Strange Stories from a Chinese Studio, Vol. 1 (of 2)
Strange Stories from a Chinese Studio, Vol. 1 (of 2)-2
A president of the Board of Civil Office,[54] named
Yin, and a native of Li-ch‘êng, when a young man, was
very badly off, but was endowed with considerable physical
courage. Now in his part of the country there was
a large establishment, covering several acres, with an unbroken
succession of pavilions and verandahs, and
belonging to one of the old county families; but
because ghosts and apparitions were frequently seen
there, the place had for a long time remained untenanted,
and was overgrown with grass and weeds, no
one venturing to enter in even in broad daylight. One
evening when Yin was carousing with some fellow-students,
one of them jokingly said, “If anybody will
pass a night in the haunted house, the rest of us will
stand him a dinner.” Mr. Yin jumped up at this, and
cried out, “What is there difficult in that?” So, taking
with him a sleeping-mat, he proceeded thither, escorted by
all his companions as far as the door, where they laughed
and said, “We will wait here a little while. In case you
see anything, shout out to us at once.” “If there are
any goblins or foxes,” replied Yin, “I’ll catch them for
you.” He then went in, and found the paths obliterated
by long grass, which had sprung up, mingled with weeds
of various kinds. It was just the time of the new moon,
and by its feeble light he was able to make out the door
of the house. Feeling his way, he walked on until he
reached the back pavilion, and then went up on to the
Moon Terrace, which was such a pleasant spot that he
determined to stop there. Gazing westwards, he sat for
a long time looking at the moon—a single thread of
light embracing in its horns the peak of a hill—without
hearing anything at all unusual; so, laughing to himself
at the nonsense people talked, he spread his mat upon
the floor, put a stone under his head for a pillow, and
lay down to sleep. He had watched the Cow-herd and
the Lady[55] until they were just disappearing, and was on
the point of dropping off, when suddenly he heard footsteps
down below coming up the stairs. Pretending to
be asleep, he saw a servant enter, carrying in his hand a
lotus-shaped lantern,[56] who, on observing Mr. Yin, rushed
back in a fright, and said to someone behind, “There is
a stranger here!” The person spoken to asked who it
was, but the servant did not know; and then up came
an old gentleman, who, after examining Mr. Yin closely,
said, “It’s the future President: he’s as drunk as can be.
We needn’t mind him; besides, he’s a good fellow, and
won’t give us any trouble.” So they walked in and
opened all the doors; and by-and-by there were a great
many other people moving about, and quantities of
lamps were lighted, till the place was as light as day.
About this time Mr. Yin slightly changed his position,
and sneezed; upon which the old man, perceiving that
he was awake, came forward and fell down on his knees,
saying, “Sir, I have a daughter who is to be married this
very night. It was not anticipated that Your Honour
would be here. I pray, therefore, that we may be excused.”
Mr. Yin got up and raised the old man,
regretting that, in his ignorance of the festive occasion,
he had brought with him no present.[57] “Ah, Sir,” replied
the old man, “your very presence here will ward off all
noxious influences; and that is quite enough for us.”
He then begged Mr. Yin to assist in doing the honours,
and thus double the obligation already conferred. Mr.
Yin readily assented, and went inside to look at the
gorgeous arrangements they had made. He was here
met by a lady, apparently about forty years of age, whom
the old gentleman introduced as his wife; and he had
hardly made his bow when he heard the sound of
flageolets,[58] and someone came hurrying in, saying,
“He has come!” The old gentleman flew out to meet
this personage, and Mr. Yin also stood up, awaiting his
arrival. In no long time, a bevy of people with gauze
lanterns ushered in the bridegroom himself, who seemed
to be about seventeen or eighteen years old, and of a
most refined and prepossessing appearance. The old
gentleman bade him pay his respects first to their worthy
guest; and upon his looking towards Mr. Yin, that
gentleman came forward to welcome him on behalf of
the host. Then followed ceremonies between the old
man and his son-in-law; and when these were over, they
all sat down to supper. Hosts of waiting-maids brought
in profuse quantities of wine and meats, with bowls and
cups of jade or gold, till the table glittered again. And
when the wine had gone round several times, the old
gentleman told one of the maids to summon the bride.
This she did, but some time passed and no bride came.
So the old man rose and drew aside the curtain, pressing
the young lady to come forth; whereupon a number of
women escorted out the bride, whose ornaments went
tinkle tinkle as she walked along, sweet perfumes being
all the time diffused around. Her father told her to
make the proper salutation, after which she went and sat
by her mother. Mr. Yin took a glance at her, and saw
that she wore on her head beautiful ornaments made of
kingfisher’s feathers, her beauty quite surpassing anything
he had ever seen. All this time they had been
drinking their wine out of golden goblets big enough to
hold several pints, when it flashed across him that one of
these goblets would be a capital thing to carry back to
his companions in evidence of what he had seen. So he
secreted it in his sleeve, and, pretending to be tipsy,[59]
leaned forward with his head upon the table as if going
off to sleep. “The gentleman is drunk,” said the
guests; and by-and-by Mr. Yin heard the bridegroom
take his leave, and there was a general trooping downstairs
to the tune of a wedding march. When they were
all gone the old gentleman collected the goblets, one of
which was missing, though they hunted high and low to
find it. Someone mentioned the sleeping guest; but the
old gentleman stopped him at once for fear Mr. Yin
should hear, and before long silence reigned throughout.
Mr. Yin then arose. It was dark, and he had no light;
but he could detect the lingering smell of the food, and
the place was filled with the fumes of wine. Faint
streaks of light now appearing in the east, he began
quietly to make a move, having first satisfied himself
that the goblet was still in his sleeve. Arriving at the
door, he found his friends already there; for they had
been afraid he might come out after they left, and go in
again early in the morning. When he produced the
goblet they were all lost in astonishment; and on hearing
his story, they were fain to believe it, well knowing
that a poor student like Yin was not likely to have such
a valuable piece of plate in his possession.
Later on Mr. Yin took his doctor’s degree, and was
appointed magistrate over the district of Fei-ch‘iu, where
there was an old-established family of the name of Chu.
The head of the family asked him to a banquet in
honour of his arrival, and ordered the servants to bring
in the large goblets. After some delay a slave-girl came
and whispered something to her master which seemed
to make him very angry. Then the goblets were brought
in, and Mr. Yin was invited to drink. He now found
that these goblets were of precisely the same shape and
pattern as the one he had at home, and at once begged
his host to tell him where he had had these made.
“Well,” said Mr. Chu, “there should be eight of them.
An ancestor of mine had them made, when he was a
minister at the capital, by an experienced artificer. They
have been handed down in our family from generation
to generation, and have now been carefully laid by for
some time; but I thought we would have them out to-day
as a compliment to your Honour. However, there
are only seven to be found. None of the servants can
have touched them, for the old seals of ten years ago are
still upon the box, unbroken. I don’t know what to
make of it.” Mr. Yin laughed, and said, “It must have
flown away! Still, it is a pity to lose an heir-loom of
that kind; and as I have a very similar one at home, I
shall take upon myself to send it to you.” When the
banquet was over, Mr. Yin went home, and taking out
his own goblet, sent it off to Mr. Chu. The latter was
somewhat surprised to find that it was identical with his
own, and hurried away to thank the magistrate for his
gift, asking him at the same time how it had come into
his possession. Mr. Yin told him the whole story, which
proves conclusively that although a fox may obtain possession
of a thing, even at a distance of many hundred
miles, he will not venture to keep it altogether.[60]
K‘ung Hsüeh-li was a descendant of Confucius.[61]
He was a man of considerable ability, and an excellent
poet.[62] A fellow-student, to whom he was much attached,
became magistrate at T‘ien-t‘ai, and sent for
K‘ung to join him. Unfortunately, just before K‘ung
arrived his friend died, and he found himself without
the means of returning home; so he took up his abode
in a Buddhist monastery, where he was employed in
transcribing for the priests. Several hundred paces to
the west of this monastery there was a house belonging
to a Mr. Shan, a gentleman who had known better days,
but who had spent all his money in a heavy law-suit;
and then, as his family was a small one, had gone away
to live in the country and left his house vacant. One
day there was a heavy fall of snow which kept visitors
away from the monastery; and K‘ung, finding it dull,
went out. As he was passing by the door of the house
above-mentioned, a young man of very elegant appearance
came forth, who, the moment he saw K‘ung, ran
up to him, and with a bow, entered into conversation,
asking him to be pleased to walk in. K‘ung was much
taken with the young man, and followed him inside.
The rooms were not particularly large, but adorned
throughout with embroidered curtains, and from the
walls hung scrolls and drawings by celebrated masters.
On the table lay a book, the title of which was,
“Jottings from Paradise;” and turning over its leaves,
K‘ung found therein many strange things. He did not
ask the young man his name, presuming that as he
lived in the Shan family mansion, he was necessarily the
owner of the place. The young man, however, inquired
what he was doing in that part of the country, and
expressed great sympathy with his misfortunes, recommending
him to set about taking pupils. “Alas!” said
K‘ung, “who will play the Mæcenas to a distressed
wayfarer like myself?” “If,” replied the young man,
“you would condescend so far, I for my part would
gladly seek instruction at your hands.” K‘ung was
much gratified at this, but said he dared not arrogate to
himself the position of teacher, and begged merely to
be considered as the young man’s friend. He then
asked him why the house had been shut up for so long;
to which the young man replied, “This is the Shan
family mansion. It has been closed all this time
because of the owner’s removal into the country. My
surname is Huang-fu, and my home is in Shen-si; but
as our house has been burnt down in a great fire, we
have put up here for a while.” Thus Mr. K‘ung found
out that his name was not Shan. That evening they
spent in laughing and talking together, and K‘ung
remained there for the night. In the morning a lad
came in to light the fire; and the young man, rising first,
went into the private part of the house. Mr. K‘ung
was sitting up with the bed-clothes still huddled round
him, when the lad looked in and said, “Master’s
coming!” So he jumped up with a start, and in
came an old man with a silvery beard, who began to
thank him, saying, “I am very much obliged to you
for your condescension in becoming my son’s tutor.
At present he writes a villainous hand; and I can only
hope you will not allow the ties of friendship to interfere
with discipline.” Thereupon, he presented Mr.
K‘ung with an embroidered suit of clothes, a sable hat,
and a set of shoes and stockings; and when the latter
had washed and dressed himself he called for wine and
food. K‘ung could not make out what the valances
of the chairs and tables were made of: they were so
very bright-coloured and dazzling. By-and-by, when
the wine had circulated several times, the old gentleman
picked up his walking-stick and took his leave. After
breakfast, the young man handed in his theme, which
turned out to be written in an archaic style, and not at all
after the modern fashion of essay-writing. K‘ung asked
him why he had done this, to which the young man
replied that he did not contemplate competing at the
public examinations. In the evening they had another
drinking-bout, but it was agreed that there should be
no more of it after that night. The young man then
called the boy and told him to see if his father was
asleep or not; adding, that if he was, he might quietly
summon Miss Perfume. The boy went off, first taking
a guitar out of a very pretty case; and in a few minutes
in came a very nice-looking young girl. The young
man bade her play the Death of Shun;[63] and seizing an
ivory plectrum she swept the chords, pouring forth a
vocal melody of exquisite sweetness and pathos. He
then gave her a goblet of wine to drink, and it was
midnight before they parted. Next morning they got
up early and settled down to work. The young man
proved an apt scholar; he could remember what he had
once read, and at the end of two or three months had
made astonishing progress. Then they agreed that
every five days they would indulge in a symposium, and
that Miss Perfume should always be of the party. One
night when the wine had gone into K‘ung’s head, he
seemed to be lost in a reverie; whereupon his young
friend, who knew what was the matter with him, said,
“This girl was brought up by my father. I know you
find it lonely, and I have long been looking out for a nice
wife for you.” “Let her only resemble Miss Perfume,”
said K‘ung, “and she will do.” “Your experience,”
said the young man, laughing, “is but limited, and, consequently,
anything is a surprise to you. If Miss
Perfume is your beau ideal, why it will not be difficult
to satisfy you.”
Some six months had passed away, when one day
Mr. K‘ung took it into his head that he would like to
go out for a stroll in the country. The entrance, however,
was carefully closed; and on asking the reason,
the young man told him that his father wished to receive
no guests for fear of causing interruption to his studies.
So K‘ung thought no more about it; and by-and-by,
when the heat of summer came on, they moved their
study to a pavilion in the garden. At this time Mr.
K‘ung had a swelling on the chest about as big as a
peach, which, in a single night, increased to the size of a
bowl. There he lay groaning with the pain, while his
pupil waited upon him day and night. He slept badly
and took hardly any food; and in a few days the place
got so much worse that he could neither eat nor drink.
The old gentleman also came in, and he and his son
lamented over him together. Then the young man said,
“I was thinking last night that my sister, Chiao-no, would
be able to cure Mr. K‘ung, and accordingly I sent over
to my grandmother’s asking her to come. She ought
to be here by now.” At that moment a servant entered
and announced Miss Chiao-no, who had come with her
cousin, having been at her aunt’s house. Her father
and brother ran out to meet her, and then brought her
in to see Mr. K‘ung. She was between thirteen and
fourteen years old, and had beautiful eyes with a very
intelligent expression in them, and a most graceful figure
besides. No sooner had Mr. K‘ung beheld this lovely
creature than he quite forgot to groan, and began to
brighten up. Meanwhile the young man was saying,
“This respected friend of mine is the same to me as a
brother. Try, sister, to cure him.” Miss Chiao-no immediately
dismissed her blushes, and rolling up her long
sleeves approached the bed to feel his pulse.[64] As she
was grasping his wrist, K‘ung became conscious of a
perfume more delicate than that of the epidendrum;
and then she laughed, saying, “This illness was to be
expected; for the heart is touched. Though it is severe,
a cure can be effected; but, as there is already a swelling,
not without using the knife.” Then she drew from
her arm a gold bracelet which she pressed down upon
the suffering spot, until by degrees the swelling rose
within the bracelet and overtopped it by an inch and
more, the outlying parts that were inflamed also passing
under, and thus very considerably reducing the extent of
the tumour. With one hand she opened her robe and
took out a knife with an edge as keen as paper, and
pressing the bracelet down all the time with the other,
proceeded to cut lightly round near the root of the
swelling. The dark blood gushed forth, and stained the
bed and the mat; but Mr. K‘ung was delighted to be
near such a beauty,—not only felt no pain, but would
willingly have continued the operation that she might
sit by him a little longer. In a few moments the whole
thing was removed, and the place looked like the knot
on a tree where a branch has been cut away. Here
Miss Chiao-no called for water to wash the wound, and
from between her lips she took a red pill as big as a
bullet, which she laid upon the flesh, and, after drawing
the skin together, passed round and round the place.
The first turn felt like the searing of a hot iron; the
second like a gentle itching; and at the third he experienced
a sensation of lightness and coolness which
penetrated into his very bones and marrow. The young
lady then returned the pill to her mouth, and said, “He
is cured,” hurrying away as fast as she could. Mr.
K‘ung jumped up to thank her, and found that his complaint
had quite disappeared. Her beauty, however,
had made such an impression on him that his troubles
were hardly at an end. From this moment he gave up
his books, and took no interest in anything. This state
of things was soon noticed by the young man, who said
to him, “My brother, I have found a fine match for
you.” “Who is it to be?” asked K‘ung. “Oh, one
of the family,” replied his friend. Thereupon Mr.
K‘ung remained some time lost in thought, and at
length said, “Please don’t!” Then turning his face to
the wall, he repeated these lines:—
“Speak not of lakes and streams to him who once has seen the sea;
The clouds that circle Wu’s peak are the only clouds for me.”
The young man guessed to whom he was alluding,
and replied, “My father has a very high opinion of
your talents, and would gladly receive you into the
family, but that he has only one daughter, and she is
much too young. My cousin, Ah-sung, however, is
seventeen years old, and not at all a bad-looking girl.
If you doubt my word, you can wait in the verandah
until she takes her daily walk in the garden, and thus
judge for yourself.” This Mr. K‘ung acceded to, and
accordingly saw Miss Chiao-no come out with a lovely
girl—her black eyebrows beautifully arched, and her
tiny feet encased in phœnix-shaped shoes—as like one
another as they well could be. He was of course delighted,
and begged the young man to arrange all
preliminaries; and the very next day his friend came
to tell him that the affair was finally settled. A portion
of the house was given up to the bride and bridegroom,
and the marriage was celebrated with plenty of music
and hosts of guests, more like a fairy wedding than anything
else. Mr. K‘ung was very happy, and began to
think that the position of Paradise had been wrongly
laid down, until one day the young man came to him
and said, “For the trouble you have been at in teaching
me, I shall ever remain your debtor. At the present
moment, the Shan family law-suit has been brought to a
termination, and they wish to resume possession of their
house immediately. We therefore propose returning to
Shen-si, and as it is unlikely that you and I will ever meet
again, I feel very sorrowful at the prospect of parting.”
Mr. K‘ung replied that he would go too, but the young
man advised him to return to his old home. This, he
observed, was no easy matter; upon which the young
man said, “Don’t let that trouble you: I will see you
safe there.” By-and-by his father came in with Mr.
K‘ung’s wife, and presented Mr. K‘ung with one hundred
ounces of gold; and then the young man gave the
husband and wife each one of his hands to grasp,
bidding them shut their eyes. The next instant they
were floating away in the air, with the wind whizzing in
their ears. In a little while he said, “You have arrived,”
and opening his eyes, K‘ung beheld his former
home. Then he knew that the young man was not a
human being. Joyfully he knocked at the old door,
and his mother was astonished to see him arrive with
such a nice wife. They were all rejoicing together, when
he turned round and found that his friend had disappeared.
His wife attended on her mother-in-law with
great devotion, and acquired a reputation both for
virtue and beauty, which was spread round far and
near. Some time passed away, and then Mr. K‘ung
took his doctor’s degree, and was appointed Governor of
the Gaol in Yen-ngan. He proceeded to his post with
his wife only, the journey being too long for his mother,
and by-and-by a son was born. Then he got into
trouble by being too honest an official, and threw up his
appointment; but had not the wherewithal to get home
again. One day when out hunting he met a handsome
young man riding on a nice horse, and seeing that he
was staring very hard looked closely at him. It was
young Huang-fu. So they drew bridle, and fell to
laughing and crying by turns,—the young man then inviting
K‘ung to go along with him. They rode on
together until they had reached a village thickly shaded
with trees, so that the sun and sky were invisible overhead,
and entered into a most elaborately-decorated
mansion, such as might belong to an old-established
family. K‘ung asked after Miss Chiao-no, and heard
that she was married; also that his own mother-in-law
was dead, at which tidings he was greatly moved. Next
day he went back and returned again with his wife.
Chiao-no also joined them, and taking up K‘ung’s
child played with it, saying, “Your mother played us
truant.” Mr. K‘ung did not forget to thank her for her
former kindness to him, to which she replied, “You’re
a great man now. Though the wound has healed,
haven’t you forgotten the pain yet?” Her husband,
too, came to pay his respects, returning with her on the
following morning. One day the young Huang-fu
seemed troubled in spirit, and said to Mr. K‘ung, “A
great calamity is impending. Can you help us?” Mr.
K‘ung did not know what he was alluding to, but
readily promised his assistance. The young man then
ran out and summoned the whole family to worship in
the ancestral hall, at which Mr. K‘ung was alarmed, and
asked what it all meant. “You know,” answered the
young man, “I am not a man but a fox. To-day we
shall be attacked by thunder;[65] and if only you will aid
us in our trouble, we may still hope to escape. If you
are unwilling, take your child and go, that you may not
be involved with us.” Mr. K‘ung protested he would
live or die with them, and so the young man placed him
with a sword at the door, bidding him remain quiet
there in spite of all the thunder. He did as he was
told, and soon saw black clouds obscuring the light
until it was all as dark as pitch. Looking round, he could
see that the house had disappeared, and that its place
was occupied by a huge mound and a bottomless pit.
In the midst of his terror, a fearful peal was heard
which shook the very hills, accompanied by a violent
wind and driving rain. Old trees were torn up, and Mr.
K‘ung became both dazed and deaf. Yet he stood firm
until he saw in a dense black column of smoke a horrid
thing with a sharp beak and long claws, with which it
snatched some one from the hole, and was disappearing
up with the smoke. In an instant K‘ung knew by her
clothes and shoes that the victim was no other than
Chiao-no, and instantly jumping up he struck the devil
violently with his sword, and cut it down. Immediately
the mountains were riven, and a sharp peal of thunder
laid K‘ung dead upon the ground. Then the clouds
cleared away, and Chiao-no gradually came round, to
find K‘ung dead at her feet. She burst out crying at
the sight, and declared that she would not live since
K‘ung had died for her. K‘ung’s wife also came out,
and they bore the body inside. Chiao-no then made
Ah-sung hold her husband’s head, while her brother
prised open his teeth with a hair-pin, and she herself
arranged his jaw. She next put a red pill into his
mouth, and bending down breathed into him. The pill
went along with the current of air, and presently there
was a gurgle in his throat, and he came round. Seeing
all the family about him, he was disturbed as if waking
from a dream. However they were all united together,
and fear gave place to joy; but Mr. K‘ung objected
to live in that out-of-the-way place, and proposed that
they should return with him to his native village. To
this they were only too pleased to assent—all except
Chiao-no; and when Mr. K‘ung invited her husband,
Mr. Wu, as well, she said she feared her father and
mother-in-law would not like to lose the children.
They had tried all day to persuade her, but without
success, when suddenly in rushed one of the Wu
family’s servants, dripping with perspiration and quite
out of breath. They asked what was the matter, and
the servant replied that the Wu family had been visited
by a calamity on the very same day, and had every
one perished. Chiao-no cried very bitterly at this, and
could not be comforted; but now there was nothing
to prevent them from all returning together. Mr.
K‘ung went into the city for a few days on business,
and then they set to work packing-up night and day.
On arriving at their destination, separate apartments
were allotted to young Mr. Huang-fu, and these he
kept carefully shut up, only opening the door to Mr.
K‘ung and his wife.
Mr. K‘ung amused himself with the young man
and his sister Chiao-no, filling up the time with
chess,[66] wine, conversation, and good cheer, as if they
had been one family. His little boy, Huan, grew
up to be a handsome young man, with a fox-like
penchant for roaming about; and it was generally
known that he was actually the son of a fox.
A certain Mr. Yü was a spirited young fellow, fond
of boxing and trials of strength. He was able to take
two kettles and swing them round about with the speed
of the wind. Now, during the reign of Ch‘ung Chêng,[67]
when up for the final examination at the capital, his
servant became seriously ill. Much troubled at this,
he applied to a necromancer in the market-place[68] who
was skilful at determining the various leases of life
allotted to men. Before he had uttered a word, the
necromancer asked him, saying, “Is it not about your
servant, Sir, that you would consult me?” Mr. Yü was
startled at this, and replied that it was. “The sick man,”
continued the necromancer, “will come to no harm;
you, Sir, are the one in danger.” Mr. Yü then begged
him to cast his nativity, which he proceeded to do,
finally saying to Mr. Yü, “You have but three days
to live!” Dreadfully frightened, he remained some time
in a state of stupefaction, when the necromancer quietly
observed that he possessed the power of averting this
calamity by magic, and would exert it for the sum of
ten ounces of silver. But Mr. Yü reflected that Life
and Death are already fixed,[69] and he didn’t see how
magic could save him. So he refused, and was just
going away, whereupon the necromancer said, “You
grudge this trifling outlay. I hope you will not repent
it.” Mr. Yü’s friends also urged him to pay the money,
advising him rather to empty his purse than not secure
the necromancer’s compassion. Mr. Yü, however, would
not hear of it and the three days slipped quickly away.
Then he sat down calmly in his inn to see what was
going to happen. Nothing did happen all day, and
at night he shut his door and trimmed the lamp; then,
with a sword at his side, he awaited the approach of
death.
By-and-by, the clepsydra[70] shewed that two hours had
already gone without bringing him any nearer to dissolution;
and he was thinking about lying down, when
he heard a scratching at the window, and then saw
a tiny little man creep through, carrying a spear on
his shoulder, who, on reaching the ground, shot up
to the ordinary height. Mr. Yü seized his sword and at
once struck at it; but only succeeded in cutting the air.
His visitor instantly shrunk down small again, and made
an attempt to escape through the crevice of the window;
but Yü redoubled his blows and at last brought him
to the ground. Lighting the lamp, he found only a paper
man,[71] cut right through the middle. This made him
afraid to sleep, and he sat up watching, until in a little
time he saw a horrid hobgoblin creep through the same
place. No sooner did it touch the ground than he
assailed it lustily with his sword, at length cutting it in
half. Seeing, however, that both halves kept on wriggling
about, and fearing that it might get up again,
he went on hacking at it. Every blow told, giving forth
a hard sound, and when he came to examine his work,
he found a clay image all knocked to pieces. Upon
this he moved his seat near to the window, and kept
his eye fixed upon the crack. After some time, he
heard a noise like a bull bellowing outside the window,
and something pushed against the window-frame with
such force as to make the whole house tremble and seem
about to fall. Mr. Yü, fearing he should be buried
under the ruins, thought he could not do better than
fight outside; so he accordingly burst open the door
with a crash and rushed out. There he found a huge
devil, as tall as the house, and he saw by the dim light
of the moon that its face was as black as coal. Its eyes
shot forth yellow fire: it had nothing either upon its
shoulders or feet; but held a bow in its hand and had
some arrows at its waist. Mr. Yü was terrified; and the
devil discharged an arrow at him which he struck to the
ground with his sword. On Mr. Yü preparing to strike,
the devil let off another arrow which the former avoided
by jumping aside, the arrow quivering in the wall beyond
with a smart crack. The devil here got very
angry, and drawing his sword flourished it like a whirlwind,
aiming a tremendous blow at Mr. Yü. Mr. Yü
ducked, and the whole force of the blow fell upon the
stone wall of the house, cutting it right in two. Mr. Yü
then ran out from between the devil’s legs, and began
hacking at its back—whack!—whack! The devil now
became furious, and roared like thunder, turning round
to get another blow at his assailant. But Mr. Yü again
ran between his legs, the devil’s sword merely cutting
off a piece of his coat. Once more he hacked away—whack!—whack!—and
at length the devil came tumbling
down flat. Mr. Yü cut at him right and left, each blow
resounding like the watchman’s wooden gong;[72] and then,
bringing a light, he found it was a wooden image about
as tall as a man. The bow and arrows were still there,
the latter attached to its waist. Its carved and painted
features were most hideous to behold; and wherever
Mr. Yü had struck it with his sword, there was blood.
Mr. Yü sat with the light in his hand till morning, when
he awaked to the fact that all these devils had been
sent by the necromancer in order to kill him, and so
evidence his own magical power. The next day, after
having told the story far and wide, he went with some
others to the place where the necromancer had his stall;
but the latter, seeing them coming, vanished in the
twinkling of an eye. Some one observed that the blood
of a dog would reveal a person who had made himself
invisible, and Mr. Yü immediately procured some and
went back with it. The necromancer disappeared as
before, but on the spot where he had been standing they
quickly threw down the dog’s blood. Thereupon they
saw his head and face all smeared over with the blood, his
eyes glaring like a devil’s; and at once seizing him, they
handed him over to the authorities, by whom he was put
to death.
A Mr. Chou, of Wên-têng, had in his youth been
fellow-student with a Mr. Ch‘êng, and a firm friendship
was the result. The latter was poor, and depended very
much upon Chou, who was the elder of the two. He
called Chou’s wife his “sister,” and had the run of the
house just as if he was one of the family. Now this wife
happening to die in child-bed, Chou married another
named Wang; but as she was quite a young girl, Ch‘êng
did not seek to be introduced.[73] One day her younger
brother came to visit her, and was being entertained in
the “inner” apartments[74] when Ch‘êng chanced to call.
The servant announced his arrival, and Chou bade him
ask Mr. Ch‘êng in. But Ch‘êng would not enter, and
took his leave. Thereupon Chou caused the entertainment
to be moved into the public part of the house,
and, sending after Ch‘êng, succeeded in bringing him
back. They had hardly sat down before some one came
in to say that a former servant of the establishment
had been severely beaten at the magistrate’s yamên; the
facts of the case being that a cow-boy of the Huang
family connected with the Board of Rites had driven his
cattle across the Chou family’s land, and that words had
arisen between the two servants in consequence; upon
which the Huang family’s servant had complained to his
master, who had seized the other and had sent him in to
the magistrate’s, where he had been bambooed. When Mr.
Chou found out what the matter was, he was exceedingly
angry, and said, “How dares this pig-boy fellow behave
thus? Why, only a generation ago his master was my
father’s servant! He emerges a little from his obscurity,
and immediately thinks himself I don’t know what!”
Swelling with rage, he rose to go in quest of Huang, but
Ch‘êng held him back, saying, “The age is corrupt:
there is no distinction between right and wrong. Besides,
the officials of the day are half of them thieves,
and you will only get yourself into hot water.” Chou,
however, would not listen to him; and it was only when
tears were added to remonstrances that he consented to
let the matter drop. But his anger did not cease, and
he lay tossing and turning all night. In the morning he
said to his family, “I can stand the insults of Mr.
Huang; but the magistrate is an officer of the Government,
and not the servant of influential people. If there
is a case of any kind, he should hear both plaintiff and
defendant, and not act like a dog, biting anybody he is
set upon. I will bring an action against the cow-boy,
and see what the magistrate will do to him.” As his
family rather egged him on, he accordingly proceeded to
the magistrate’s and entered a formal plaint; but that
functionary tore up his petition, and would have nothing
to do with it. This roused Chou’s anger, and he told
the magistrate plainly what he thought of him, in return
for which contempt of court he was at once seized and
bound. During the forenoon Mr. Ch‘êng called at his
house, where he learnt that Chou had gone into the city
to prosecute the cow-boy, and immediately hurried after
him with a view to stop proceedings. But his friend
was already in the gaol, and all he could do was to
stamp his foot in anger. Now it happened that three
pirates had just been caught; and the magistrate and
Huang, putting their heads together, bribed these fellows
to say that Chou was one of their gang, whereupon the
higher authorities were petitioned to deprive him of his
status as a graduate,[75] and the magistrate then had him
most unmercifully bambooed.[76] Mr. Ch‘êng gained admittance
to the gaol, and, after a painful interview,
proposed that a petition should be presented direct to
the Throne. “Alas!” cried Chou, “here am I bound
and guarded, like a bird in a cage. I have indeed a
young brother, but it is as much as he can do to provide
me with food.” Then Ch‘êng stepped forward, saying,
“I will perform this service. Of what use are friends
who will not assist in the hour of trouble?” So away
he went, and Chou’s son provided him with money to defray
his expenses. After a long journey he arrived at the
capital, where he found himself quite at a loss as to how
he should get the petition presented. However, hearing
that the Emperor was about to set out on a hunting
tour, he concealed himself in the market-place, and when
His Majesty passed by, prostrated himself on the ground
with loud cries and gesticulations. The Emperor received
his petition, and sent it to the Board of Punishments,[77]
desiring to be furnished with a report on the case.
It was then more than ten months since the beginning
of the affair, and Chou, who had been made to confess[78]
to this false charge, was already under sentence of
death; so that the officers of the Board were very much
alarmed when they received the Imperial instructions,
and set to work to re-hear the case in person. Huang
was also much alarmed, and devised a plan for killing
Mr. Chou by bribing the gaolers to stop his food and
drink; so that when his brother brought provisions he
was rudely thrust back and prevented from taking them
in. Mr. Ch‘êng complained of this to the Viceroy of
the province, who investigated the matter himself, and
found that Chou was in the last stage of starvation, for
which the gaolers were bambooed to death. Terrified
out of his wits, Huang, by dint of bribing heavily, succeeded
in absconding and escaping a just punishment
for his crimes. The magistrate, however, was banished
for perversion of the law, and Chou was permitted to
return home, his affection for Ch‘êng being now very
much increased. But ever after the prosecution and his
friend’s captivity, Mr. Ch‘êng took a dismal view of
human affairs, and one day invited Chou to retire with
him from the world. The latter, who was deeply attached
to his young wife, threw cold water on the
proposition, and Mr. Ch‘êng pursued the subject no
farther, though his own mind was fully made up. Not
seeing him for some days afterwards, Mr. Chou sent to
inquire about him at his house; but there they all
thought he was at Chou’s, neither family, in fact, having
seen anything of him. This looked suspicious, and
Chou, aware of his peculiarity, sent off people to look
for him, bidding them search all the temples and monasteries
in the neighbourhood. He also from time to
time supplied Ch‘êng’s son with money and other
necessaries.
Eight or nine years had passed away when suddenly
Ch‘êng re-appeared, clad in a yellow cap and stole, and
wearing the expression of a Taoist priest. Chou was
delighted, and seized his arm, saying, “Where have you
been?—letting me search for you all over the place.”
“The solitary cloud and the wild crane,” replied Ch‘êng,
laughing, “have no fixed place of abode. Since we last
met my equanimity has happily been restored.” Chou
then ordered wine, and they chatted together on what
had taken place in the interval. He also tried to persuade
Ch‘êng to detach himself from the Taoist
persuasion, but the latter only smiled and answered
nothing. “It is absurd!” argued Chou. “Why cast
aside your wife and child as you would an old pair of
shoes?” “Not so,” answered Ch‘êng; “a man may
wish to cast aside his son, but how can he do so?”
Chou asked where he lived, to which he replied, “In
the Great Pure Mansion on Mount Lao.” They then
retired to sleep on the same bed; and by-and-by Chou
dreamt that Ch‘êng was lying on his chest so that he
could not breathe. In a fright he asked him what he
was doing, but got no answer; and then he waked up
with a start. Calling to Ch‘êng and receiving no reply,
he sat up and stretched out his hand to touch him.
The latter, however, had vanished, he knew not whither.
When he got calm, he found he was lying at Ch‘êng’s
end of the bed, which rather startled him. “I was not
tipsy last night,” reflected he; “how could I have got
over here?” He next called his servants, and when
they came and struck a light, lo! he was Ch‘êng. Now
Chou had had a beard, so he put up his hand to feel for
it, but found only a few straggling hairs. He then seized a
mirror to look at himself, and cried out in alarm: “If
this is Mr. Ch‘êng, where on earth am I?” By this
time he was wide awake, and knew that Ch‘êng had
employed magic to induce him to retire from the world.
He was on the point of entering the ladies’ apartments;
but his brother, not recognising who he was, stopped
him, and would not let him go in; and as he himself
was unable to prove his own identity, he ordered his
horse that he might go in search of Ch‘êng. After
some days’ journey he arrived at Mount Lao; and, as his
horse went along at a good rate, the servant could not
keep up with him. By-and-by he rested awhile under a
tree, and saw a great number of Taoist priests going
backwards and forwards, and among them was one who
stared fixedly at him. So he inquired of him where he
should find Ch‘êng; whereat the priest laughed and said,
“I know the name. He is probably in the Great Pure
Mansion.” When he had given this answer he went on
his way, Chou following him with his eyes about a
stone’s throw, until he saw him speak with some one else,
and, after saying a few words, proceed onwards as before.
The person whom he had spoken with came on to
where Chou was, and turned out to be a fellow-townsman
of his. He was much surprised at meeting Chou, and
said, “I haven’t seen you for some years. They told
me you had gone to Mount Lao to be a Taoist priest.
How is it you are still amusing yourself among
mortals?” Chou told him who he really was; upon
which the other replied, “Why, I thought the gentleman
I just met was you! He has only just left me, and
can’t have got very far.” “Is it possible,” cried Chou,
“that I didn’t know my own face?” Just then the
servant came up, and away they went full speed, but
could not discover the object of their search. All
around them was a vast desert, and they were at a loss
whether to go on or to return. But Chou reflected that
he had no longer any home to receive him, and determined
to carry out his design to the bitter end; but as
the road was dangerous for riding, he gave his horse to
the servant, and bade him go back. On he went cautiously
by himself, until he spied a boy sitting by the
wayside alone. He hurried up to him and asked the
boy to direct him where he could find Mr. Ch‘êng. “I
am one of his disciples,” replied the lad; and, shouldering
Chou’s bundle, started off to shew the way. They
journeyed on together, taking their food by the light of
the stars, and sleeping in the open air, until, after many
miles of road, they arrived in three days at their destination.
But this Great Pure locality was not like that
generally spoken of in the world. Though as late as the
middle of the tenth moon, there was a great profusion
of flowers along the road, quite unlike the beginning of
winter. The lad went in and announced the arrival of a
stranger, whereupon Mr. Ch‘êng came out, and Chou
recognised his own features. Ch‘êng grasped his hand
and led him inside, where he prepared wine and food,
and they began to converse together. Chou noticed
many birds of strange plumage, so tame that they were
not afraid of him; and these from time to time would
alight on the table and sing with voices like Pan-pipes.
He was very much astonished at all this, but a love of
mundane pleasures had eaten into his soul, and he had
no intention of stopping. On the ground were two
rush-mats, upon which Ch‘êng invited his friend to sit
down with him. Then about midnight a serene calm
stole over him; and while he was dozing off for a
moment, he seemed to change places with Ch‘êng.
Suspecting what had happened, he put his hand up to
his chin, and found it covered with a beard as before.
At dawn he was anxious to return home, but Ch‘êng
pressed him to stay; and when three days had gone by
Ch‘êng said to him, “I pray you take a little rest now:
to-morrow I will set you on your way.” Chou had
barely closed his eyelids before he heard Ch‘êng call
out, “Everything is ready for starting!” So he got up
and followed him along a road other than that by which
he had come, and in a very short time he saw his home
in the distance. In spite of Chou’s entreaties, Ch‘êng
would not accompany him so far, but made Chou go,
waiting himself by the roadside. So the latter went
alone, and when he reached his house, knocked at the
door. Receiving no answer, he determined to get over
the wall, when he found that his body was as light as a
leaf, and with one spring he was over. In the same
manner he passed several inner walls, until he reached
the ladies’ apartments, where he saw by the still burning
lamp that the inmates had not yet retired for the night.
Hearing people talking within, he licked a hole in the
paper window[79] and peeped through, and saw his wife
sitting drinking with a most disreputable-looking fellow.
Bursting with rage, his first impulse was to surprise them
in the act; but seeing there were two against one, he
stole away and let himself out by the entrance-gate,
hurrying off to Ch‘êng, to whom he related what he had
seen, and finally begged his assistance. Ch‘êng willingly
went along with him; and when they reached the room,
Chou seized a big stone and hammered loudly at the
door. All was then confusion inside, so Chou hammered
again, upon which the door was barricaded more
strongly than before. Here Ch‘êng came forward with
his sword,[80] and burst the door open with a crash. Chou
rushed in, and the man inside rushed out; but Ch‘êng
was there, and with his sword cut his arm right off.
Chou rudely seized his wife, and asked what it all
meant; to which she replied that the man was a friend
who sometimes came to take a cup of wine with them.
Thereupon Chou borrowed Ch‘êng’s sword and cut off
her head,[81] hanging up the trunk on a tree in the court-yard.
He then went back with Ch‘êng. By-and-by he
awaked and found himself on the bed, at which he was
somewhat disturbed, and said, “I have had a strangely-confused
dream, which has given me a fright.” “My
brother,” replied Ch‘êng, smiling, “you look upon
dreams as realities: you mistake realities for dreams.”
Chou asked what he meant by these words; and then
Ch‘êng shewed him his sword besmeared with blood.
Chou was terrified, and sought to destroy himself; but
all at once it occurred to him that Ch‘êng might be
deceiving him again. Ch‘êng divined his suspicions,
and made haste at once to see him home. In a little
while they arrived at the village-gate, and then Ch‘êng
said, “Was it not here that, sword in hand, I awaited
you that night? I cannot look upon the unclean spot.
I pray you go on, and let me stay here. If you do not
return by the afternoon, I will depart alone.” Chou
then approached his house, which he found all shut up
as if no one was living there; so he went into his
brother’s.
The latter, when he beheld Chou, began to weep
bitterly, saying, “After your departure, thieves broke
into the house and killed my sister-in-law, hanging
her body upon a tree. Alas! alas! The murderers
have not yet been caught.” Chou then told him the
whole story of his dream, and begged him to stop
further proceedings; at all of which his brother was perfectly
lost in astonishment. Chou then asked after his
son, and his brother told the nurse to bring him in;
whereupon the former said, “Upon this infant are
centered the hopes of our race.[82] Tend him well; for I
am going to bid adieu to the world.” He then took his
leave, his brother following him all the time with tears in
his eyes to induce him to remain. But he heeded him
not; and when they reached the village-gate his brother
saw him go away with Ch‘êng. From afar he looked back
and said, “Forbear, and be happy!” His brother would
have replied; but here Ch‘êng whisked his sleeve, and
they disappeared. The brother remained there for some
time, and then went back overwhelmed with grief. He
was an unpractical man, and before many years were
over all the property was gone and the family reduced to
poverty. Chou’s son, who was growing up, was thus
unable to secure the services of a tutor, and had no one
but his uncle to teach him. One morning, on going
into the school-room, the uncle found a letter lying on
his desk addressed to himself in his brother’s handwriting.
There was, however, nothing in it but a finger-nail
about four inches in length. Surprised at this, he
laid the nail down on the ink-slab while he went out to
ask whence the letter had come. This no one knew;
but when he went back he found that the ink-stone had
been changed into a piece of shining yellow gold. More
than ever astonished, he tried the nail on copper and
iron things, all of which were likewise turned to gold.
He thus became very rich, sharing his wealth with
Chou’s son; and it was bruited about that the two
families possessed the secret of transmutation.[83]
Wang Ch‘êng belonged to an old family in P‘ing-yüan,
but was such an idle fellow that his property
gradually disappeared, until at length all he had left was
an old tumble-down house. His wife and he slept under
a coarse hempen coverlet, and the former was far from
sparing of her reproaches. At the time of which we
are speaking the weather was unbearably hot; and Wang
went to pass the night with many other of his fellow-villagers
in a pavilion which stood among some dilapidated
buildings belonging to a family named Chou.
With the first streaks of dawn his comrades departed;
but Wang slept well on till about nine o’clock, when he
got up and proceeded leisurely home. All at once he
saw in the grass a gold hair-pin; and taking it up to look
at it, found engraved thereon in small characters—“The
property of the Imperial family.” Now Wang’s
own grandfather had married into the Imperial family,[84]
and consequently he had formerly possessed many
similar articles; but while he was thinking it over up
came an old woman in search of the hair-pin, which
Wang, who though poor was honest, at once produced
and handed to her. The old woman was delighted, and
thanked Wang very much for his goodness, observing that
the pin was not worth much in itself, but was a relic of
her departed husband. Wang asked what her husband
had been; to which she replied, “His name was Wang
Chien-chih, and he was connected by marriage with
the Imperial family.” “My own grandfather!” cried
Wang, in great surprise; “how could you have known
him?” “You, then,” said the old woman, “are his
grandson. I am a fox, and many years ago I was
married to your grandfather; but when he died I retired
from the world. Passing by here I lost my hair-pin,
which destiny conveyed into your hands.” Wang
had heard of his grandfather’s fox-wife, and believing
therefore the old woman’s story, invited her to return
with him, which she did. Wang called his wife out to
receive her; but when she came in rags and tatters, with
unkempt hair and dirty face, the old woman sighed, and
said, “Alas! Alas! has Wang Chien-chih’s grandson
come to this?” Then looking at the broken, smokeless
stove, she added, “How, under these circumstances,
have you managed even to support life?” Here Wang’s
wife told the tale of their poverty, with much sobbing
and tears; whereupon the old woman gave her the hair-pin,
bidding her go pawn it, and with the proceeds buy
some food, saying that in three days she would visit
them again. Wang pressed her to stay, but she said,
“You can’t even keep your wife alive; what would it
benefit you to have me also dependent on you?” So
she went away, and then Wang told his wife who she
was, at which his wife felt very much alarmed; but
Wang was so loud in her praises, that finally his wife
consented to treat her with all proper respect. In three
days she returned as agreed, and, producing some
money, sent out for a hundred-weight of rice and
a hundred-weight of corn. She passed the night
with them, sleeping with Mrs. Wang, who was at
first rather frightened, but who soon laid aside her
suspicions when she found that the old lady meant so
well towards them. Next day, the latter addressed
Wang, saying, “My grandson, you must not be so lazy.
You should try to make a little money in some way or
other.” Wang replied that he had no capital; upon
which the old lady said, “When your grandfather was
alive, he allowed me to take what money I liked; but not
being a mortal, I had no use for it, and consequently did
not draw largely upon him. I have, however, saved from
my pin-money the sum of forty ounces of silver, which
has long been lying idle for want of an investment.
Take it, and buy summer cloth, which you may carry to
the capital and re-sell at a profit.” So Wang bought
some fifty pieces of summer cloth; and the old lady
made him get ready, calculating that in six or seven days
he would reach the capital. She also warned him, saying,
“Be neither lazy nor slow—
For if a day too long you wait,
Repentance comes a day too late.”
Wang promised all obedience, and packed up his goods
and went off. On the road he was overtaken by a rain-storm
which soaked him through to the skin; and as he
was not accustomed to be out in bad weather, it was
altogether too much for him. He accordingly sought
shelter in an inn, but the rain went on steadily till night,
running over the eaves of the house like so many ropes.
Next morning the roads were in a horrible state; and
Wang, watching the passers-by slipping about in the
slush, unable to see any path, dared not face it all, and
remained until noon, when it began to dry up a little.
Just then, however, the clouds closed over again, and
down came the rain in torrents, causing him to stay
another night before he could go on. When he was
nearing the capital, he heard to his great joy that summer
cloth was at a premium; and on arrival proceeded at
once to take up his quarters at an inn. There the landlord
said it was a pity he had come so late, as communications
with the south having been only recently
opened, the supply of summer cloth had been small;
and there being a great demand for it among the wealthy
families of the metropolis, its price had gone up to three
times the usual figure. “But,” he added, “two days
ago several large consignments arrived, and the price
went down again, so that the late comers have lost their
market.” Poor Wang was thus left in the lurch, and as
every day more summer cloth came in, the value of it
fell in a corresponding ratio. Wang would not part with
his at a loss, and held on for some ten days, when his
expenses for board and lodging were added to his present
distress. The landlord urged him to sell even at
a loss, and turn his attention to something else, which
he ultimately did, losing over ten ounces of silver on his
venture. Next day he rose in the morning to depart,
but on looking in his purse found all his money gone.
He rushed away to tell the landlord, who, however,
could do nothing for him. Some one then advised him
to take out a summons and make the landlord reimburse
him; but he only sighed, and said, “It is my destiny, and
no fault of the landlord’s.” Thereupon the landlord
was very grateful to him, and gave him five ounces of
silver to enable him to go home. He did not care, however,
to face his grandmother empty-handed, and remained
in a very undecided state, until suddenly he
saw a quail-catcher winning heaps of money by fighting
his birds, and selling them at over 100 cash a-piece.
He then determined to lay out his five ounces of silver
in quails, and pay back the landlord out of the profits.
The latter approved very highly of this plan, and not
only agreed to lend him a room but also to charge him
little or nothing for his board. So Wang went off rejoicing,
and bought two large baskets of quails, with
which he returned to the city, to the great satisfaction of
the landlord who advised him to lose no time in disposing
of them. All that night it poured in torrents,
and the next morning the streets were like rivers, the
rain still continuing to fall. Wang waited for it to clear
up, but several days passed and still there were no signs
of fine weather. He then went to look at his quails,
some of which he found dead and others dying. He
was much alarmed at this, but was quite at a loss what
to do; and by the next day a lot more had died, so that
only a few were left, which he fed all together in one
basket. The day after this he went again to look at
them, and lo! there remained but a single quail. With
tears in his eyes he told the landlord what had happened,
and he, too, was much affected. Wang then
reflected that he had no money left to carry him home,
and that he could not do better than cease to live. But
the landlord spoke to him and soothed him, and they
went together to look at the quail. “This is a fine
bird,” said the landlord, “and it strikes me that it has
simply killed the others. Now, as you have got nothing
to do, just set to work and train it; and if it is good for
anything, why you’ll be able to make a living out of it.”
Wang did as he was told; and when the bird was
trained, the landlord bade him take it into the street
and gamble for something to eat. This, too, he did, and
his quail won every main; whereupon the landlord gave
him some money to bet with the young fellows of the
neighbourhood. Everything turned out favourably, and
by the end of six months he had saved twenty ounces
of silver, so that he became quite easy in his mind
and looked upon the quail as a dispensation of his
destiny.
Now one of the princes was passionately fond of
quail-fighting, and always at the Feast of Lanterns anybody
who owned quails might go and fight them in the
palace against the prince’s birds. The landlord therefore
said to Wang, “Here is a chance of enriching yourself
by a single stroke; only I can’t say what your luck
will do for you.” He then explained to him what it was,
and away they went together, the landlord saying, “If you
lose, burst out into lamentations; but if you are lucky
enough to win, and the prince wishes, as he will, to buy
your bird, don’t consent. If he presses you very much
watch for a nod from me before you agree.” This
settled, they proceeded to the palace where they found
crowds of quail-fighters already on the ground; and then
the prince came forth, heralds proclaiming to the multitude
that any who wished to fight their birds might come
up. Some man at once stepped forward, and the prince
gave orders for the quails to be released; but at the
first strike the stranger’s quail was knocked out of time.
The prince smiled, and by-and-by won several more
mains, until at last the landlord said, “Now’s our time,”
and went up together with Wang. The Prince looked
at their bird and said, “It has a fierce-looking eye and
strong feathers. We must be careful what we are doing.”
So he commanded his servants to bring out Iron Beak
to oppose Wang’s bird; but, after a couple of strikes,
the prince’s quail was signally defeated. He sent for a
better bird, but that shared the same fate; and then he
cried out, “Bring the Jade Bird from the palace!” In a
little time it arrived, with pure white feathers like an
egret, and an unusually martial appearance. Wang was
much alarmed, and falling on his knees prayed to be
excused this main, saying, “Your highness’s bird is too
good. I fear lest mine should be wounded, and my
livelihood be taken from me.” But the Prince laughed
and said, “Go on. If your quail is killed I will make
it up to you handsomely.” Wang then released his bird
and the prince’s quail rushed at it at once; but when the
Jade bird was close by, Wang’s quail awaited its coming
head down and full of rage. The former made a
violent peck at its adversary, and then sprung up to
swoop down on it. Thus they went on up and down,
backwards and forwards, until at length they got hold of
each other, and the prince’s bird was beginning to show
signs of exhaustion. This enraged it all the more, and
it fought more violently than ever; but soon a perfect
snowstorm of feathers began to fall, and, with drooping
wings, the Jade bird made its escape. The spectators
were much moved by the result; and the prince himself,
taking up Wang’s bird, examined it closely from beak to
claws, finally asking if it was for sale. “My sole dependence,”
replied Wang, “is upon this bird. I would
rather not part with it.” “But,” said the prince, “if I
give you as much as the capital, say of an ordinary
tradesman, will not that tempt you?” Wang thought
some time, and then answered, “I would rather not sell
my bird; but as your highness has taken a fancy to it I
will only ask enough to find me in food and clothes.”
“How much do you want?” inquired the prince; to
which Wang replied that he would take a thousand
ounces of silver. “You fool!” cried the Prince; “do
you think your bird is such a jewel as all that?”
“If your highness,” said Wang, “does not think the
bird a jewel, I value it more than that stone which was
priced at fifteen cities.” “How so?” asked the prince.
“Why,” said Wang, “I take my bird every day into the
market-place. It there wins for me several ounces of
silver, which I exchange for rice; and my family, over
ten in number, has nothing to fear from either cold or
hunger. What jewel could do that?” “You shall not
lose anything,” replied the prince; “I will give you
two hundred ounces.” But Wang would not consent,
and then the prince added another hundred; whereupon
Wang looked at the landlord, who, however, made no
sign. Wang then offered to take nine hundred; but the
prince ridiculed the idea of paying such a price for a
quail, and Wang was preparing to take his leave with the
bird, when the prince called him back, saying, “Here!
here! I will give you six hundred. Take it or leave it
as you please.” Wang here looked at the landlord, and
the landlord remained motionless as before. However,
Wang was satisfied himself with this offer, and being
afraid of missing his chance, said to his friend, “If I
get this price for it I shall be quite content. If we go
on haggling and finally come to no terms, that will be a
very poor end to it all.” So he took the prince’s offer,
and the latter, overjoyed, caused the money to be
handed to him. Wang then returned with his earnings;
but the landlord said to him, “What did I say to you?
You were in too much of a hurry to sell. Another
minute, and you would have got eight hundred.” When
Wang got back he threw the money on the table and
told the landlord to take what he liked; but the latter
would not, and it was only after some pressing that he
would accept payment for Wang’s board. Wang then
packed up and went home, where he told his story and
produced his silver to the great delight of all of them.
The old lady counselled the purchase of a quantity of
land, the building of a house, and the purchase of implements;
and in a very short time they became a
wealthy family. The old lady always got up early in the
morning and made Wang attend to the farm, his wife to
her spinning; and rated them soundly at any signs of
laziness. The husband and wife henceforth lived in
peace, and no longer abused each other, until at the expiration
of three years the old lady declared her intention
of bidding them adieu. They both tried to stop
her, and with the aid of tears succeeded in persuading
her; but the next day she had disappeared.[85]
At T‘ai-yüan there lived a man named Wang. One
morning he was out walking when he met a young lady
carrying a bundle and hurrying along by herself. As
she moved along with some difficulty,[86] Wang quickened
his pace and caught her up, and found she was a pretty
girl of about sixteen. Much smitten he inquired
whither she was going so early, and no one with her.
“A traveller like you,” replied the girl, “cannot alleviate
my distress; why trouble yourself to ask?” “What
distress is it?” said Wang; “I’m sure I’ll do anything
I can for you.” “My parents,” answered she, “loved
money, and they sold me as concubine into a rich
family, where the wife was very jealous, and beat and
abused me morning and night. It was more than I
could stand, so I have run away.” Wang asked her
where she was going; to which she replied that a runaway
had no fixed place of abode. “My house,” said
Wang, “is at no great distance; what do you say to
coming there?” She joyfully acquiesced; and Wang,
taking up her bundle, led the way to his house. Finding
no one there, she asked Wang where his family were; to
which he replied that that was only the library. “And
a very nice place, too,” said she; “but if you are kind
enough to wish to save my life, you mustn’t let it be
known that I am here.” Wang promised he would
not divulge her secret, and so she remained there for
some days without anyone knowing anything about
it. He then told his wife, and she, fearing the girl
might belong to some influential family, advised him to
send her away. This, however, he would not consent to
do; when one day, going into the town, he met a Taoist
priest, who looked at him in astonishment, and asked
him what he had met. “I have met nothing,” replied
Wang. “Why,” said the priest, “you are bewitched;
what do you mean by not having met anything?” But
Wang insisted that it was so, and the priest walked
away, saying, “The fool! Some people don’t seem
to know when death is at hand.” This startled Wang,
who at first thought of the girl; but then he reflected
that a pretty young thing as she was couldn’t well be a
witch, and began to suspect that the priest merely
wanted to do a stroke of business. When he returned,
the library door was shut, and he couldn’t get in, which
made him suspect that something was wrong; and so he
climbed over the wall, where he found the door of the
inner room shut too. Softly creeping up, he looked
through the window and saw a hideous devil, with a
green face and jagged teeth like a saw, spreading a
human skin upon the bed and painting it with a paint-brush.
The devil then threw aside the brush, and
giving the skin a shake out, just as you would a coat,
threw it over its shoulders, when, lo! it was the girl.
Terrified at this, Wang hurried away with his head
down in search of the priest who had gone he knew
not whither; subsequently finding him in the fields,
where he threw himself on his knees and begged the
priest to save him. “As to driving her away,” said the
priest, “the creature must be in great distress to be
seeking a substitute for herself;[87] besides, I could hardly
endure to injure a living thing.”[88] However, he gave
Wang a fly-brush, and bade him hang it at the door
of the bedroom, agreeing to meet again at the Ch‘ing-ti
temple. Wang went home, but did not dare enter the
library; so he hung up the brush at the bedroom door,
and before long heard a sound of footsteps outside. Not
daring to move, he made his wife peep out; and she saw
the girl standing looking at the brush, afraid to pass
it. She then ground her teeth and went away; but
in a little while came back, and began cursing, saying,
“You priest, you won’t frighten me. Do you think
I am going to give up what is already in my grasp?”
Thereupon, she tore the brush to pieces, and bursting
open the door, walked straight up to the bed, where
she ripped open Wang and tore out his heart, with which
she went away. Wang’s wife screamed out, and the
servant came in with a light; but Wang was already
dead and presented a most miserable spectacle. His
wife, who was in an agony of fright, hardly dared cry
for fear of making a noise; and next day she sent
Wang’s brother to see the priest. The latter got
into a great rage, and cried out, “Was it for this that
I had compassion on you, devil that you are?” proceeding
at once with Wang’s brother to the house, from
which the girl had disappeared without anyone knowing
whither she had gone. But the priest, raising his head,
looked all round, and said, “Luckily she’s not far off.”
He then asked who lived in the apartments on the
south side, to which Wang’s brother replied that he
did; whereupon the priest declared that there she would
be found. Wang’s brother was horribly frightened
and said he did not think so; and then the priest asked
him if any stranger had been to the house. To this
he answered that he had been out to the Ch‘ing-ti
temple and couldn’t possibly say; but he went off to
inquire, and in a little while came back and reported
that an old woman had sought service with them as
a maid-of-all-work, and had been engaged by his wife.
“That is she,” said the priest, as Wang’s brother added
she was still there; and they all set out to go to the
house together. Then the priest took his wooden
sword, and standing in the middle of the court-yard,
shouted out, “Base-born fiend, give me back my fly-brush!”
Meanwhile the new maid-of-all-work was in
a great state of alarm, and tried to get away by the
door; but the priest struck her and down she fell flat, the
human skin dropped off, and she became a hideous
devil. There she lay grunting like a pig, until the priest
grasped his wooden sword and struck off her head.
She then became a dense column of smoke curling
up from the ground, when the priest took an uncorked
gourd and threw it right into the midst of the smoke.
A sucking noise was heard, and the whole column
was drawn into the gourd; after which the priest corked
it up closely and put it in his pouch.[89] The skin, too,
which was complete even to the eyebrows, eyes, hands,
and feet, he also rolled up as if it had been a scroll,
and was on the point of leaving with it, when Wang’s
wife stopped him, and with tears entreated him to bring
her husband to life. The priest said he was unable to
do that; but Wang’s wife flung herself at his feet, and
with loud lamentations implored his assistance. For
some time he remained immersed in thought, and then
replied, “My power is not equal to what you ask.
I myself cannot raise the dead; but I will direct you
to some one who can, and if you apply to him properly
you will succeed.” Wang’s wife asked the priest who
it was; to which he replied, “There is a maniac
in the town who passes his time grovelling in the dirt.
Go, prostrate yourself before him, and beg him to help
you. If he insults you, shew no sign of anger.” Wang’s
brother knew the man to whom he alluded, and accordingly
bade the priest adieu, and proceeded thither with
his sister-in-law.
They found the destitute creature raving away by
the road side, so filthy that it was all they could do
to go near him. Wang’s wife approached him on
her knees; at which the maniac leered at her, and
cried out, “Do you love me, my beauty?” Wang’s
wife told him what she had come for, but he only
laughed and said, “You can get plenty of other
husbands. Why raise the dead one to life?” But
Wang’s wife entreated him to help her; whereupon
he observed, “It’s very strange: people apply to me
to raise their dead as if I was king of the infernal
regions.” He then gave Wang’s wife a thrashing with
his staff, which she bore without a murmur, and before
a gradually increasing crowd of spectators. After this
he produced a loathsome pill which he told her she
must swallow, but here she broke down and was quite
unable to do so. However, she did manage it at last,
and then the maniac crying out, “How you do love
me!” got up and went away without taking any more
notice of her. They followed him into a temple with
loud supplications, but he had disappeared, and every
effort to find him was unsuccessful. Overcome with
rage and shame, Wang’s wife went home, where she
mourned bitterly over her dead husband, grievously
repenting the steps she had taken, and wishing only
to die. She then bethought herself of preparing the
corpse, near which none of the servants would venture;
and set to work to close up the frightful wound of which
he died.
While thus employed, interrupted from time to time
by her sobs, she felt a rising lump in her throat,
which by-and-by came out with a pop and fell straight
into the dead man’s wound. Looking closely at it,
she saw it was a human heart; and then it began as
it were to throb, emitting a warm vapour like smoke.
Much excited, she at once closed the flesh over it,
and held the sides of the wound together with all her
might. Very soon, however, she got tired, and finding
the vapour escaping from the crevices, she tore up a
piece of silk and bound it round, at the same time
bringing back circulation by rubbing the body and
covering it up with clothes. In the night, she removed
the coverings, and found that breath was coming from
the nose; and by next morning her husband was alive
again, though disturbed in mind as if awaking from
a dream and feeling a pain in his heart. Where he
had been wounded, there was a cicatrix about as big
as a cash, which soon after disappeared.
In
theprovinceofHunantheredweltamanwhowas
engaged in trading abroad; and his wife, who lived
alone, dreamt one night that some one was in her room.
Waking up, she looked about, and discovered a small
creature which on examination she knew to be a fox;
but in a moment the thing had disappeared, although
the door had not been opened. The next evening she
asked the cook-maid to come and keep her company;
as also her own son, a boy of ten, who was accustomed
to sleep elsewhere. Towards the middle of the night,
when the cook and the boy were fast asleep, back came
the fox; and the cook was waked up by hearing her
mistress muttering something as if she had nightmare.
The former then called out, and the fox ran away; but
from that moment the trader’s wife was not quite herself.
When night came she dared not blow out the candle,
and bade her son be sure and not sleep too soundly.
Later on, her son and the old woman having taken a
nap as they leant against the wall, suddenly waked up
and found her gone. They waited some time, but she
did not return, and the cook was too frightened to go
and look after her; so her son took a light, and at
length found her fast asleep in another room. She
didn’t seem aware that anything particular had happened,
but she became queerer and queerer every day,
and wouldn’t have either her son or the cook to keep
her company any more. Her son, however, made a
point of running at once into his mother’s room if he
heard any unusual sounds; and though his mother
always abused him for his pains, he paid no attention to
what she said. At the same time, the more people
urged him on to keep a sharp look-out, the more eccentric
were his mother’s ways. One day she played at being
a mason, and piled up stones upon the window-sill, in
spite of all that was said to her; and if anyone took away
a stone, she threw herself on the ground, and cried like a
child, so that nobody dared go near her. In a few days
she had got both windows blocked up and the light
excluded; and then she set to filling up the chinks with
mud. She worked hard all day without minding the
trouble, and when it was finished she smoothed it off
with the kitchen chopper. Everyone who saw her was
disgusted with such antics, and would take no notice of
her. At night her son darkened his lamp, and, with a
knife concealed on his person, sat waiting for his mother
to mutter. As soon as she began he uncovered his
light, and, blocking up the doorway, shouted out at
the top of his voice. Nothing, however, happened, and
he moved from the door a little way, when suddenly out
rushed something like a fox, which was disappearing
through the door, when he made a quick movement and
cut off about two inches of its tail, from which the warm
blood was still dripping as he brought the light to bear
upon it. His mother hereupon cursed and reviled
him, but he pretended not to hear her, regretting only
