Strange Stories from a Chinese Studio, Vol. 2 (of 2)
出版:Strange Stories from a Chinese Studio, Vol. 2 (of 2)
Strange Stories from a Chinese Studio, Vol. 2 (of 2)-1
Please read the Transcriber's Note at the end of this electronic text.
STRANGE STORIES
FROM A
CHINESE STUDIO.
STRANGE STORIES
FROM ACHINESE STUDIO.
TRANSLATED AND ANNOTATED
BY
HERBERT A. GILES,
Of H.M.’s Consular Service.
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. II.
LONDON:
THOS. DE LA RUE & CO.
110, BUNHILL ROW.
1880.
PRINTED BY
THOMAS DE LA RUE AND CO., BUNHILL ROW,
LONDON.
CONTENTS.
Introduction.
Vol. I., pp. xiii-xxxii.
STORIES.
Vol. I.
PAGE
Vol. II.
PAGE
Adulteration Punished
—
332
Alchemist, The
—
313
Boat-girl Bride, The
—
149
Boatmen of Lao-lung, The
—
348
Boon Companion, The
165
—
Bribery and Corruption
—
170
Buddhist Priest of Ch‘ang-ch‘ing, The
22
—
Buddhist Priests, Arrival of
—
231
Butterfly’s Revenge, The
—
289
Carrying a Corpse
—
181
Cattle Plague, The
—
253
Censor in Purgatory, The
—
238
Chang Pu-liang
—
177
Chang’s Transformation
237
—
Chou K‘o-ch‘ang and his Ghost
—
106
Clay Image, The
—
276
Cloth Merchant, The
—
127
Collecting Subscriptions
—
220
Considerate Husband, The
158
—
Country of the Cave Men, The
397
—
Courage Tested
—
116
Cruelty Avenged
—
267
Dead Priest, The
—
247
Death by Laughing
352
—
Disembodied Friend, The
—
119
Dishonesty Punished
—
279
Doctor, The
—
290
Donkey’s Revenge, The
—
64
Dr. Tsêng’s Dream
387
—
Dreaming Honours
—
327
Dutch Carpet, The
—
179
Dwarf, A
224
—
Earthquake, An
—
263
Elephants and the Lion, The
—
343
Engaged to a Nun
262
—
Examination for the Post of Guardian Angel
1
—
Faithful Dog, The
—
261
Faithful Gander, The
—
342
Faithless Widow, The
—
39
Feasting the Ruler of Purgatory
—
284
Fêng-shui
—
322
Fight with the Foxes, The
251
—
Fighting Cricket, The
—
17
Fighting Quails, The
66
—
Fisherman and his Friend, The
—
197
Flood, A
350
—
Flower-nymphs, The
285
—
Flying Cow, The
—
249
Foot-ball on the Tung-t‘ing Lake
408
—
Foreign Priests
343
—
Fortune-hunter Punished, The
—
272
Forty Strings of Cash, The
—
211
Friendship with Foxes
—
300
Gambler’s Talisman, The
419
—
Grateful Dog, The
—
308
Great Rat, The
—
303
Great Test, The
—
310
Hidden Treasure, The
—
345
His Father’s Ghost
—
142
Hsiang-ju’s Misfortunes
225
—
Husband Punished, The
422
—
Incorrupt Official, The
—
358
Infernal Regions, In the
—
95
Ingratitude Punished
—
138
Injustice of Heaven, The
—
111
Invisible Priest, The
—
235
Jen Hsiu, The Gambler
196
—
Joining the Immortals
53
—
Jonah, A Chinese
—
176
Judge Lu
92
—
Justice for Rebels
—
184
Killing a Serpent
—
190
King, The
257
—
Life Prolonged
—
273
Lingering Death, The
—
325
Little Chu
143
—
Lo-ch‘a Country and the Sea Market, The
—
1
Lost Brother, The
203
—
Mad Priest, The
—
282
Magic Mirror, The
—
114
Magic Path, The
—
36
Magic Sword, The
124
—
Magical Arts
47
—
Magnanimous Girl, The
160
—
Making Animals
—
265
Man who was changed into a Crow, The
278
—
Man who was thrown down a Well, The
365
—
Marriage Lottery, The
428
—
Marriage of the Fox’s Daughter, The
26
—
Marriage of the Virgin Goddess, The
—
257
Master-thief, The
347
—
Metempsychosis
—
207
“Mirror and Listen” Trick, The
—
251
Miss Chiao-no
33
—
Miss Lien-hsiang, The Fox-girl
168
—
Miss Quarta Hu
152
—
Miss Ying-ning; or, the Laughing Girl
106
—
Mr. Tung; or, Virtue Rewarded
—
244
Mr. Willow and the Locusts
—
242
Mysterious Head, The
—
135
Painted Skin, The
76
—
Painted Wall, The
9
—
Performing Mice, The
218
—
Perseverance Rewarded
186
—
Picture Horse, The
—
286
Pious Surgeon, The
—
351
Planchette
—
295
Planting a Pear-tree
14
—
Playing at Hanging
354
—
Priest’s Warning, The
—
205
Princess Lily, The
—
56
Princess of the Tung-t‘ing Lake
—
43
Quarrelsome Brothers, The
313
—
Raising the Dead
—
318
Rat Wife, The
355
—
Resuscitated Corpse, The
—
193
Rip van Winkle, A Chinese
—
85
Roc, The
—
340
Salt Smuggler, The
—
215
Saving Life
—
213
Sea-serpent, The
—
113
Self-punished Murderer, The
345
—
She-wolf and the Herd-boys, The
—
330
Shui-mang Plant, The
136
—
Singing Frogs, The
217
—
Singular case of Ophthalmia
—
102
Singular Verdict
—
307
Sisters, The
336
—
Smelling Essays
—
139
Snow in Summer
—
294
Solomon, A Chinese
—
335
Solomon, Another
—
355
Spirit of the Hills, The
—
137
Spirits of the Po-yang Lake, The
—
109
Spiritualistic Séances
—
131
Stolen Eyes, The
—
233
Strange Companion, A
—
130
Stream of Cash, The
—
110
Supernatural Wife, A
—
166
Taking Revenge
—
25
Talking Pupils, The
5
—
Ta-nan in Search of his Father
296
—
Taoist Devotee, A
—
183
Taoist Miracles
—
226
Taoist Priest, A
246
—
Taoist Priest of Lao-shan, The
17
—
Theft of the Peach
—
186
Three Genii, The
214
—
Three States of Existence, The
—
90
Thunder God, The
413
—
Tiger Guest, The
330
—
Tiger of Chao-ch‘êng, The
219
—
Tipsy Turtle, The
—
28
Trader’s Son, The
85
—
Two Brides, The
—
158
Unjust Sentence, The
—
80
Virtuous Daughter-in-law, The
374
—
Wei-ch‘i Devil, The
—
268
Wine Insect, The
—
259
Wolf Dream, The
—
73
Wolves
—
305
Wonderful Stone, The
306
—
Young Gentleman who couldn’t spell, The
326
—
Young Lady of the Tung-t‘ing Lake, The
271
—
Appendix
A
„
B
—
361
—
389
STRANGE STORIES
FROM A
CHINESE STUDIO.
[1]
Once upon a time there was a young man, named Ma
Chün, who was also known as Lung-mei. He was the
son of a trader, and a youth of surpassing beauty. His
manners were courteous, and he loved nothing better
than singing and playing. He used to associate with
actors, and with an embroidered handkerchief round his
head the effect was that of a beautiful woman. Hence
he acquired the sobriquet of the Beauty. At fourteen
years of age he graduated and began to make a name for
himself; but his father, who was growing old and wished
to retire from business, said to him, “My boy, book-learning
will never fill your belly or put a coat on your
back; you had much better stick to the old thing.”
Accordingly, Ma from that time occupied himself with
scales and weights, with principle and interest, and such
matters.
He made a voyage across the sea, and was carried
away by a typhoon. After being tossed about for many
days and nights he arrived at a country where the
people were hideously ugly. When these people saw
Ma they thought he was a devil and all ran screeching
away. Ma was somewhat alarmed at this, but finding
that it was they who were frightened at him, he quickly
turned their fear to his own advantage. If he came
across people eating and drinking he would rush upon
them, and when they fled away for fear, he would regale
himself upon what they had left. By-and-by he went to
a village among the hills, and there the people had at
any rate some facial resemblance to ordinary men. But
they were all in rags and tatters like beggars. So Ma
sat down to rest under a tree, and the villagers, not
daring to come near him, contented themselves with
looking at him from a distance. They soon found, however,
that he did not want to eat them, and by degrees
approached a little closer to him. Ma, smiling, began
to talk; and although their language was different, yet
he was able to make himself tolerably intelligible, and
told them whence he had come. The villagers were
much pleased, and spread the news that the stranger was
not a man-eater. Nevertheless, the very ugliest of all
would only take a look and be off again; they would
not come near him. Those who did go up to him were
not very much unlike his own countrymen, the Chinese.
They brought him plenty of food and wine. Ma asked
them what they were afraid of. They replied, “We had
heard from our forefathers that 26,000 li to the west
there is a country called China. We had heard that the
people of that land were the most extraordinary in appearance
you can possibly imagine. Hitherto it has
been hearsay; we can now believe it.” He then asked
them how it was they were so poor. They answered,
“You see, in our country everything depends, not on
literary talent, but on beauty. The most beautiful are
made ministers of state; the next handsomest are made
judges and magistrates; and the third class in looks are
employed in the palace of the king. Thus these are
enabled out of their pay to provide for their wives and
families. But we, from our very birth, are regarded by
our parents as inauspicious, and are left to perish, some
of us being occasionally preserved by more humane
parents to prevent the extinction of the family.” Ma
asked the name of their country, and they told him it
was Lo-ch‘a. Also that the capital city was some 30 li
to the north. He begged them to take him there, and
next day at cock-crow he started thitherwards in their
company, arriving just about dawn. The walls of the
city were made of black stone, as black as ink, and the
city gate-houses were about 100 feet high. Red stones
were used for tiles, and picking up a broken piece Ma
found that it marked his finger-nail like vermilion. They
arrived just when the Court was rising, and saw all the
equipages of the officials. The village people pointed
out one who they said was Prime Minister. His ears
drooped forward in flaps; he had three nostrils, and his
eye-lashes were just like bamboo screens hanging in
front of his eyes. Then several came out on horseback,
and they said these were the privy councillors. So they
went on, telling him the rank of all the ugly uncouth
fellows he saw. The lower they got down in the official
scale the less hideous the officials were. By-and-by Ma
went back, the people in the streets marvelling very
much to see him, and tumbling helter-skelter one over
another as if they had met a goblin. The villagers
shouted out to re-assure them, and then they stood at a
distance to look at him. When he got back, there was
not a man, woman, or child in the whole nation but
knew that there was a strange man at the village; and
the gentry and officials became very desirous to see him.
However, if he went to any of their houses the porter
always slammed the door in his face, and the master,
mistress, and family, in general, would only peep at, and
speak to him through the cracks. Not a single one
dared receive him face to face; but, finally, the village
people, at a loss what to do, bethought themselves of a
man who had been sent by a former king on official
business among strange nations. “He,” said they,
“having seen many kinds of men, will not be afraid of
you.” So they went to his house, where they were
received in a very friendly way. He seemed to be about
eighty or ninety years of age; his eye-balls protruded,
and his beard curled up like a hedge-hog. He said,
“In my youth I was sent by the king among many
nations, but I never went to China. I am now one
hundred and twenty years of age, and that I should be
permitted to see a native of your country is a fact which
it will be my duty to report to the Throne. For ten
years and more I have not been to Court, but have remained
here in seclusion; yet I will now make an effort
on your behalf.” Then followed a banquet, and when
the wine had already circulated pretty freely, some dozen
singing girls came in and sang and danced before them.
The girls all wore white embroidered turbans, and long
scarlet robes which trailed on the ground. The words
they uttered were unintelligible, and the tunes they
played perfectly hideous. The host, however, seemed to
enjoy it very much, and said to Ma, “Have you music in
China?” He replied that they had, and the old man
asked for a specimen. Ma hummed him a tune, beating
time on the table, with which he was very much pleased,
declaring that his guest had the voice of a phœnix and
the notes of a dragon, such as he had never heard
before. The next day he presented a memorial to the
Throne, and the king at once commanded Ma to appear
before him. Several of the ministers, however, represented
that his appearance was so hideous it might
frighten His Majesty, and the king accordingly desisted
from his intention. The old man returned and told Ma,
being quite upset about it. They remained together
some time until they had drunk themselves tipsy. Then
Ma, seizing a sword, began to attitudinize, smearing his
face all over with coal-dust. He acted the part of Chang
Fei,[2] at which his host was so delighted that he begged
him to appear before the Prime Minister in the character
of Chang Fei. Ma replied, “I don’t mind a little
amateur acting, but how can I play the hypocrite[3] for
my own personal advantage?” On being pressed he
consented, and the old man prepared a great feast, and
asked some of the high officials to be present, telling Ma
to paint himself as before. When the guests had
arrived, Ma was brought out to see them; whereupon
they all exclaimed, “Ai-yah! how is it he was so ugly
before and is now so beautiful?” By-and-by, when they
were all taking wine together, Ma began to sing them a
most bewitching song, and they got so excited over it
that next day they recommended him to the king. The
king sent a special summons for him to appear, and
asked him many questions about the government of
China, to all of which Ma replied in detail, eliciting sighs
of admiration from His Majesty. He was honoured
with a banquet in the royal guest-pavilion, and when the
king had made himself tipsy he said to him, “I hear you
are a very skilful musician. Will you be good enough to
let me hear you?” Ma then got up and began to
attitudinize, singing a plaintive air like the girls with the
turbans. The king was charmed, and at once made him
a privy councillor, giving him a private banquet, and bestowing
other marks of royal favour. As time went on
his fellow-officials found out the secret of his painted
face,[4] and whenever he was among them they were
always whispering together, besides which they avoided
being near him as much as possible. Thus Ma was left
to himself, and found his position anything but pleasant
in consequence. So he memorialized the Throne, asking
to be allowed to retire from office, but his request was
refused. He then said his health was bad, and got three
months’ sick leave, during which he packed up his
valuables and went back to the village. The villagers on
his arrival went down on their knees to him, and he distributed
gold and jewels amongst his old friends. They
were very glad to see him, and said, “Your kindness
shall be repaid when we go to the sea-market; we will
bring you some pearls and things.” Ma asked them
where that was. They said it was at the bottom of the
sea, where the mermaids[5] kept their treasures, and that
as many as twelve nations were accustomed to go thither
to trade. Also that it was frequented by spirits, and that
to get there it was necessary to pass through red vapours
and great waves. “Dear Sir,” they said, “do not yourself
risk this great danger, but let us take your money
and purchase these rare pearls for you. The season is
now at hand.” Ma asked them how they knew this.
They said, “Whenever we see red birds flying backwards
and forwards over the sea, we know that within seven
days the market will open.” He asked when they were
going to start, that he might accompany them; but they
begged him not to think of doing so. He replied, “I
am a sailor: how can I be afraid of wind and waves?”
Very soon after this people came with merchandise to
forward, and so Ma packed up and went on board the
vessel that was going.
This vessel held some tens of people, was flat-bottomed
with a railing all round, and, rowed by ten men, it cut
through the water like an arrow. After a voyage of
three days they saw afar off faint outlines of towers and
minarets, and crowds of trading vessels. They soon
arrived at the city, the walls of which were made of
bricks as long as a man’s body, the tops of its buildings
being lost in the Milky Way.[6] Having made fast their
boat they went in, and saw laid out in the market rare
pearls and wondrous precious stones of dazzling beauty,
such as are quite unknown amongst men. Then they
saw a young man come forth riding upon a beautiful
steed. The people of the market stood back to let him
pass, saying he was the third son of the king; but when
the Prince saw Ma, he exclaimed, “This is no foreigner,”
and immediately an attendant drew near and asked his
name and country. Ma made a bow, and standing at
one side told his name and family. The prince smiled,
and said, “For you to have honoured our country thus
is no small piece of good luck.” He then gave him a
horse and begged him to follow. They went out of the
city gate and down to the sea-shore, whereupon their
horses plunged into the water. Ma was terribly
frightened and screamed out; but the sea opened dry
before them and formed a wall of water on either side.
In a little time they reached the king’s palace, the beams
of which were made of tortoise-shell and the tiles of
fishes’ scales. The four walls were of crystal, and
dazzled the eye like mirrors. They got down off their
horses and went in, and Ma was introduced to the king.
The young prince said, “Sire, I have been to the
market, and have got a gentleman from China.” Whereupon
Ma made obeisance before the king, who addressed
him as follows:—“Sir, from a talented scholar
like yourself I venture to ask for a few stanzas upon our
sea-market. Pray do not refuse.” Ma thereupon made
a kot‘ow and undertook the king’s command. Using an
ink-slab of crystal, a brush of dragon’s beard, paper as
white as snow, and ink scented like the larkspur,[7] Ma
immediately threw off some thousand odd verses, which
he laid at the feet of the king. When His Majesty saw
them, he said, “Sir, your genius does honour to these
marine nations of ours.” Then, summoning the members
of the royal family, the king gave a great feast in the
Coloured Cloud pavilion; and, when the wine had
circulated freely, seizing a great goblet in his hand, the
king rose and said before all the guests, “It is a thousand
pities, Sir, that you are not married. What say you to
entering the bonds of wedlock?” Ma rose blushing,
and stammered out his thanks; upon which the king
looking round spoke a few words to the attendants, and
in a few moments in came a bevy of court ladies supporting
the king’s daughter, whose ornaments went
tinkle, tinkle, as she walked along. Immediately the
nuptial drums and trumpets began to sound forth, and
bride and bridegroom worshipped Heaven and Earth together.[8]
Stealing a glance Ma saw that the princess was
endowed with a fairy-like loveliness. When the ceremony
was over she retired, and by-and-by the wine-party
broke up. Then came several beautifully-dressed
waiting-maids, who with painted candles escorted Ma
within. The bridal couch was made of coral adorned
with eight kinds of precious stones, and the curtains
were thickly hung with pearls as big as acorns. Next
day at dawn a crowd of young slave-girls trooped into
the room to offer their services; whereupon Ma got up
and went off to Court to pay his respects to the king.
He was then duly received as royal son-in-law and made
an officer of state. The fame of his poetical talents
spread far and wide, and the kings of the various seas
sent officers to congratulate him, vying with each other
in their invitations to him. Ma dressed himself in
gorgeous clothes, and went forth riding on a superb steed,
with a mounted body-guard all splendidly armed.
There were musicians on horseback and musicians in
chariots, and in three days he had visited every one
of the marine kingdoms, making his name known in
all directions. In the palace there was a jade tree,
about as big round as a man could clasp. Its roots
were as clear as glass, and up the middle ran, as it were,
a stick of pale yellow. The branches were the size of
one’s arm; the leaves like white jade, as thick as a
copper cash. The foliage was dense, and beneath its
shade the ladies of the palace were wont to sit and sing.
The flowers which covered the tree resembled grapes,
and if a single petal fell to the earth it made a ringing
sound. Taking one up, it would be found to be exactly
like carved cornelian, very bright and pretty to look at.
From time to time a wonderful bird came and sang
there. Its feathers were of a golden hue, and its tail as
long as its body. Its notes were like the tinkling of
jade, very plaintive and touching to listen to. When Ma
heard this bird sing, it called up in him recollections of
his old home, and accordingly he said to the princess,
“I have now been away from my own country for three
years, separated from my father and mother. Thinking
of them my tears flow and the perspiration runs down
my back. Can you return with me?” His wife replied,
“The way of immortals is not that of men. I am
unable to do what you ask, but I cannot allow the feelings
of husband and wife to break the tie of parent and
child. Let us devise some plan.” When Ma heard this
he wept bitterly, and the princess sighed and said, “We
cannot both stay or both go.” The next day the king
said to him, “I hear that you are pining after your old
home. Will to-morrow suit you for taking leave?” Ma
thanked the king for his great kindness, which he declared
he could never forget, and promised to return
very shortly. That evening the princess and Ma talked
over their wine of their approaching separation. Ma
said they would soon meet again; but his wife averred
that their married life was at an end. Then he wept
afresh, but the princess said, “Like a filial son you are
going home to your parents. In the meetings and
separations of this life, a hundred years seem but a
single day; why, then, should we give way to tears like
children? I will be true to you; do you be faithful to
me; and then, though separated, we shall be united in
spirit, a happy pair. Is it necessary to live side by side in
order to grow old together? If you break our contract
your next marriage will not be a propitious one; but if
loneliness[9] overtakes you then choose a concubine.
There is one point more of which I would speak, with
reference to our married life. I am about to become a
mother, and I pray you give me a name for your child.”
To this Ma replied, “If a girl I would have her called
Lung-kung; if a boy, then name him Fu-hai.”[10] The
princess asked for some token of remembrance, and Ma
gave her a pair of jade lilies that he had got during his
stay in the marine kingdom. She added, “On the 8th
of the 4th moon, three years hence, when you once
more steer your course for this country, I will give you
up your child.” She next packed a leather bag full of
jewels and handed it to Ma, saying, “Take care of this;
it will be a provision for many generations.” When the
day began to break a splendid farewell feast was given him
by the king, and Ma bade them all adieu. The princess,
in a car drawn by snow-white sheep, escorted him to the
boundary of the marine kingdom, where he dismounted
and stepped ashore. “Farewell!” cried the princess, as
her returning car bore her rapidly away, and the sea,
closing over her, snatched her from her husband’s sight.
Ma returned to his home across the ocean. Some had
thought him long since dead and gone; all marvelled at
his story. Happily his father and mother were yet alive,
though his former wife had married another man; and
so he understood why the princess had pledged him to
constancy, for she already knew that this had taken
place. His father wished him to take another wife, but
he would not. He only took a concubine. Then, after
the three years had passed away, he started across the
sea on his return journey, when lo! he beheld, riding on
the wave-crests and splashing about the water in playing,
two young children. On going near, one of them seized
hold of him and sprung into his arms; upon which the
elder cried until he, too, was taken up. They were a boy
and girl, both very lovely, and wearing embroidered caps
adorned with jade lilies. On the back of one of them
was a worked case, in which Ma found the following
letter:—
“I presume my father and mother-in-law are well.
Three years have passed away and destiny still keeps us
apart. Across the great ocean, the letter-bird would find
no path.[11] I have been with you in my dreams until I
am quite worn out. Does the blue sky look down upon
any grief like mine? Yet Ch‘ang-ngo[12] lives solitary in
the moon, and Chih Nü[13] laments that she cannot cross
the Silver River. Who am I that I should expect happiness
to be mine? Truly this thought turns my tears
into joy. Two months after your departure I had twins,
who can already prattle away in the language of childhood,
at one moment snatching a date, at another a
pear. Had they no mother they would still live. These
I now send to you, with the jade lilies you gave me in
their hats, in token of the sender. When you take them
upon your knee, think that I am standing by your side.
I know that you have kept your promise to me, and I
am happy. I shall take no second husband, even unto
death. All thoughts of dress and finery are gone from
me; my looking-glass sees no new fashions; my face has
long been unpowdered, my eyebrows unblacked. You
are my Ulysses, I am your Penelope;[14] though not
actually leading a married life, how can it be said that
we are not husband and wife. Your father and mother
will take their grandchildren upon their knees, though
they have never set eyes upon the bride. Alas! there is
something wrong in this. Next year your mother will
enter upon the long night. I shall be there by the side
of the grave as is becoming in her daughter-in-law.
From this time forth our daughter will be well; later on
she will be able to grasp her mother’s hand. Our boy,
when he grows up, may possibly be able to come to and
fro. Adieu, dear husband, adieu, though I am leaving
much unsaid.” Ma read the letter over and over again,
his tears flowing all the time. His two children clung
round his neck, and begged him to take them home.
“Ah, my children,” said he, “where is your home?”
Then they all wept bitterly, and Ma, looking at the great
ocean stretching away to meet the sky, lovely and pathless,
embraced his children, and proceeded sorrowfully to
return. Knowing, too, that his mother could not last
long, he prepared everything necessary for the ceremony
of interment, and planted a hundred young pine-trees at
her grave.[15] The following year the old lady did die,
and her coffin was borne to its last resting-place, when
lo! there was the princess standing by the side of the
grave. The lookers-on were much alarmed, but in a
moment there was a flash of lightning, followed by a
clap of thunder and a squall of rain, and she was gone.
It was then noticed that many of the young pine-trees
which had died were one and all brought to life. Subsequently,
Fu-hai went in search of the mother for
whom he pined so much, and after some days’ absence
returned. Lung-kung, being a girl, could not accompany
him, but she mourned much in secret. One dark
day her mother entered and bid her dry her eyes, saying,
“My child, you must get married. Why these tears?”
She then gave her a tree of coral eight feet in height,
some Baroos camphor,[16] one hundred valuable pearls,
and two boxes inlaid with gold and precious stones, as
her dowry. Ma having found out she was there, rushed
in and seizing her hand began to weep for joy, when
suddenly a violent peal of thunder rent the building, and
the princess had vanished.
During the reign of Hsüan Tê,[17] cricket fighting was
very much in vogue at court, levies of crickets being
exacted from the people as a tax. On one occasion the
magistrate of Hua-yin, wishing to make friends with
the Governor, presented him with a cricket which, on
being set to fight, displayed very remarkable powers; so
much so that the Governor commanded the magistrate
to supply him regularly with these insects. The latter, in
his turn, ordered the beadles of his district to provide
him with crickets; and then it became a practice for
people who had nothing else to do to catch and rear
them for this purpose. Thus the price of crickets rose
very high; and when the beadle’s[18] runners came to
exact even a single one, it was enough to ruin several
families.
Now in the village of which we are speaking there
lived a man named Ch‘êng, a student who had often
failed for his bachelor’s degree; and, being a stupid sort
of fellow, his name was sent in for the post of beadle.
He did all he could to get out of it, but without
success; and by the end of the year his small patrimony
was gone. Just then came a call for crickets, and
Ch‘êng, not daring to make a like call upon his neighbours,
was at his wits’ end, and in his distress determined
to commit suicide. “What’s the use of that?” cried his
wife. “You’d do better to go out and try to find some.”
So off went Ch‘êng in the early morning, with a bamboo
tube and a silk net, not returning till late at night; and
he searched about in tumble-down walls, in bushes,
under stones, and in holes, but without catching more
than two or three, do what he would. Even those he
did catch were weak creatures, and of no use at all,
which made the magistrate fix a limit of time, the result
of which was that in a few days Ch‘êng got one hundred
blows with the bamboo. This made him so sore that he
was quite unable to go after the crickets any more, and,
as he lay tossing and turning on the bed, he determined
once again to put an end to his life.
About that time a hump-backed fortune-teller of great
skill arrived at the village, and Ch‘êng’s wife, putting together
a trifle of money, went off to seek his assistance.
The door was literally blocked up—fair young girls and
white-headed dames crowding in from all quarters. A
room was darkened, and a bamboo screen hung at the
door, an altar being arranged outside at which the
fortune-seekers burnt incense in a brazier, and prostrated
themselves twice, while the soothsayer stood by the side,
and, looking up into vacancy, prayed for a response. His
lips opened and shut, but nobody heard what he said, all
standing there in awe waiting for the answer. In a few
moments a piece of paper was thrown from behind the
screen, and the soothsayer said that the petitioner’s desire
would be accomplished in the way he wished.
Ch‘êng’s wife now advanced, and, placing some money
on the altar, burnt her incense and prostrated herself in
a similar manner. In a few moments the screen began
to move, and a piece of paper was thrown down, on
which there were no words, but only a picture. In the
middle was a building like a temple, and behind this a
small hill, at the foot of which were a number of curious
stones, with the long, spiky feelers of innumerable
crickets appearing from behind. Hard by was a frog,
which seemed to be engaged in putting itself into various
kinds of attitudes. The good woman had no idea what
it all meant; but she noticed the crickets, and accordingly
went off home to tell her husband. “Ah,” said
he, “this is to shew me where to hunt for crickets;”
and, on looking closely at the picture, he saw that the
building very much resembled a temple to the east of their
village. So he forced himself to get up, and, leaning on
a stick, went out to seek crickets behind the temple.
Rounding an old grave, he came upon a place where
stones were lying scattered about as in the picture, and
then he set himself to watch attentively. He might as
well have been looking for a needle or a grain of mustard-seed;
and by degrees he became quite exhausted,
without finding anything, when suddenly an old frog
jumped out. Ch‘êng was a little startled, but immediately
pursued the frog, which retreated into the bushes.
He then saw one of the insects he wanted sitting at the
root of a bramble; but on making a grab at it, the
cricket ran into a hole, from which he was unable to
move it until he poured in some water, when out the
little creature came. It was a magnificent specimen,
strong and handsome, with a fine tail, green neck, and
golden wings; and, putting it in his basket, he returned
home in high glee to receive the congratulations of his
family. He would not have taken anything for this
cricket, and proceeded to feed it up carefully in a bowl.
Its belly was the colour of a crab’s, its back that of a
sweet chestnut; and Ch‘êng tended it most lovingly,
waiting for the time when the magistrate should call
upon him for a cricket.
Meanwhile, a son of Ch‘êng’s, aged nine, one day
took the opportunity of his father being out to open the
bowl. Instantaneously the cricket made a spring forward
and was gone; and all efforts to catch it again
were unavailing. At length the boy made a grab at it
with his hand, but only succeeded in seizing one of its
legs, which thereupon broke, and the little creature soon
afterwards died. Ch‘êng’s wife turned deadly pale when
her son, with tears in his eyes, told her what had happened.
“Oh! won’t you catch it when your father
comes home,” said she; at which the boy ran away,
crying bitterly. Soon after Ch‘êng arrived, and when he
heard his wife’s story he felt as if he had been turned to
ice, and went in search of his son, who, however, was
nowhere to be found, until at length they discovered his
body lying at the bottom of a well. Their anger was
thus turned to grief, and death seemed as though it
would be a pleasant relief to them as they sat facing
each other in silence in their thatched and smokeless[19]
hut. At evening they prepared to bury the boy; but,
on touching the body, lo! he was still breathing. Overjoyed,
they placed him upon the bed, and towards the
middle of the night he came round; but a drop of
bitterness was mingled in his parents’ cup when they
found that his reason had fled. His father, however,
caught sight of the empty bowl in which he had kept
the cricket, and ceased to think any more about his son,
never once closing his eyes all night; and as day
gradually broke, there he lay stiff and stark, until
suddenly he heard the chirping of a cricket outside
the house door. Jumping up in a great hurry to see,
there was his lost insect; but, on trying to catch it,
away it hopped directly. At last he got it under his
hand, though, when he came to close his fingers on it,
there was nothing in them. So he went on, chasing it
up and down, until finally it hopped into a corner of the
wall; and then, looking carefully about, he espied it
once more, no longer the same in appearance, but small,
and of a dark red colour. Ch‘êng stood looking at it,
without trying to catch such a worthless specimen, when
all of a sudden the little creature hopped into his sleeve;
and, on examining it more nearly, he saw that it really
was a handsome insect, with well-formed head and neck,
and forthwith took it indoors. He was now anxious to try
its prowess; and it so happened that a young fellow of
the village, who had a fine cricket which used to win
every bout it fought, and was so valuable to him that he
wanted a high price for it, called on Ch‘êng that very
day. He laughed heartily at Ch‘êng’s champion, and,
producing his own, placed it side by side, to the great
disadvantage of the former. Ch‘êng’s countenance fell,
and he no longer wished to back his cricket; however,
the young fellow urged him, and he thought that there
was no use in rearing a feeble insect, and that he had
better sacrifice it for a laugh; so they put them together
in a bowl. The little cricket lay quite still like a piece
of wood, at which the young fellow roared again, and
louder than ever when it did not move even though
tickled with a pig’s bristle. By dint of tickling it was
roused at last, and then it fell upon its adversary with
such fury, that in a moment the young fellow’s cricket
would have been killed outright had not its master interfered
and stopped the fight. The little cricket then
stood up and chirped to Ch‘êng as a sign of victory; and
Ch‘êng, overjoyed, was just talking over the battle with
the young fellow, when a cock caught sight of the insect,
and ran up to eat it. Ch‘êng was in a great state of
alarm; but the cock luckily missed its aim, and the
cricket hopped away, its enemy pursuing at full speed.
In another moment it would have been snapped up,
when, lo! to his great astonishment, Ch‘êng saw his
cricket seated on the cock’s head, holding firmly on to
its comb. He then put it into a cage, and by-and-by
sent it to the magistrate, who, seeing what a small one
he had provided, was very angry indeed. Ch‘êng told
the story of the cock, which the magistrate refused to
believe, and set it to fight with other crickets, all of
which it vanquished without exception. He then tried it
with a cock, and as all turned out as Ch‘êng had said,
he gave him a present, and sent the cricket in to the
Governor. The Governor put it into a golden cage, and
forwarded it to the palace, accompanied by some remarks
on its performances; and when there, it was
found that of all the splendid collection of His Imperial
Majesty, not one was worthy to be placed alongside of
this one. It would dance in time to music, and thus
became a great favourite, the Emperor in return bestowing
magnificent gifts of horses and silks upon the
Governor. The Governor did not forget whence he had
obtained the cricket, and the magistrate also well rewarded
Ch‘êng by excusing him from the duties of
beadle, and by instructing the Literary Chancellor to
pass him for the first degree. A few months afterwards
Ch‘êng’s son recovered his intellect, and said that he had
been a cricket, and had proved himself a very skilful
fighter.[20] The Governor, too, rewarded Ch‘êng handsomely,
and in a few years he was a rich man, with flocks,
and herds, and houses, and acres, quite one of the
wealthiest of mankind.
Hsiang Kao, otherwise called Ch‘u-tan, was a
T‘ai-yüan man, and deeply attached to his half-brother
Shêng. Shêng himself was desperately enamoured of
a young lady named Po-ssŭ,[21] who was also very fond
of him: but the mother wanted too much money for
her daughter. Now a rich young fellow named Chuang
thought he should like to get Po-ssŭ for himself, and
proposed to buy her as a concubine. “No, no,” said
Po-ssŭ to her mother, “I prefer being Shêng’s wife to
becoming Chuang’s concubine.” So her mother consented,
and informed Shêng, who had only recently
buried his first wife; at which he was delighted and
made preparations to take her over to his own house.
When Chuang heard this he was infuriated against
Shêng for thus depriving him of Po-ssŭ; and chancing
to meet him out one day, set to and abused him
roundly. Shêng answered him back, and then Chuang
ordered his attendants to fall upon Shêng and beat him
well, which they did, leaving him lifeless on the ground.
When Hsiang heard what had taken place he ran out
and found his brother lying dead upon the ground.
Overcome with grief, he proceeded to the magistrate’s,
and accused Chuang of murder; but the latter bribed
so heavily that nothing came of the accusation. This
worked Hsiang to frenzy, and he determined to assassinate
Chuang on the high road; with which intent he
daily concealed himself, with a sharp knife about him,
among the bushes on the hill-side, waiting for Chuang
to pass. By degrees, this plan of his became known
far and wide, and accordingly Chuang never went out
except with a strong body-guard, besides which he
engaged at a high price the services of a very skilful
archer, named Chiao T‘ung, so that Hsiang had no
means of carrying out his intention. However, he continued
to lie in wait day after day, and on one occasion
it began to rain heavily, and in a short time Hsiang
was wet through to the skin. Then the wind got up,
and a hailstorm followed, and by-and-by Hsiang was
quite numbed with the cold. On the top of the hill
there was a small temple wherein lived a Taoist priest,
whom Hsiang knew from the latter having occasionally
begged alms in the village, and to whom he had often
given a meal. This priest, seeing how wet he was,
gave him some other clothes, and told him to put
them on; but no sooner had he done so than he
crouched down like a dog, and found that he had
been changed into a tiger, and that the priest had
vanished. It now occurred to him to seize this
opportunity of revenging himself upon his enemy; and
away he went to his old ambush, where lo and behold!
he found his own body lying stiff and stark. Fearing
lest it should become food for birds of prey, he guarded
it carefully, until at length one day Chuang passed by.
Out rushed the tiger and sprung upon Chuang, biting
his head off, and swallowing it upon the spot; at which
Chiao T‘ung, the archer, turned round and shot the
animal through the heart. Just at that moment
Hsiang awaked as though from a dream, but it was
some time before he could crawl home, where he arrived
to the great delight of his family, who didn’t
know what had become of him. Hsiang said not a
word, lying quietly on the bed until some of his people
came in to congratulate him on the death of his great
enemy Chuang. Hsiang then cried out, “I was that
tiger,” and proceeded to relate the whole story, which
thus got about until it reached the ears of Chuang’s
son, who immediately set to work to bring his father’s
murderer to justice. The magistrate, however, did not
consider this wild story as sufficient evidence against
him, and thereupon dismissed the case.
At Lin-t‘iao there lived a Mr. Fêng, whose other
name the person who told me this story could not
remember; he belonged to a good family, though now
somewhat falling into decay. Now a certain man, who
caught turtles, owed him some money which he could
not pay, but whenever he captured any turtles he used
to send one to Mr. Fêng. One day he took him an
enormous creature, with a white spot on its forehead;
but Fêng was so struck with something in its appearance,
that he let it go again. A little while afterwards
he was returning home from his son-in-law’s,
and had reached the banks of the river,[22] when in the
dusk of the evening he saw a drunken man come
rolling along, attended by two or three servants. No
sooner did he perceive Fêng than he called out, “Who
are you?” to which Fêng replied that he was a traveller.
“And haven’t you got a name?” shouted out
the drunken man in a rage, “that you must call yourself
a traveller?” To this Fêng made no reply, but
tried to pass by; whereupon he found himself seized
by the sleeve and unable to move. His adversary
smelt horribly of wine, and at length Fêng asked him,
saying, “And pray who are you?” “Oh, I am the
late magistrate at Nan-tu,” answered he; “what do
you want to know for?” “A nice disgrace to society
you are, too,” cried Fêng; “however, I am glad to
hear you are only late magistrate, for if you had been
present magistrate there would be bad times in store
for travellers.” This made the drunken man furious,
and he was proceeding to use violence, when Fêng
cried out, “My name is So-and-so, and I’m not the
man to stand this sort of thing from anybody.” No
sooner had he uttered these words than the drunken
man’s rage was turned into joy, and, falling on his
knees before Fêng, he said, “My benefactor! pray
excuse my rudeness.” Then getting up, he told his
servants to go on ahead and get something ready;
Fêng at first declining to go with him, but yielding on
being pressed. Taking his hand, the drunken man led
him along a short distance until they reached a village,
where there was a very nice house and grounds, quite
like the establishment of a person of position. As his
friend was now getting sober, Fêng inquired what
might be his name. “Don’t be frightened when I tell
you,” said the other; “I am the Eighth Prince of the
T‘iao river. I have just been out to take wine with
a friend, and somehow I got tipsy; hence my bad behaviour
to you, which please forgive.” Fêng now knew
that he was not of mortal flesh and blood; but, seeing
how kindly he himself was treated, he was not a bit afraid.
A banquet followed, with plenty of wine, of which the
Eighth Prince drank so freely that Fêng thought he
would soon be worse than ever, and accordingly said
he felt tipsy himself, and asked to be allowed to go to
bed. “Never fear,” answered the Prince, who perceived
Fêng’s thoughts; “many drunkards will tell you
that they cannot remember in the morning the extravagances
of the previous night, but I tell you this
is all nonsense, and that in nine cases out of ten
those extravagances are committed wittingly and with
malice prepense.[23] Now, though I am not the same
order of being as yourself, I should never venture to
behave badly in your good presence; so pray do not
leave me thus.” Fêng then sat down again and said
to the Prince, “Since you are aware of this, why not
change your ways?” “Ah,” replied the Prince, “when
I was a magistrate I drank much more than I do now;
but I got into disgrace with the Emperor and was
banished here, since which time, ten years and more, I
have tried to reform. Now, however, I am drawing
near the wood,[24] and being unable to move about much,
the old vice has come upon me again; I have found it
impossible to stop myself, but perhaps what you say
may do me some good.” While they were thus talking,
the sound of a distant bell broke upon their ears; and
the Prince, getting up and seizing Fêng’s hand, said,
“We cannot remain together any longer; but I will give
you something by which I may in part requite your
kindness to me. It must not be kept for any great
length of time; when you have attained your wishes,
then I will receive it back again.” Thereupon he spit
out of his mouth a tiny man, no more than an inch
high, and scratching Fêng’s arm with his nails until Fêng
felt as if the skin was gone, he quickly laid the little
man upon the spot. When he let go, the latter had
already sunk into the skin, and nothing was to be seen
but a cicatrix well healed over. Fêng now asked what
it all meant, but the Prince only laughed, and said, “It’s
time for you to go,” and forthwith escorted him to the
door. The prince here bade him adieu, and when he
looked round, Prince, village, and house had all disappeared
together, leaving behind a great turtle which
waddled down into the water, and disappeared likewise.
He could now easily account for the Prince’s present to
him; and from this moment his sight became intensely
keen. He could see precious stones lying in the bowels
of the earth, and was able to look down as far as Hell
itself; besides which he suddenly found that he knew
the names of many things of which he had never heard
before. From below his own bedroom he dug up many
hundred ounces of pure silver, upon which he lived
very comfortably; and once when a house was for sale,
he perceived that in it lay concealed a vast quantity of
gold, so he immediately bought it, and so became immensely
rich in all kinds of valuables. He secured a
mirror, on the back of which was a phœnix, surrounded
by water and clouds, and portraits of the celebrated
wives of the Emperor Shun,[25] so beautifully executed that
each hair of the head and eyebrows could easily be
counted. If any woman’s face came upon the mirror,
there it remained indelibly fixed and not to be rubbed
out; but if the same woman looked into the mirror
again, dressed in a different dress, or if some other
woman chanced to look in, then the former face would
gradually fade away.
Now the third princess in Prince Su’s family was very
beautiful; and Fêng, who had long heard of her fame,
concealed himself on the K‘ung-tung hill, when he knew
the Princess was going there. He waited until she
alighted from her chair, and then getting the mirror full
upon her, he walked off home. Laying it on the table,
he saw therein a lovely girl in the act of raising her
handkerchief, and with a sweet smile playing over her
face; her lips seemed about to move, and a twinkle was
discernible in her eyes.[26] Delighted with this picture, he
put the mirror very carefully away; but in about a year
his wife had let the story leak out, and the Prince, hearing
of it, threw Fêng into prison, and took possession
of the mirror. Fêng was to be beheaded; however, he
bribed one of the Prince’s ladies to tell His Highness
that if he would pardon him all the treasures of the
earth might easily become his; whereas, on the other
hand, his death could not possibly be of any advantage
to the Prince. The Prince now thought of confiscating
all his goods and banishing him; but the third princess
observed, that as he had already seen her, were he to
die ten times over it would not give her back her lost
face, and that she had much better marry him. The
Prince would not hear of this, whereupon his daughter
shut herself up and refused all nourishment, at which
the ladies of the palace were dreadfully alarmed, and
reported it at once to the Prince. Fêng was accordingly
liberated, and was informed of the determination of the
Princess, which, however, he declined to fall in with,
saying that he was not going thus to sacrifice the wife
of his days of poverty,[27] and would rather die than
carry out such an order. He added that if His Highness
would consent, he would purchase his liberty at the
price of everything he had. The Prince was exceedingly
angry at this, and seized Fêng again; and meanwhile
one of the concubines got Fêng’s wife into the palace,
intending to poison her. Fêng’s wife, however, brought
her a beautiful present of a coral stand for a looking-glass,
and was so agreeable in her conversation, that the concubine
took a great fancy to her, and presented her to the
Princess, who was equally pleased, and forthwith determined
that they would both be Fêng’s wives.[28] When
Fêng heard of this plan, he said to his wife, “With a
Prince’s daughter there can be no distinctions of first
and second wife;” but Mrs. Fêng paid no heed to him,
and immediately sent off to the Prince such an enormous
quantity of valuables that it took a thousand men
to carry them, and the Prince himself had never before
heard of such treasures in his life. Fêng was now
liberated once more, and solemnized his marriage with
the Princess.
One night after this he dreamt that the Eighth
Prince came to him and asked him to return his
former present, saying that to keep it too long would
be injurious to his chances of life. Fêng asked him to
take a drink, but the Eighth Prince said that he had
forsworn wine, acting under Fêng’s advice, for three
years. He then bit Fêng’s arm, and the latter waked up
with the pain to find that the cicatrix on his arm was no
longer there.
In the province of Kuangtung there lived a scholar
named Kuo, who was one evening on his way home from
a friend’s, when he lost his way among the hills. He
got into a thick jungle, where, after about an hour’s wandering,
he suddenly heard the sound of laughing and
talking on the top of the hill. Hurrying up in the
direction of the sound, he beheld some ten or a dozen
persons sitting on the ground engaged in drinking. No
sooner had they caught sight of Kuo than they all cried
out, “Come along! just room for one more; you’re in
the nick of time.” So Kuo sat down with the company,
most of whom, he noticed, belonged to the literati,[29] and
began by asking them to direct him on his way home;
but one of them cried out, “A nice sort of fellow you
are, to be bothering about your way home, and paying
no attention to the fine moon we have got to-night.”
The speaker then presented him with a goblet of wine of
exquisite bouquet, which Kuo drank off at a draught,
and another gentleman filled up again for him at once.
Now, Kuo was pretty good in that line, and being very
thirsty withal from his long walk, tossed off bumper after
bumper, to the great delight of his hosts, who were
unanimous in voting him a jolly good fellow. He was,
moreover, full of fun, and could imitate exactly the note
of any kind of bird; so all of a sudden he began on the sly
to twitter like a swallow, to the great astonishment of the
others, who wondered how it was a swallow could be out
so late. He then changed his note to that of a cuckoo,
sitting there laughing and saying nothing, while his hosts
were discussing the extraordinary sounds they had just
heard. After a while he imitated a parrot, and cried,
“Mr. Kuo is very drunk: you’d better see him home;”
and then the sounds ceased, beginning again by-and-by,
when at last the others found out who it was, and all
burst out laughing. They screwed up their mouths and
tried to whistle like Kuo, but none of them could do so;
and soon one of them observed, “What a pity Madam
Ch‘ing isn’t with us: we must rendezvous here again at
mid-autumn, and you, Mr. Kuo, must be sure and
come.” Kuo said he would, whereupon another of his
hosts got up and remarked that, as he had given them
such an amusing entertainment, they would try to shew
him a few acrobatic feats. They all arose, and one of
them planting his feet firmly, a second jumped up on to
his shoulders, a third on to the second’s shoulders, and a
fourth on to his, until it was too high for the rest to jump
up, and accordingly they began to climb as though it
had been a ladder. When they were all up, and the
topmost head seemed to touch the clouds, the whole
column bent gradually down until it lay along the
ground transformed into a path. Kuo remained for
some time in a state of considerable alarm, and then,
setting out along this path, ultimately reached his own
home. Some days afterwards he revisited the spot, and
saw the remains of a feast lying about on the ground,
with dense bushes on all sides, but no sign of a path.
At mid-autumn he thought of keeping his engagement;
however, his friends persuaded him not to go.
[30]
Mr. Niu was a Kiangsi man who traded in piece
goods. He married a wife from the Chêng family, by
whom he had two children, a boy and a girl. When
thirty-three years of age he fell ill and died, his son
Chung being then only twelve and his little girl eight or
nine. His wife did not remain faithful to his memory,
but, selling off all the property, pocketed the proceeds
and married another man, leaving her two children
almost in a state of destitution with their aunt, Niu’s
sister-in-law, an old lady of sixty, who had lived with
them previously, and had now nowhere to seek a shelter.
A few years later this aunt died, and the family fortunes
began to sink even lower than before; Chung, however,
was now grown up, and determined to carry on his
father’s trade, only he had no capital to start with. His
sister marrying a rich trader named Mao, she begged her
husband to lend Chung ten ounces of silver, which he
did, and Chung immediately started for Nanking. On
the road he fell in with some bandits, who robbed him
of all he had, and consequently he was unable to
return; but one day when he was at a pawnshop he
noticed that the master of the shop was wonderfully like
his late father, and on going out and making inquiries
he found that this pawnbroker bore precisely the same
names. In great astonishment, he forthwith proceeded
to frequent the place with no other object than to watch
this man, who, on the other hand, took no notice of
Chung; and by the end of three days, having satisfied
himself that he really saw his own father, and yet not
daring to disclose his own identity, he made application
through one of the assistants, on the score of being
himself a Kiangsi man, to be employed in the shop.
Accordingly, an indenture was drawn up; and when the
master noticed Chung’s name and place of residence he
started, and asked him whence he came. With tears in
his eyes Chung addressed him by his father’s name, and
then the pawnbroker became lost in a deep reverie,
by-and-by asking Chung how his mother was. Now
Chung did not like to allude to his father’s death, and
turned the question by saying, “My father went away on
business six years ago, and never came back; my
mother married again and left us, and had it not been
for my aunt our corpses would long ago have been cast
out in the kennel.” Then the pawnbroker was much
moved, and cried out, “I am your father!” seizing his
son’s hand and leading him within to see his step-mother.
This lady was about twenty-two, and, having no children
of her own, was delighted with Chung, and prepared a
banquet for him in the inner apartments. Mr. Niu himself
was, however, somewhat melancholy, and wished to
return to his old home; but his wife, fearing that there
would be no one to manage the business, persuaded him
to remain; so he taught his son the trade, and in three
months was able to leave it all to him. He then prepared
for his journey, whereupon Chung informed his
step-mother that his father was really dead, to which she
replied in great consternation that she knew him only as
a trader to the place, and that six years previously he
had married her, which proved conclusively that he
couldn’t be dead. He then recounted the whole story,
which was a perfect mystery to both of them; and
twenty-four hours afterwards in walked his father, leading
a woman whose hair was all dishevelled. Chung looked
at her and saw that she was his own mother; and Niu
took her by the ear and began to revile her, saying,
“Why did you desert my children?” to which the
wretched woman made no reply. He then bit her
across the neck, at which she screamed to Chung for
assistance, and he, not being able to bear the sight,
stepped in between them. His father was more than
ever enraged at this, when, lo! Chung’s mother had disappeared.
While they were still lost in astonishment at
this strange scene, Mr. Niu’s colour changed; in another
moment his empty clothes had dropped upon the ground,
and he himself became a black vapour and also vanished
from their sight. The step-mother and son were much
overcome; they took Niu’s clothes and buried them,
and after that Chung continued his father’s business and
soon amassed great wealth. On returning to his native
place he found that his mother had actually died on the
very day of the above occurrence, and that his father
had been seen by the whole family.
Ch‘ên Pi-chiao was a Pekingese; and being a poor
man he attached himself as secretary to the suite of a
high military official named Chia. On one occasion,
while anchored on the Tung-t‘ing lake, they saw a
dolphin[31] floating on the surface of the water; and
General Chia took his bow and shot at it, wounding
the creature in the back. A fish was hanging on to
its tail, and would not let go; so both were pulled out
of the water together, and attached to the mast. There
they lay gasping, the dolphin opening its mouth as if
pleading for life, until at length young Ch‘ên begged the
General to let them go again; and then he himself half
jokingly put a piece of plaster upon the dolphin’s wound,
and had the two thrown back into the water, where they
were seen for some time afterwards diving and rising
again to the surface. About a year afterwards, Ch‘ên
was once more crossing the Tung-t‘ing lake on his way
home, when the boat was upset in a squall, and he himself
only saved by clinging to a bamboo crate, which
finally, after floating about all night, caught in the overhanging
branch of a tree, and thus enabled him to
scramble on shore. By-and-by, another body floated in,
and this turned out to be his servant; but on dragging
him out, he found life was already extinct. In great
distress, he sat himself down to rest, and saw beautiful
green hills and waving willows, but not a single human
being of whom he could ask the way. From early dawn
till the morning was far advanced he remained in that
state; and then, thinking he saw his servant’s body move,
he stretched out his hand to feel it, and before long
the man threw up several quarts of water and recovered
his consciousness. They now dried their clothes in the
sun, and by noon these were fit to put on; at which
period the pangs of hunger began to assail them, and
accordingly they started over the hills in the hope of
coming upon some habitation of man. As they were
walking along, an arrow whizzed past, and the next
moment two young ladies dashed by on handsome
palfreys. Each had a scarlet band round her head,
with a bunch of pheasant’s feathers stuck in her hair,
and wore a purple riding-jacket with small sleeves,
confined by a green embroidered girdle round the waist.
One of them carried a cross-bow for shooting bullets,
and the other had on her arm a dark-coloured bow-and-arrow
case. Reaching the brow of the hill, Ch‘ên
beheld a number of riders engaged in beating the
surrounding cover, all of whom were beautiful girls
and dressed exactly alike. Afraid to advance any
further, he inquired of a youth who appeared to be in
attendance, and the latter told him that it was a hunting
party from the palace; and then, having supplied him
with food from his wallet, he bade him retire quickly,
adding that if he fell in with them he would assuredly
be put to death. Thereupon Ch‘ên hurried away; and
descending the hill, turned into a copse where there was
a building which he thought would in all probability be
a monastery. On getting nearer, he saw that the place
was surrounded by a wall, and between him and a half-open
red-door was a brook spanned by a stone bridge
leading up to it. Pulling back the door, he beheld
within a number of ornamental buildings circling in the
air like so many clouds, and for all the world resembling
the Imperial pleasure-grounds; and thinking it must
be the park of some official personage, he walked quietly
in, enjoying the delicious fragrance of the flowers as
he pushed aside the thick vegetation which obstructed
his way. After traversing a winding path fenced in by
balustrades, Ch‘ên reached a second enclosure, wherein
were a quantity of tall willow-trees which swept the red
eaves of the buildings with their branches. The note of
some bird would set the petals of the flowers fluttering
in the air, and the least wind would bring the seed-vessels
down from the elm-trees above; and the effect
upon the eye and heart of the beholder was something
quite unknown in the world of mortals. Passing
through a small kiosque, Ch‘ên and his servant came
upon a swing which seemed as though suspended from
the clouds, while the ropes hung idly down in the utter
stillness that prevailed.[32] Thinking by this that they
were approaching the ladies’ apartments,[33] Ch‘ên would
have turned back, but at that moment he heard sounds
of horses’ feet at the door, and what seemed to be
the laughter of a bevy of girls. So he and his servant
hid themselves in a bush; and by-and-by, as the sounds
came nearer, he heard one of the young ladies say,
“We’ve had but poor sport to-day;” whereupon another
cried out, “If the princess hadn’t shot that wild goose,
we should have taken all this trouble for nothing.”
Shortly after this, a number of girls dressed in red
came in escorting a young lady, who went and sat down
under the kiosque. She wore a hunting costume with
tight[34] sleeves, and was about fourteen or fifteen years old.
Her hair looked like a cloud of mist at the back of her
head, and her waist seemed as though a breath of
wind might snap it[35]—incomparable for beauty, even
among the celebrities of old. Just then the attendants
handed her some exquisitely fragrant tea, and stood
glittering round her like a bank of beautiful embroidery.
In a few moments the young lady arose and
descended the kiosque; at which one of her attendants
cried out, “Is your Highness too fatigued by riding
to take a turn in the swing?” The princess replied
that she was not; and immediately some supported
her under the shoulders, while others seized her arms,
and others again arranged her petticoats, and brought
her the proper shoes.[36] Thus they helped her into the
swing, she herself stretching out her shining arms, and
putting her feet into a suitable pair of slippers; and
then—away she went, light as a flying-swallow, far up
into the fleecy clouds. As soon as she had had enough,
the attendants helped her out, and one of them exclaimed,
“Truly, your Highness is a perfect angel!”
At this the young lady laughed, and walked away,
Ch‘ên gazing after her in a state of semi-consciousness,
until, at length, the voices died away, and he and his
servant crept forth. Walking up and down near the
swing, he suddenly espied a red handkerchief near
the paling, which he knew had been dropped by one
of the young ladies; and, thrusting it joyfully into his
sleeve, he walked up and entered the kiosque. There,
upon a table, lay writing materials, and taking out
the handkerchief he indited upon it the following
lines:—
“What form divine was just now sporting nigh?—
’Twas she, I trow of ‘golden lily’ fame;
Her charms the moon’s fair denizens might shame,
Her fairy footsteps bear her to the sky.”
Humming this stanza to himself, Ch‘ên walked along
seeking for the path by which he had entered; but
every door was securely barred, and he knew not what
to do. So he went back to the kiosque, when suddenly
one of the young ladies appeared, and asked him in
astonishment what he did there. “I have lost my way,”
replied Ch‘ên; “I pray you lend me your assistance.”
“Do you happen to have found a red handkerchief?” said
the girl. “I have, indeed,” answered Ch‘ên, “but I fear
I have made it somewhat dirty;” and, suiting the action to
the word, he drew it forth, and handed it to her. “Wretched
man!” cried the young lady, “you are undone. This
is a handkerchief the princess is constantly using, and you
have gone and scribbled all over it; what will become of
you now?” Ch‘ên was in a great fright, and begged the
young lady to intercede for him; to which she replied,
“It was bad enough that you should come here and
spy about; however, being a scholar, and a man of
refinement, I would have done my best for you; but
after this, how am I to help you?” Off she then ran
with the handkerchief, while Ch‘ên remained behind
in an agony of suspense, and longing for the wings of a
bird to bear him away from his fate. By-and-by, the
young lady returned and congratulated him, saying,
“There is some hope for you. The Princess read your
verses several times over, and was not at all angry. You
will probably be released; but, meanwhile, wait here,
and don’t climb the trees, or try to get through the
walls, or you may not escape after all.” Evening was
now drawing on, and Ch‘ên knew not, for certain, what
was about to happen; at the same time he was very
empty, and, what with hunger and anxiety, death would
have been almost a happy release. Before long, the
young lady returned with a lamp in her hand, and
followed by a slave-girl bearing wine and food, which
she forthwith presented to Ch‘ên. The latter asked if
there was any news about himself; to which the young
lady replied that she had just mentioned his case to
the Princess who, not knowing what to do with him
at that hour of the night, had given orders that he
should at once be provided with food, “which, at any
rate,” added she, “is not bad news.” The whole night
long Ch‘ên walked up and down unable to take rest;
and it was not till late in the morning that the young