Chapter 18: The New Teacher in the Bamboo Grove

The Seven Sages of the Bamboo Grove refers to seven prominent scholars during the Zhengshi era of the Cao Wei dynasty: Ruan Ji, Ji Kang, Shan Tao, Liu Ling, Ruan Xian, Xiang Xiu, and Wang Rong. Because they enjoyed gathering and socializing within a bamboo grove, they became known as the Seven Sages of the Bamboo Grove.

To later generations, this title is undoubtedly resonant; upon hearing it, people immediately conjure an image of a temperament that is broad-minded, detached, yet possessed of an unyielding pride. However, if one were to press for specific deeds, most people would be left in a daze. In truth, of these seven, only Ji Kang and Ruan Ji truly left a mark that would endure for ages.

In his youth, Ji Kang served the Cao Wei state as an official, eventually attaining the rank of Zhongsan Daifu. He married a great-granddaughter of Emperor Wu of Wei, the Lady of Changle Pavilion. After the Sima clan seized power, he withdrew from officialdom, pouring his heart into nature, playing the zither, reciting poetry, or forging iron beneath a willow tree to express his integrity. When Sima Zhao, the Prince of Jin and General-in-Chief, sought to recruit him as a staff member, Ji Kang fled to Hedong. Zhong Hui, the Colonel Director of Retainers, visited him personally only to be met with cold indifference. In their resentment, Sima Zhao and Zhong Hui ultimately executed Ji Kang, using the pretext of Confucius executing Shaozheng Mao to uphold the dignity of rituals and teachings.

On the day of his execution, three thousand imperial students petitioned for his pardon, but the court refused. As the sentence was carried out, Ji Kang’s expression remained unchanged. Seeing that the day was still young, he asked his elder brother, Ji Xi, for his beloved paulownia-wood zither and played a melody of "Guangling San" at the execution ground. It is said that as he played, his hair was disheveled and his chest bared, yet his brows were like iron, his eyes like lightning, and his hands danced with such grace that he seemed like a god. When the song ended, the entire assembly wept, while Ji Kang sighed, "From this day on, 'Guangling San' is lost forever!"

While Ji Kang was fierce and unyielding, his peer Ruan Ji was known for his eccentric madness. Older than Ji Kang, Ruan Ji had served on the staff of Cao Shuang. After Sima Yi seized power and exterminated the three clans of Cao Shuang, Ruan Ji began to protect himself by immersing his spirit in the teachings of Laozi and Zhuangzi. Unlike Ji Kang, however, Ruan Ji did not flee official life, yet he frequently performed shocking acts. He served as a staff member for Sima Yi, Sima Shi, and Sima Zhao, but achieved nothing in politics, preferring to spend his days in the bamboo grove, drinking recklessly.

Sima Zhao once wished to arrange a marriage between his family and Ruan Ji’s. When he sent an envoy to discuss the matter, Ruan Ji remained drunk for sixty consecutive days, leaving the envoy unable to utter a word. Upon hearing this, Sima Zhao had no choice but to let the matter drop. Later, Ruan Ji would often drive his carriage far into the wild, letting the oxen wander at will until the road ended, at which point he would weep bitterly before finally returning.

Beyond this, Ruan Ji was known for oddities like his "blue-eyed gaze," a gesture of disdain for social conventions. Most famous, however, was his visit to the ancient battlefield of Chu and Han, where he suddenly sighed mournfully, "In an age without heroes, even a scoundrel can make a name for himself!" Later, he climbed Mount Wulao and sighed while gazing toward Luoyang. After this, he fell into a deep decline and died in his bed.

Though their personalities differed, both men shared a pure disdain for fame and profit, and a profound contempt for the powerful; it is for this reason they are celebrated by posterity. This, however, does not mean the remaining "Seven Sages" were unimportant. After the deaths of Ji and Ruan, the five others—Shan Tao, Wang Rong, Liu Ling, Xiang Xiu, and Ruan Xian—gradually drifted apart, their fates diverging. Yet, there is no doubt they were the inheritors of the Jian'an spirit, the pioneers of the Wei-Jin literary style, and both survivors of a past age and prophets of the one to come. Whether they entered official life, obsessed over the classics, or retreated into obscurity, they deeply influenced generations.

The "Little Ruan" mentioned by Chen Shou is Ruan Xian, the youngest of the Seven Sages. A cousin of Ruan Ji, Ruan Xian shared his uncle's dissolute style. It is said he spent his days either drinking at home or riding a donkey through the mountains while playing the zither, which earned him the dislike of the current Emperor. Yet, possessed of a broad mind and deep learning, he was well-versed in the *Laozi* and *Zhuangzi*, and authored works such as *The Difficulties of Answering*, *The Meaning of the I Ching*, and *Commentaries on the Three Tombs of Antiquity*. He remains recognized as a leader of the contemporary literary world. To distinguish him from Ruan Ji, the world calls him "Little Ruan."

Under normal circumstances, Chen Shou and Ruan Xian would have nothing to do with one another. But the world is full of wonders; after Chen Shou arrived in Luoyang, he faced much criticism and slander from the court, yet both Shan Tao and Ruan Xian admired him greatly. Ruan Xian, in particular, maintained a steady correspondence with Chen Shou, frequently inquiring about the progress of his historical writing, even during Chen Shou’s period of mourning. Thus, when Chen Shou wrote to ask for help in teaching Liu Xian, Ruan Xian agreed in his reply the very next day.

And so, Liu Xian embarked on the second journey of his education.

Liu Xian first met Little Ruan in early autumn, after Chen Shou had left the capital. He had traveled for four hours by ox-cart with Zhu Fu to reach Mount Shouyang, where his new teacher lived, and he arrived feeling quite dizzy.

Upon reaching the place known as Ruan Manor, he found the vast courtyard empty. Bamboo thickets covered the sides of the property, and two tabby cats crouched between the wall and the shade, watching the guests with wary eyes. After a while, a maid returned with water, and Liu Xian learned that Little Ruan was out on an excursion with several friends, having taken the younger members of the household with him, and no one knew how late they would return.

Liu Xian and Zhu Fu waited on the spot. As they waited, the sunset faded, the veil of night descended, and shimmering stars filled the unobstructed sky, while the mountain breeze brought a faint mist of water.

Liu Xian did not know what time it was, but in his dazed state, a long, piercing whistle suddenly tore through the sky, startling him awake.

It was the first time in his life he had heard such a whistle.

Humanity's imagination of music often comes from the memory of external objects: the dripping of water from eaves, the clashing of gold and iron, the wind through falling leaves, or pearls falling onto a jade plate. Other inspirations come from imitating animals: the warbling of an oriole, the mournful cry of an ape, the soul-shaking roar of a tiger, or the hoarse croak of a crow. But strangely, while people can weave various sounds into musical creation, they rarely link music to the human voice itself, at most associating it with weeping.

This is not surprising, for man already possesses language and writing, using rhythm and tone to approach music. Yet this often leads one to forget that the human voice is itself a form of music, possessing infinite possibilities, capable of evoking endless emotions and expressing profound meanings.

The whistle Liu Xian heard was such a sound. Unseen, it broke through his perceptions with an irresistible force, as easily as shattering a piece of porcelain. As Liu Xian listened, he first felt as if jade from Mount Kun was breaking, then as if a divine zither had been plucked, and soon he felt as if a hundred phoenixes were singing in unison. It was then that Liu Xian understood the limits of language and text; he could not describe such a sound, nor display its grandeur and delicacy. He was even less capable of describing the emotion behind the whistle—like an ant falling into an ice-cold lake, he could only sense his own usual smallness and impotence.

The whistling ended, but the resonance seemed to linger in the air, leaving Liu Xian in a trance. Simultaneously, he saw his new teacher returning along the mountain path.

He saw an elderly man, tall and thin with white hair and beard, dressed in snow-white Taoist robes, his hair tied in a bun, wearing wooden clogs, swaying along under the moonlight as if no one were around. Behind him followed seven or eight young men, leading donkeys, carrying bamboo beds, or holding lutes, along with long swords, bows, and other hunting gear.

What left the deepest impression on Liu Xian, however, was the overpowering scent of wine that hit them as the group returned. The smell was so strong that Liu Xian felt as if he had fallen into a pool of wine, leading him to wonder for a moment if these people had mastered the supernatural ability to turn water into wine with a mere touch.

The old man walked up to the gate and, seeing Liu Xian and Zhu Fu waiting, let out an "Oh!" before looking them over carefully and patting his head. "Ah, ah, I forgot! You must be the disciple of Chen Shou, right?"

Liu Xian hurriedly bowed and replied, "This junior is indeed Liu Xian. Are you Little Ruan?"

"Haha! No need for such formality! You can call me Old Ruan, it doesn't matter. Come in, come in!"

The group entered the house and lit the lamps. A servant set up a folding chair, and Ruan Xian, leaning on the servant’s shoulder as if a gust of wind could blow him over, kicked off his wooden clogs and sat cross-legged on the bed. Only then could Liu Xian look at his new teacher.

Despite being over sixty, Ruan Xian’s skin was as fair as a woman’s. Sitting on the mat, he continuously stroked his sparse beard. On the desk in front of him lay a knife for trimming nails, some jade for playing with, and a massive wine jug—it was practically a vat. He looked nothing like the upstanding, well-dressed, and dignified gentlemen Chen Shou had described, who harbored ambitions of clearing the world.

Yet, out of trust and respect for Chen Shou, Liu Xian performed a respectful bow according to the rites of teacher and student. Unexpectedly, a light laugh echoed in his ears. Looking up, he saw the younger members of the Ruan family, such as Ruan Fu, Ruan Xuan, and Ruan Ting, covering their mouths with their sleeves and giggling.

The eldest, Ruan Zhan, said to Liu Xian, "In our family, we do not adhere to rituals and prefer to follow our natural inclinations. You really don't need to do all that."

Liu Xian turned to look at Ruan Xian’s reaction. The old man was not looking at him, but had closed his eyes slightly, waving a fly-whisk in an irregular pattern. It was impossible to tell if he approved or disapproved.

Liu Xian spoke up boldly, "Thank you for the reminder, elder, but the bow I just made came from true sincerity, not from a desire to flatter."

Ruan Xian stopped waving his whisk. Ruan Zhan looked puzzled, glanced back at his elder, and asked, "Why do you say that?"

Liu Xian replied, "The reason my teacher does not adhere to rituals is likely because most people adopt the outward appearance without grasping the inner truth. They are clearly reluctant, yet out of a desire for fame, status, or power, they debase themselves before others... This violates Confucius's principle of 'sincerity of will and rectification of the heart.' Rather than continuing to distort these rituals, it is better to discard them."

"When I previously read the *Biography of the Great Man* and encountered the lines, 'The perfect man has no home; the heavens and earth are his guests. The perfect man has no master; the heavens and earth are his dwelling. The perfect man has no business; the heavens and earth are his reason,' I truly found it hard to understand. But having just heard the teacher’s whistle, I felt as if enlightened; now I know those words are true. I also know that being taught by the teacher is the greatest fortune of my life, so how could I not bow in sincere gratitude?"

Before Ruan Zhan could speak, Ruan Xian struck the desk with his whisk and laughed, "Well said! This child has deep roots!" He straightened up, rolled up his sleeves, and asked Liu Xian directly, "Do you drink? Have a cup!"

Liu Xian looked troubled and declined, "Thank you, teacher, but I do not find the taste of wine sweet."

Ruan Xian did not press him. He ladled a cup of wine for himself and chatted with a smile, "Ha, young man, then you are missing out on one of life’s great pleasures."

He took a sip and said, "There are five things in life that bring the most joy. Do you know what they are?"

"I do not."

"First, admiring beautiful women. Second, eating beef. Third, roaming the mountains and forests. Fourth, playing music. Fifth, drinking fine wine."

"Here in this remote backwater, there are no beauties. I am poor and cannot afford beef. It is dark and windy now, so we cannot roam the mountains. And since you refuse to drink, the joys of life are few indeed! What is the point of living? Oh well, oh well, I shall play a few tunes for you!"

With that, Little Ruan drank the dregs of his wine, and in high spirits, picked up his lute. He had Ruan Fu accompany him on the flute while he closed his eyes and began to play, his hands moving like wild bees.

He first played "Flowing Water by the Small Bridge," the music as quiet and deep as the night. Then he played "According to the Times," the melody shifting between slow and fast, as if wind and clouds were gathering. Then he played "Short Song Style," the lute and flute joining in a grand, magnificent harmony, like a bright moon illuminating the four seas.

Finally, when he played "The Phoenix Perches on the Paulownia," Ruan Xian was so moved that he sang along: "O Phoenix, ascending to the nine heavens, you perch only on the paulownia! O Phoenix, descending to the nine heavens, you feed only on the bamboo!" After singing, he instructed all the younger generation, including Liu Xian, to sing along.

Afterward, he struck the desk with his whisk again and sighed, "The phoenixes of the Han had Zhang Liang before and Zhuge Liang after; since then, they have long since vanished." It turned out that Ruan Xian admired Zhang Liang and Zhuge Liang above all, often comparing himself to them, while the many figures of growing fame since the founding of Western Jin, such as Shi Bao, Zhang Hua, Yang Hu, and Du Yu, did not catch his eye at all.