Strange Stories from a Chinese Studio (Volumes 1 and 2)-5

Once upon a time there was a young man named

Ch‘ê, who was not particularly well off, but at the same

time very fond of his wine; so much so, that without

his three stoups of liquor every night, he was quite

unable to sleep, and bottles were seldom absent from

the head of his bed. One night he had waked up

and was turning over and over, when he fancied some

one was in the bed with him; but then, thinking it

was only the clothes which had slipped off, he put

out his hand to feel, and, lo! he touched something

silky like a cat, only larger. Striking a light, he found

it was a fox, lying in a drunken sleep like a dog; and

then looking at his wine bottle he saw that it had

been emptied. “A boon-companion,” said he, laughing,

as he avoided startling the animal, and covering it

up, lay down to sleep with his arm across it, and the

candle alight so as to see what transformation it might

undergo. About midnight, the fox stretched itself,

and Ch‘ê cried, “Well, to be sure, you’ve had a nice

sleep!” He then drew off the clothes, and beheld an

elegant young man in a scholar’s dress; but the young

man jumped up, and making a low obeisance, returned

his host many thanks for not cutting off his head.

“Oh,” replied Ch‘ê, “I am not averse to liquor myself;

in fact they say I’m too much given to it. You

shall play Pythias to my Damon;[143] and if you have

no objection, we’ll be a pair of bottle-and-glass chums.”

So they lay down and went to sleep again, Ch‘ê urging

the young man to visit him often, and saying that they

must have faith in each other. The fox agreed to

this, but when Ch‘ê awoke in the morning his bedfellow

had already disappeared. So he prepared a goblet

of first-rate wine in expectation of his friend’s arrival,

and at nightfall sure enough he came. They then sat

together drinking, and the fox cracked so many jokes

that Ch‘ê said he regretted he had not known him

before. “And truly I don’t know how to repay your

kindness,” replied the former, “in preparing all this

nice wine for me.” “Oh,” said Ch‘ê, “what’s a pint

or so of wine?—nothing worth speaking of.” “Well,”

rejoined the fox, “you are only a poor scholar, and

money isn’t so easily to be got. I must try if I can’t secure

a little wine capital for you.” Next evening when

he arrived, he said to Ch‘ê, “Two miles down towards

the south-east you will find some silver lying by the

wayside. Go early in the morning and get it.” So on

the morrow Ch‘ê set off and actually obtained two lumps

of silver with which he bought some choice morsels

to help them out with their wine that evening. The

fox now told him that there was a vault in his back-yard

which he ought to open; and when he did so,

he found therein more than a hundred strings of cash.[144]

“Now then,” cried Ch‘ê, delighted, “I shall have no

more anxiety about funds for buying wine with all this

in my purse.” “Ah,” replied the fox, “the water in

a puddle is not inexhaustible. I must do something

further for you.” Some days afterwards the fox said

to Ch‘ê, “Buckwheat is very cheap in the market just

now. Something is to be done in this line.” Accordingly,

Ch‘ê bought over forty tons, and thereby incurred

general ridicule; but by-and-by there was a bad drought

and all kinds of grain and beans were spoilt. Only

buckwheat would grow, and Ch‘ê sold off his stock

at a profit of one thousand per cent. His wealth thus

began to increase; he bought two hundred acres of rich

land, and always planted his crops, corn, millet, or what

not, upon the advice of the fox secretly given him

beforehand. The fox looked on Ch‘ê’s wife as a

sister, and on Ch‘ê’s children as his own; but when,

subsequently, Ch‘ê died, it never came to the house

again.

There was a young man named Sang Tzŭ-ming, a

native of I-chou, who had been left an orphan when

quite young. He lived near the Saffron market, and

kept himself very much to himself, only going out twice

a day for his meals to a neighbour’s close by, and sitting

quietly at home all the rest of his time. One day

the said neighbour called, and asked him in joke if

he wasn’t afraid of devil-foxes, so much alone as he

was. “Oh,” replied Sang, laughing, “what has the

superior man[145] to fear from devil-foxes. If they come

as men, I have here a sharp sword for them; and if

as women, why, I shall open the door and ask them

to walk in.” The neighbour went away, and having

arranged with a friend of his, they got a young lady

of their acquaintance to climb over Sang’s wall with

the help of a ladder, and knock at the door. Sang

peeped through, and called out, “Who’s there?” to which

the girl answered, “A devil!” and frightened Sang so

dreadfully that his teeth chattered in his head. The

girl then ran away, and next morning when his neighbour

came to see him, Sang told him what had happened,

and said he meant to go back to his native place. The

neighbour then clapped his hands, and said to Sang,

“Why didn’t you ask her in?” Whereupon Sang perceived

that he had been tricked, and went on quietly

again as before.

Some six months afterwards, a young lady knocked at

his door; and Sang, thinking his friends were at their old

tricks, opened it at once, and asked her to walk in. She

did so; and he beheld to his astonishment a perfect

Helen for beauty.[146] Asking her whence she came, she

replied that her name was Lien-hsiang, and that she

lived not very far off, adding that she had long been

anxious to make his acquaintance. After that she

used to drop in every now and again for a chat; but

one evening when Sang was sitting alone expecting her,

another young lady suddenly walked in. Thinking it

was Lien-hsiang, Sang got up to meet her, but found

that the new-comer was somebody else. She was about

fifteen or sixteen years of age, wore very full sleeves, and

dressed her hair after the fashion of unmarried girls,

being otherwise very stylish-looking and refined, and

apparently hesitating whether to go on or go back.

Sang, in a great state of alarm, took her for a fox;

but the young lady said, “My name is Li, and I am

of a respectable family. Hearing of your virtue and

talent, I hope to be accorded the honour of your

acquaintance.” Sang laughed, and took her by the

hand, which he found was as cold as ice; and when

he asked the reason, she told him that she had always

been delicate, and that it was very chilly outside. She

then remarked that she intended to visit him pretty

frequently, and hoped it would not inconvenience him;

so he explained that no one came to see him except

another young lady, and that not very often. “When

she comes, I’ll go,” replied the young lady, “and only

drop in when she’s not here.” She then gave him an

embroidered slipper, saying that she had worn it, and

that whenever he shook it she would know that he

wanted to see her, cautioning him at the same time

never to shake it before strangers. Taking it in his

hand he beheld a very tiny little shoe almost as fine

pointed as an awl, with which he was much pleased; and

next evening, when nobody was present, he produced the

shoe and shook it, whereupon the young lady immediately

walked in. Henceforth, whenever he brought

it out, the young lady responded to his wishes and

appeared before him. This seemed so strange that at

last he asked her to give him some explanation; but she

only laughed, and said it was mere coincidence. One

evening after this Lien-hsiang came, and said in alarm

to Sang, “Whatever has made you look so melancholy?”

Sang replied that he did not know, and by-and-by she

took her leave, saying, they would not meet again for

some ten days. During this period Miss Li visited

Sang every day, and on one occasion asked him where

his other friend was. Sang told her; and then she

laughed and said, “What is your opinion of me as

compared with Lien-hsiang?” “You are both of you

perfection,” replied he, “but you are a little colder of

the two.” Miss Li didn’t much like this, and cried

out, “Both of us perfection is what you say to me. Then

she must be a downright Cynthia,[147] and I am no match

for her.” Somewhat out of temper, she reckoned that

Lien-hsiang’s ten days had expired, and said she would

have a peep at her, making Sang promise to keep it

all secret. The next evening Lien-hsiang came, and

while they were talking she suddenly exclaimed, “Oh,

dear! how much worse you seem to have become in

the last ten days. You must have encountered something

bad.” Sang asked her why so; to which she

answered, “First of all your appearance; and then

your pulse is very thready.[148] You’ve got the devil-disease.”

The following evening when Miss Li came, Sang

asked her what she thought of Lien-hsiang. “Oh,”

said she, “there’s no question about her beauty; but

she’s a fox. When she went away I followed her to

her hole on the hill side.” Sang, however, attributed this

remark to jealousy, and took no notice of it; but the

next evening when Lien-hsiang came, he observed, “I

don’t believe it myself, but some one has told me you

are a fox.” Lien-hsiang asked who had said so, to which

Sang replied that he was only joking; and then she

begged him to explain what difference there was between

a fox and an ordinary person. “Well,” answered Sang,

“foxes frighten people to death, and, therefore, they are

very much dreaded.” “Don’t you believe that!” cried

Lien-hsiang; “and now tell me who has been saying

this of me.” Sang declared at first that it was only

a joke of his, but by-and-by yielded to her instances,

and let out the whole story. “Of course I saw how

changed you were,” said Lien-hsiang; “she is surely not

a human being to be able to cause such a rapid alteration

in you. Say nothing, to-morrow I’ll watch her as she

watched me.” The following evening Miss Li came

in; and they had hardly interchanged half-a-dozen

sentences when a cough was heard outside the window,

and Miss Li ran away. Lien-hsiang then entered and

said to Sang, “You are lost! She is a devil, and if you

do not at once forbid her coming here, you will soon

be on the road to the other world.” “All jealousy,”

thought Sang, saying nothing, as Lien-hsiang continued,

“I know that you don’t like to be rude to her; but I,

for my part, cannot see you sacrificed, and to-morrow

I will bring you some medicine to expel the poison from

your system. Happily, the disease has not yet taken

firm hold of you, and in ten days you will be well again.”

The next evening she produced a knife and chopped

up some medicine for Sang, which made him feel much

better; but, although he was very grateful to her, he still

persisted in disbelieving that he had the devil-disease.

After some days he recovered and Lien-hsiang left him,

warning him to have no more to do with Miss Li. Sang

pretended that he would follow her advice, and closed the

door and trimmed his lamp. He then took out the slipper,

and on shaking it Miss Li appeared, somewhat cross

at having been kept away for several days. “She merely

attended on me these few nights while I was ill,” said

Sang; “don’t be angry.” At this Miss Li brightened

up a little; but by-and-by Sang told her that people

said she was a devil. “It’s that nasty fox,” cried Miss

Li, after a pause, “putting these things into your head.

If you don’t break with her, I won’t come here again.”

She then began to sob and cry, and Sang had some

trouble in pacifying her. Next evening Lien-hsiang

came and found out that Miss Li had been there again;

whereupon she was very angry with Sang, and told him

he would certainly die. “Why need you be so jealous?”

said Sang, laughing; at which she only got more enraged,

and replied, “When you were nearly dying the other day

and I saved you, if I had not been jealous, where would

you have been now?” Sang pretended he was only

joking, and said that Miss Li had told him his recent

illness was entirely owing to the machinations of a fox;

to which she replied, “It’s true enough what you say,

only you don’t see whose machinations. However, if

any thing happens to you, I should never clear myself

even had I a hundred mouths; we will, therefore, part.

A hundred days hence I shall see you on your bed.”

Sang could not persuade her to stay, and away she

went; and from that time Miss Li became a regular

visitor.

Two months passed away, and Sang began to experience

a feeling of great lassitude, which he tried at first

to shake off, but by-and-by he became very thin, and could

only take thick gruel. He then thought about going back

to his native place; however, he could not bear to leave

Miss Li, and in a few more days he was so weak that he

was unable to get up. His friend next door, seeing how

ill he was, daily sent in his boy with food and drink; and

now Sang began for the first time to suspect Miss Li.

So he said to her, “I am sorry I didn’t listen to Lien-hsiang

before I got as bad as this.” He then closed

his eyes and kept them shut for some time; and when

he opened them again Miss Li had disappeared. Their

acquaintanceship was thus at an end, and Sang lay all

emaciated as he was upon his bed in his solitary room

longing for the return of Lien-hsiang. One day, while

he was still thinking about her, some one drew aside the

screen and walked in. It was Lien-hsiang; and approaching

the bed she said with a smile, “Was I then

talking such nonsense?” Sang struggled a long time

to speak; and, at length, confessing he had been wrong,

implored her to save him. “When the disease has

reached such a pitch as this,” replied Lien-hsiang, “there

is very little to be done. I merely came to bid you farewell,

and to clear up your doubts about my jealousy.” In

great tribulation, Sang asked her to take something she

would find under his pillow and destroy it; and she

accordingly drew forth the slipper, which she proceeded

to examine by the light of the lamp, turning it over and

over. All at once Miss Li walked in, but when she

saw Lien-hsiang she turned back as though she would

run away, which Lien-hsiang instantly prevented by

placing herself in the doorway. Sang then began to

reproach her, and Miss Li could make no reply; whereupon

Lien-hsiang said, “At last we meet. Formerly you

attributed this gentleman’s illness to me; what have you

to say now?” Miss Li bent her head in acknowledgment

of her guilt, and Lien-hsiang continued, “How

is it that a nice girl like you can thus turn love into

hate?” Here Miss Li threw herself on the ground

in a flood of tears and begged for mercy; and Lien-hsiang,

raising her up, inquired of her as to her past

life. “I am a daughter of a petty official named

Li, and I died young, leaving the web of my destiny

incomplete, like the silkworm that perishes in

the spring. To be the partner of this gentleman

was my ardent wish; but I had never any intention of

causing his death.” “I have heard,” remarked Lien-hsiang,

“that the advantage devils obtain by killing

people is that their victims are ever with them after

death. Is this so?” “It is not,” replied Miss Li; “the

companionship of two devils gives no pleasure to either.

Were it otherwise, I should not have wanted for friends

in the realms below. But tell me, how do foxes manage

not to kill people?” “You allude to such foxes as suck

the breath out of people?” replied Lien-hsiang; “I am

not of that class. Some foxes are harmless; no devils

are,[149] because of the dominance of the yin[150] in their compositions.”

Sang now knew that these two girls were

really a fox and a devil; however, from being long

accustomed to their society, he was not in the least

alarmed. His breathing had dwindled to a mere thread,

and at length he uttered a cry of pain. Lien-hsiang

looked round and said, “How shall we cure him?”

upon which Miss Li blushed deeply and drew back; and

then Lien-hsiang added, “If he does get well, I’m afraid

you will be dreadfully jealous.” Miss Li drew herself

up, and replied, “Could a physician be found to wipe

away the wrong I have done to this gentleman, I would

bury my head in the ground. How should I look the

world in the face?” Lien-hsiang here opened a bag and

drew forth some drugs, saying, “I have been looking

forward to this day. When I left this gentleman I

proceeded to gather my simples, as it would take three

months for the medicine to be got ready; but then,

should the poison have brought anyone even to death’s

door, this medicine is able to call him back. The only

condition is that it be administered by the very hand

which wrought the ill.” Miss Li did as she was told

and put the pills Lien-hsiang gave her one after another

into Sang’s mouth. They burnt his inside like fire; but

soon vitality began to return, and Lien-hsiang cried out,

“He is cured!” Just at this moment Miss Li heard the

cock crow and vanished,[151] Lien-hsiang remaining behind

in attendance on the invalid, who was unable to feed

himself. She bolted the outside door and pretended

that Sang had returned to his native place, so as to

prevent visitors from calling. Day and night she took

care of him, and every evening Miss Li came in to

render assistance, regarding Lien-hsiang as an elder

sister, and being treated by her with great consideration

and kindness. Three months afterwards Sang was as

strong and well as ever he had been, and then for

several evenings Miss Li ceased to visit them, only

staying a few moments when she did come, and seeming

very uneasy in her mind. One evening Sang ran after her

and carried her back in his arms, finding her no heavier

than so much straw; and then, being obliged to stay,

she curled herself up and lay down, to all appearance

in a state of unconsciousness, and by-and-by she was

gone. For many days they heard nothing of her, and

Sang was so anxious that she should come back that

he often took out her slipper and shook it. “I don’t

wonder at your missing her,” said Lien-hsiang, “I do

myself very much indeed.” “Formerly,” observed Sang,

“when I shook the slipper she invariably came. I

thought it very strange, but I never suspected her of

being a devil. And now, alas! all I can do is to sit

and think about her with this slipper in my hand.” He

then burst into a flood of tears.

Now a young lady named Yen-êrh, belonging to the

wealthy Chang family, and about fifteen years of age,

had died suddenly, without any apparent cause, and had

come to life again in the night, when she got up and

wished to go out. They barred the door and would

not hear of her doing so; upon which she said, “I am

the spirit daughter of a petty magistrate. A Mr. Sang

has been very kind to me, and I have left my slipper

at his house. I am really a spirit; what is the use of

keeping me in?” There being some reason for what

she said, they asked her why she had come there; but

she only looked up and down without being able to

give any explanation. Some one here observed, that

Mr. Sang had already gone home, but the young lady

utterly refused to believe them. The family was much disturbed

at all this; and when Sang’s neighbour heard the

story, he jumped over the wall, and peeping through beheld

Sang sitting there chatting with a pretty-looking girl.

As he went in, there was some commotion, during which

Sang’s visitor had disappeared, and when his neighbour

asked the meaning of it all, Sang replied, laughing,

“Why, I told you if any ladies came I should ask them

in.” His friend then repeated what Miss Yen-êrh

had said; and Sang, unbolting his door, was about to

go and have a peep at her, but unfortunately had no

means of so doing. Meanwhile Mrs. Chang, hearing

that he had not gone away, was more lost in astonishment

than ever, and sent an old woman-servant to

get back the slipper. Sang immediately gave it to her,

and Miss Yen-êrh was delighted to recover it, though

when she came to try it on it was too small for her

by a good inch. In considerable alarm, she seized

a mirror to look at herself; and suddenly became

aware that she had come to life again in some one

else’s body. She therefore told all to her mother,

and finally succeeded in convincing her, crying all

the time because she was so changed for the worse

as regarded personal appearance from what she had

been before. And whenever she happened to see

Lien-hsiang, she was very much disconcerted, declaring

that she had been much better off as a devil

than now as a human being. She would sit and weep

over the slipper, no one being able to comfort her; and

finally, covering herself up with bed-clothes, she lay

all stark and stiff, positively refusing to take any

nourishment. Her body swelled up, and for seven

days she refused all food, but did not die; and then the

swelling began to subside, and an intense hunger to

come upon her which made her once more think about

eating. Then she was troubled with a severe irritation,

and her skin peeled entirely away; and when she got

up in the morning, she found that the shoes had fallen

off. On trying to put them on again, she discovered

that they did not fit her any longer; and then she went

back to her former pair which were now exactly of the

right size and shape. In an ecstasy of joy, she grasped

her mirror, and saw that her features had also changed

back to what they had formerly been; so she washed

and dressed herself and went in to visit her mother.

Every one who met her was much astonished; and when

Lien-hsiang heard the strange story, she tried to persuade

Mr. Sang to make her an offer of marriage. But the

young lady was rich and Sang was poor, and he did

not see his way clearly. However, on Mrs. Chang’s

birthday, when she completed her cycle of sixty-one

years,[152] Sang went along with the others to wish her

many happy returns of the day; and when the old

lady knew who was coming, she bade Yen-êrh take

a peep at him from behind the curtain. Sang arrived

last of all; and immediately out rushed Miss Yen-êrh

and seized his sleeve, and said she would go back with

him. Her mother scolded her well for this, and she

ran in abashed; but Sang, who had looked at her

closely, began to weep, and threw himself at the feet

of Mrs. Chang who raised him up without saying

anything unkind. Sang then took his leave, and got

his uncle to act as medium between them; the result

being that an auspicious day was fixed upon for the

wedding. At the appointed time Sang proceeded to

the house to fetch her; and when he returned he found

that, instead of his former poor-looking furniture,

beautiful carpets were laid down from the very door,

and thousands of coloured lanterns were hung about

in elegant designs. Lien-hsiang assisted the bride to

enter, and took off her veil, finding her the same bright

girl as ever. She also joined them while drinking

the wedding cup,[153] and inquired of her friend as to

her recent transmigration; and Yen-êrh related as

follows:—“Overwhelmed with grief, I began to shrink

from myself as some unclean thing; and, after separating

from you that day, I would not return any more to my

grave. So I wandered about at random, and whenever

I saw a living being, I envied its happy state. By

day I remained among trees and shrubs, but at night

I used to roam about anywhere. And once I came to

the house of the Chang family, where, seeing a young

girl lying upon the bed, I took possession of her mortal

coil, unknowing that she would be restored to life

again.” When Lien-hsiang heard this she was for

some time lost in thought; and a month or two afterwards

became very ill. She refused all medical aid and

gradually got worse and worse, to the great grief of

Mr. Sang and his wife, who stood weeping at her bedside.

Suddenly she opened her eyes, and said, “You

wish to live; I am willing to die. If fate so ordains it,

we shall meet again ten years hence.” As she uttered

these words, her spirit passed away, and all that remained

was the dead body of a fox. Sang, however,

insisted on burying it with all the proper ceremonies.

Now his wife had no children; but one day a servant

came in and said, “There is an old woman outside who

has got a little girl for sale.” Sang’s wife gave orders

that she should be shown in; and no sooner had she

set eyes on the girl than she cried out, “Why, she’s the

image of Lien-hsiang!” Sang then looked at her, and

found to his astonishment that she was really very like

his old friend. The old woman said she was fourteen

years old; and when asked what her price was, declared

that her only wish was to get the girl comfortably

settled, and enough to keep herself alive, and ensure not

being thrown out into the kennel at death. So Sang

gave a good price for her;[154] and his wife, taking the

girl’s hand, led her into a room by themselves. Then,

chucking her under the chin, she asked her, smiling,

“Do you know me?” The girl said she did not; after

which she told Mrs. Sang that her name was Wei, and

that her father, who had been a pickle-merchant at

Hsü-ch‘êng, had died three years before. Mrs. Sang

then calculated that Lien-hsiang had been dead just

ten years; and, looking at the girl, who resembled

her so exactly in every trait, at length patted her on

the head, saying, “Ah, my sister, you promised to visit

us again in ten years, and you have not played us false.”

The girl here seemed to wake up as if from a dream,

and, uttering an exclamation of surprise, fixed a steady

gaze upon Sang’s wife. Sang himself laughed, and said,

“Just like the return of an old familiar swallow.”

“Now I understand,” cried the girl, in tears; “I recollect

my mother saying that when I was born I was able

to speak; and that, thinking it an inauspicious manifestation,

they gave me dog’s blood to drink, so that

I should forget all about my previous state of existence.[155]

Is it all a dream, or are you not the Miss Li who

was so ashamed of being a devil?” Thus they chatted

of their existence in a former life, with alternate tears

and smiles; but when it came to the day for worshipping

at the tombs, Yen-êrh explained that she and her

husband were in the habit of annually visiting and

mourning over her grave. The girl replied that she

would accompany them; and when they got there

they found the whole place in disorder, and the coffin

wood all warped. “Lien-hsiang and I,” said Yen-êrh

to her husband, “have been attached to each other in

two states of existence. Let us not be separated, but

bury my bones here with hers.” Sang consented, and

opening Miss Li’s tomb, took out the bones and buried

them with those of Lien-hsiang, while friends and

relatives, who had heard the strange story, gathered

round the grave in gala dress to the number of many

hundreds.

I learnt the above when travelling through I-chou,

where I was detained at an inn by rain, and read a

biography of Mr. Sang written by a comrade of his

named Wang Tzŭ-chang. It was lent me by a Mr. Liu

Tzŭ-ching, a relative of Sang’s, and was quite a long

account. This is merely an outline of it.

In the province of Kuang-si there lived a scholar of

some reputation, named Sun Tzŭ-ch‘u. He was born

with six fingers, and such a simple fellow was he that he

readily believed any nonsense he was told. Very shy

with the fair sex, the sight of a woman was enough to

send him flying in the opposite direction; and once

when he was inveigled into a room where there were

some young ladies, he blushed down to his neck and the

perspiration dripped off him like falling pearls. His

companions laughed heartily at his discomfiture, and

told fine stories of what a noodle he looked, so that he

got the nickname of Silly Sun.

In the town where our hero resided, there was a rich

trader whose wealth equalled that of any prince or

nobleman, and whose connections were all highly aristocratic.[156]

He had a daughter, A-pao, of great beauty, for

whom he was seeking a husband; and the young men of

position in the neighbourhood were vying with each

other to obtain her hand, but none of them met with

the father’s approval. Now Silly Sun had recently lost

his wife; and some one in joke persuaded him to try his

luck and send in an application. Sun, who had no idea

of his own shortcomings, proceeded at once to follow this

advice; but the father, though he knew him to be an

accomplished scholar, rejected his suit on the ground of

poverty. As the go-between[157] was leaving the house, she

chanced to meet A-pao, and related to her the object of

her visit. “Tell him,” cried A-pao, laughing, “that if

he’ll cut off his extra finger, I’ll marry him.” The old

woman reported this to Sun, who replied, “That is not

very difficult;” and, seizing a chopper, cut the finger

clean off. The wound was extremely painful and he lost

so much blood that he nearly died, it being many days

before he was about again. He then sought out the

go-between, and bade her inform Miss A-pao, which she

did; and A-pao was taken rather aback, but she told the

old woman to go once more and bid him cut off the

“silly” from his reputation. Sun got much excited

when he heard this, and denied that he was silly; however,

as he was unable to prove it to the young lady herself,

he began to think that probably her beauty was

over-stated, and that she was giving herself great airs.

So he ceased to trouble himself about her until the

following spring festival,[158] when it was customary for both

men and women to be seen abroad, and the young rips

of the place would stroll about in groups and pass their

remarks on all and sundry. Sun’s friends urged him to

join them in their expedition, and one of them asked

him with a smile if he did not wish to look out for a

suitable mate. Sun knew they were chaffing him, but he

thought he should like to see the girl that had made

such a fool of him, and was only too pleased to accompany

them. They soon perceived a young lady resting

herself under a tree, with a throng of young fellows

crowding round her, and they immediately determined

that she must be A-pao, as in fact they found she was.

Possessed of peerless beauty, the ring of her admirers

gradually increased, till at last she rose up to go. The

excitement among the young men was intense; they

criticised her face and discussed her feet,[159] Sun only

remaining silent; and when they had passed on to something

else, there they saw Sun rooted like an imbecile

to the same spot. As he made no answer when spoken

to, they dragged him along with them, saying, “Has

your spirit run away after A-pao?” He made no reply

to this either; but they thought nothing of that, knowing

his usual strangeness of manner, so by dint of pushing

and pulling they managed to get him home. There he

threw himself on the bed and did not get up again for

the rest of the day, lying in a state of unconsciousness

just as if he were drunk. He did not wake when called;

and his people, thinking that his spirit had fled, went

about in the fields calling out to it to return.[160] However,

he shewed no signs of improvement; and when they

shook him, and asked him what was the matter, he only

answered in a sleepy kind of voice, “I am at A-pao’s

house;” but to further questions he would not make

any reply, and left his family in a state of keen suspense.

Now when Silly Sun had seen the young lady get up

to go, he could not bear to part with her, and found

himself first following and then walking along by her

side without anyone saying anything to him. Thus he

went back with her to her home, and there he remained

for three days, longing to run home and get something

to eat, but unfortunately not knowing the way. By that

time Sun had hardly a breath left in him; and his

friends, fearing that he was going to die, sent to beg of

the rich trader that he would allow a search to be made

for Sun’s spirit in his house. The trader laughed and

said, “He wasn’t in the habit of coming here, so he

could hardly have left his spirit behind him;” but he

yielded to the entreaties of Sun’s family, and permitted

the search to be made. Thereupon a magician proceeded

to the house, taking with him an old suit of

Sun’s clothes and some grass matting; and when Miss

A-pao heard the reason for which he had come, she

simplified matters very much by leading the magician

straight to her own room. The magician summoned the

spirit in due form, and went back towards Sun’s house.

By the time he had reached the door, Sun groaned and

recovered consciousness; and he was then able to

describe all the articles of toilette and furniture in

A-pao’s room without making a single mistake. A-pao

was amazed when the story was repeated to her, and

could not help feeling kindly towards him on account of

the depth of his passion. Sun himself, when he got

well enough to leave his bed, would often sit in a state

of abstraction as if he had lost his wits; and he was for

ever scheming to try and have another glimpse at A-pao.

One day he heard that she intended to worship at the

Shui-yüeh temple on the 8th of the fourth moon, that

day being the Wash-Buddha festival; and he set off

early in the morning to wait for her at the roadside. He

was nearly blind with straining his eyes, and the sun was

already past noontide before the young lady arrived; but

when she saw from her carriage a gentleman standing

there, she drew aside the screen and had a good stare at

him. Sun followed her in a great state of excitement,

upon which she bade one of her maids to go and ask his

name. Sun told her who he was, his perturbation all

the time increasing; and when the carriage drove on he

returned home. Again he became very ill, and lay on

his bed unconscious, without taking any food, occasionally

calling on A-pao by name, at the same time

abusing his spirit for not having been able to follow her

as before. Just at this juncture a parrot that had been

long with the family died; and a child, playing with the

body, laid it upon the bed. Sun then reflected that if he

was only a parrot one flap of his wings would bring him

into the presence of A-pao; and while occupied with

these thoughts, lo! the dead body moved and the

parrot flew away. It flew straight to A-pao’s room, at

which she was delighted; and catching it, tied a string

to its leg, and fed it upon hemp-seed. “Dear sister,”

cried the bird, “do not tie me by the leg: I am Sun

Tzŭ-ch‘u.” In great alarm A-pao untied the string, but

the parrot did not fly away. “Alas!” said she, “your

love has engraved itself upon my heart; but now you

are no longer a man, how shall we ever be united

together?” “To be near your dear self,” replied the

parrot, “is all I care about.” The parrot then refused

to take food from anyone else, and kept close to Miss

A-pao wherever she went, day and night alike. At the

expiration of three days, A-pao, who had grown very

fond of her parrot, secretly sent some one to ask how

Mr. Sun was; but he had already been dead three days,

though the part over his heart had not grown cold.

“Oh! come to life again as a man,” cried the young

lady, “and I swear to be yours for ever.” “You are

surely not in earnest,” said the parrot, “are you?”

Miss A-pao declared she was, and the parrot, cocking its

head aside, remained some time as if absorbed in

thought. By-and-by A-pao took off her shoes to bind

her feet a little tighter;[161] and the parrot, making a rapid

grab at one, flew off with it in its beak. She called

loudly after it to come back, but in a moment it was out

of sight; so she next sent a servant to inquire if there

was any news of Mr. Sun, and then learnt that he had

come round again, the parrot having flown in with an

embroidered shoe and dropped down dead on the

ground. Also, that directly he regained consciousness

he asked for the shoe, of which his people knew nothing;

at which moment her servant had arrived, and demanded

to know from him where it was. “It was given to me

by Miss A-pao as a pledge of faith,” replied Sun; “I

beg you will tell her I have not forgotten her promise.”

A-pao was greatly astonished at this, and instructed her

maid to divulge the whole affair to her mother, who,

when she had made some inquiries, observed that Sun

was well known as a clever fellow, but was desperately

poor, and “to get such a son-in-law after all our trouble

would give our aristocratic friends the laugh against us.”[162]

However, A-pao pleaded that with the shoe there as a

proof against her, she would not marry anybody else;

and, ultimately, her father and mother gave their consent.

This was immediately announced to Mr. Sun, whose

illness rapidly disappeared in consequence. A-pao’s

father would have had Sun come and live with them;[163]

but the young lady objected, on the score that a son-in-law

should not remain long at a time with the family of

his wife,[164] and that as he was poor he would lower himself

still more by doing so. “I have accepted him,”

added she, “and I shall gladly reside in his humble

cottage, and share his poor fare without complaint.”

The marriage was then celebrated, and bride and bridegroom

met as if for the first time in their lives.[165] The

dowry A-pao brought with her somewhat raised their

pecuniary position, and gave them a certain amount of

comfort; but Sun himself stuck only to his books, and

knew nothing about managing affairs in general. Luckily

his wife was clever in that respect, and did not bother

him with such things; so much so that by the end of

three years they were comparatively well off, when Sun

suddenly fell ill and died. Mrs. Sun was inconsolable,

and refused either to sleep or take nourishment, being

deaf to all entreaties on the subject; and before long,

taking advantage of the night, she hanged herself.[166] Her

maid, hearing a noise, ran in and cut her down just in

time: but she still steadily refused all food. Three days

passed away, and the friends and relatives of Sun came

to attend his funeral, when suddenly they heard a sigh

proceeding forth from the coffin. The coffin was then

opened and they found that Sun had come to life again.

He told them that he had been before the Great Judge,

who, as a reward for his upright and honourable life,

had conferred upon him an official appointment. “At

this moment,” said Sun, “it was reported that my wife

was close at hand,[167] but the Judge, referring to the

register, observed that her time had not yet come. They

told him she had taken no food for three days; and then

the Judge, looking at me, said that as a recompense for

her wifely virtues she should be permitted to return to

life. Thereupon he gave orders to his attendants to put

to the horses and see us safely back.” From that hour

Sun gradually improved, and the next year went up for

his master’s degree. All his old companions chaffed

him exceedingly before the examination, and gave him

seven themes on out-of-the-way subjects, telling him

privately that they had been surreptitiously obtained

from the examiners. Sun believed them as usual, and

worked at them day and night until he was perfect, his

comrades all the time enjoying a good laugh against him.

However, when the day came it was found that the

examiners, fearing lest the themes they had chosen in

an ordinary way should have been dishonestly made

public,[168] took a set of fresh ones quite out of the

common run—in fact, on the very subjects Sun’s companions

had given to him. Consequently, he came out

at the head of the list; and the next year, after taking

his doctor’s degree, he was entered among the Han-lin

Academicians.[169] The Emperor, too, happening to hear

of his curious adventures, sent for him and made him

repeat his story; subsequently, summoning A-pao and

making her some very costly presents.

Jen Chien-chih was a native of Yü-t‘ai, and a dealer

in rugs and furs. One day he set off for Shensi, taking

with him every penny he could scrape together; and on

the road he met a man who told him that his name was

Shên Chu-t‘ing, and his native place Su-ch‘ien. These

two soon became firm friends, and entered into a

masonic bond[170] with each other, journeying on together

by the same stages until they reached their destination.

By-and-by Mr. Jen fell sick, and his companion had to

nurse him, which he did with the utmost attention, but

for ten days he gradually got worse and worse, and at

length said to Shên, “My family is very poor. Eight

mouths depend upon my exertions for food; and now,

alas! I am about to die, far from my own home. You

and I are brothers. At this distance there is no one

else to whom I can look. Now in my purse you will

find two hundred ounces of silver. Take half, and

when you have defrayed my funeral expenses, use the

balance for your return journey; and give the other half

to my family, that they may be able to send for my

coffin.[171] If, however, you will take my mortal remains

with you home to my native place, these expenses need

not be incurred.” He then, with the aid of a pillow,

wrote a letter, which he handed to Shên, and that evening

he died. Thereupon Shên purchased a cheap

coffin[172] for some five or six ounces of silver; and, as the

landlord kept urging him to take away the body, he said

he would go out and seek for a temple where it might

be temporarily deposited. But he ran away and never

went back to the inn; and it was more than a year

before Jen’s family knew what had taken place. His

son was just about seventeen years of age, and had

recently been reading with a tutor; but now his books

were laid aside, and he proposed to go in search of his

father’s body. His mother said he was too young; and

it was only when he declared he would rather not live

than stay at home, that with the aid of the pawn-shop[173]

enough money was raised to start him on his way. An

old servant accompanied him, and it was six months

before they returned and performed the last ceremonies

over Jen’s remains. The family was thus reduced to

absolute destitution; but happily young Hsiu was a

clever fellow, and when the days of mourning[174] were

over, took his bachelor’s degree. On the other hand, he

was somewhat wild and very fond of gambling; and

although his mother strictly prohibited such diversions,

all her prohibitions were in vain. By-and-by the Grand

Examiner arrived, and Hsiu came out in the fourth class.

His mother was extremely angry, and refused to take

food, which brought young Hsiu to his senses, and he

promised her faithfully he would never gamble again.

From that day he shut himself up, and the following

year took a first class degree, coming out among the

“senior” graduates.[175] His mother now advised him to

take pupils, but his reputation as a disorderly fellow

stuck to him, and no one would entrust their sons to his

care.

Just then an uncle of his, named Chang, was about to

start with merchandise for the capital, and recommended

that Hsiu should go along with him, promising himself to

pay all expenses, an offer which Hsiu was only too pleased

to accept. When they reached Lin-ch‘ing, they anchored

outside the Custom House, where they found a great

number of salt-junks, in fact a perfect forest of masts;

and what with the noise of the water and the people it

was quite impossible to sleep. Besides, as the row was

beginning to subside, the clear rattle of dice from a

neighbouring boat fell upon Hsiu’s ear, and before long

he was itching to be back again at his old games.

Listening to hear if all around him were sound asleep,

he drew forth a string of cash that he had brought with

him, and thought he would just go across and try his

luck. So he got up quietly with his money, and was on

the point of going, when he suddenly recollected his

mother’s injunctions, and at once tying his purse-strings

laid himself down to sleep. He was far too excited,

however, to close his eyes; and after a while got up

again and re-opened his purse. This he did three times,

until at last it was too much for him, and off he went

with his money. Crossing over into the boat whence

the sounds proceeded, he beheld two persons engaged in

gambling for high stakes; so throwing his money on the

table, he begged to be allowed to join. The others

readily consented, and they began to play, Hsiu winning

so rapidly that soon one of the strangers had no money

left, and was obliged to get the proprietor of the boat to

change a large piece of silver for him, proceeding to lay

down as much as several ounces of silver for a single

stake.

As the play was in full swing another man walked

in, who after watching for some time at length got the

proprietor to change another lump of silver for him

of one hundred ounces in weight, and also asked to

be allowed to join. Now Hsiu’s uncle, waking up in the

middle of the night, and finding his nephew gone, and

hearing the sound of dice-throwing hard by, knew at

once where he was, and immediately followed him to the

boat with a view of bringing him back. Finding, however,

that Hsiu was a heavy winner, he said nothing to

him, only carrying off a portion of his winnings to their

own boat and making the others of his party get up and

help him to fetch the rest, even then leaving behind a

large sum for Hsiu to go on with. By-and-by the three

strangers had lost all their ready money, and there wasn’t

a farthing left in the boat: upon which one of them

proposed to play for lumps of silver, but Hsiu said he

never went so high as that. This made them a little

quarrelsome, Hsiu’s uncle all the time trying to get him

away; and the proprietor of the boat, who had only his

own commission in view, managed to borrow some

hundred strings of cash from another boat, and started

them all again. Hsiu soon took this out of them; and,

as day was beginning to dawn and the Custom House

was about to open, he went off with his winnings back to

his own boat.

The proprietor of the gambling-boat now found that

the lumps of silver which he had changed for his

customers were nothing more than so much tinsel, and

rushing off in a great state of alarm to Hsiu’s boat,

told him what had happened and asked him to make it

good; but when he discovered he was speaking to the

son of his former travelling companion, Jen Chien-chih,

he hung his head and slunk away covered with shame.

For the proprietor of that boat was no other than Shên

Chu-t‘ing, of whom Hsiu had heard when he was in

Shensi; now, however, that with supernatural aid[176] the

wrongs of his father had been avenged, he determined

to pursue the man no further. So going into partnership

with his uncle, they proceeded north together; and by

the end of the year their capital had increased five-fold.

Hsiu then purchased the status of chien-shêng,[177] and by

further careful investment of his money ultimately

became the richest man in that part of the country.

In Honan there lived a man named Chang, who

originally belonged to Shantung. His wife had been

seized and carried off by the soldiery during the period

when Ching Nan’s troops were overrunning the latter

province;[178] and as he was frequently in Honan on business,

he finally settled there and married a Honan wife,

by whom he had a son named Na. By-and-by this wife

died, and he took another, who bore him a son named

Ch‘êng. The last-mentioned lady was from the Niu

family, and a very malicious woman. So jealous was

she of Na, that she treated him like a slave or a beast of

the field, giving him only the coarsest food, and making

him cut a large bundle of wood every day, in default of

which she would beat and abuse him in a most shameful

manner. On the other hand she secretly reserved all

the tit-bits for Ch‘êng, and also sent him to school. As

Ch‘êng grew up, and began to understand the meaning

of filial piety and fraternal love,[179] he could not bear to

see this treatment of his elder brother, and spoke privately

to his mother about it; but she would pay no

heed to what he said.

One day, when Na was on the hills performing his

task, a violent storm came on, and he took shelter under

a cliff. However, by the time it was over the sun had

set, and he began to feel very hungry. So, shouldering

his bundle, he wended his way home, where his step-mother,

displeased with the small quantity of wood he

had brought, refused to give him anything to eat. Quite

overcome with hunger, Na went in and lay down; and

when Ch‘êng came back from school, and saw the state

he was in, he asked him if he was ill. Na replied that

he was only hungry, and then told his brother the whole

story; whereupon Ch‘êng coloured up and went away,

returning shortly with some cakes, which he offered to

Na. “Where did you get them?” asked the latter.

“Oh,” replied Ch‘êng, “I stole some flour and got a

neighbour’s wife to make them for me. Eat away, and

don’t talk.” Na ate them up; but begged his brother

not to do this again, as he might get himself into

trouble. “I shan’t die,” added he, “if I only get one

meal a-day.” “You are not strong,” rejoined Ch‘êng,

“and shouldn’t cut so much wood as you do.”

Next day, after breakfast, Ch‘êng slipped away to the

hills, and arrived at the place where Na was occupied

with his usual task, to the great astonishment of the

latter, who inquired what he was going to do. “To

help you cut wood,” replied Ch‘êng. “And who sent

you?” asked his brother. “No one,” said he; “I came

of my own accord.” “Ah,” cried Na, “you can’t do

this work; and even if you can you must not. Run

along home again.” Ch‘êng, however, remained, aiding

his brother with his hands and feet alone, but declaring

that on the morrow he would bring an axe. Na tried to

stop him, and found that he had already hurt his finger

and worn his shoes into holes; so he began to cry, and

said, “If you don’t go home directly, I’ll kill myself

with my axe.” Ch‘êng then went away, his brother

seeing him half-way home, and going back to finish his

work by himself. He also called in the evening at

Ch‘êng’s school, and told the master his brother was a

delicate boy, and should not be allowed to go on the

hills, where, he said, there were fierce tigers and wolves.

The master replied that he didn’t know where Ch‘êng

had been all the morning, but that he had caned him for

playing truant. Na further pointed out to Ch‘êng that

by not doing as he had told him, he had let himself in

for a beating. Ch‘êng laughed, and said he hadn’t been

beaten; and the very next day off he went again, and

this time with a hatchet. “I told you not to come,”

cried Na, much alarmed; “why have you done so?”

Ch‘êng made no reply, but set to work chopping wood

with such energy that the perspiration poured down his

face; and when he had cut about a bundle he went

away without saying a word. The master caned him

again, and then Ch‘êng told him how the matter stood,

at which the former became full of admiration for his

pupil’s kind behaviour, and no longer prevented him

from going. His brother, however, frequently urged

him not to come, though without the slightest success;

and one day, when they went with a number of others to

cut wood, a tiger rushed down from the hills upon them.

The wood-cutters hid themselves, in the greatest consternation;

and the tiger, seizing Ch‘êng, ran off with

him in his mouth. Ch‘êng’s weight caused the tiger to

move slowly; and Na, rushing after them, hacked away

at the tiger’s flanks with his axe. The pain only made

the tiger hurry off, and in a few minutes they were out

of sight. Overwhelmed with grief, Na went back to his

comrades, who tried to soothe him; but he said, “My

brother was no ordinary brother, and, besides, he died

for me; why, then, should I live?” Here, seizing his

hatchet, he made a great chop at his own neck, upon

which his companions prevented him from doing himself

any more mischief. The wound, however, was over an

inch deep, and blood was flowing so copiously that Na

became faint, and seemed at the point of death. They

then tore up their clothes, and, after having bandaged

his neck, proceeded to carry him home. His step-mother

cried bitterly, and cursed him, saying, “You

have killed my son, and now you go and cut your neck

in this make-believe kind of way.” “Don’t be angry,

mother,” replied Na; “I will not live now that my

brother is dead.” He then threw himself on the bed;

but the pain of his wound was so great he could not

sleep, and day and night he sat leaning against the wall

in tears. His father, fearing that he too would die, went

every now and then and gave him a little nourishment;

but his wife cursed him so for doing it, that at length Na

refused all food, and in three days he died.

Now in the village where these events took place there

was a magician who was employed in certain devil-work

among mortals,[180] and Na’s ghost, happening to fall in

with him, related the story of its previous sorrows,

winding up by asking where his brother’s ghost was.

The magician said he didn’t know, but turned round

with Na and shewed him the way to a city where they

saw an official servant coming out of the city gates.

The magician stopped him, and inquired if he could

tell them anything about Ch‘êng; whereupon the man

drew out a list from a pouch at his side, and, after carefully

examining it, replied that among the male and

female criminals within there was no one of the name of

Chang.[181] The magician here suggested that the name

might be on another list; but the man replied that he

was in charge of that road, and surely ought to know.

Na, however, was not satisfied, and persuaded the

magician to enter the city, where they met many new

and old devils walking about, among whom were some

Na had formerly known in life. So he asked them if

they could direct him to his brother but none of them

knew where he was; and suddenly there was a great

commotion, the devils on all sides crying out, “P‘u-sa[182]

has come!” Then, looking up, Na beheld a most

beautiful man descending from above, encircled by

rays of glory, which shot forth above and below, lighting

up all around him. “You are in luck’s way, Sir,”

said the magician to Na; “only once in many thousand

years does P‘u-sa descend into hell and banish all

suffering. He has come to-day.” He then made Na

kneel, and all the devils began with clasped hands to

sing songs of praise to P‘u-sa for his compassion in

releasing them from their misery, shaking the very earth

with the sound. P‘u-sa himself, seizing a willow-branch,

sprinkled them all with holy water; and when this was

done the clouds and glory melted away, and he vanished

from their sight. Na, who had felt the holy water fall

upon his neck, now became conscious that the axe-wound

was no longer painful; and the magician then

proceeded to lead him back, not quitting him until

within sight of the village gate. In fact, Na had been

in a trance for two days, and when he recovered he told

them all that he had seen, asserting positively that

Ch‘êng was not dead. His mother, however, looked

upon the story as a make-up, and never ceased reviling

him; and, as he had no means of proving his innocence,

and his neck was now quite healed, he got up from the

bed and said to his father, “I am going away to seek for

my brother throughout the universe; if I do not find him,

never expect to see me again, but I pray you regard me

as dead.” His father drew him aside and wept bitterly.

However, he would not interfere with his son’s design,

and Na accordingly set off. Whenever he came to a

large town or populous place he used to ask for news of

Ch‘êng; and by-and-by, when his money was all spent,

he begged his way on foot. A year had passed away

before he reached Nanking, and his clothes were all in

tatters as ragged as a quail’s tail,[183] when suddenly he

met some ten or a dozen horsemen, and drew away to

the roadside. Among them was a gentleman of about

forty, who appeared to be a mandarin, with numerous

lusty attendants and fiery steeds accompanying him before

and behind. One young man on a small palfrey,

whom Na took to be the mandarin’s son, and at whom,

of course, he did not venture to stare, eyed him closely

for some time, and at length stopped his steed, and,

jumping off, cried out, “Are you not my brother?” Na

then raised his head, and found that Ch‘êng stood before

him. Grasping each other’s hands, the brothers burst

into tears, and at length Ch‘êng said, “My brother, how

is it you have strayed so far as this?” Na told him the

circumstances, at which he was much affected; and

Ch‘êng’s companions, jumping off their horses to see

what was the matter, went off and informed the mandarin.

The latter ordered one of them to give up his

horse to Na, and thus they rode together back to the

mandarin’s house. Ch‘êng then told his brother how

the tiger had carried him away, and how he had been

thrown down in the road, where he had passed a whole

night; also how the mandarin, Mr. Chang,[184] on his return

from the capital, had seen him there, and, observing that

he was no common-looking youth, had set to work and

brought him round again. Also how he had said to Mr.

Chang that his home was a great way off, and how Mr.

Chang had taken him to his own home, and finally

cured him of his wounds; when, having no son of his

own, he had adopted him. And now, happening to be

out with his father, he had caught sight of his brother.

As he was speaking Mr. Chang walked in, and Na

thanked him very heartily for all his kindness; Ch‘êng,

meanwhile, going into the inner apartments to get some

clothes for his brother. Wine and food was placed on

the table; and while they were chatting together the

mandarin asked Na about the number of their family in

Honan. “There is only my father,” replied Na, “and

he is a Shantung man who came to live in Honan.”

“Why, I am a Shantung man too,” rejoined Mr. Chang;

“what is the name of your father’s native place?” “I

have heard that it was in the Tung-ch‘ang district,” replied

Na. “Then we are from the same place,” cried

the mandarin. “Why did your father go away to

Honan?” “His first wife,” said Na, “was carried off

by soldiers, and my father lost everything he possessed;

so, being in the habit of trading to Honan, he determined

to settle down there for good.” The mandarin

then asked what his father’s other name was, and when

he heard, he sat some time staring at Na, and at length

hurried away within. In a few moments out came an

old lady, and when they had all bowed to her, she asked

Na if he was Chang Ping-chih’s grandson. On his replying

in the affirmative, the old lady wept, and, turning to

Mr. Chang, said, “These two are your younger brothers.”

And then she explained to Na and Ch‘êng as

follows:—“Three years after my marriage with your

father, I was carried off to the north and made a slave[185]

in a mandarin’s family. Six months afterwards your

elder brother here was born, and in another six months

the mandarin died. Your elder brother being his heir,

he received this appointment, which he is now resigning.

I have often thought of my native place, and have not

unfrequently sent people to inquire about my husband,

giving them the full particulars as to name and clan; but

I could never hear anything of him. How should I

know that he had gone to Honan?” Then, addressing

Mr. Chang, she continued, “That was rather a mistake

of yours, adopting your own brother.” “He never told

me anything about Shantung,” replied Mr. Chang; “I

suppose he was too young to remember the story; and I

only looked at the difference between our ages.” For

he, the elder of the brothers, was forty-one; Ch‘êng, the

younger, being only sixteen; and Na, twenty years of

age. Mr. Chang was very glad to get two young

brothers; and when he heard the tale of their separation,

proposed that they should all go back to their

father. Mrs. Chang was afraid her husband would not

care to receive her back again; but her eldest son said,

“We will cast our lot together; all or none. How can

there be a country where fathers are not valued?” They

then sold their house and packed up, and were soon on

the way to Honan. When they arrived, Ch‘êng went in

first to tell his father, whose third wife had died since Na

left, and who now was a desolate old widower, left alone

with only his own shadow. He was overjoyed to see

Ch‘êng again, and, looking fondly at his son, burst into

a flood of tears. Ch‘êng told him his mother and

brothers were outside, and the old man was then perfectly

transfixed with astonishment, unable either to

laugh or to cry. Mr. Chang next appeared, followed by

his mother; and the two old people wept in each other’s

arms, the late solitary widower hardly knowing what to

make of the crowd of men and women-servants that

suddenly filled his house. Here Ch‘êng, not seeing his

own mother, asked where she was; and when he heard

she was dead, he fainted away, and did not come round

for a good half-hour. Mr. Chang found the money for

building a fine house, and engaged a tutor for his two

brothers. Horses pranced in the stables, and servants

chattered in the hall—it was quite a large establishment.

There was a certain scholar who, passing through

Su-ch‘ien on his way to Nanking, where he was going to

try for his master’s degree, happened to fall in with three

other gentlemen, all graduates like himself, and was so

charmed with their unusual refinement that he purchased

a quantity of wine, and begged them to join him

in drinking it. While thus pleasantly employed, his

three friends told him their names. One was Chieh

Ch‘in-hêng; the second, Ch‘ang Fêng-lin; and the other,

Ma Hsi-ch‘ih. They drank away and enjoyed themselves

very much, until evening had crept upon them

unperceived, when Chieh said, “Here we, who ought to

have been playing the host, have been feasting at a

stranger’s expense. This is not right. But, come, my

house is close by; I will provide you with a bed.”

Ch‘ang and Ma got up, and, taking our hero by the arm,

bade his servant come along with them. When they

reached a hill to the north of the village, there before

them was a house and grounds, with a stream of clear

water in front of the door, all the apartments within

being beautifully clean and nice. Chieh then gave

orders to light the lamps and see after his visitor’s

servant; whereupon Ma observed, “Of old it was customary

to set intellectual refreshments before one’s

friends; let us not miss the opportunity of this lovely

evening, but decide on four themes, one for each of us;

and then, when we have finished our essays, we can set

to work on the wine.”[186] To this the others readily

agreed; and each wrote down a theme and threw it on

the table. These were next divided amongst them as

they sat, and before the second watch[187] was over the

essays were all completed and handed round for general

inspection; and our scholar was so struck with the elegance

and vigour of those by his three friends, that he

ran off a copy of them and put it in his pocket. The

host then produced some excellent wine, which was

drunk by them in such bumpers that soon they were

all tolerably tipsy. The other two now took their leave;

but Chieh led the scholar into another room, where, so

overcome was he with wine, that he went to bed in his

boots and clothes.

The sun was high in the heavens when our hero

awaked, and, looking round, he saw no house or

grounds, only a dell on the hill-side, in which he and

his servant had been sleeping. In great alarm he called

out to the servant, who also got up, and then they found

a hole with a rill of water trickling down before it.

Much astonished at all this, he felt in his pocket, and

there, sure enough, was the paper on which he had

copied the three essays of his friends. On descending

the hill and making inquiries, he found that he had been

to the Grotto of the Three Genii—namely, Crab, Snake,

and Frog, three very wonderful beings, who often came

out for a stroll, and were occasionally visible to mortal

eyes. Subsequently, when our hero entered the examination

hall, lo! the three themes set were those of the

Three Genii, and he came out at the top of the list.