Meng Hao thought silently for a moment, then lifted his head and looked at the scholar sitting in front of him. “Brother Zheng,” he said quietly, “what is the true meaning of Confucianism?”
“Courtesy, benevolence, loyalty, and the golden mean,” he responded unhesitatingly. “This is Confucianism.”
Meng Hao didn’t respond. He looked out through the curtain at the snowflakes filling the air. After a while, he spoke again in a cool voice: “What is the meaning of life?”
“Life?” said Zheng Yong, looking surprised. He hesitated for a while, not saying anything.
The inside the carriage grew quiet, filled only with the sound of falling snow, which drifted in through the window. Meng Hao lifted up his hand and reached outside. Snowflakes gradually accumulated on his hand.
“Snow will only appear during winter,” he said quietly, “and can only exist in the cold wind. Therefore, its life exists only during the depths of winter.” He pulled his hand back into the carriage and held it next to the copper oven. The snow began to melt, turning into water, which flowed through the creases of his palm.
“Snow can only live in the winter. When it nears a fire, it dies. That is its life. It may yearn for summer, but… it can only desire it. In my hand, the snow becomes water, because this is not its world….” He raised his hand back up and brushed the water off outside the window. There, beyond the vision of the young scholar, it once again became snow.
Zheng Yong stared mutely, a deep look appearing in his eyes. Eventually, the carriage entered the city.
“Thank you for allowing me to accompany you, Brother Zheng,” said Meng Hao coolly. “I shall take my leave.” He saluted politely, and stepped out of the carriage, then treaded across the snow-filled street.
“Yearning for summer,” Zheng Yong murmured to himself, “but only able to exist in the cold of winter. Only able to look off into the distance… that is snow.” He watched Meng Hao disappearing into the distance. After a while, he got out of the cart and gave a deep bow in Meng Hao’s direction.
Snow began to cover him, but he knew that as soon as he reentered the carriage, it would die. He would never forget what had just happened, and what he had just seen and heard. Years later, after he became a famous Confucian in the State of Zhao, he would think back to that windy, winter night when the snow slowly melted into water. And he would think of a scholar named Meng Hao.