Strange Stories from a Chinese Studio, Vol. 2 (of 2)
Strange Stories from a Chinese Studio, Vol. 2 (of 2)-3
A Mr. Ku, of Chiang-nan, was stopping in an inn
at Chi-hsia, when he was attacked by a very severe
inflammation of the eyes. Day and night he lay on his
bed groaning, no medicines being of any avail; and
when he did get a little better, his recovery was accompanied
by a singular phenomenon. Every time he
closed his eyes, he beheld in front of him a number of
large buildings, with all their doors wide open, and
people passing and repassing in the background, none
of whom he recognised by sight. One day he had just
sat down to have a good look, when, all of a sudden, he
felt himself passing through the open doors. He went
on through three court-yards without meeting any one;
but, on looking into some rooms on either side, he saw
a great number of young girls sitting, lying, and kneeling
about on a red carpet, which was spread on the
ground. Just then a man came out from behind the
building, and, seeing Ku, said to him, “Ah, the Prince
said there was a stranger at the door; I suppose you
are the person he meant.” He then asked Ku to walk
in, which the latter was at first unwilling to do; however,
he yielded to the man’s instances, and accompanied
him in, asking whose palace it was. His
guide told him it belonged to the son of the Ninth
Prince, and that he had arrived at the nick of time,
for a number of friends and relatives had chosen this
very day to come and congratulate the young gentleman
on his recent recovery from a severe illness. Meanwhile
another person had come out to hurry them on, and they
soon reached a spot where there was a pavilion facing
the north, with an ornamental terrace and red balustrades,
supported by nine pillars. Ascending the
steps, they found the place full of visitors, and then
espied a young man seated with his face to the north,[76]
whom they at once knew to be the Prince’s son, and
thereupon they prostrated themselves before him, the
whole company rising as they did so. The young
Prince made Ku sit down to the east of him, and
caused wine to be served; after which some singing-girls
came in and performed the Hua-fêng-chu.[77] They
had got to about the third scene, when, all of a sudden,
Ku heard the landlord of the inn and his servant
shouting out to him that dinner was ready, and was
dreadfully afraid that the young Prince, too, had heard.
No one, however, seemed to have noticed anything,
so Ku begged to be excused a moment, as he wished to
change his clothes, and immediately ran out. He then
looked up, and saw the sun low in the west, and his
servant standing by his bedside, whereupon he knew
that he had never left the inn. He was much chagrined
at this, and wished to go back as fast as he
could; he, therefore, dismissed his servant, and on
shutting his eyes once more, he found everything just
as he had left it, except that where, on the first
occasion, he had observed the young girls, there were
none now to be seen, but only some dishevelled hump-backed
creatures, who cried out at him, and asked him
what he meant by spying about there. Ku didn’t dare
reply, but hurried past them as quickly as he could,
and on to the pavilion of the young Prince. There he
found him still sitting, but with a black beard over a
foot in length; and the Prince was anxious to know
where he had been, saying that seven scenes of the
play were already over. He then seized a big goblet
of wine, and made Ku drink it as a penalty, by which
time the play was finished, and the list was handed up
for a further selection. The “Marriage of P‘êng Tsu”
was selected, and then the singing-girls began to hand
round the wine in cocoa-nuts big enough to hold about
five quarts, which Ku declined, on the ground that he
was suffering from weak eyes, and was consequently
afraid to drink too much. “If your eyes are bad,”
cried the young Prince, “the Court physician is at hand,
and can attend to you.” Thereupon, one of the guests
sitting to the east came forward, and opening Ku’s
eyes with his fingers, touched them with some white
ointment, which he applied from the end of a jade
pin. He then bade Ku close his eyes, and take a
short nap; so the Prince had him conducted into a
sleeping-room, where he found the bed so soft, and
surrounded by such delicious perfume, that he soon
fell into a deep slumber. By-and-by he was awaked
by what appeared to be the clashing of cymbals, and
fancied that the play was still going on; but on opening
his eyes, he saw that it was only the inn-dog, which was
licking an oilman’s gong.[78] His ophthalmia, however,
was quite cured; and when he shut his eyes again he
could see nothing.
At Huai-shang there lived a graduate named Chou
T‘ien-i, who, though fifty years of age, had but one son,
called K‘o-ch‘ang, whom he loved very dearly. This
boy, when about thirteen or fourteen, was a handsome,
well-favoured fellow, strangely averse to study, and often
playing truant from school, sometimes for the whole day,
without any remonstrance on the part of his father. One
day he went away and did not come back in the evening;
neither, after a diligent search, could any traces of
him be discovered. His father and mother were in
despair, and hardly cared to live; but after a year and
more had passed away, lo and behold! K‘o-ch‘ang returned,
saying that he had been beguiled away by a
Taoist priest, who, however, had not done him any
harm, and that he had seized a moment while the priest
was absent to escape and find his way home again. His
father was delighted, and asked him no more questions,
but set to work to give him an education; and K‘o-ch‘ang
was so much cleverer and more intelligent than he had
been before, that by the following year he had taken his
bachelor’s degree and had made quite a name for himself.
Immediately all the good families of the neighbourhood
wanted to secure him as a son-in-law. Among
others proposed there was an extremely nice girl, the
daughter of a gentleman named Chao, who had taken
his doctor’s degree, and K‘o-ch‘ang’s father was very
anxious that he should marry the young lady. The
youth himself would not hear of it, but stuck to his
books and took his master’s degree, quite refusing to entertain
any thought of marriage; and this so exasperated
his mother that one day the good lady began to rate him
soundly. K‘o-ch‘ang got up in a great rage and cried
out, “I have long been wanting to get away, and have
only remained for your sakes. I shall now say farewell,
and leave Miss Chao for any one that likes to marry her.”
At this his mother tried to detain him, but in a moment
he had fallen forwards on the ground, and there was
nothing left of him but his hat and clothes. They were
all dreadfully frightened, thinking that it must have been
K‘o-ch‘ang’s ghost who had been with them, and gave
themselves up to weeping and lamentation; however, the
very next day K‘o-ch‘ang arrived, accompanied by a
retinue of horses and servants, his story being that he
had formerly been kidnapped[79] and sold to a wealthy
trader, who, being then childless, had adopted him, but
who, when he subsequently had a son born to him by his
own wife, sent K‘o-ch‘ang back to his old home. And
as soon as his father began to question him as to his
studies, his utter dulness and want of knowledge soon
made it clear that he was the real K‘o-ch‘ang of old; but
he was already known as a man who had got his master’s
degree, (that is, the ghost of him had got it,) so it was
determined in the family to keep the whole affair secret.
This K‘o-ch‘ang was only too ready to espouse Miss
Chao; and before a year had passed over their heads
his wife had presented the old people with the much
longed-for grandson.
An official, named Chai, was appointed to a post at
Jao-chou, and on his way thither crossed the Po-yang
lake. Happening to visit the shrine of the local spirits,
he noticed a carved image of the patriotic Ting P‘u-lang,[80]
and another of a namesake of his own, the latter occupying
a very inferior position. “Come! come!” said
Chai, “my patron saint shan’t be put in the background
like that;” so he moved the image into a more honourable
place, and then went back on board his boat again.
Soon after, a great wind struck the vessel, and carried
away the mast and sails; at which the sailors, in great
alarm, set to work to howl and cry. However, in a few
moments they saw a small skiff come cutting through the
waves, and before long they were all safely on board.
The man who rowed it was strangely like the image in
the shrine, the position of which Chai had changed;
but they were hardly out of danger when the squall had
passed over, and skiff and man had both vanished.
A certain gentleman’s servant was one day in his
master’s garden, when he beheld a stream of cash[81]
flowing by, two or three feet in breadth and of about the
same depth. He immediately seized two large handfuls,
and then threw himself down on the top of the stream in
order to try and secure the rest. However, when he got
up he found that it had all flowed away from under him,
none being left except what he had got in his two
hands.
[“Ah!” says the commentator, “money is properly a
circulating medium, and is not intended for a man to
lie upon and keep all to himself.”][82]
Mr. Hsü was a magistrate at Shantung. A certain
upper chamber of his house was used as a store-room;
but some creature managed so frequently to get in and
make havoc among the stores, for which the servants
were always being scolded, that at length some of the
latter determined to keep watch. By-and-by they saw a
huge spider as big as a peck measure, and hurried off to
tell their master, who thought it so strange that he gave
orders to the servants to feed the insect with cakes. It
thus became very tame, and would always come forth
when hungry, returning as soon as it had taken enough
to eat.[83] Years passed away, and one day Mr. Hsü
was consulting his archives, when suddenly the spider
appeared and ran under the table. Thinking it was
hungry, he bade his servants give it a cake; but the
next moment he noticed two snakes, of about the thickness
of a chop-stick, lying one on each side. The spider
drew in its legs as if in mortal fear, and the snakes began
to swell out until they were as big round as an egg; at
which Mr. Hsü was greatly alarmed, and would have
hurried away, when crash! went a peal of thunder,
killing every person in the house. Mr. Hsü himself recovered
consciousness after a little while, but only to see
his wife and servants, seven persons in all, lying dead;
and after a month’s illness he, too, departed this life.
Now Mr. Hsü was an upright, honourable man, who
really had the interests of the people at heart. A subscription
was accordingly raised to pay his funeral
expenses, and on the day of his burial the air was rent
for miles round with cries of weeping and lamentation.
[Hereon the commentator, I Shih-shih, makes the
following remark:—“That dragons play with pearls[84] I
have always regarded as an old woman’s tale. Is it
possible, then, that the story is a fact? I have heard,
too, that the thunder strikes only the guilty man;[85] and,
if so, how could a virtuous official be visited with this
dire calamity?”]
A trader named Chia was voyaging on the south
seas, when one night it suddenly became as light as day
on board his ship. Jumping up to see what was the
matter, he beheld a huge creature with its body half out
of the water, towering up like a hill. Its eyes resembled
two suns, and threw a light far and wide; and when the
trader asked the boatmen what it was, there was not one
who could say. They all crouched down and watched
it; and by-and-by the monster gradually disappeared in
the water again, leaving everything in darkness as before.
And when they reached port, they found all the people
talking about a strange phenomenon of a great light that
had appeared in the night, the time of which coincided
exactly with the strange scene they themselves had witnessed.[86]
[87]
“... But if you would really like to have something
that has belonged to me,” said she, “you shall.”
Whereupon she took out a mirror and gave it to him,
saying, “Whenever you want to see me, you must look
for me in your books; otherwise I shall not be visible;”—and
in a moment she had vanished. Liu went home
very melancholy at heart; but when he looked in the
mirror, there was Fêng-hsien, standing with her back to
him, gazing, as it were, at some one who was going away,
and about a hundred paces from her. He then bethought
himself of her injunctions, and settled down to
his studies, refusing to receive any visitors; and a few
days subsequently, when he happened to look in the
mirror, there was Fêng-hsien, with her face turned towards
him, and smiling in every feature. After this, he
was always taking out the mirror to look at her; however,
in about a month his good resolutions began to
disappear, and he once more went out to enjoy himself
and waste his time as before. When he returned home
and looked in the mirror, Fêng-hsien seemed to be
crying bitterly; and the day after, when he looked at her
again, she had her back turned towards him as on the
day he received the mirror. He now knew that it was
because he had neglected his studies, and forthwith set
to work again with all diligence, until in a month’s time
she had turned round once again. Henceforward, whenever
anything interrupted his progress, Fêng-hsien’s
countenance became sad; but whenever he was getting
on well, her sadness was changed to smiles. Night and
morning Liu would look at the mirror, regarding it quite
in the light of a revered preceptor; and in three years’
time he took his degree in triumph. “Now,” cried he,
“I shall be able to look Fêng-hsien in the face.” And
there, sure enough, she was, with her delicately-pencilled
arched eye-brows, and her teeth just showing between
her lips, as happy-looking as she could be, when, all of a
sudden, she seemed to speak, and Liu heard her say,
“A pretty pair we make, I must allow”—and the next
moment Fêng-hsien stood by his side.
Mr. Tung was a Hsü-chou man, very fond of playing
broad-sword, and a light-hearted, devil-may-care fellow,
who was often involving himself in trouble. One day he
fell in with a traveller who was riding on a mule and
going the same way as himself; whereupon they entered
into conversation, and began to talk to each other about
feats of strength and so on. The traveller said his name
was T‘ung,[88] and that he belonged to Liao-yang; that he
had been twenty years away from home, and had just
returned from beyond the sea. “And I venture to say,”
cried Tung, “that in your wanderings on the Four Seas[89]
you have seen a great many people; but have you seen
any supernaturally clever ones?” T‘ung asked him to
what he alluded; and then Tung explained what his own
particular hobby was, adding how much he would like to
learn from them any tricks in the art of broad-sword.
“Supernatural,” replied the traveller, “are to be found
everywhere. It needs but that a man should be a loyal
subject and a filial son for him to know all that the
supernaturals know.” “Right you are, indeed!” cried
Tung, as he drew a short sword from his belt, and,
tapping the blade with his fingers, began to accompany
it with a song. He then cut down a tree that was by
the wayside, to shew T‘ung how sharp it was; at which
T‘ung smoothed his beard and smiled, begging to be
allowed to have a look at the weapon. Tung handed it
to him, and, when he had turned it over two or three
times, he said, “This is a very inferior piece of steel;
now, though I know nothing about broad-sword myself,
I have a weapon which is really of some use.” He then
drew from beneath his coat a sword of a foot or so in
length, and with it he began to pare pieces off Tung’s
sword, which seemed as soft as a melon, and which he
cut quite away like a horse’s hoof. Tung was greatly
astonished, and borrowed the other’s sword to examine
it, returning it after carefully wiping the blade. He then
invited T‘ung to his house, and made him stay the night;
and, after begging him to explain the mystery of his
sword, began to nurse his leg and sit listening respectfully
without saying a word. It was already pretty late,
when suddenly there was a sound of scuffling next door,
where Tung’s father lived; and, on putting his ear to the
wall, he heard an angry voice saying, “Tell your son to
come here at once, and then I will spare you.” This
was followed by other sounds of beating and a continued
groaning, in a voice which Tung knew to be his father’s.
He therefore seized a spear, and was about to rush forth,
but T‘ung held him back, saying, “You’ll be killed for a
certainty if you go. Let us think of some other plan.”
Tung asked what plan he could suggest; to which the
other replied, “The robbers are killing your father:
there is no help for you; but as you have no brothers,
just go and tell your wife and children what your last
wishes are, while I try and rouse the servants.” Tung
agreed to this, and ran in to tell his wife, who clung to
him and implored him not to go, until at length all his
courage had ebbed away, and he went upstairs with her
to get his bow and arrows ready to resist the robbers’
attack. At that juncture he heard the voice of his friend
T‘ung, outside on the eaves of the house, saying, with a
laugh, “All right; the robbers have gone;” but on
lighting a candle, he could see nothing of him. He
then stole out to the front door, where he met his father
with a lantern in his hand, coming in from a party at a
neighbour’s house; and the whole court-yard was covered
with the ashes of burnt grass, whereby he knew that
T‘ung the traveller was himself a supernatural.[90]
Mr. Ch‘ên, M.A., of Shun-t‘ien Fu, when a boy of
sixteen, went to school at a Buddhist temple.[91] There
were a great many scholars besides himself, and, among
others, one named Ch‘u, who said he came from Shantung.
This Ch‘u was a very hard-working fellow; he
never seemed to be idle, and actually slept in the school-room,
not going home at all. Ch‘ên became much
attached to him, and one day asked him why he never
went away. “Well, you see,” replied Ch‘u, “my
people are very poor, and can hardly afford to pay for
my schooling; but, by dint of working half the night,
two of my days are equal to three of anybody else’s.”
Thereupon Ch‘ên said he would bring his own bed to
the school, and that they would sleep there together; to
which Ch‘u replied that the teaching they got wasn’t
worth much, and that they would do better by putting
themselves under a certain old scholar named Lü. This
they were easily able to do, as the arrangement at the
temple was monthly, and at the end of each month anyone
was free to go or to come. So off they went to this
Mr. Lü, a man of considerable literary attainments, who
had found himself in Shun-t‘ien Fu without a cash in his
pocket, and was accordingly obliged to take pupils. He
was delighted at getting two additions to his number
and, Ch‘u showing himself an apt scholar, the two soon
became very great friends, sleeping in the same room and
eating at the same table. At the end of the month Ch‘u
asked for leave of absence, and, to the astonishment of
all, ten days elapsed without anything being heard of
him. It then chanced that Ch‘ên went to the T‘ien-ning
temple, and there he saw Ch‘u under one of the verandahs,
occupied in cutting wood for lucifer-matches.[92]
The latter was much disconcerted by the arrival of
Ch‘ên, who asked him why he had given up his studies;
so the latter took him aside, and explained that he was
so poor as to be obliged to work half a month to scrape
together funds enough for his next month’s schooling.
“You come along back with me,” cried Ch‘ên, on hearing
this, “I will arrange for the payment,” which Ch‘u immediately
consented to do on condition that Ch‘ên would
keep the whole thing a profound secret. Now Ch‘ên’s
father was a wealthy tradesman, and from his till Ch‘ên
abstracted money wherewith to pay for Ch‘u; and by-and-by,
when his father found him out, he confessed why
he had done so. Thereupon Ch‘ên’s father called him a
fool, and would not let him resume his studies; at which
Ch‘u was much hurt, and would have left the school too,
but that old Mr. Lü discovered what had taken place, and
gave him the money to return to Ch‘ên’s father, keeping
him still at the school, and treating him quite like his
own son. So Ch‘ên studied no more, but whenever he
met Ch‘u he always asked him to join in some refreshment
at a restaurant, Ch‘u invariably refusing, but
yielding at length to his entreaties, being himself loth to
break off their old acquaintanceship.
Thus two years passed away, when Ch‘ên’s father died,
and Ch‘ên went back to his books under the guidance of
old Mr. Lü, who was very glad to see such determination.
Of course Ch‘ên was now far behind Ch‘u;
and in about six months Lü’s son arrived, having begged
his way in search of his father, so Mr. Lü gave up his
school and returned home with a purse which his pupils
had made up for him, Ch‘u adding nothing thereto but
his tears. At parting, Mr. Lü advised Ch‘ên to take
Ch‘u as his tutor, and this he did, establishing him comfortably
in the house with him. The examination was
very shortly to commence, and Ch‘ên felt convinced that
he should not get through; but Ch‘u said he thought he
should be able to manage the matter for him. On the
appointed day he introduced Ch‘ên to a gentleman who
he said was a cousin of his, named Liu, and asked
Ch‘ên to accompany this cousin, which Ch‘ên was just
proceeding to do when Ch‘u pulled him back from behind,[93]
and he would have fallen down but that the
cousin pulled him up again, and then, after having
scrutinized his appearance, carried him off to his own
house. There being no ladies there, Ch‘ên was put into
the inner apartments; and a few days afterwards Liu
said to him, “A great many people will be at the
gardens to-day; let us go and amuse ourselves awhile,
and afterwards I will send you home again.” He then gave
orders that a servant should proceed on ahead with tea
and wine, and by-and-by they themselves went, and were
soon in the thick of the fête. Crossing over a bridge,
they saw beneath an old willow tree a little painted skiff,
and were soon on board, engaged in freely passing round
the wine. However, finding this a little dull, Liu bade
his servant go and see if Miss Li, the famous singing-girl,
was at home; and in a few minutes the servant
returned bringing Miss Li with him. Ch‘ên had met her
before, and so they at once exchanged greetings, while
Liu begged her to be good enough to favour them with a
song. Miss Li, who seemed labouring under a fit of
melancholy, forthwith began a funeral dirge; at which
Ch‘ên was not much pleased, and observed that such a
theme was hardly suitable to the occasion. With a
forced smile, Miss Li changed her key, and gave them a
love-song; whereupon Ch‘ên seized her hand, and said,
“There’s that song of the Huan-sha river,[94] which you
sang once before; I have read it over several times, but
have quite forgotten the words.” Then Miss Li began—
“Eyes overflowing with tears, she sits gazing into her glass,
Lifting the bamboo screen, one of her comrades approaches;
She bends her head and seems intent on her bow-like slippers,
And forces her eyebrows to arch themselves into a smile.
With her scarlet sleeve she wipes the tears from her perfumed cheek,
In fear and trembling lest they should guess the thoughts that
o’erwhelm her.”[95]
Ch‘ên repeated this over several times, until at length
the skiff stopped, and they passed through a long verandah,
where a great many verses had been inscribed on
the walls,[96] to which Ch‘ên at once proceeded to add a
stanza of his own. Evening was now coming on, and
Liu remarked that the candidates would be just about
leaving the examination-hall;[97] so he escorted him back
to his own home, and there left him. The room was
dark, and there was no one with him; but by-and-by the
servants ushered in some one whom at first he took to
be Ch‘u. However, he soon saw that it was not Ch‘u,
and in another moment the stranger had fallen against
him and knocked him down. “Master’s fainted!”
cried the servants, as they ran to pick him up; and then
Ch‘ên discovered that the one who had fallen down was
really no other than himself.[98] On getting up, he saw
Ch‘u standing by his side; and when they had sent away
the servants the latter said, “Don’t be alarmed: I am
nothing more than a disembodied spirit. My time for
re-appearing on earth[99] is long overdue, but I could not
forget your great kindness to me, and accordingly I have
remained under this form in order to assist in the accomplishment
of your wishes. The three bouts[100] are over, and
your ambition will be gratified.” Ch‘ên then inquired if
Ch‘u could assist him in like manner for his doctor’s
degree; to which the latter replied, “Alas! the luck
descending to you from your ancestors is not equal to
that.[101] They were a niggardly lot, and unfit for the
posthumous honours you would thus confer on them.”
Ch‘ên next asked him whither he was going; and Ch‘u
replied that he hoped, through the agency of his cousin,
who was a clerk in Purgatory, to be born again in old
Mr. Lü’s family. They then bade each other adieu;
and, when morning came, Ch‘ên set off to call on Miss
Li, the singing-girl; but on reaching her house he found
that she had been dead some days.[102] He walked on to
the gardens, and there he saw traces of verses that had
been written on the walls, and evidently rubbed out, so
as to be hardly decipherable. In a moment it flashed
across him that the verses and their composers
belonged to the other world. Towards evening Ch‘u
re-appeared in high spirits, saying that he had succeeded
in his design, and had come to wish Ch‘ên a long farewell.
Holding out his open palms, he requested Ch‘ên
to write the word Ch‘u on each; and then, after refusing
to take a parting cup, he went away, telling Ch‘ên that
the examination-list would soon be out, and that they
would meet again before long. Ch‘ên brushed away his
tears and escorted him to the door, where a man, who
had been waiting for him, laid his hand on Ch‘u’s head
and pressed it downwards until Ch‘u was perfectly flat.
The man then put him in a sack and carried him off on
his back. A few days afterwards the list came out,
and, to his great joy, Ch‘ên found his name among the
successful candidates; whereupon he immediately started
off to visit his old tutor, Mr. Lü.[103] Now Mr. Lü’s wife
had had no children for ten years, being about fifty years
of age, when suddenly she gave birth to a son, who was
born with both fists doubled up so that no one could
open them. On his arrival Ch‘ên begged to see the
child, and declared that inside its hands would be found
written the word Ch‘u. Old Mr. Lü laughed at this;
but no sooner had the child set eyes on Ch‘ên than both
its fists opened spontaneously, and there was the word as
Ch‘ên had said. The story was soon told, and Ch‘ên
went home, after making a handsome present to the
family; and later on, when Mr. Lü went up for his
doctor’s degree[104] and stayed at Ch‘ên’s house, his son
was thirteen years old, and had already matriculated as a
candidate for literary honours.
A certain cloth merchant went to Ch‘ing-chou, where
he happened to stroll into an old temple, all tumble-down
and in ruins. He was lamenting over this sad
state of things, when a priest who stood by observed
that a devout believer like himself could hardly do
better than put the place into repair, and thus obtain
favour in the eyes of Buddha. This the merchant consented
to do; whereupon the priest invited him to walk
into the private quarters of the temple, and treated him
with much courtesy; but he went on to propose that our
friend the merchant should also undertake the general
ornamentation of the place both inside and out.[105] The
latter declared he could not afford the expense, and the
priest began to get very angry, and urged him so
strongly that at last the merchant, in terror, promised to
give all the money he had. After this he was preparing to
go away, but the priest detained him, saying, “You
haven’t given the money of your own free will, and consequently
you’ll be owing me a grudge: I can’t do better
than make an end of you at once.” Thereupon he
seized a knife, and refused to listen to all the cloth
merchant’s entreaties, until at length the latter asked to
be allowed to hang himself, to which the priest consented;
and, showing him into a dark room, told him to
make haste about it.
At this juncture, a Tartar-General[106] happened to pass
by the temple; and from a distance, through a breach in
the old wall, he saw a damsel in a red dress pass into
the priest’s quarters. This roused his suspicions,[107] and
dismounting from his horse, he entered the temple and
searched high and low, but without discovering anything.
The dark room above-mentioned was locked and double-barred,
and the priest refused to open it, saying the place
was haunted. The General in a rage burst open the
door, and there beheld the cloth merchant hanging from
a beam. He cut him down at once, and in a short time
he was brought round and told the General the whole
story. They then searched for the damsel, but she was
nowhere to be found, having been nothing more than a
divine manifestation. The General cut off the priest’s
head and restored the cloth merchant’s property to him,
after which the latter put the temple in thorough repair
and kept it well supplied with lights and incense ever
afterwards.
Mr. Chao, M.A., told me this story with all its details.[108]
Han Kung-fu, of Yü-ch‘êng, told me that he was one
day travelling along a road with a man of his village,
named P‘êng, when all of a sudden the latter disappeared,
leaving his mule to jog along with an empty
saddle. At the same moment, Mr. Han heard his voice
calling for assistance, and apparently proceeding from
inside one of the panniers strapped across the mule’s
back; and on looking closely, there indeed he was in
one of the panniers, which, however, did not seem to be
at all displaced by his weight. On trying to get him out
the mouth of the pannier closed itself tightly; and it
was only when he cut it open with a knife that he saw
P‘êng curled up in it like a dog. He then helped him
out, and asked him how he managed to get in; but this
he was unable to say. It further appeared that his
family was under fox influence, many strange things of
this kind having happened before.
It is customary in Shantung, when any one is sick, for
the womenfolk to engage an old sorceress or medium,
who strums on a tambourine and performs certain
mysterious antics. This custom obtains even more in
the capital, where young ladies of the best families frequently
organize such séances among themselves. On a
table in the hall they spread out a profusion of wine and
meat, and burn huge candles which make the place as
light as day. Then the sorceress, shortening her skirts,
stands on one leg and performs the shang-yang,[109] while
two of the others support her, one on each side. All
this time she is chattering unintelligible sentences,[110] something
between a song and a prayer, the words being confused
but uttered in a sort of tune; while the hall resounds
with the thunder of drums, enough to stun a
person, with which her vaticinations are mixed up and
lost. By-and-by her head begins to droop, and her eyes
to look aslant; and but for her two supporters she would
inevitably fall to the ground. Suddenly she stretches
forth her neck and bounds several feet into the air, upon
which the other women regard her in terror, saying,
“The spirits have come to eat;” and immediately all
the candles are blown out and everything is in total
darkness. Thus they remain for about a quarter of an
hour, afraid to speak a word, which in any case would
not be heard through the din, until at length the
sorceress calls out the personal name of the head of the
family[111] and some others; whereupon they immediately
relight the candles and hurry up to ask if the reply of
the spirits is favourable or otherwise. They then see
that every scrap of the food and every drop of the wine
has disappeared. Meanwhile, they watch the old
woman’s expression, whereby they can tell if the spirits
are well disposed; and each one asks her some question,
to which she as promptly replies. Should there be
any unbelievers among the party, the spirits are at once
aware of their presence; and the old sorceress, pointing
her finger at such a one, cries out, “Disrespectful
mocker! where are your trousers?” upon which the
mocker alluded to looks down, and lo! her trousers are
gone—gone to the top of a tree in the court-yard, where
they will subsequently be found.[112]
Manchu women and girls, especially, are firm believers
in spiritualism. On the slightest provocation they consult
their medium, who comes into the room gorgeously
dressed, and riding on an imitation horse or tiger.[113] In
her hand she holds a long spear, with which she mounts
the couch[114] and postures in an extraordinary manner,
the animal she rides snorting or roaring fiercely all the
time. Some call her Kuan Ti,[115] others Chang Fei, and
others again Chou Kung, from her terribly martial
aspect, which strikes fear into all beholders. And should
any daring fellow try to peep in while the séance is going
on, out of the window darts the spear, transfixes his hat,
and draws it off his head into the room, while women
and girls, young and old, hop round one after the other
like geese, on one leg, without seeming to get the least
fatigued.
Several traders who were lodging at an inn in
Peking, occupied a room which was divided from the adjoining
apartment by a partition of boards from which a
piece was missing, leaving an aperture about as big as a
basin. Suddenly a girl’s head appeared through the
opening, with very pretty features and nicely dressed
hair; and the next moment an arm, as white as polished
jade. The traders were much alarmed, and, thinking it
was the work of devils, tried to seize the head, which,
however, was quickly drawn in again out of their reach.
This happened a second time, and then, as they could
see no body belonging to the head, one of them took a
knife in his hand and crept up against the partition
underneath the hole. In a little while the head re-appeared,
when he made a chop at it and cut it off, the
blood spurting out all over the floor and wall. The
traders hurried off to tell the landlord, who immediately
reported the matter to the authorities, taking the head
with him, and the traders were forthwith arrested and
examined; but the magistrate could make nothing of the
case, and, as no one appeared for the prosecution, the
accused, after about six months’ incarceration, were
accordingly released, and orders were given for the girl’s
head to be buried.
A man named Li, of I-tu, was once crossing the hills
when he came upon a number of persons sitting on the
ground engaged in drinking. As soon as they saw Li
they begged him to join them, and vied with each other
in filling his cup. Meanwhile, he looked about him and
noticed that the various trays and dishes contained all
kinds of costly food; the wine only seemed to him a
little rough on the palate. In the middle of their fun
up came a stranger with a face about three feet long and
a very tall hat; whereupon the others were very much
alarmed, and cried out, “The hill spirit! the hill
spirit!” running away in all directions as fast as they
could go. Li hid himself in a hole in the ground; and
when by-and-by he peeped out to see what had happened,
the wine and food had disappeared, and there
was nothing there but a few dirty potsherds and some
pieces of broken tiles with efts and lizards crawling over
them.[116]
K‘u Ta-yu was a native of the Yang district, and
managed to get a military appointment under the command
of Tsu Shu-shun.[117] The latter treated him most
kindly, and finally sent him as Major-General of some
troops by which he was then trying to establish the
dynasty of the usurping Chows. K‘u soon perceived
that the game was lost, and immediately turned his
forces upon Tsu Shu-shun, whom he succeeded in capturing,
after Tsu had been wounded in the hand, and
whom he at once forwarded as a prisoner to headquarters.
That night he dreamed that the Judge of
Purgatory appeared to him, and, reproaching him with
his base ingratitude, bade the devil-lictors seize him and
scald his feet in a cauldron of boiling oil. K‘u then
woke up with a start, and found that his feet were very
sore and painful; and in a short time they swelled up,
and his toes dropped off. Fever set in, and in his agony
he shrieked out, “Ungrateful wretch that I was indeed,”
and fell back and expired.
[118]
Now as they wandered about the temple they came
upon an old blind priest sitting under the verandah,
engaged in selling medicines and prescribing for patients.
“Ah!” cried Sung, “there is an extraordinary man who
is well versed in the arts of composition;” and immediately
he sent back to get the essay they had just
been reading, in order to obtain the old priest’s opinion
as to its merits. At the same moment up came their
friend from Yü-hang, and all three went along together.
Wang began by addressing him as “Professor;” whereupon
the priest, who thought the stranger had come to
consult him as a doctor, inquired what might be the
disease from which he was suffering. Wang then explained
what his mission was; upon which the priest
smiled and said, “Who’s been telling you this nonsense?
How can a man with no eyes discuss with you the merits
of your compositions?” Wang replied by asking him to
let his ears do duty for his eyes; but the priest answered
that he would hardly have patience to sit out Wang’s
three sections, amounting perhaps to some two thousand
and more words. “However,” added he, “if you like
to burn it, I’ll try what I can do with my nose.” Wang
complied, and burnt the first section there and then; and
the old priest, snuffing up the smoke, declared that it
wasn’t such a bad effort, and finally gave it as his
opinion that Wang would probably succeed at the
examination. The young scholar from Yü-hang didn’t
believe that the old priest could really tell anything by
these means, and forthwith proceeded to burn an essay
by one of the old masters; but the priest no sooner
smelt the smoke than he cried out, “Beautiful indeed!
beautiful indeed! I do enjoy this. The light of genius
and truth is evident here.” The Yü-hang scholar was
greatly astonished at this, and began to burn an essay of
his own; whereupon the priest said, “I had had but a
taste of that one; why change so soon to another?”
“The first paragraph,” replied the young man, “was by
a friend; the rest is my own composition.” No sooner
had he uttered these words than the old priest began to
retch violently, and begged that he might have no more,
as he was sure it would make him sick. The Yü-hang
scholar was much abashed at this, and went away; but
in a few days the list came out and his name was among
the successful ones, while Wang’s was not. He at once
hurried off to tell the old priest, who, when he heard the
news, sighed and said, “I may be blind with my eyes
but I am not so with my nose, which I fear is the case
with the examiners. Besides,” added he, “I was talking
to you about composition: I said nothing about destiny.”[119]
A man named T‘ien Tzŭ-ch‘êng, of Chiang-ning, was
crossing the Tung-t‘ing lake, when the boat was capsized,
and he was drowned. His son, Liang-ssŭ, who,
towards the close of the Ming dynasty, took the highest
degree, was then a baby in arms; and his wife, hearing
the bad news, swallowed poison forthwith,[120] and left the
child to the care of his grandmother. When Liang-ssŭ
grew up, he was appointed magistrate in Hu-pei, where
he remained about a year. He was then transferred to
Hu-nan, on military service; but, on reaching the Tung-t‘ing
lake, his feelings overpowered him, and he returned
to plead inability as an excuse for not taking
up his post. Accordingly, he was degraded to the rank
of Assistant-Magistrate, which he at first declined, but
was finally compelled to accept; and thenceforward
gave himself up to roaming about on the lakes and
streams of the surrounding country, without paying
much attention to his official duties.
One night he had anchored his boat alongside the
bank of a river, when suddenly the cadence of a
sweetly-played flageolet broke upon his ear; so he
strolled along by the light of the moon in the direction
of the music, until, after a few minutes’ walking, he
reached a cottage standing by itself, with a few citron-trees
round it, and brilliantly-lighted inside. Approaching
a window, he peeped in, and saw three persons
sitting at a table, engaged in drinking. In the place
of honour was a graduate of about thirty years of age;
an old man played the host, and at the side sat a
much younger man playing on the flageolet. When
he had finished, the old man clapped his hands in
admiration; but the graduate turned away with a sigh,
as if he had not heard a note. “Come now, Mr. Lu,”
cried the old man, addressing the latter, “kindly
favour us with one of your songs, which, I know, must
be worth hearing.” The graduate then began to sing as
follows:—
“Over the river the wind blows cold on lonely me:
Each flow’ret trampled under foot, all verdure gone.
At home a thousand li away, I cannot be;
So towards the Bridge my spirit nightly wanders on.”
The above was given in such melancholy tones that
the old man smiled and said, “Mr. Lu, these must be
experiences of your own,” and, immediately filling a
goblet, added, “I can do nothing like that; but if you
will let me, I will give you a song to help us on with
our wine.” He then sung a verse from “Li T‘ai-poh,”[121]
and put them all in a lively humour again; after
which the young man said he would just go outside
and see how high the moon was, which he did, and
observing Liang-ssŭ outside, clapped his hands, and
cried out to his companions, “There is a man at the
window, who has seen all we have been doing.” He
then led Liang-ssŭ in; whereupon the other two rose,
and begged him to be seated, and to join them in
their wine. The wine, however, was cold,[122] and he
therefore declined; but the young man at once perceived
his reason, and proceeded to warm some for
him. Liang-ssŭ now ordered his servant to go and buy
some more, but this his host would not permit him to
do. They next inquired Liang-ssŭ’s name, and whence
he came, and then the old man said, “Why, then, you
are the father and mother[123] of the district in which I
live. My name is River: I am an old resident here.
This young man is a Mr. Tu, of Kiang-si; and this
gentleman,” added he, pointing to the graduate, “is
Mr. Rushten,[124] a fellow-provincial of yours.” Mr.
Rushten looked at Liang-ssŭ in rather a contemptuous
way, and without taking much notice of him; whereupon
Liang-ssŭ asked him whereabouts he lived in
Chiang-ning, observing that it was strange he himself
should never have heard of such an accomplished
gentleman. “Alas!” replied Rushten, “it is many a
long day since I left my home, and I know nothing
even of my own family. Alas, indeed!” These words
were uttered in so mournful a tone of voice that the
old man broke in with, “Come, come, now! talking
like this, instead of drinking when we’re all so jolly
together; this will never do.” He then drained a
bumper himself, and said, “I propose a game of
forfeits. We’ll throw with three dice; and whoever
throws so that the spots on one die[125] equal those on
the other two shall give us a verse with a corresponding
classical allusion in it.” He then threw himself,
and turned up an ace, a two, and a three; whereupon
he sang the following lines:—
“An ace and a deuce on one side, just equal a three on the other:
For Fan a chicken was boiled, though three years had passed, by
Chang’s mother.[126]
Thus friends love to meet!”
Then the young musician threw, and turned up two
twos and a four; whereupon he exclaimed, “Don’t
laugh at the feeble allusion of an unlearned fellow like
me:—
‘Two deuces are equal to a four:
Four men united their valour in the old city.[127]
Thus brothers love to meet!’”
Mr. Rushten followed with two aces and a two, and
recited these lines:—
“Two aces are equal to a two:
Lu-hsiang stretched out his two arms and embraced his father.[128]
Thus father and son love to meet!”
Liang then threw, and turned up the same as Mr.
Rushten; whereupon he said:—
“Two aces are equal to a two:
Mao-jung regaled Lin-tsung with two baskets.[129]
Thus host and guest love to meet!”
When the partie was over Liang-ssŭ rose to go, but
Mr. Rushten said, “Dear me! why are you in such a
hurry; we haven’t had a moment to speak of the old
place. Please stay: I was just going to ask you a few
questions.” So Liang-ssŭ sat down again, and Mr.
Rushten proceeded. “I had an old friend,” said he,
“who was drowned in the Tung-t‘ing lake. He bore
the same name as yourself; was he a relative?” “He
was my father,” replied Liang-ssŭ; “how did you know
him?” “We were friends as boys together; and when
he was drowned, I recovered and buried his body by
the river-side.”[130] Liang-ssŭ here burst into tears, and
thanked Mr. Rushten very warmly, begging him to point
out his father’s grave. “Come again to-morrow,” said
Mr. Rushten, “and I will shew it to you. You could
easily find it yourself. It is close by here, and has ten
stalks of water-rush growing on it.” Liang-ssŭ now took
his leave, and went back to his boat, but he could not
sleep for thinking of what Mr. Rushten had told him;
and at length, without waiting for the dawn, he set out
to look for the grave. To his great astonishment, the
house where he had spent the previous evening had disappeared;
but hunting about in the direction indicated
by Mr. Rushten, he found a grave with ten water-rushes
growing on it, precisely as Mr. Rushten had described.
It then flashed across him that Mr. Rushten’s name had
a special meaning, and that he had been holding converse
with none other than the disembodied spirit of his
own father. And, on inquiring of the people of the
place, he learnt that twenty years before a benevolent
old gentleman, named Kao, had been in the habit of
collecting the bodies of persons found drowned, and
burying them in that spot. Liang then opened the
grave, and carried off his father’s remains to his own
home, where his grandmother, to whom he described
Mr. Rushten’s appearance, confirmed the suspicion he
himself had formed. It also turned out that the young
musician was a cousin of his, who had been drowned
when nineteen years of age; and then he recollected
that the boy’s father had subsequently gone to Kiang-si,
and that his mother had died there, and had been
buried at the Bamboo Bridge, to which Mr. Rushten
had alluded in his song. But he did not know who the
old man was.[131]
Wang Kuli-ngan was a young man of good family.
It happened once when he was travelling southwards,
and had moored his boat to the bank, that he saw in
another boat close by a young boat-girl embroidering
shoes. He was much struck by her beauty, and continued
gazing at her for some time, though she took not
the slightest notice of him. By-and-by he began
singing—
“The Lo-yang lady lives over the way:
[Fifteen years is her age I should say].”[132]
to attract her attention, and then she seemed to perceive
that he was addressing himself to her; but, after
just raising her head and glancing at him, she resumed
her embroidery as before. Wang then threw a piece
of silver towards her, which fell on her skirt; however
she merely picked it up, and flung it on to the
bank, as if she had not seen what it was, so Wang
put it back in his pocket again. He followed up by
throwing her a gold bracelet, to which she paid no
attention whatever, never taking her eyes off her work.
A few minutes after her father appeared, much to the
dismay of Wang, who was afraid he would see the
bracelet; but the young girl quietly placed her feet
over it, and concealed it from his sight. The boatman
let go the painter, and away they went down stream,
leaving Wang sitting there, not knowing what to do
next. And, having recently lost his wife, he regretted
that he had not seized this opportunity to make another
match; the more so, as when he came to ask the other
boat-people of the place, no one knew anything about
them. So Wang got into his own boat, and started off in
pursuit; but evening came on, and, as he could see
nothing of them, he was obliged to turn back and
proceed in the direction where business was taking
him. When he had finished that, he returned, making
inquiries all the way along, but without hearing anything
about the object of his search. On arriving at home,
he was unable either to eat or to sleep, so much did
this affair occupy his mind; and about a year afterwards
he went south again, bought a boat, and lived
in it as his home, watching carefully every single vessel
that passed either up or down, until at last there was
hardly one he didn’t know by sight. But all this time
the boat he was looking for never reappeared.
Some six months passed away thus, and then, having
exhausted all his funds, he was obliged to go home,
where he remained in a state of general inaptitude for
anything. One night he dreamed that he entered a
village on the river-bank, and that, after passing several
houses, he saw one with a door towards the south,
and a palisade of bamboos inside. Thinking it was a
garden, he walked in and beheld a beautiful magnolia,
covered with blossoms, which reminded him of the
line—
