Three visits to rule them all (Part I)
January 16th, 2008 by MeiThe appeal of Luo’s Three Kingdoms, to me, is its insistence on telling the story as an outsider. Battles, ploys, and occasional moments of sincerity, are all “seemingly so”. The book keeps us mere observers, shut out of the intimate thoughts and emotions of all characters, much like our daily encounters with colleagues at a workplace. We are provided with efficient paragraphs of vivid details and quick evolution of events, yet denied explanations of motivations and intentions that our curiosities so crave for. As in real life, we cope with such abundance of evidence and shortage of confessions with that ever-useful life skill: gossiping. Generations of Three Kingdoms readers get together to debate the people and events in it, to offer our own speculation of why and our own imagination of what-ifs. The book is similar to life itself in so many ways — each time we re-visit the pages, we see a bit more, perceive it a bit differently, love it all the same, and cannot suppress the urge to grab the first available friend and gossip about it.
My most recent reading of Luo’s Three Kingdoms rewarded me with the re-discovery of several cool little projects. They deserve a series of posts, and I’ll start with Liu Bei‘s famous three trips to the countryside to recruit the elusive genius Zhuge Liang into his ragtag startup team that later became one of the three kingdoms.
In Chinese language, “three visits to the straw cottage” is a fixed phrase, almost a cliche, that is synonymous to sincere pursuit of talents. The story is unremarkable in its abridged version: Liu Bei needed a political and military advisor to help him realize his imperial dream. Zhuge Liang was recommended to him from a couple of credible sources, so Liu set out to visit Zhuge’s rural residence — not once, not twice, but three times, one of which was a long trudge through a snow storm. Moved by Liu Bei’s modesty and sincerity (or just worn down by his persistence), Zhuge Liang agreed to come out of his reclusion to work for Liu Bei.
This event was written in a poetic style rarely seen in the rest of the book. Much ink was spent painting the idyllic surroundings, the changing seasons, and the slightly mystic ambience. Everyone in the village, from farmers working in the field, old man traveling in snow, scholars drinking in a tavern, and Zhuge Liang’s little brother reading against a cozy fire, was singing a song or two written by Zhuge Liang. Such descriptions made Liu Bei’s visits almost seem like weekend getaways in the countryside, where he leisurely picked up a souvenir in the form of the best brain of his time.
But this was no vacation for Liu Bei. Under the poetic surface was probably the most grilling and hopeless reverse-interview ever.
Zhuge Liang was indeed living in a humble straw cottage in the countryside at the time, but he was by no means a lowly rural youth who would happily offer up his talents to impress just anyone who showed up. Zhuge Liang came from a reasonably established family that gave him a good education early on. He was a versatile man, and showed early talents as a writer, poet, calligrapher, musician, scientist, and engineer — sort of a much earlier Da Vinci had he lived in a peaceful time. But, it was his fate to be born into one of the most chaotic times in Chinese history. The late Han period was so bloody as the many warlords fought for reign, that the population in China shrunk by more than 60% by the time the three kingdoms were united into one. For talented people, there was little hope of applying their skills to anything constructive such as engineering or art. However, the endless and multi-sided wars created a constant demand for military tacticians, the only outlet for bright people’s brain power in this period.
Zhuge Liang was surely well aware that glory and danger always came in a bundle when pursuing usefulness in an age of chaos and death. At the time of Liu Bei’s visits, Zhuge Liang had one brother Zhuge Jin who was working for Sun Quan, eventual master of another one of the three kingdoms. However, Zhuge Liang chose to stay home in Nanyang and practice farming. It was questionable how much real farming he did. During Liu Bei’s first two visits, Zhuge Liang was just said to be “away” with unknown destination and uncertain return date, possibly doing any of the following according to his younger brother: boating in lakes, visiting temples on mountains, gathering with friends in villages, or playing Guqin in woods and caves. Other descriptions gave evidence of him practicing calligraphy, drinking with friends, and writing philosophical little songs for real farmers to sing. He had an life that was literally “out of this world”, even if this good life had a sad sense of uncertainty to it as wars broke out all around. In Zhuge Liang’s own words, his choice was to “attempt survival in a chaotic time, and not to seek renown among the lords”.
This life attitude of Zhuge Liang’s added considerable difficulty to anyone’s recruiting effort. Even if he could be persuaded to work, it would take an extraordinary employer to pass Zhuge Liang’s interview. Zhuge Liang had every reason to feel precious. At 27, he already had quite a reputation in the intellectual circle, with a cool nickname “crouching dragon”. He was described both in Luo’s book and in historical documents as tall, youthful and handsome when he came out of reclusion. His height was given at 8 Chi (about 6 feet), and his face was “beautiful like jade”. Let’s digress a bit here about description of people’s looks in traditional Chinese literature. The masters of old often painted their characters with highly specific and visual phrases that were in fact completely abstract. Taken literally, they would render frightening images. What kind of person would have “a face like the full moon and eyes like shining stars”? These are akin to subjects in western modern paintings — meant to create an impression through association, and not viewed as a photograph. Literal translation of their appearance descriptions can often render hilarious results, such as Zhao Yun growing “bushy eyebrows” (paragraph 30 from Brewitt-Taylor translation, chapter 7).
Now we get back to Zhuge Liang’s face of jade. At the “three visits” time, he was young, handsome, brilliant, and surrounded by people who loved nothing more than to sing his poems all day long. Not surprisingly, he had a rather high opinion of himself, often comparing himself to Guan Zhong and Yue Yi, two legendary men of ancient times who both made their lords into king. Zhuge Liang had clearly pondered whether he would want to help any of the warlords of his time, and likely “disqualified” all of them at least temporarily due to their various flaws. It wasn’t too hard to keep on living his life of reclusion while vaguely waiting for a worthy master to show up and sweep him off his feet.
So, as Zhuge Liang was enjoying his “early retirement”, who should show up at his door? A straw-mat weaver Liu Bei who claimed himself “emporer’s uncle”, accompanied by a proud fugitive Guan Yu and a quick-tempered butcher Zhang Fei. The gang of three men linked by an oath of brotherhood seemed to think they had a play in the popular pursuit of reign over China. They did have a core technical team that included three of the best warriors in the Three Kingdoms period (Guan Yu, Zhang Fei, and Zhao Yun), but they had only an insignificant little army, almost no financial foundation, and very little respect from their peers. What Liu Bei added to the table was a shaky sense of legitimacy from his self-proclaimed imperial lineage, and perhaps his humanitarian morality that attracted Zhao Yun and later on a number of other talented men who were looking for something a bit more meaningful than power and fortune. Liu Bei’s moral high ground may not seem that high or that genuine, but in a time when many warlords were dispicable rascals (the more honorable ones were killed off early and fast by attempting to be honorable), a leader like Liu Bei, who held on to some level of moral baseline and still managed to stay alive, had to be worth something.
Still, by all standards Liu Bei’s team was rather pathetic at the time they presented themselves to Zhuge Liang’s neighborhood. Zhuge Liang was clearly not amused when he heard that Xu Shu had recommended him to Liu Bei. “Are you offering me up as a sacrifice?” he snapped at the sheepish Xu Shu. He knew who Liu Bei was, and was offended that Xu Shu thought the straw-mat weaver worth considering. Of course, Zhuge Liang hadn’t met Liu Bei when he said this. He should have asked why Xu Shu was so eager to help Liu Bei — that would have prepared him better to fend off the mat weaver’s considerable personal charisma.
It is nearly impossible to appreciate intuitively what kind of charm Liu Bei had that overcame so many talented men in the Three Kingdoms period. Cultural norms changed a lot since Luo wrote the book 600 years ago. Luo’s fictionalized Liu Bei, whose tears always came fast and furious at a moment’s notice, seemed mostly mediocre and sometimes ridiculous in modern eyes. However, from Liu Bei’s actions and their effects on people, I always get the feeling that no matter how much I “rate him up” in my mind, I still under-estimate him. Apparently, almost anyone who met the mat weaver in person could not help but develop a whole-hearted and life-long loyalty toward him. Even the brilliant Zhuge Liang was no exception. To Luo Guanzhong’s credit, he did give plenty of captivating clues to how Liu Bei achieved this (which is worth a separate post). Simply put, Liu Bei’s people skill did not come easily or naturally, especially when compared to the very likeable Sun Ce, who inspired enthusiastic devotion just by being his warm and lively self. Liu Bei was not blessed with Sun Ce’s natural charm, but he did have a unique and powerful trait: an interest and curiosity toward other people so intense the he would forget his own ego completely. His pecise judgement of character and abilities, and his willingness to go into great lengths to please his devotees, were all derived from this simple trait. The “three visits” story was a perfect illustration of Liu Bei’s style.
So how did the mat weaver with no money and no status succeed in recruiting his dream candidate Zhuge Liang? Please come back to look for Part II.
