The Saint 63
masses of China. The countryside around him is violent, and in time
it will grow much more so. The noble chariot- fi ghters who have
pledged themselves to abide by a code not unlike the one sustained
by the warriors in The Iliad have lost humane bearing. On some
days entire cities are slaughtered, men and women and children, all,
not sold into slavery, but butchered. No one can live safely. When
an embassy goes off to treat with a duke, all the ambassadors are
killed, their bodies mangled horribly, then sent back to their ranks.
The crime is repaid and repaid again. The common people are an-
imal creatures, often slaughtered freely by their supposed betters.
Confucius, a man of relatively humble origins whose parents died
when he was young, cannot bear what he sees around him. The “he-
roic” excesses sicken the genial, gentle, humorous, and above all
modest man who, though sometimes a severe teacher, takes plea sure
in drinking some wine, reciting poetry, talking and laughing with
his friends. “In the late spring,” he says, “ after the spring clothes
have been newly made, I should like, together with fi ve or six adults
and six or seven boys, to go bathing in the River Yi and enjoy the
breeze on the Rain Altar, and then to go home chanting poetry”
(XI.26).
He loves his pupils: Yen Yuan, virtuous in conduct; Tsai Wo,
adept in speech; Jan Yu, accomplished in the art of government;
Tzu-yu and Tzu- hsia, true men of learning (Confucius XI.3). And
they love the master, each in his way. When one of his pupils dies
or must leave him, the master is stricken. Yen Yuan dies and he
is irreplaceable in the master’s heart. “When Yen Yuan died, in
weeping for him, the Master showed undue sorrow. His followers
said, ‘You are showing undue sorrow.’ ‘Am I? Yet if not for him, for
whom should I show undue sorrow?’ ” (XI.10).
What does the master teach? He teaches one quality above all
others: he teaches benevolence. Benevolence, which is something
other than compassion, though not unrelated to it, is the constant