The Travels of Lao Can

The Travels of Lao Can

Liu E

Author's Preface

When an infant is born, it cries with a wail; and when someone grows old and dies, surrounded by family, their mourning is filled with loud lamentation. Thus, crying is inherently part of the beginning and end of human life. The measure of a person's character can even be gauged by the quantity of tears they shed throughout life, for tears are the manifestation of one's spirit. Every bit of spiritual depth brings forth a corresponding measure of tears, regardless of how favorable or adverse one's circumstances may be.

Horses and oxen toil all year long, consuming nothing more than grass and fodder, driven by the whip from start to finish. This can be called laborious, yet they do not shed tears—because they lack spirit. Monkeys, on the other hand, jump and frolic through deep forests, content with pears and chestnuts, enjoying life to the fullest, but they are also skilled at wailing. Their cries are, in fact, their form of weeping. Naturalists thus say that monkeys are the animals most similar to humans because they possess a spirit. An ancient poem goes, "In the Three Gorges of Badong, the cries of monkeys break the human heart in three bursts." How deep must their emotions be!

Spirit gives birth to emotion, and emotion gives birth to tears. There are two types of crying: one of strength, and one of weakness. A child or naive girl might cry over a lost fruit or a misplaced hairpin—this is the crying of weakness. The lament of the woman of Qi over the fall of her city, or the tears of the Xiang River goddesses staining the bamboo, are examples of the crying of strength. Within this category of crying with strength, there are two subtypes: those who cry simply for the sake of crying still lack power; but those who do not see their crying as mere weeping possess tremendous inner strength, and their journey stretches far.

Li Sao was Qu Yuan's cry; Zhuangzi was the cry of the old recluse Zhuang Zhou; The Records of the Grand Historian was the cry of Sima Qian, the Grand Historian; and The Collected Poems of the Thatched Cottage was the cry of Du Fu. Li Houzhu wept through his poetry, and Bada Shanren wept through his paintings. Wang Shifu poured his cries into The Western Wing, and Cao Xueqin poured his into Dream of the Red Chamber. Wang expressed his pain, saying: "Grief and separation fill my lungs; I cannot release it. Only pen and paper can speak for me; who will I tell of my thousand thoughts?" Cao expressed his sentiment, saying: "Page after page of absurd words, a handful of bitter tears; everyone calls the author foolish, but who understands the meaning within?" He named his tea "A Thousand Blossoms in One Den," and his wine "Ten Thousand Beauties in One Cup"—truly, a thousand blossoms weep, and ten thousand beauties grieve.

In our present age, we experience feelings of personal, familial, national, social, and religious sorrow. The deeper the feelings, the more painful the tears. It is with these layers of emotion that The Travels of Lao Can was born.

The game of chess is nearly over, and we are growing old—can we avoid tears? I know that among the thousand blossoms in the world and the ten thousand beauties among humankind, there must be those who weep and grieve with me!

—Liu E

In Shandong Province, just outside the east gate of Dengzhou, there is a great mountain called Mount Penglai. On this mountain stands a pavilion named Penglai Pavilion. This pavilion is magnificently constructed with painted beams and soaring clouds, and its pearl curtains can be rolled up against the rain. From the west, one can see the households of the city, with countless homes shrouded in mist and rain; from the east, one can gaze upon the turbulent waves of the sea stretching for a thousand miles. As a result, the people of the city often take wine with them in the afternoon to stay overnight in the pavilion, preparing to watch the sun rise from the sea at dawn—a tradition that has become commonplace.

But let’s not dwell on that for now. There was a traveler that year named Lao Can. His original surname was Tie, and he had a single name, Ying, with the courtesy name Bu Can. He took the name “Can” because he admired the story of the monk Lan Can who stewed yams, so he chose this character as his courtesy name. People did not find him unpleasant, respected his intent, and began to call him Lao Can; before he realized it, the name “Lao Can” became his nickname.

He was only in his thirties and originally hailed from Jiangnan. He had read a few poems and books in his youth but had made no progress due to his inability to write in the eight-legged essay format. As a result, he could not find a teaching position, and at his age, no one wanted him as a student, deeming him too old and useless. His father had also been a low-ranking official, but due to his obstinate nature and inability to manage money, he held a position without pay for twenty years and returned home to sell off his official robes to make a living. Given this, it was hard to imagine that there was any surplus wealth to support his son.

Lao Can had no inheritance to rely on and no trade to pursue, so naturally, hunger and cold gradually began to encroach upon him. Just as he found himself at a loss, fate did not abandon him. A Taoist priest with a rattling bell came along, claiming to have learned from an otherworldly person and stating he could cure all diseases. People in the streets sought him out, and every treatment was effective. Therefore, Lao Can became his apprentice, learned a few incantations, and from then on began to rattle the bell to cure others, making a living while wandering the jianghu for nearly twenty years.

That year, he arrived at the ancient site of Qiancheng in Shandong, where a wealthy man named Huang Ruihe had contracted a peculiar disease. His entire body was covered in sores, and every year, he would develop several new ones. Though he might heal one sore this year, the following year, others would open up. Over many years, no one had been able to cure this illness, which would flare up every summer and become benign after the autumn equinox.

In the spring of that year, when Lao Can arrived in this area, the steward of Huang’s household asked if he had any method to treat the disease. Lao Can replied, “There are always methods, but you may not necessarily follow my instructions. This year, I’ll apply a minor technique to try out my methods. If you want this illness to never recur, it’s not particularly difficult. You just need to follow the ancient methods, which have a hundred percent success rate. Other diseases can be treated using methods passed down from Shennong and the Yellow Emperor. Only this disease is said to be treated with techniques handed down from Dayu; later on, during the Han Dynasty, a Wang Jing obtained this transmission, and since then, no one has known the method. By a strange twist of fate, I happen to understand some of it.”

It is said that after Lao Can was smashed down by the crowd on the fishing boat, he realized there was no chance of survival. He could only close his eyes, listening to the chaos around him, feeling his body drifting like a falling leaf. In an instant, he sank to the bottom. Suddenly, he heard someone calling, "Sir, get up; sir, get up! It's dark now. Dinner has been ready for a long time." Lao Can hurriedly opened his eyes, momentarily stunned, and exclaimed, "Ah! It was all a dream!"

Since that day, a few more days passed. Lao Can said to the steward, "Now that the weather is getting colder, your residence's illness should not recur. If there is anything you need next year, I will return to serve you. For now, I plan to visit Jinan to see the scenery of Daming Lake." The steward repeatedly urged him to stay, but ultimately had to hold a banquet that evening to send him off, giving him a thousand taels of silver as a doctor’s reward.

Lao Can expressed his gratitude, tucked the money away, and bid farewell before setting off in a carriage. Along the way, the autumn mountains were adorned with red leaves, and the yellow flowers in the old gardens were quite vibrant. Upon reaching Jinan, entering the city, every family had spring water, and every household had drooping willows, making the scenery even more interesting than that of Jiangnan. He found an inn called Gaosheng on Xiaobuzhengsi Street, unloaded his luggage, paid for the carriage and wine, had a hasty dinner, and went to bed.

The next morning, after a light breakfast, he wandered the streets, shaking a bell and listening to stories. In the afternoon, he walked to the Qiaohua Bridge, hired a small boat, and paddled northward to Lixia Pavilion, stopping the boat to go inside. Upon entering the gate, he found a pavilion with most of its paint already peeling. A couplet hung above read: “This pavilion of Lixia is ancient; many famous scholars of Jinan have passed through here.” The upper line noted, “Written by Du Gongbu,” and the lower line, “Inscribed by He Shaoki.”

Although there were a few houses beside the pavilion, they were rather dull. He left the pavilion and rowed westward, not far away arriving at the Iron Duke Temple.

You may ask, who is the Iron Duke? He is the famed Tie Xuan from the early Ming Dynasty who had conflicts with Prince Yan. People honor his loyalty, so even today during spring and autumn, locals still come here to burn incense.

Arriving at the Iron Duke Temple, Lao Can looked south and saw Qianfo Mountain across the way, with its monastic towers and pavilions interspersed among the tall pines and emerald cypress trees. The colors—fiery red, snowy white, deep blue, and lush green—intermingled, while a half-bare maple tree nestled among them seemed like a large painting by Zhao Qianli from the Song Dynasty, creating a screen stretching for dozens of miles.

As he marveled at the scene, he suddenly heard a fishing song. Looking down, he found that Daming Lake was already so clear that it resembled a mirror. The reflection of Qianfo Mountain appeared on the lake, looking exceedingly clear. The trees and buildings on the mountain seemed even more magnificent and distinct than the mountain itself. The south bank of the lake led directly to the marketplace, but was obscured by a thick layer of reeds. At this time, the reeds were in bloom, their white flowers shimmering in the slanted evening sun, resembling a pink velvet blanket serving as cushions for the two mountains, truly extraordinary!

Lao Can thought, “Such a beautiful scene, yet why are there so few visitors?” After admiring for a while, he turned back to look at the couplet on the gate’s beams, which read: “Four sides with lotus flowers, three sides with willows; half the city is mountain scenery, half the city is lake.” He nodded secretly, saying, “Indeed correct!”