said Xiangzi: “‘If you study to be an immortal, study to be a heavenly immortal; only the golden elixir is the true and certain way.’ I hope, Masters, that you will pass on the great Way of the golden elixir to your disciple.” “Since you wish to learn to be a heavenly immortal,” said the two masters, “your aim is a good one. We only fear you will be careless and slapdash and give up halfway, and waste all the pains we take to save all beings, and close the road for those who would seek perfection after you.” “If you are willing to teach me, Masters,” said Xiangzi, “how would your disciple dare slacken?” “Sit down, and we will tell you,” said the two masters. “You must remember it well and never let it out.” Xiangzi stood with his hands folded and listened, and the two masters sang, to the tune “The Five Watches Turning”:

Xiangzi listened and kept it all firmly in his heart. “Xiangzi,” said the two masters, “we have passed on to you the secret of long life. Our only fear is that if your uncle finds out, he will treat the two of us with contempt.” “Your disciple knows what to do,” said Xiangzi. “Don’t worry about it.” They went on teaching him for two or three nights running, and on the fourth night the two masters again beat the fish drum and clapped the clapper boards and sang together to teach Xiangzi, to the tune “The Parasol Tree”:

When day broke, the two masters said to Xiangzi, “These several days we have been teaching you to cultivate and refine yourself. You must put your heart into practising hard. Today your uncle is sure to throw us out.” “Let Uncle punish me as he pleases,” said Xiangzi, “your disciple will never regret it. But if you go, Masters, who will your disciple have to lean on?” “That is how things must go,” said the two masters. “As the proverb says, ‘Husband and wife are birds that roost in the same wood; when disaster comes, each flies off on its own.’ How much more so master and pupil! Only keep your heart firm and your will steady, and we will come back to bring you to the Way ourselves.” Before they had finished speaking, Han Yu sent someone to call Xiangzi and the servant on duty. He asked Xiangzi, “These past few days, have you studied the classics of letters and of war? Do you know them well yet?” “Your nephew dare not hide anything from you, Uncle,” said Xiangzi. “What the two masters have been teaching me is the Yellow Court Scripture, a book of the great Way. We haven’t read any classics of letters or of war.” Han Yu frowned, displeased, and turned to ask the servant on duty, “What have the young master and these two gentlemen been practising these past days? What books have they been expounding?” “The two Daoists teach the young master to sit in meditation in the first watch and fly up to Heaven in the second,” said the servant, “and in the third and fourth watches all they do is beat the fish drum and sing Daoist songs.” When Han Yu heard this, fire flared up in his heart and his face swelled purple. He took a bamboo rod and beat Xiangzi. “When your father left this world,” he said, “he entrusted you to me to look after and to teach to read. All I hoped was that you would grow up and bring glory to our ancestors. Who would have thought you’d be such a fool, bent on learning cultivation and its fruit, to the disgrace of our house? It’s enough to make me die of rage!” “It was you who invited these two masters to teach me, Uncle,” said Xiangzi. “It wasn’t your nephew’s own idea. Why beat me?” Beside him Lady Dou pleaded again and again: “His father and mother died young, and he’s been all alone and forlorn. We may have raised him to manhood out of kindness, but we must think twice before we punish him, or we’ll set people talking.” Xiangzi wept. “It’s thanks to you, Uncle and Aunt, that I’ve grown up,” he said. “From now on I’ll never dare disobey your stern commands again.” “Since my wife pleads for him, I won’t beat the brute this time,” said Han Yu. “You — go inside at once and work hard at the classics and histories, and don’t go learning that business of renouncing the world.” At the same time he told the servant on duty, “Go and fetch those two Daoists at once. I’ll throw them out and pull this thing up by the roots, and then I needn’t fear Xiangzi won’t mend his ways.”

Sure enough, the servant on duty went to call the two masters. “Sirs, the master asks for you!” “Chunyangzi,” said Master Zhongli, “that Chonghezi is blind to his former life. He has sent for you and me to throw us out. Let us go and see him all the same, and hear what he has to say.” The two masters followed the servant into Han Yu’s presence and bowed with clasped hands. “Your Excellency Han, we poor Daoists greet you.” “Who wants greetings from the likes of you?” Han Yu shouted angrily. “Greetings, indeed! Is there a shred of humanity in either of you?” “Your Excellency invited the two of us to instruct the young gentleman,” said the two masters. “Surely you know that a teacher is to be honoured and a tutor respected. Why, then, do you not treat us with courtesy?” “I engaged you two to teach my nephew letters and arms so that he could make his way in the world,” said Han Yu. “How is it you spend all day teaching him to beat the fish drum and sing Daoist songs? Isn’t that ruining another man’s son18? Are Daoist songs fit for decent people to sing?” “Your Excellency,” said the two masters, “when did we ever teach him to sing Daoist songs?” “My nephew has already confessed,” said Han Yu. “How can you two still deny it to my face? Get out of my house at once, and stop pestering me here!” “We who have left home go where fate leads,” said the two masters. “Where there is a bond we stay, and where there is none we go. Why fly into a rage?” And they called toward the inner rooms, “Han Xiangzi, we are leaving today. If ever you want to find us, come to Mount Zhongnan, ten thousand li away. We will wait for you there.” Xiangzi came running out. “Masters, please don’t go! Stay here and teach your disciple. If you go, it will be hard for your disciple to find you when he comes looking.” “Since your uncle is throwing us out,” said the two masters, “how could we show our faces in your house again?” “Then your disciple will gladly go with you, Masters,” said Xiangzi. Han Yu grabbed Xiangzi with one hand and shouted, “Zhang Qian! Li Wan! Push these two wild Daoists out!” “Your Excellency,” said the two masters, “we poor Daoists will sing a little song to thank you for your undeserved kindness, and then we will be out of the door.” The song was to the tune “Buying Fine Wine”, running on into “The Clear River Song”:

“Get out!” said Han Yu. “I can’t be bothered to listen to talk like that.” The two masters sang:

When they had finished singing, they flicked their sleeves and left. A poem says:

When Han Yu saw that the two masters had gone, he took Xiangzi to his study and locked him in a room there, and told the servant on duty to guard him carefully and not let him out to run wild. Truly:

Locked in the room, Xiangzi showed no sign of resentment. He only cultivated himself with diligence and toil, sitting and singing Daoist songs. There is a song to the tune “The Golden Oriole” to prove it:

Xiangzi cultivated himself diligently day and night — but how did it all turn out in the end? To learn what happened next, read the next chapter.