Strange Stories from a Chinese Studio, Vol. 1 (of 2)-4

to supply you with a whole basketful of flowers when

you go away.” Wang told her she did not understand,

and when she asked what it was she didn’t understand,

he said, “I didn’t care for the flower itself; it was the

person who picked the flower.” “Of course,” answered

she, “everybody cares for their relations; you needn’t

have told me that.” “I wasn’t talking about ordinary

relations,” said Wang, “but about husbands and wives.”

“What’s the difference?” asked Ying-ning. “Why,”

replied Wang, “husband and wife are always together.”

“Just what I shouldn’t like,” cried she, “to

be always with anybody.”[113] At this juncture up came

the maid, and Wang slipped quietly away. By-and-by

they all met again in the house, and the old woman

asked Ying-ning where they had been; whereupon she

said they had been talking in the garden. “Dinner has

been ready a long time. I can’t think what you have

had to say all this while,” grumbled the old woman.

“My cousin,” answered Ying-ning, “has been talking to

me about husbands and wives.” Wang was much disconcerted,

and made a sign to her to be quiet, so she

smiled and said no more; and the old woman luckily

did not catch her words, and asked her to repeat them.

Wang immediately put her off with something else, and

whispered to Ying-ning that she had done very wrong.

The latter did not see that; and when Wang told her

that what he had said was private, answered him that

she had no secrets from her old mother. “Besides,”

added she, “what harm can there be in talking on such

a common topic as husbands and wives?” Wang was

angry with her for being so dull, but there was no help

for it; and by the time dinner was over he found some

of his mother’s servants had come in search of him,

bringing a couple of donkeys with them. It appeared

that his mother, alarmed at his non-appearance, had

made strict search for him in the village; and when

unable to discover any traces of him, had gone off to

the Wu family to consult. There her nephew, who recollected

what he had previously said to young Wang,

advised that a search should be instituted in the direction

of the hills; and accordingly the servants had been

to all the villages on the way until they had at length recognised

him as he was coming out of the door. Wang

went in and told the old woman, begging that he might

be allowed to take Ying-ning with him. “I have had

the idea in my head for several days,” replied the old

woman, overjoyed; “but I am a feeble old thing myself,

and couldn’t travel so far. If, however, you will take

charge of my girl and introduce her to her aunt, I shall

be very pleased.” So she called Ying-ning, who came

up laughing as usual; whereupon the old woman rebuked

her, saying, “What makes you always laugh so?

You would be a very good girl but for that silly habit.

Now, here’s your cousin, who wants to take you away with

him. Make haste and pack up.” The servants who had

come for Wang were then provided with refreshment,

and the old woman bade them both farewell, telling

Ying-ning that her aunt was quite well enough off to

maintain her, and that she had better not come back.

She also advised her not to neglect her studies, and to

be very attentive to her elders, adding that she might

ask her aunt to provide her with a good husband.

Wang and Ying-ning then took their leave; and when

they reached the brow of the hill, they looked back and

could just discern the old woman leaning against the

door and gazing towards the north. On arriving at

Wang’s home, his mother, seeing a nice-looking young

girl with him, asked in astonishment who she might be;

and Wang at once told her the whole story. “But that

was all an invention of your cousin Wu’s,” cried his

mother; “I haven’t got a sister, and consequently I

can’t have such a niece.” Ying-ning here observed, “I

am not the daughter of the old woman; my father was

named Ch‘in and died when I was a little baby, so that

I can’t remember anything.” “I

had

asister,”said

Wang’s mother, “who actually did marry a Mr. Ch‘in,

but she died many years ago, and can’t be still living, of

course.” However, on inquiring as to facial appearance

and characteristic marks, Wang’s mother was obliged to

acknowledge the identity, wondering at the same time

how her sister could be alive when she had died many

years before. Just then in came Wu, and Ying-ning

retired within; and when he heard the story, remained

some time lost in astonishment, and then said, “Is this

young lady’s name Ying-ning?” Wang replied that it was,

and asked Wu how he came to know it. “Mr. Ch‘in,”

answered he, “after his wife’s death was bewitched by a

fox, and subsequently died. The fox had a daughter

named Ying-ning, as was well known to all the family;

and when Mr. Ch‘in died, as the fox still frequented the

place, the Taoist Pope[114] was called in to exorcise it. The

fox then went away, taking Ying-ning with it, and now

here she is.” While they were thus discussing, peals of

laughter were heard coming from within, and Mrs. Wang

took occasion to remark what a foolish girl she was.

Wu begged to be introduced, and Mrs. Wang went in to

fetch her, finding her in an uncontrollable fit of

laughter, which she subdued only with great difficulty,

and by turning her face to the wall. By-and-by she

went out; but, after making a bow, ran back and burst

out laughing again to the great discomfiture of all the

ladies. Wang then said he would go and find out for

them all about Ying-ning and her queer story, so as to

be able to arrange the marriage; but when he reached

the spot indicated, village and houses had all vanished,

and nothing was to be seen except hill-flowers scattered

about here and there. Wu recollected that Mrs. Ch‘in

had been buried at no great distance from that spot; he

found, however, that the grave had disappeared, and he

was no longer able to determine its position. Not knowing

what to make of it all, he returned home, and then

Mrs. Wang told him she thought the girl must be a disembodied

spirit. Ying-ning shewed no signs of alarm at

this remark; neither did she cry at all when Mrs. Wang

began to condole with her on no longer having a home.

She only laughed in her usual silly way, and fairly

puzzled them all. Sharing Miss Wang’s room, she now

began to take her part in the duties of a daughter of the

family; and as for needlework, they had rarely seen anything

like hers for fineness. But she could not get over

that trick of laughing, which, by the way, never interfered

with her good looks, and consequently rather

amused people than otherwise, amongst others a young

married lady who lived next door. Wang’s mother fixed

an auspicious day for the wedding, but still feeling

suspicious about Ying-ning, was always secretly watching

her. Finding, however, that she had a proper shadow,[115]

and that there was nothing extraordinary in her behaviour,

she had her dressed up when the day came, in

all the finery of a bride; and would have made her perform

the usual ceremonies, only Ying-ning laughed so

much she was unable to kneel down.[116] They were

accordingly obliged to excuse her, but Wang began to

fear that such a foolish girl would never be able to keep

the family counsel. Luckily, she was very reticent and

did not indulge in gossip; and moreover, when Mrs.

Wang was in trouble or out of temper, Ying-ning could

always bring her round with a laugh. The maid-servants,

too, if they expected a whipping for anything, would

always ask her to be present when they appeared before

their mistress, and thus they often escaped punishment.

Ying-ning had a perfect passion for flowers. She got all

she could out of her relations, and even secretly pawned

her jewels to buy rare specimens; and by the end of a

few months the whole place was one mass of flowers.

Behind the house there was one especial tree

[117] which

belonged to the neighbours on that side; but Ying-ning

was always climbing up and picking the flowers, for

which Mrs. Wang rebuked her severely, though without

any result. One day the owner saw her, and gazed at

her some time in rapt astonishment; however, she didn’t

move, deigning only to laugh. The gentleman was

much smitten with her; and when she smilingly descended

the wall on her own side, pointing all the time

with her finger to a spot hard by, he thought she was

making an assignation. So he presented himself at

nightfall at the same place, and sure enough Ying-ning

was there. Seizing her hand, to tell his passion, he

found that he was grasping only a log of wood which

stood against the wall; and the next thing he knew was

that a scorpion had stung him violently on the finger.

There was an end of his romance, except that he died

of the wound during the night, and his family at once

commenced an action against Wang for having a witch-wife.

The magistrate happened to be a great admirer

of Wang’s talent, and knew him to be an accomplished

scholar; he therefore refused to grant the summons, and

ordered the prosecutor to be bambooed for false accusation.[118]

Wang interposed and got him off this punishment,

and returned home himself. His mother then

scolded Ying-ning well, saying, “I knew your too

playful disposition would some day bring sorrow upon

you. But for our intelligent magistrate we should have

been in a nice mess. Any ordinary hawk-like official

would have had you publicly interrogated in court; and

then how could your husband ever have held up his

head again?” Ying-ning looked grave and did not

laugh this time; and Mrs. Wang continued, “There’s no

harm in laughing as long as it is seasonable laughter;”

but from that moment Ying-ning laughed no more, no

matter what people did to make her, though at the same

time her expression was by no means gloomy. One

evening she went in tears to her husband, who wanted to

know what was the matter. “I couldn’t tell you before,”

said she, sobbing; “we had known each other such a

short time. But now that you and your mother have

been so kind to me, I will keep nothing from you, but

tell you all. I am the daughter of a fox. When my

mother went away she put me in the charge of the disembodied

spirit of an old woman, with whom I remained

for a period of over ten years. I have no brothers:

only you to whom I can look. And now my foster-mother

is lying on the hill-side with no one to bury her

and appease her discontented shade. If not too much,

I would ask you to do this, that her spirit may be at rest,

and know that it was not neglected by her whom she

brought up.” Wang consented, but said he feared they

would not be able to find her grave; on which Ying-ning

said there was no danger of that, and accordingly they

set forth together. When they arrived, Ying-ning

pointed out the tomb in a lonely spot amidst a

thicket of brambles, and there they found the old

woman’s bones. Ying-ning wept bitterly, and then they

proceeded to carry her remains home with them, subsequently

interring them in the Ch‘in family vault. That

night Wang dreamt that the old woman came to thank

him, and when he waked he told Ying-ning, who said

that she had seen her also, and had been warned by her

not to frighten Mr. Wang. Her husband asked why she

had not detained the old lady; but Ying-ning replied,

“She is a disembodied spirit, and would be ill at ease for

any time surrounded by so much life.”[119] Wang then

enquired after Hsiao-jung, and his wife said, “She was a

fox too, and a very clever one. My foster-mother kept

her to wait on me, and she was always getting fruit and

cakes for me, so that I have a friendship for her and

shall never forget her. My foster-mother told me

yesterday she was married.”

After this, whenever the great fast-day[120] came round,

husband and wife went off without fail to worship at the

Ch‘in family tomb; and by the time a year had passed

she gave birth to a son, who wasn’t a bit afraid of

strangers, but laughed at everybody, and in fact took

very much after his mother.

Ning Lai-ch‘ên was a Chekiang man, and a good-natured,

honourable fellow, fond of telling people that

he had only loved once. Happening to go to Chinhua,

he took shelter in a temple to the north of the

city; very nice as far as ornamentation went, but

overgrown with grass taller than a man’s head, and

evidently not much frequented. On either side were

the priest’s apartments, the doors of which were ajar,

with the exception of a small room on the south side,

where the lock had a new appearance. In the east

corner he espied a group of bamboos, growing over

a large pool of water-lilies in flower; and, being much

pleased with the quiet of the place, determined to

remain; more especially as, the Grand Examiner being

in the town, all lodgings had gone up in price. So

he roamed about waiting till the priests should return;

and in the evening, a gentleman came and opened

the door on the south side. Ning quickly made up

to him, and with a bow informed him of his design.

“There is no one here whose permission you need

ask,” replied the stranger; “I am only lodging here,

and if you don’t object to the loneliness, I shall be

very pleased to have the benefit of your society.” Ning

was delighted, and made himself a straw bed, and put

up a board for a table, as if he intended to remain some

time; and that night, by the beams of the clear bright

moon, they sat together in the verandah and talked.

The stranger’s name was Yen Ch‘ih-hsia, and Ning

thought he was a student up for the provincial examination,

only his dialect was not that of a Chekiang man.

On being asked, he said he came from Shensi; and

there was an air of straightforwardness about all his

remarks. By-and-by, when their conversation was

exhausted, they bade each other good night and went

to bed; but Ning, being in a strange place, was quite

unable to sleep; and soon he heard sounds of voices

from the room on the north side. Getting up, he

peeped through a window, and saw, in a small court-yard

the other side of a low wall, a woman of about

forty with an old maid-servant in a long faded gown,

humped-backed and feeble-looking. They were chatting

by the light of the moon; and the mistress said, “Why

doesn’t Hsiao-ch‘ien come?” “She ought to be here

by now,” replied the other. “She isn’t offended with

you; is she?” asked the lady. “Not that I know of,”

answered the old servant; “but she seems to want

to give trouble.” “Such people don’t deserve to be

treated well,” said the other; and she had hardly

uttered these words when up came a young girl of

seventeen or eighteen, and very nice looking. The

old servant laughed, and said, “Don’t talk of people

behind their backs. We were just mentioning you

as you came without our hearing you; but fortunately

we were saying nothing bad about you. And, as far

as that goes,” added she, “if I were a young fellow

why I should certainly fall in love with you.” “If you

don’t praise me,” replied the girl, “I’m sure I don’t

know who will;” and then the lady and the girl said

something together, and Mr. Ning, thinking they were

the family next door, turned round to sleep without

paying further attention to them. In a little while

no sound was to be heard; but, as he was dropping

off to sleep, he perceived that somebody was in the

room. Jumping up in great haste, he found it was

the young lady he had just seen; and detecting at

once that she was going to attempt to bewitch him,

sternly bade her begone. She then produced a lump of

gold which he threw away, and told her to go after it or

he would call his friend. So she had no alternative

but to go, muttering something about his heart being

like iron or stone. Next day, a young candidate for

the examination came and lodged in the east room

with his servant. He, however, was killed that very

night, and his servant the night after; the corpses of

both shewing a small hole in the sole of the foot as if

bored by an awl, and from which a little blood came. No

one knew who had committed these murders, and when

Mr. Yen came home, Ning asked him what he thought

about it. Yen replied that it was the work of devils,

but Ning was a brave fellow, and that didn’t frighten

him much. In the middle of the night Hsiao-ch‘ien

appeared to him again, and said, “I have seen many

men, but none with a steel cold heart like yours. You

are an upright man, and I will not attempt to deceive

you. I, Hsiao-ch‘ien, whose family name is Nieh,

died when only eighteen, and was buried alongside

of this temple. A devil then took possession of me,

and employed me to bewitch people by my beauty,

contrary to my inclination. There is now nothing left

in this temple to slay, and I fear that imps will be

employed to kill you.” Ning was very frightened at

this, and asked her what he should do. “Sleep in

the same room with Mr. Yen,” replied she. “What!”

asked he, “cannot the spirits trouble Yen?” “He is

a strange man,” she answered, “and they don’t like

going near him.” Ning then inquired how the spirits

worked. “I bewitch people,” said Hsiao-ch‘ien, “and

then they bore a hole in the foot which renders the

victim senseless, and proceed to draw off the blood,

which the devils drink. Another method is to tempt

people by false gold, the bones of some horrid demon;

and if they receive it, their hearts and livers will be torn

out. Either method is used according to circumstances.”

Ning thanked her, and asked when he ought to be

prepared; to which she replied, “To-morrow night.”

At parting she wept, and said, “I am about to sink

into the great sea, with no friendly shore at hand. But

your sense of duty is boundless, and you can save

me. If you will collect my bones and bury them in

some quiet spot, I shall not again be subject to these

misfortunes.” Ning said he would do so, and asked

where she lay buried. “At the foot of the aspen-tree

on which there is a bird’s nest,” replied she; and

passing out of the door, disappeared. The next day

Ning was afraid that Yen might be going away somewhere,

and went over early to invite him across. Wine

and food were produced towards noon; and Ning,

who took care not to lose sight of Yen, then asked

him to remain there for the night. Yen declined, on

the ground that he liked being by himself; but Ning

wouldn’t hear any excuses, and carried all Yen’s things

to his own room, so that he had no alternative but to

consent. However, he warned Ning, saying, “I know

you are a gentleman and a man of honour. If you

see anything you don’t quite understand, I pray you

not to be too inquisitive; don’t pry into my boxes,

or it may be the worse for both of us.” Ning promised

to attend to what he said, and by-and-by they both

lay down to sleep; and Yen, having placed his boxes

on the window-sill, was soon snoring loudly. Ning

himself could not sleep; and after some time he saw

a figure moving stealthily outside, at length approaching

the window to peep through. It’s eyes flashed like

lightning, and Ning in a terrible fright was just upon the

point of calling Yen, when something flew out of one

of the boxes like a strip of white silk, and dashing

against the window-sill returned at once to the box,

disappearing very much like lightning. Yen heard the

noise and got up, Ning all the time pretending to be

asleep in order to watch what happened. The former

then opened the box, and took out something which

he smelt and examined by the light of the moon. It

was dazzlingly white like crystal, and about two inches

in length by the width of an onion leaf in breadth.

He then wrapped it up carefully and put it back in

the broken box, saying, “A bold-faced devil that, to

come so near my box;” upon which he went back to

bed; but Ning, who was lost in astonishment, arose and

asked him what it all meant, telling at the same time

what he himself had seen. “As you and I are good

friends,” replied Yen, “I won’t make any secret of it.

The fact is I am a Taoist priest. But for the window-sill

the devil would have been killed; as it is, he is badly

wounded.” Ning asked him what it was he had there

wrapped up, and he told him it was his sword,[121] on which

he had smelt the presence of the devil. At Ning’s

request he produced the weapon, a bright little miniature

of a sword; and from that time Ning held his friend in

higher esteem than ever.

Next day he found traces of blood outside the window

which led round to the north of the temple; and there

among a number of graves he discovered the aspen-tree

with the bird’s nest at its summit. He then fulfilled

his promise and prepared to go home, Yen giving him

a farewell banquet, and presenting him with an old

leather case which he said contained a sword, and

would keep at a distance from him all devils and bogies.

Ning then wished to learn a little of Yen’s art; but

the latter replied that although he might accomplish

this easily enough, being as he was an upright man,

yet he was well off in life, and not in a condition where

it would be of any advantage to him. Ning then

pretending he had to go and bury his sister, collected

Hsiao-ch‘ien’s bones, and, having wrapped them up

in grave-clothes, hired a boat, and set off on his way

home. On his arrival, as his library looked towards

the open country, he made a grave hard by and buried

the bones there, sacrificing, and invoking Hsiao-ch‘ien as

follows:—“In pity for your lonely ghost, I have placed

your remains near my humble cottage, where we shall

be near each other, and no devil will dare annoy you.

I pray you reject not my sacrifice, poor though it

be.” After this, he was proceeding home when he

suddenly heard himself addressed from behind, the

voice asking him not to hurry; and turning round

he beheld Hsiao-ch‘ien, who thanked him, saying, “Were

I to die ten times for you I could not discharge my

debt. Let me go home with you and wait upon your

father and mother; you will not repent it.” Looking

closely at her, he observed that she had a beautiful

complexion, and feet as small as bamboo shoots,[122] being

altogether much prettier now that he came to see her

by daylight. So they went together to his home, and

bidding her wait awhile, Ning ran in to tell his mother,

to the very great surprise of the old lady. Now Ning’s

wife had been ill for a long time, and his mother advised

him not to say a word about it to her for fear of frightening

her; in the middle of which in rushed Hsiao-ch‘ien,

and threw herself on the ground before them. “This

is the young lady,” said Ning; whereupon his mother

in some alarm turned her attention to Hsiao-ch‘ien,

who cried out, “A lonely orphan, without brother or

sister, the object of your son’s kindness and compassion,

begs to be allowed to give her poor services as some

return for favours shewn.” Ning’s mother, seeing that

she was a nice pleasant-looking girl, began to lose

fear of her, and replied, “Madam, the preference you

shew for my son is highly pleasing to an old body like

myself; but this is the only hope of our family, and

I hardly dare agree to his taking a devil-wife.” “I have

but one motive in what I ask,” answered Hsiao-ch‘ien,

“and if you have no faith in disembodied people, then

let me regard him as my brother, and live under your

protection, serving you like a daughter.” Ning’s

mother could not resist her straightforward manner, and

Hsiao-ch‘ien asked to be allowed to see Ning’s wife, but

this was denied on the plea that the lady was ill.

Hsiao-ch‘ien then went into the kitchen and got ready

the dinner, running about the place as if she had

lived there all her life. Ning’s mother was, however,

much afraid of her, and would not let her sleep in the

house; so Hsiao-ch‘ien went to the library, and was

just entering when suddenly she fell back a few steps, and

began walking hurriedly backwards and forwards in front

of the door. Ning seeing this, called out and asked

her what it meant; to which she replied, “The presence

of that sword frightens me, and that is why I could

not accompany you on your way home.” Ning at

once understood her, and hung up the sword-case in

another place; whereupon she entered, lighted a candle,

and sat down. For some time she did not speak: at

length asking Ning if he studied at night or not—“For,”

said she, “when I was little I used to repeat the Lêng-yen

sutra; but now I have forgotten more than half,

and, therefore, I should like to borrow a copy, and

when you are at leisure in the evening you might hear

me.” Ning said he would, and they sat silently there

for some time, after which Hsiao-ch‘ien went away

and took up her quarters elsewhere. Morning and

night she waited on Ning’s mother, bringing water

for her to wash in, occupying herself with household

matters, and endeavouring to please her in every way.

In the evening before she went to bed, she would always

go in and repeat a little of the sutra, and leave as soon

as she thought Ning was getting sleepy. Now the

illness of Ning’s wife had given his mother a great

deal of extra trouble—more, in fact, than she was equal

to; but ever since Hsiao-ch‘ien’s arrival all this was

changed, and Ning’s mother felt kindly disposed to

the girl in consequence, gradually growing to regard

her almost as her own child, and forgetting quite

that she was a spirit. Accordingly, she didn’t make

her leave the house at night; and Hsiao-ch‘ien, who

being a devil had not tasted meat or drink since her

arrival,[123] now began at the end of six months to take

a little thin gruel. Mother and son alike became

very fond of her, and henceforth never mentioned what

she really was; neither were strangers able to detect the

fact. By-and-by, Ning’s wife died, and his mother

secretly wished him to espouse Hsiao-ch‘ien, though she

rather dreaded any unfortunate consequences that might

arise. This Hsiao-ch‘ien perceived, and seizing an

opportunity said to Ning’s mother, “I have been with

you now more than a year, and you ought to know something

of my disposition. Because I was unwilling to

injure travellers I followed your son hither. There

was no other motive; and, as your son has shewn himself

one of the best of men, I would now remain with

him for three years in order that he may obtain for me

some mark of Imperial approbation[124] which will do

me honour in the realms below.” Ning’s mother knew

that she meant no evil, but hesitated to put the family

hopes of a posterity into jeopardy. Hsiao-ch‘ien, however,

reassured her by saying that Ning would have three

sons, and that the line would not be interrupted by

his marrying her. On the strength of this the marriage

was arranged to the great joy of Ning, a feast prepared,

and friends and relatives invited; and when in response

to a call the bride herself came forth in her gay

wedding-dress, the beholders took her rather for a fairy

than for a devil. After this, numbers of congratulatory

presents were given by the various female members

of the family, who vied with one another in making

her acquaintance; and these Hsiao-ch‘ien returned by

gifts of paintings of flowers, done by herself, in which

she was very skilful, the receivers being extremely

proud of such marks of her friendship. One day she

was leaning at the window in a despondent mood,

when suddenly she asked where the sword-case was.

“Oh,” replied Ning, “as you seemed afraid of it, I

moved it elsewhere.” “I have now been so long under

the influence of surrounding life,”[125] said Hsiao-ch‘ien,

“that I shan’t be afraid of it any more. Let us hang

it on the bed.” “Why so?” asked Ning. “For the last

three days,” explained she, “I have been much agitated

in mind; and I fear that the devil at the temple, angry at

my escape, may come suddenly and carry me off.” So

Ning brought the sword-case, and Hsiao-ch‘ien, after

examining it closely, remarked, “This is where the

magician puts people. I wonder how many were slain

before it got old and worn out as it is now. Even now

when I look at it my flesh creeps.” The case was then

hung up, and next day removed to over the door.

At night they sat up and watched, Hsiao-ch‘ien warning

Ning not to go to sleep; and suddenly something fell

down flop like a bird. Hsiao-ch‘ien in a fright got

behind the curtain; but Ning looked at the thing, and

found it was an imp of darkness, with glaring eyes and

a bloody mouth, coming straight to the door. Stealthily

creeping up it made a grab at the sword-case, and

seemed about to tear it in pieces, when bang!—the

sword-case became as big as a wardrobe, and from it

a devil protruded part of his body and dragged the imp

in. Nothing more was heard, and the sword-case

resumed its original size. Ning was greatly alarmed,

but Hsiao-ch‘ien came out rejoicing, and said, “There’s

an end of my troubles.” In the sword-case they found

only a few quarts of clear water; nothing else.

After these events Ning took his doctor’s degree and

Hsiao-ch‘ien bore him a son. He then took a concubine,

and had one more son by each, all of whom became in

time distinguished men.

The shui-mang[126] is a poisonous herb. It is a creeper,

like the bean, and has a similar red flower. Those who

eat of it die, and become shui-mang devils, tradition

asserting that such devils are unable to be born again

unless they can find some one else who has also eaten of

this poison to take their place.[127] These shui-mang devils

abound in the province of Hunan, where, by the way,

the phrase “same-year man” is applied to those born in

the same year, who exchange visits and call each other

brother, their children addressing the father’s “brother”

as uncle. This has now become a regular custom

there.[128]

A young man named Chu was on his way to visit a

same-year friend of his, when he was overtaken by a

violent thirst. Suddenly he came upon an old woman

sitting by the roadside under a shed and distributing tea

gratis,[129] and immediately walked up to her to get a drink.

She invited him into the shed, and presented him with a

bowl of tea in a very cordial spirit; but the smell of it

did not seem like the smell of ordinary tea, and he

would not drink it, rising up to go away. The old woman

stopped him, and called out, “San-niang! bring some

good tea.” Immediately a young girl came from behind

the shed, carrying in her hands a pot of tea. She was

about fourteen or fifteen years old, and of very fascinating

appearance, with glittering rings and bracelets on

her fingers and arms. As Chu received the cup from

her his reason fled; and drinking down the tea she gave

him, the flavour of which was unlike any other kind, he

proceeded to ask for more. Then, watching for a moment

when the old woman’s back was turned, he seized

her wrist and drew a ring from her finger. The girl

blushed and smiled; and Chu, more and more inflamed,

asked her where she lived. “Come again this evening,”

replied she, “and you’ll find me here.” Chu begged

for a handful of her tea, which he stowed away with the

ring, and took his leave. Arriving at his destination, he

felt a pain in his heart, which he at once attributed to

the tea, telling his friend what had occurred. “Alas!

you are undone,” cried the other; “they were shui-mang

devils. My father died in the same way, and we were

unable to save him. There is no help for you.” Chu

was terribly frightened, and produced the handful of tea,

which his friend at once pronounced to be leaves of

the shui-mang plant. He then shewed him the ring,

and told him what the girl had said; whereupon his

friend, after some reflection, said, “She must be San-niang,

of the K‘ou family.” “How could you know her

name?” asked Chu, hearing his friend use the same

words as the old woman. “Oh,” replied he, “there was

a nice-looking girl of that name who died some years

ago from eating of the same herb. She is doubtless the

girl you saw.” Here some one observed that if the

person so entrapped by a devil only knew its name, and

could procure an old pair of its shoes, he might save

himself by boiling them in water and drinking the

liquor as medicine. Chu’s friend thereupon rushed off

at once to the K‘ou family, and implored them to give

him an old pair of their daughter’s shoes; but they, not

wishing to prevent their daughter from finding a substitute

in Chu, flatly refused his request. So he went back

in anger and told Chu, who ground his teeth with rage,

saying, “If I die, she shall not obtain her transmigration

thereby.” His friend then sent him home; and

just as he reached the door he fell down dead. Chu’s

mother wept bitterly over his corpse, which was in due

course interred; and he left behind one little boy barely

a year old. His wife did not remain a widow, but in six

months married again and went away, putting Chu’s son

under the care of his grandmother, who was quite unequal

to any toil, and did nothing but weep morning

and night. One day she was carrying her grandson

about in her arms, crying bitterly all the time, when

suddenly in walked Chu. His mother, much alarmed,

brushed away her tears, and asked him what it meant.

“Mother,” replied he, “down in the realms below I

heard you weeping. I am therefore come to tend you.

Although a departed spirit, I have a wife, who has likewise

come to share your toil. Therefore do not grieve.”

His mother inquired who his wife was, to which he replied,

“When the K‘ou family sat still and left me to my

fate I was greatly incensed against them; and after

death I sought for San-niang, not knowing where she

was. I have recently seen my old same-year friend, and

he told me where she was. She had come to life again

in the person of the baby-daughter of a high official

named Jen; but I went thither and dragged her spirit

back. She is now my wife, and we get on extremely

well together.” A very pretty and well-dressed young

lady here entered, and made obeisance to Chu’s mother,

Chu saying, “This is San-niang, of the K‘ou family;”

and although not a living being, Mrs. Chu at once took

a great fancy to her. Chu sent her off to help in the

work of the house, and, in spite of not being accustomed

to this sort of thing, she was so obedient to her

mother-in-law as to excite the compassion of all. The

two then took up their quarters in Chu’s old apartments,

and there they continued to remain.

Meanwhile San-niang asked Chu’s mother to let the

K‘ou family know; and this she did, notwithstanding

some objections raised by her son. Mr. and Mrs. K‘ou

were much astonished at the news, and, ordering their

carriage, proceeded at once to Chu’s house. There

they found their daughter, and parents and child fell

into each other’s arms. San-niang entreated them to dry

their tears; but her mother, noticing the poverty of

Chu’s household, was unable to restrain her feelings.

“We are already spirits,” cried San-niang; “what matters

poverty to us? Besides, I am very well treated

here, and am altogether as happy as I can be.” They

then asked her who the old woman was; to which she

replied, “Her name was Ni. She was mortified at being

too ugly to entrap people herself, and got me to assist

her. She has now been born again at a soy-shop in the

city.” Then, looking at her husband, she added,

“Come, since you are the son-in-law, pay the proper

respect to my father and mother, or what shall I think of

you?” Chu made his obeisance, and San-niang went

into the kitchen to get food ready for them, at which her

mother became very melancholy, and went away home,

whence she sent a couple of maid-servants, a hundred

ounces of silver, and rolls of cloth and silk, besides

making occasional presents of food and wine, so that

Chu’s mother lived in comparative comfort. San-niang

also went from time to time to see her parents, but

would never stay very long, pleading that she was

wanted at home, and such excuses; and if the old

people attempted to keep her, she simply went off by

herself. Her father built a nice house for Chu with all

kinds of luxuries in it; but Chu never once entered his

father-in-law’s door.

Subsequently a man of the village who had eaten

shui-mang, and had died in consequence, came back to

life, to the great astonishment of everybody. However,

Chu explained it, saying, “I brought him back to life.

He was the victim of a man named Li Chiu; but I

drove off Li’s spirit when it came to make the other

take his place.” Chu’s mother then asked her son why

he did not get a substitute for himself; to which he

replied, “I do not like to do this. I am anxious to put

an end to, rather than take advantage of, such a system.

Besides, I am very happy waiting on you, and have no

wish to be born again.” From that time all persons who

had poisoned themselves with shui-mang were in the

habit of feasting Chu and obtaining his assistance in

their trouble. But in ten years’ time his mother died,

and he and his wife gave themselves up to sorrow, and

would see no one, bidding their little boy put on mourning,

beat his breast, and perform the proper ceremonies.

Two years after Chu had buried his mother, his son

married the granddaughter of a high official named Jen.

This gentleman had had a daughter by a concubine,

who had died when only a few months old; and now,

hearing the strange story of Chu’s wife, came to call on

her and arrange the marriage. He then gave his granddaughter

to Chu’s son, and a free intercourse was maintained

between the two families. However, one day

Chu said to his son, “Because I have been of service to

my generation, God has appointed me Keeper of the

Dragons; and I am now about to proceed to my post.”

Thereupon four horses appeared in the court-yard,

drawing a carriage with yellow hangings, the flanks of

the horses being covered with scale-like trappings.

Husband and wife came forth in full dress, and took

their seats, and, while son and daughter-in-law were

weeping their adieus, disappeared from view. That

very day the K‘ou family saw their daughter arrive,

and, bidding them farewell, she told them the same

story. The old people would have kept her, but she

said, “My husband is already on his way,” and, leaving

the house, parted from them for ever. Chu’s son was

named Ngo, and his literary name was Li-ch‘ên. He

begged San-niang’s bones from the K‘ou family, and

buried them by the side of his father’s.

A man named Li Hua dwelt at Ch‘ang-chou. He

was very well off, and about fifty years of age, but he

had no sons; only one daughter, named Hsiao-hui, a pretty

child on whom her parents doted. When she was fourteen

she had a severe illness and died, leaving their

home desolate and depriving them of their chief pleasure

in life. Mr. Li then bought a concubine, and she by-and-by

bore him a son, who was perfectly idolised, and

called Chu, or the Pearl. This boy grew up to be a

fine manly fellow, though so extremely stupid that when

five or six years old he didn’t know pulse from corn, and

could hardly talk plainly. His father, however, loved

him dearly, and did not observe his faults.

Now it chanced that a one-eyed priest came to collect

alms in the town, and he seemed to know so much about

everybody’s private affairs that the people all looked

upon him as superhuman. He himself declared he had

control over life, death, happiness, and misfortune; and

consequently no one dared refuse him whatever sum he

chose to ask of them. From Li he demanded one hundred

ounces of silver, but was offered only ten, which he

refused to receive. This sum was increased to thirty

ounces, whereupon the priest looked sternly at Li and

said, “I must have one hundred; not a fraction less.”

Li now got angry, and went away without giving him

any, the priest, too, rising up in a rage and shouting after

him, “I hope you won’t repent.” Shortly after these

events little Chu fell sick, and crawled about the bed

scratching the mat, his face being of an ashen paleness.

This frightened his father, who hurried off with eighty

ounces of silver, and begged the priest to accept them.

“A large sum like this is no trifling matter to earn,” said

the priest, smiling; “but what can a poor recluse like

myself do for you?” So Li went home, to find that

little Chu was already dead; and this worked him into

such a state that he immediately laid a complaint before

the magistrate. The priest was accordingly summoned

and interrogated; but the magistrate wouldn’t accept his

defence, and ordered him to be bambooed. The blows

sounded as if falling on leather, upon which the magistrate

commanded his lictors to search him; and from

about his person they drew forth two wooden men, a

small coffin, and five small flags. The magistrate here

flew into a passion, and made certain mystic signs with

his fingers, which when the priest saw he was frightened,

and began to excuse himself; but the magistrate would

not listen to him, and had him bambooed to death. Li

thanked him for his kindness, and, taking his leave,

proceeded home. In the evening, after dusk, he was

sitting alone with his wife, when suddenly in popped a

little boy, who said, “Pa! why did you hurry on so fast?

I couldn’t catch you up.” Looking at him more closely,

they saw that he was about seven or eight years old, and

Mr. Li, in some alarm, was on the point of questioning

him, when he disappeared, re-appearing again like

smoke, and, curling round and round, got upon the

bed. Li pushed him off, and he fell down without

making any sound, crying out, “Pa! why do you do

this?” and in a moment he was on the bed again.

Li was frightened, and ran away with his wife, the boy

calling after them, “Pa! Ma! boo-oo-oo.” They went

into the next room, bolting the door after them; but

there was the little boy at their heels again. Li asked

him what he wanted, to which he replied, “I belong to

Su-chou; my name is Chan; at six years of age I was

left an orphan; my brother and his wife couldn’t bear

me, so they sent me to live at my maternal grandfather’s.

One day, when playing outside, a wicked priest killed me

by his black art underneath a mulberry-tree, and made

of me an evil spirit, dooming me to everlasting devildom

without hope of transmigration. Happily you exposed him;

and I would now remain with you as your son.” “The

paths of men and devils,” replied Li, “lie in different

directions. How can we remain together?” “Give me

only a tiny room,” cried the boy, “a bed, a mattress, and

a cup of cold gruel every day. I ask for nothing more.”

So Li agreed, to the great delight of the boy, who slept

by himself in another part of the house, coming in the

morning and walking in and out like any ordinary

person. Hearing Li’s concubine crying bitterly, he

asked how long little Chu had been dead, and she

told him seven days. “It’s cold weather now,” said

he, “and the body can’t have decomposed. Have the

grave opened, and let me see it; if not too far gone, I

can bring him to life again.” Li was only too pleased,

and went off with the boy; and when they opened the

grave they found the body in perfect preservation; but

while Li was controlling his emotions, lo! the boy had

vanished from his sight. Wondering very much at this,

he took little Chu’s body home, and had hardly laid it

on the bed when he noticed the eyes move. Little Chu

then called for some broth, which put him into a perspiration,

and then he got up. They were all overjoyed to

see him come to life again; and, what is more, he was

much brighter and cleverer than before. At night, however,

he lay perfectly stiff and rigid, without shewing any

signs of life; and, as he didn’t move when they turned

him over and over, they were much frightened, and

thought he had died again. But towards daybreak he

awaked as if from a dream, and in reply to their questions

said that when he was with the wicked priest there

was another boy named Ko-tzŭ;[130] and that the day

before, when he had been unable to catch up his father,

it was because he had stayed behind to bid adieu to

Ko-tzŭ; that Ko-tzŭ was now the son of an official in

Purgatory named Chiang, and very comfortably settled;

and that he had invited him (Chan) to go and play with

him that evening, and had sent him back on a white-nosed

horse. His mother then asked him if he had

seen little Chu in Purgatory; to which he replied,

“Little Chu has already been born again. He and our

father here had not really the destiny of father and son.

Little Chu was merely a man named Yen Tzŭ-fang, from

Chin-ling, who had come to reclaim an old debt.”[131] Now

Mr. Li had formerly traded to Chin-ling, and actually

owed money for goods to a Mr. Yen; but he had died,

and no one else knew anything about it, so that he was

now greatly alarmed when he heard this story. His

mother next asked (the quasi) little Chu if he had seen

his sister, Hsiao-hui; and he said he had not, promising

to go again and inquire about her. A few days afterwards

he told his mother that Hsiao-hui was very happy

in Purgatory, being married to a son of one of the

Judges; and that she had any quantity of jewels,[132] and

crowds of attendants when she went abroad. “Why

doesn’t she come home to see her parents?” asked his

mother. “Well,” replied the boy, “dead people, you

know, haven’t got any flesh or bones; however, if you

can only remind them of something that happened in

their past lives, their feelings are at once touched. So

yesterday I managed, through Mr. Chiang, to get an

interview with Hsiao-hui; and we sat together on a coral

couch, and I spoke to her of her father and mother at

home, all of which she listened to as if she was asleep.

I then remarked, ‘Sister, when you were alive you were

very fond of embroidering double-stemmed flowers; and

once you cut your finger with the scissors, and the blood

ran over the silk, but you brought it into the picture as

a crimson cloud. Your mother has that picture still,

hanging at the head of her bed, a perpetual souvenir of

you. Sister, have you forgotten this?’ Then she burst

into tears, and promised to ask her husband to let her

come and visit you.” His mother asked when she

would arrive; but he said he could not tell. However,

one day he ran in and cried out, “Mother, Hsiao-hui

has come, with a splendid equipage and a train of

servants; we had better get plenty of wine ready.” In

a few moments he came in again, saying, “Here is my

sister,” at the same time asking her to take a seat and

rest. He then wept; but none of those present saw

anything at all. By-and-by he went out and burnt a

quantity of paper money[133] and made offerings of wine

outside the door, returning shortly and saying he had

sent away her attendants for a while. Hsiao-hui then

asked if the green coverlet, a small portion of which had

been burnt by a candle, was still in existence. “It is,”

replied her mother, and, going to a box, she at once

produced the coverlet. “Hsiao-hui would like a bed

made up for her in her old room,” said her (quasi)

brother; “she wants to rest awhile, and will talk with

you again in the morning.”

Now their next-door neighbour, named Chao, had a

daughter who was formerly a great friend of Hsiao-hui’s,

and that night she dreamt that Hsiao-hui appeared with

a turban on her head and a red mantle over her shoulders,

and that they talked and laughed together precisely

as in days gone by. “I am now a spirit,” said

Hsiao-hui, “and my father and mother can no more see

me than if I was far separated from them. Dear sister,

I would borrow your body, from which to speak to them.

You need fear nothing.” On the morrow when Miss

Chao met her mother, she fell on the ground before her

and remained some time in a state of unconsciousness,

at length saying, “Madam, it is many years since we

met; your hair has become very white.” “The girl’s

mad,” said her mother, in alarm; and, thinking something

had gone wrong, proceeded to follow her out of

the door. Miss Chao went straight to Li’s house, and

there with tears embraced Mrs. Li, who did not know

what to make of it all. “Yesterday,” said Miss Chao,

“when I came back, I was unhappily unable to speak

with you. Unfilial wretch that I was, to die before you,

and leave you to mourn my loss. How can I redeem

such behaviour?” Her mother thereupon began to

understand the scene, and, weeping, said to her, “I have

heard that you hold an honourable position, and this is a

great comfort to me; but, living as you do in the palace

of a Judge, how is it you are able to get away?” “My

husband,” replied she, “is very kind; and his parents

treat me with all possible consideration. I experience

no harsh treatment at their hands.” Here Miss Chao

rested her cheek upon her hand, exactly as Hsiao-hui

had been wont to do when she was alive; and at that

moment in came her brother to say that her attendants

were ready to return. “I must go,” said she, rising up

and weeping bitterly all the time; after which she fell

down, and remained some time unconscious as before.

Shortly after these events Mr. Li became dangerously

ill, and no medicines were of any avail, so that his son

feared they would not be able to save his life. Two

devils sat at the head of his bed, one holding an iron

staff, the other a nettle-hemp rope four or five feet in

length. Day and night his son implored them to go,

but they would not move; and Mrs. Li in sorrow began

to prepare the funeral clothes.[134] Towards evening her

son entered and cried out, “Strangers and women, leave

the room! My sister’s husband is coming to see his

father-in-law.” He then clapped his hands, and burst

out laughing. “What is the matter?” asked his mother.

“I am laughing,” answered he, “because when the two

devils heard my sister’s husband was coming, they both

ran under the bed, like terrapins, drawing in their

heads.” By-and-by, looking at nothing, he began to talk

about the weather, and ask his sister’s husband how he

did, and then he clapped his hands, and said, “I begged

the two devils to go, but they would not; it’s all right

now.” After this he went out to the door and returned,

saying, “My sister’s husband has gone. He took away

the two devils tied to his horse. My father ought to get

better now. Besides, Hsiao-hui’s husband said he would

speak to the Judge, and obtain a hundred years’ lease of

life both for you and my father.” The whole family

rejoiced exceedingly at this, and, when night came, Mr.

Li was better, and in a few days quite well again. A

tutor was engaged for (the quasi) little Chu, who shewed

himself an apt pupil, and at eighteen years of age took

his bachelor’s degree. He could also see things of the

other world; and when anyone in the village was ill, he

pointed out where the devils were, and burnt them out

with fire, so that everybody got well. However, before

long he himself became very ill, and his flesh turned

green and purple; whereupon he said, “The devils

afflict me thus because I let out their secrets. Henceforth

I shall never divulge them again.”

Mr. Shang was a native of T‘ai-shan, and lived

quietly with his books alone. One autumn night

when the Silver River[135] was unusually distinct and the

moon shining brightly in the sky, he was walking up

and down under the shade, with his thoughts wandering

somewhat at random, when lo! a young girl leaped

over the wall, and, smiling, asked him, “What are you

thinking about, Sir, all so deeply?” Shang looked at

her, and seeing that she had a pretty face, asked her to

walk in. She then told him her name was Hu,[136] and

that she was called Tertia; but when he wanted to

know where she lived, she laughed and would not say.

So he did not inquire any further; and by degrees

they struck up a friendship, and Miss Tertia used to

come and chat with him every evening. He was so

smitten that he could hardly take his eyes off her,

and at last she said to him, “What are you looking

at?” “At you,” cried he, “my lovely rose, my beautiful

peach. I could gaze at you all night long.” “If

you think so much of poor me,” answered she, “I

don’t know where your wits would be if you saw my

sister Quarta.” Mr. Shang said he was sorry he didn’t

know her, and begged that he might be introduced;

so next night Miss Tertia brought her sister, who turned

out to be a young damsel of about fifteen, with a face

delicately powdered and resembling the lily, or like an

apricot-flower seen through mist; and altogether as

pretty a girl as he had ever seen. Mr. Shang was

charmed with her, and inviting them in, began to laugh

and talk with the elder, while Miss Quarta sat playing

with her girdle, and keeping her eyes on the ground.

By-and-by Miss Tertia got up and said she was going,

whereupon her sister rose to take leave also; but Mr.

Shang asked her not to be in a hurry, and requested the

elder to assist in persuading her. “You needn’t hurry,”

said she to Miss Quarta; and accordingly the latter

remained chatting with Mr. Shang without reserve, and

finally told him she was a fox. However, Mr. Shang

was so occupied with her beauty, that he didn’t pay

any heed to that; but she added, “And my sister is very

dangerous; she has already killed three people. Any

one bewitched by her has no chance of escape. Happily,

you have bestowed your affections on me, and I

shall not allow you to be destroyed. You must break

off your acquaintance with her at once.” Mr. Shang

was very frightened, and implored her to help him; to

which she replied, “Although a fox, I am skilled in the

arts of the Immortals;[137] I will write out a charm for

you which you must paste on the door, and thus you

will keep her away.” So she wrote down the charm,

and in the morning when her sister came and saw it,

she fell back, crying out, “Ungrateful minx! you’ve

thrown me up for him, have you? You two being

destined for each other, what have I done that you

should treat me thus?” She then went away; and a

few days afterwards Miss Quarta said she too would

have to be absent for a day, so Shang went out for a

walk by himself, and suddenly beheld a very nice-looking

young lady emerge from the shade of an old

oak that was growing on the hill-side. “Why so dreadfully

pensive?” said she to him; “those Hu girls can

never bring you a single cent.” She then presented

Shang with some money, and bade him go on ahead

and buy some good wine, adding, “I’ll bring something

to eat with me, and we’ll have a jolly time of it.”

Shang took the money and went home, doing as the

young lady had told him; and by-and-by in she herself

came, and threw on the table a roast chicken and a

shoulder of salt pork, which she at once proceeded to

cut up. They now set to work to enjoy themselves, and

had hardly finished when they heard some one coming

in, and the next minute in walked Miss Tertia and her

sister. The strange young lady didn’t know where to

hide, and managed to lose her shoes; but the other two

began to revile her, saying, “Out upon you, base fox;

what are you doing here?” They then chased her

away after some trouble, and Shang began to excuse

himself to them, until at last they all became friends

again as before.

One day, however, a Shensi man arrived, riding on a

donkey, and coming to the door said, “I have long

been in search of these evil spirits: now I have got

them.” Shang’s father thought the man’s remark rather

strange, and asked him whence he had come. “Across

much land and sea,” replied he; “for eight or nine

months out of every year I am absent from my native

place. These devils killed my brother with their poison,

alas! alas! and I have sworn to exterminate them; but

I have travelled many miles without being able to find

them. They are now in your house, and if you do not

cut them off, you will die even as my brother.” Now

Shang and the young ladies had kept their acquaintanceship

very dark; but his father and mother had guessed

that something was up, and, much alarmed, bade the

Shensi man walk in and perform his exorcisms. The

latter then produced two bottles which he placed upon

the ground, and proceeded to mutter a number of

charms and cabalistic formulæ; whereupon four wreaths

of smoke passed two by two into each bottle. “I have

the whole family,” cried he, in an ecstasy of delight;

as he proceeded to tie down the mouths of the bottles

with pig’s bladder, sealing them with the utmost care.

Shang’s father was likewise very pleased, and kept his

guest to dinner; but the young man himself was sadly

dejected, and approaching the bottles unperceived,

bent his ear to listen. “Ungrateful man,” said Miss

Quarta from within, “to sit there and make no effort

to save me.” This was more than Shang could stand,

and he immediately broke the seal, but found that he

couldn’t untie the knot. “Not so,” cried Miss Quarta;

“merely lay down the flag that now stands on the

altar, and with a pin prick the bladder, and I can

get out.” Shang did as she bade him, and in a

moment a thin streak of white smoke issued forth

from the hole and disappeared in the clouds. When

the Shensi man came out, and saw the flag lying on

the ground, he started violently, and cried out, “Escaped!

This must be your doing, young Sir.” He

then shook the bottle and listened, finally exclaiming,

“Luckily only one has got away. She was fated not

to die, and may therefore be pardoned.”[138] Thereupon

he took the bottles and went his way.

Some years afterwards Shang was one day superintending

his reapers cutting the corn, when he descried

Miss Quarta at a distance, sitting under a tree. He

approached, and she took his hand, saying, “Ten

years have rolled away since last we met. Since then

I have gained the prize of immortality;[139] but I thought

that perhaps you had not quite forgotten me, and so I

came to see you once more.” Shang wished her to

return home with him; to which she replied, “I am

no longer what I was that I should mingle in the

affairs of mortals. We shall meet again.” And as she

said this, she disappeared; but twenty years later, when

Shang was one day alone, Miss Quarta walked in.

Shang was overjoyed, and began to address her; but

she answered him, saying, “My name is already enrolled

in the Register of the Immortals, and I have no

right to return to earth. However, out of gratitude to

you I determined to announce to you the date of your

dissolution that you might put your affairs in order.

Fear nothing; I will see you safely through to the happy

land.” She then departed, and on the day named Shang

actually died. A relative of a friend of mine, Mr.

Li Wên-yü, frequently met the above-mentioned Mr.

Shang.[140]

At the village of Chu in Chi-yang, there was a man

named Chu, who died at the age of fifty and odd

years. His family at once proceeded to put on their

mourning robes, when suddenly they heard the dead

man cry out. Rushing up to the coffin, they found that

he had come to life again; and began, full of joy, to

ask him all about it. But the old gentleman replied

only to his wife, saying, “When I died I did not expect

to come back. However, by the time I had got a few

miles on my way, I thought of the poor old body I was

leaving behind me, dependent for everything on others,

and with no more enjoyment of life. So I made up

my mind to return, and take you away with me.” The

bystanders thought this was only the disconnected talk

of a man who had just regained consciousness, and

attached no importance to it; but the old man repeated

it, and then his wife said, “It’s all very well,

but you have only just come to life; how can you go

and die again directly?” “It is extremely simple,”

replied her husband; “you go and pack up everything

ready.” The old lady laughed and did nothing; upon

which Mr. Chu urged her again to prepare, and then

left the house. In a short time he returned, and his

wife pretended that she had done what he wanted.

“Then you had better dress,” said he; but Mrs. Chu

did not move until he pressed her again and again,

after which she did not like to cross him, and by-and-by

came out all fully equipped. The other ladies of the

family were laughing on the sly, when Mr. Chu laid

his head upon the pillow, and told his wife to do

likewise. “It’s too ridiculous,” she was beginning to

say, when Mr. Chu banged the bed with his hand, and

cried out, “What is there to laugh at in dying?” upon

which the various members of the family, seeing the

old gentleman was in a rage, begged her to gratify

his whim. Mrs. Chu then lay down alongside of her

husband, to the infinite amusement of the spectators;

but it was soon noticed that the old lady had ceased

to smile, and by-and-by her two eyes closed. For a

long time not a sound was heard, as if she was fast

asleep; and when some of those present approached to

touch her, they found she was as cold as ice, and

no longer breathing; then, turning to her husband,

they perceived that he also had passed away.

This story was fully related by a younger sister-in-law

of Mr. Chu’s, who, in the twenty-first year of the

reign K‘ang Hsi,[141] was employed in the house of a high

official named Pi.

At Chin-ling there lived a young man named Ku,

who had considerable ability but was very poor; and

having an old mother, he was very loth to leave home.

So he employed himself in writing or painting[142] for

people, and gave his mother the proceeds, going on

thus till he was twenty-five years of age without taking

a wife. Opposite to their house was another building,

which had long been untenanted; and one day an old

woman and a young girl came to occupy it, but there

being no gentleman with them young Ku did not

make any inquiries as to who they were or whence

they hailed. Shortly afterwards it chanced that just

as Ku was entering the house he observed a young

lady come out of his mother’s door. She was about

eighteen or nineteen, very clever and refined looking, and

altogether such a girl as one rarely sets eyes on; and when

she noticed Mr. Ku, she did not run away, but seemed

quite self-possessed. “It was the young lady over the

way; she came to borrow my scissors and measure,” said

his mother, “and she told me that there was only her

mother and herself. They don’t seem to belong to the

lower classes. I asked her why she didn’t get married,

to which she replied that her mother was old. I must

go and call on her to-morrow, and find out how the

land lies. If she doesn’t expect too much, you could

take care of her mother for her.” So next day Ku’s

mother went, and found that the girl’s mother was

deaf, and that they were evidently poor, apparently not

having a day’s food in the house. Ku’s mother asked

what their employment was, and the old lady said they

trusted for food to her daughter’s ten fingers. She

then threw out some hints about uniting the two

families, to which the old lady seemed to agree; but,

on consultation with her daughter, the latter would not

consent. Mrs. Ku returned home and told her son,

saying, “Perhaps she thinks we are too poor. She

doesn’t speak or laugh, is very nice-looking, and as

pure as snow; truly no ordinary girl.” There ended

that; until one day, as Ku was sitting in his study,

up came a very agreeable young fellow, who said he

was from a neighbouring village, and engaged Ku to

draw a picture for him. The two youths soon struck

up a firm friendship and met constantly, when it happened

that the stranger chanced to see the young

lady of over the way. “Who is that?” said he, following

her with his eyes. Ku told him, and then he

said, “She is certainly pretty, but rather stern in her

appearance.” By-and-by Ku went in, and his mother

told him the girl had come to beg a little rice, as they had

had nothing to eat all day. “She’s a good daughter,”

said his mother, “and I’m very sorry for her. We

must try and help them a little.” Ku thereupon

shouldered a peck of rice, and, knocking at their door,

presented it with his mother’s compliments. The young

lady received the rice but said nothing; and then she

got into the habit of coming over and helping Ku’s

mother with her work and household affairs, almost as

if she had been her daughter-in-law, for which Ku was

very grateful to her, and whenever he had anything nice

he always sent some of it in to her mother, though the

young lady herself never once took the trouble to thank

him. So things went on until Ku’s mother got an

abscess on her leg, and lay writhing in agony day and

night. Then the young lady devoted herself to the

invalid, waiting on her and giving her medicine with

such care and attention that at last the sick woman

cried out, “Oh, that I could secure such a daughter-in-law

as you, to see this old body into its grave!” The

young lady soothed her, and replied, “Your son is a

hundred times more filial than I, a poor widow’s only

daughter.” “But even a filial son makes a bad nurse,”

answered the patient; “besides, I am now drawing

towards the evening of my life, when my body will be

exposed to the mists and the dews, and I am vexed in

spirit about our ancestral worship and the continuance

of our line.” As she was speaking Ku walked in; and

his mother, weeping, said, “I am deeply indebted to

this young lady; do not forget to repay her goodness.”

Ku made a low bow, but the young lady said, “Sir,

when you were kind to my mother, I did not thank

you; why, then, thank me?” Ku thereupon became

more than ever attached to her; but could never get

her to depart in the slightest degree from her cold

demeanour towards himself. One day, however, he

managed to squeeze her hand, upon which she told

him never to do so again; and then for some time he

neither saw nor heard anything of her. She had conceived

a violent dislike to the young stranger above-mentioned;

and one evening when he was sitting

talking with Ku, the young lady reappeared. After a

while she got angry at something he said, and drew from

her robe a glittering knife about a foot long. The

young man, seeing her do this, ran out in a fright and

she after him, only to find that he had vanished. She

then threw her dagger up into the air, and whish! a

streak of light like a rainbow, and something came

tumbling down with a flop. Ku got a light, and ran to

see what it was; and lo! there lay a white fox, head

in one place and body in another. “There is your

friend,” cried the girl; “I knew he would cause me to

destroy him sooner or later.” Ku dragged it into the

house, and said, “Let us wait till to-morrow to talk it

over; we shall then be more calm.” Next day the

young lady arrived, and Ku inquired about her knowledge

of the black art; but she told Ku not to trouble

himself about such affairs, and to keep it secret or it

might be prejudicial to his happiness. Ku then entreated

her to consent to their union, to which she

replied that she had already been as it were a daughter-in-law

to his mother, and there was no need to push

the thing further. “Is it because I am poor?” asked

Ku. “Well, I am not rich,” answered she, “but the

fact is I had rather not.” She then took her leave, and

the next evening when Ku went across to their house to

try once more to persuade her, the young lady had disappeared,

and was never seen again.