Chapter Eight: Ambition Knows No Height

Although he had once followed Bamboo Shadow here to Songyang Temple in the rain, at that time the gates were tightly shut. Du Shiyi had only glimpsed the various buildings with their soaring eaves and intricate brackets over the high walls, leaving him with an impression of grandeur that did not diminish the place’s tranquil depth. A few days prior, Sima Heiyun had delivered an invitation on behalf of his master. Today, guided through the main entrance by a young Daoist, Du Shiyi finally experienced the true splendor of the most renowned temple on Mount Song.

On either side of the mountain gate, the pillars were carved with dragons, tigers, and swirling clouds. The plaque above the door bore the calligraphy of the Emperor Gaozong himself. Even though Du Shiyi had grown up accustomed to the rubbings and copies of countless masterpieces, he had to admit that the dynamic brushwork was truly exceptional. Nonetheless, he knew he had come by invitation today, and that he could take his time to appreciate the sights another day. After a brief glance, he followed the Daoist boy inside. As it was Sima Heiyun who had sent for him, he had expected to be greeted by him, but the Daoist led him deeper into the temple and finally brought him before a grand hall with a dark green tiled roof and elegantly upturned eaves.

“Young Master Du, we have arrived.”

“And this is...?”

“This is the Star Pavilion, the abode of the temple master. Both the temple master and Master Sima’s attendant Daoist Sun are within.”

Since he had come, Du Shiyi steadied himself and stepped past the bamboo curtain held open by the young Daoist. Skirting the four folding paper screens at the entrance, he discovered that the Star Pavilion was far more crowded than he had expected. In the center, occupying the seat of honor, sat an elderly man in a grey Daoist robe, his hair as white as snow. At first glance, his face seemed kindly, but upon closer look, there was an unmistakable sharpness to his gaze. To the left sat Sun Zifang, the very same Taichong Daoist whom Du had met before. On the right, on a seat equal to the temple master’s, was another elder Daoist.

This second Daoist’s temples were frosted with white, his complexion ruddy and vigorous; Du Shiyi could not immediately guess his age, but sensed a depth of experience about him. Compared to Sun Taichong’s amiable nod and the temple master’s slight bow, this smiling elder regarded him with even greater composure and ease. Instinctively, Du Shiyi realized this was the old man who had offered help in the rain—Sima Heiyun’s master.

Below these three, the rest of the guests varied in age; some wore Daoist robes, others were dressed as scholars in plain attire—there was not a hint of gold, jade, or brocade. Yet the room was perfumed with the delicate fragrance of fine incense curling from a bronze censer, and the maids standing by were all fair of face. Each guest held a white porcelain teacup, and even in his brief glance at the outer screens painted with figures, his keen eye had caught the artist’s seal: Yan Liben, whose fame for figure painting in early Tang far outstripped his reputation as an official.

For a Daoist temple, this display surpassed even the houses of the most illustrious official clans of Fanchuan among the Dus!

“Young Master Du, this is Temple Master Song. Master Song, this is the nineteenth son of the Du clan of Duling, in Jingzhao,” Sun Taichong said, being the only one present who had met Du Shiyi before. After introducing the temple master Song Fuzhen, he immediately turned to the Daoist with frost at his temples, “This is Master Sima of Mount Tiantai. As for his attendant, I believe Young Master Du is already acquainted.”

Only the surname was given, not the full name, and Sima Heiyun, though he had visited Du’s thatched cottage several times, had never spoken of his master. Naturally, Du Shiyi’s curiosity only deepened. After saluting Master Sima, he followed Sun Taichong to meet the others: some were Daoists practicing at Songyang Temple, others were descendants of illustrious families from the eastern capital, Luoyang. At last, when he came to someone whose face seemed vaguely familiar, that person, not waiting for Sun Taichong’s introduction, stood up with a bright smile and greeted him.

“South of the city live the Weis and the Dus, the two great clans of Guanzhong, generations adorned with tassels and caps. The glory of Fanchuan rests with these two surnames. The fame of the nineteenth son of the Du family from Duling is known throughout Jingzhao Prefecture; there’s no need for Daoist Sun to say more. At four you wrote essays, at six you composed poetry—I never expected that today I’d witness your talent again at Songyang Temple.” He paused, then smiled. “In fact, I believe we have met several times before, have we not?”

The speaker appeared to be about twenty, his head adorned with a black gauze cap. His features were as refined as carved jade, and his bearing was outstanding—a strikingly handsome man. Standing before him, Du Shiyi could clearly catch a waft of rich fragrance. He did not mistake him for a woman, for the Tang gentry loved their incense and families often had secret recipes; this youth merely favored strong scents. Still, hearing such effusive praise upon their first meeting, Du Shiyi frowned slightly, then returned the courtesy and asked, “Are you also from Jingzhao Prefecture, sir?”

“You truly are a man of distinction, to forget so easily! My name is Liu Ximing. I often bring friends to visit Ducu in Fanchuan, so I’ve met you several times over the years.”

Seeing his forthright manner, Du Shiyi glanced at the others and found most of them watching the two of them with interest. He smiled faintly. “It is indeed a surprise to meet an old acquaintance far from home. Since you are from Jingzhao, the news must have been slow to reach you: earlier this year, I suffered a serious illness—not only did it nearly claim my life, but it robbed me of what little reputation I’d earned. Since then, I have been unable to write poetry or prose worth mentioning. If not for my young sister taking me all the way to Mount Song to seek a cure, I would not be standing here today.”

At this, the gentlemen from Luoyang, who had been wondering if their ignorance of Du’s reputation marked them as uncultured, suddenly understood. Their reactions varied—some shook their heads in pity, some in private satisfaction, and some with schadenfreude. Regardless of their feelings, many glanced at Liu Ximing. Under this scrutiny, Liu could only force a calm reply, “I have been in Luoyang these past months and truly did not know you had suffered such misfortune.”

“Calamity and fortune are often entwined. It was only through misfortune that I came to cherish family bonds; otherwise, I would not have survived, nor would I have felt that, after reaching the nadir, things must inevitably improve. I cannot be too troubled by the so-called loss of talent.”

Openly admitting his diminished abilities, Du Shiyi showed no sign of discomfort at Liu Ximing’s explanation. After a courteous exchange, he settled into the last seat, just below Liu Ximing—precisely where his age and status dictated.

“It is a rare honor to have Master Sima visit Songyang Temple,” Temple Master Song Fuzhen began, as if he had not noticed the awkwardness that had just filled the room. Only now did Du Shiyi realize that he had not been invited because Sima Heiyun had news for him, but rather, he had arrived amidst another grand gathering. He wondered who this Master Sima truly was, that not only Daoists but even gentry from Luoyang, including the Wangs and Zhengs, had come in his honor. His curiosity piqued, he looked up—and unexpectedly met Master Sima’s gaze.

“Sir, I have read your ‘On Sitting in Oblivion’ many times. In the fifth chapter, you write: ‘Though one may strive, one must not be preoccupied with gain or loss.’ Yet for mortals—unless they are sages—striving inevitably means caring about gain and loss. May I ask, how can one extinguish the heart that clings to gain or loss?” a young scholar suddenly inquired.

Master Sima, withdrawing his gaze from Du Shiyi, answered with a genial smile, “It is precisely because this is so difficult that I wrote in ‘On Sitting in Oblivion’ that one must do one’s best. Gain and loss arise from desire, and desire is human nature. But if one truly wishes to sit in oblivion, unless one can cast these aside, how can the heart find peace? Consider myself, a man who seeks purity and detachment—if I, like those scholars striving for office, or officials seeking ever higher rank, demanded fame and fortune, would I not be too obsessed with gain and loss? I have always said that divination and mystical arts are but heterodox; they are useless for governing or cultivating oneself. To pursue true clarity and transcendence, one must begin with self-examination. As Master Zeng said, ‘Each day I examine myself thrice’—this is a profound truth. Let us all encourage each other in this!”

Having read of various charlatans in the histories, Du Shiyi, who was now half skeptical of gods and Buddhas, could not help but inwardly applaud such forthright words. Observing the approving nods around the room, he realized that what he’d expected to be a tiresome ordeal might prove interesting after all. Indeed, one after another the guests posed questions, ranging from methods of concentration and breaking attachments in ‘On Sitting in Oblivion,’ to the Gradual Path in ‘Heaven’s Hidden One,’ and even to breath cultivation for healing. He was listening with growing interest when Liu Ximing, who had been silent since his earlier exchange, suddenly spoke again.

“Master Sima’s methods of breath cultivation are said to be highly esteemed even by the retired emperor. For someone like Young Master Du, who has suffered such illness, would practicing breath cultivation restore his former literary brilliance?”

This question was both sharp and direct, clearly aimed at Du Shiyi. The hall fell silent. Du Shiyi merely frowned slightly, then looked thoughtfully at the ever-smiling Master Sima. The elder stroked his beard, his expression unchanged, and replied with a smile, “Breath cultivation seeks health and longevity, but true results come only with years of practice—it is no shortcut to quick success. If breath cultivation could instantly restore literary genius, would the gates of the Daoist schools not be trampled down? Besides, Young Master Du’s illness has already been treated by Zifang; there is no need for me to overstep. Of course, if Young Master Du wishes to learn breathing techniques from me, I have no objections.”

The half-serious, half-playful reply drew laughter from all. Since the question concerned him and Master Sima had answered, Du Shiyi replied calmly, “To recover from a grave illness is already a blessing from heaven; to ask for more would be ungrateful. If I cannot be a man of letters, perhaps I can become a legal scholar; if not a legal scholar, perhaps I can master the martial arts and fight for my country; even if I fail at both, I could always be a bookworm; and if not a bookworm, then at least a simple farmer!”

Liu Ximing, whose thrust had been so deftly turned aside by Master Sima, now sighed with a hint of mockery, “What’s so admirable about being a farmer? Why so discouraged, my friend?”

“Being a farmer is not necessarily lowly. Did not the great strategist Zhuge Liang once till the fields in Nanyang?” Du Shiyi, intentionally blurring the meaning of ‘tilling the fields’ in Zhuge Liang’s memorial, then added with a half-smile, “Remember: ‘Hoeing grain at noon, sweat dripping to the earth below. Who knows that every meal on the plate, each grain is hard-won?’ Without farmers, would not the rest of us starve?”

At first, his words seemed unremarkable, and some even sneered when Du Shiyi claimed he could always become a farmer. But as the four lines of verse fell from his lips, many present gradually wore thoughtful expressions. After a long silence, Sun Zifang gave a slight cough and spoke first, “These four lines capture the hardship of farmers perfectly. What is this poem called?”

“Pity the Farmer.”

At the apt reply, Master Sima suddenly picked up the jade mallet before him and gently struck the jade bell, its clear sound resonating through the room. Smiling, he announced, “Enough—Young Master Du has recovered from his illness, but these old bones of mine are still chilled from travel. Allow me to retire and rest for an hour; gentlemen, please make yourselves at home.”