诸葛亮和姜维——不尽的遗憾
Zhuge Liang and Jiang Wei—Endless Regret
Written by 乱世霸主1
Translated by Charmaine Sia
One
Outside the thatched cottage, the cockerel crows at the light of dawn;
At twilight, smoke rising from the kitchen drifts among the clouds.
The Sleeping Dragon frequently reminisced about the foot of the mountain;
He departed for Wuzhangyuan, never to return.
Luxuriant fields comprise a hundred qing2 and not merely a mu3; lofty aspirations (yuanzhi) cannot be realised with immediate return (danggui).
The vast plains of Cathay one thousand eight hundred years ago were dotted with grassy mountains and flowing rivers stretching in all directions. However, the land moaned beneath the raging flames of war, while family and friends who were separated yearned for unification.
A radiant and enchanting spring illumined ancient Longzhong. A handsome and extraordinary youth was bidding farewell to his younger brother. “I am accepting the kind generosity of Imperial Uncle Liu, who has favoured me with three calls. I am obliged to go. Remain at your labours and do not let our acres go fallow. When my work is done, I shall return to resume my life of seclusion.”
He left the soil he had tilled for ten years and headed for the path he had always aspired to. Once he left, he would never be able to return.
The stars spun for twenty years. In an army camp at Longxi, a talented and promising youth received the Chinese herb danggui from his mother in Wei, awaiting his return. This time, the filial son disobeyed his mother’s wishes. He returned the herb yuanzhi to convey his feelings. For he had encountered a person who commanded his admiration; he understood the purpose of his struggle. He wished to devote his labours towards the goal he had set his mind to—the restoration of the House of Han. This stay would last for a lifetime.
Out of gratitude to Imperial Uncle Liu for making three visits, Kongming left Longzhong, bent himself to his task and exerted his utmost, journeying six times to Qishan. Although he was capable, how could he rewrite history by himself?
Out of gratitude to Zhuge Liang for fostering his talent, Jiang Wei stayed in Shu-Han and inherited the task bequeathed, making nine Northern Expeditions. Although he was versed in letters and weaponry, how could he retrieve his kingdom from being vanquished?
This departure and this stay would result in eternal sorrow.
Thus, they determined their lifetime tragedies at the age of twenty-seven.
Two
At age thirty my deeds are nothing but dust, my journey has taken me over eight thousand li4.5
How far had his campaigns taken him over the past thirty years? How much had he toiled? The heroic youth had been transformed into a hoary man. Gazing in the direction of Jingchu6, the desolate mountains and streams filled him with endless regret. North of this wall there are wars and mountains—And here by the rail how can I help crying?7
At lush Wuzhangyuan, within the Qin plains that stretch for eight hundred li, the autumn wind was chilly this night. Zhuge Liang suddenly felt tired. Another twenty-seven years had unexpectedly slipped by. Managing affairs of state, racking his brains, leading a harried existence, toiling for half his life—after all this, he had yet to procure half of the realm. How many twenty-seven years were there in a lifetime? Although he did not begrudge the ordeal of battle despite his emaciated and ailing body, Heaven would no longer give him time. He heard the soughing of the autumn wind. His body was as decrepit as the withered leaves of autumn, and would Shu-Han’s might not slump like autumn leaves? The spirit was willing but the flesh was weak; the Former Lord’s fervent entrustment rang in his ears, while his pledge of returning into seclusion in Longzhong had long become something he could no longer afford to think about.
In the night, a star fell.
If Zhuge Liang felt despondency, grief and regret at Wuzhangyuan, then Jiang Wei experienced utter despair. He was unable to accomplish the Martial Marquis’ last behest; he had witnessed the fall of Shu-Han.
If Zhuge Liang could be described by “let life be beautiful like summer flowers and death like autumn leaves8”, then Jiang Wei’s death was the finest hour of his life.
His sovereign had surrendered; his territory had capitulated. Unwilling to resign himself to this fate, Jiang Wei employed the ultimate stratagem of his lifetime. Feigning surrender to Zhong Hui was this subject of a conquered state’s final exertion for his country, his last act of loyalty. When the swarm of enemy soldiers surrounded him, he suddenly thought of the diligence of his youth, when he had sought fame and honour. Of the Chinese herb yuanzhi. Of the person who altered his life and the expectant gaze that had been directed at him twenty-nine years ago… A heart spasm seized him: Heaven has decreed that Shu-Han must perish; Heaven has decreed that I, Jiang Wei, must perish.
Fresh blood spattered on the ground.
If Zhuge Liang’s death was bleak and tragic, then Jiang Wei’s death was majestic and cruel.
To die, his host afield, the victory herald yet to come9; the “falling star”, the “autumn winds”—the “last campaign”10. A false desertion, a subtle scheme becomes a vain plan11; fighting to the bitter end to repay a kindred spirit. All that was left was eternal sorrow.
Great men, past and present, will eventually turn into dust. The wind which has blown since the beginning of time speaks of days of yore and hopelessness. Like Zhuge Liang’s eternally unfulfilled wish of resuming his life of seclusion after his work had been completed. Like Jiang Wei’s forever unachievable dream of realising the Martial Marquis’ dying ambition.
Three
Great men are invariably blown away by the storm.
They were like moths darting into raging flames, destined to be destroyed for their ideals.
They fought to the very end, giving all that they had.
They never even enjoyed life.
If Zhuge Liang had recited poetry among the pines in Nanyang and rested contentedly in his thatched cottage, if he had discussed poetry with a group of friends over a jar of steaming wine, if he had observed fresh blossoms in the snow and given his views about the realm, he would led the life of an immortal.
If Jiang Wei had held office in Wei, his rise might have been meteoric. Whatever the case, he would not have witnessed the fall of his nation and the death of his countrymen.
But if that were the case, the world would lose two stirring lives.
If they were given the opportunity to choose anew, they would still select this path: impoverished and austere, but meaningful and noble.
Guo Moruo12 once appraised Zhuge Liang and Tao Yuanming13 as such: before Zhuge Liang left his thatched cottage, he cultivated the land, leading a life as idyllic as Tao Yuanming’s. If Tao Yuanming had taken his chances in the world, he might have created a paradise on Earth. If Zhuge Liang had remained in seclusion, his poems would not be inferior to those of Tao Yuanming.
However, history does not allow for “if”s; the seasons passed, fashioning their dissimilar lives.
Great men are invariably blown away by the storm, leaving posterity to lay their judgement.
Endnotes:
1 The original text may be found at the following website: 诸葛亮和姜维——不尽的遗憾.
2 1 qing = 6.67 hectares.
3 1 mu = 0.0667 hectares.
4 1 li = 500 meters.
5 This is a line from The Entire River is Red, a poem composed by Yue Fei, a famous general of the Southern Song dynasty.
The Entire River is Red
My wrath bristles through my helmet, the rain stops as I stand by the rail;
I look up towards the sky and let loose a passionate roar;
At age thirty my deeds are nothing but dust, my journey has taken me over eight thousand li;
So do not sit by idly, for young men will grow old in regret.
The shame of Jing Kang still lingers,
When will the pain of his subjects ever end?
Let us ride our chariots through the Helan Pass,
There we shall feast and drink barbarian flesh and blood.
Let us begin again to recover our stolen lands, before paying tribute to the Heavens.
6 The State of Chu, which existed during the Spring and Autumn and Warring States periods, was also known as Jing, or Jingchu.
7 This is a line from On the Gate Tower at Youzhou, a poem composed by the celebrated Tang poet Du Fu.
On the Gate Tower at Youzhou
I had always heard of Lake Dongting—
And now at last I have climbed to this tower.
With Wu country to the east of me and Chu to the south,
I can see heaven and earth endlessly floating.
…But no word has reached me from kin or friends.
I am old and sick and alone with my boat.
North of this wall there are wars and mountains—
And here by this rail how can I help crying?
8 This is line 82 of Rabindranath Tagore’s poem, “Stray Birds”.
9 This is a line from The Prime Minister of Shu, a poem composed by the celebrated Tang poet Du Fu.
The Prime Minister of Shu
His Excellency’s shrine, where would it be found?
Past Damask Town, where cypresses grow dense.
Its sunlit court, gem-bright greens—a spring unto themselves.
Leaf-veiled, the orioles’ sweet notes to empty air.
Thrice to him Liu Bei sued, keen to rule the realm:
Two reigns Kongming served—steady old heart
To die, his host afield, the victory herald yet to come
Weep, oh heroes! Drench your fronts, now and evermore.
10 This is a line from a poem in Chapter 38 of Romance of the Three Kingdoms:
About to soar, he felt himself drawn back;
His task complete, he’ll think of this farewell.
Only for the monarch, who pleaded and pleaded again:
The “falling star”, the “autumn winds”—the “last campaign”.
11 This is the first half of the title of Chapter 119 of Romance of the Three Kingdoms.
12 Guo Moruo (1892-1978), a Chinese author, poet, historian, archaeologist and government official. He was the first President of the Chinese Academy of Social Sciences and remained so from its founding in 1949 until his death in 1978.
13 Tao Qian (365-427), styled Yuanming, an influential Chinese poet of the Jin dynasty. He gave up his position as a county mayor to go to the countryside to lead an idyllic pastoral life.
Copyright © Charmaine Sia