Strange Stories from a Chinese Studio (Volumes 1 and 2)-7

The spirits of the Tung-t‘ing lake[226] are very much in

the habit of borrowing boats. Sometimes the cable of

an empty junk will cast itself off, and away goes the

vessel over the waves to the sound of music in the air

above. The boatmen crouch down in one corner and

hide their faces, not daring to look up until the trip is

over and they are once more at their old anchorage.

Now a certain Mr. Lin, returning home after having

failed at the examination for Master’s degree, was lying

down very tipsy on the deck of his boat, when suddenly

strains of music and singing began to be heard. The

boatmen shook Mr. Lin, but failing to rouse him, ran

down and hid themselves in the hold below. Then

some one came and lifted him up, letting him drop

again on to the deck, where he was allowed to remain

in the same drunken sleep as before. By-and-by the

noise of the various instruments became almost deafening,

and Lin, partially waking up, smelt a delicious

odour of perfumes filling the air around him. Opening

his eyes, he saw that the boat was crowded with a

number of beautiful girls; and knowing that something

strange was going on, he pretended to be fast asleep.

There was then a call for Chih-ch‘eng, upon which a

young waiting-maid came forward and stood quite

close to Mr. Lin’s head. Her stockings were the

colour of the kingfisher’s wing, and her feet encased in

tiny purple shoes, no bigger than one’s finger. Much

smitten with this young lady, he took hold of her stocking

with his teeth, causing her, the next time she moved,

to fall forward flat on her face. Some one, evidently in

authority, asked what was the matter; and when he

heard the explanation, was very angry, and gave orders

to take off Mr. Lin’s head. Soldiers now came and

bound Lin, and on getting up he beheld a man sitting

with his face to the south, and dressed in the garments

of a king. “Sire,” cried Lin, as he was being led

away, “the king of the Tung-t‘ing lake was a mortal

named Lin; your servant’s name is Lin also. His

Majesty was a disappointed candidate; your servant is

one too. His Majesty met the Dragon Lady, and was

made immortal; your servant has played a trick upon

this girl, and he is to die. Why this inequality of

fortunes?” When the king heard this, he bade them

bring him back, and asked him, saying, “Are you, then,

a disappointed candidate?” Lin said he was; whereupon

the king handed him writing materials, and ordered

him to compose an ode upon a lady’s head-dress.

Some time passed before Lin, who was a scholar of

some repute in his own neighbourhood, had done more

than sit thinking about what he should write; and at

length the king upbraided him, saying, “Come, come,

a man of your reputation should not take so long.”

“Sire,” replied Lin, laying down his pen, “it took ten

years to complete the Songs of the Three Kingdoms;

whereby it may be known that the value of compositions

depends more upon the labour given to them

than the speed with which they are written.” The

king laughed and waited patiently from early morning till

noon, when a copy of the verses was put into his

hand, with which he declared himself very pleased.

He now commanded that Lin should be served with

wine; and shortly after there followed a collation of

all kinds of curious dishes, in the middle of which

an officer came in and reported that the register of

people to be drowned had been made up. “How

many in all?” asked the king. “Two hundred and

twenty-eight,” was the reply; and then the king inquired

who had been deputed to carry it out; whereupon he

was informed that the generals Mao and Nan had been

appointed to do the work. Lin here rose to take

leave, and the king presented him with ten ounces of

pure gold and a crystal square,[227] telling him that it

would preserve him from any danger he might encounter

on the lake. At this moment the king’s retinue and

horses ranged themselves in proper order upon the

surface of the lake; and His Majesty, stepping from

the boat into his sedan-chair, disappeared from view.

When everything had been quiet for a long time, the

boatmen emerged from the hold, and proceeded to

shape their course northwards. The wind, however, was

against them, and they were unable to make any headway;

when all of a sudden an iron cat appeared floating

on the top of the water. “General Mao has come,” cried

the boatmen, in great alarm; and they and all the

passengers on board fell down on their faces. Immediately

afterwards a great wooden beam stood up from

the lake, nodding itself backwards and forwards, which

the boatmen, more frightened than ever, said was

General Nan. Before long a tremendous sea was

raging, the sun was darkened in the heavens, and every

vessel in sight was capsized. But Mr. Lin sat in the

middle of the boat, with the crystal square in his hand,

and the mighty waves broke around without doing them

any harm. Thus were they saved, and Lin returned

home; and whenever he told his wonderful story he

would assert that, although unable to speak positively as

to the facial beauty of the young lady he had seen, he

dared say that she had the most exquisite pair of feet in

the world.

Subsequently, having occasion to visit the city of

Wu-ch‘ang, he heard of an old woman who wished to

sell her daughter, but was unwilling to accept money,

giving out that any one who had the fellow of a certain

crystal square in her possession should be at liberty to

take the girl. Lin thought this very strange; and

taking his square with him sought out the old woman,

who was delighted to see him, and told her daughter

to come in. The young lady was about fifteen years of

age, and possessed of surpassing beauty; and after

saying a few words of greeting, she turned round and

went within again. Lin’s reason had almost fled at the

sight of this peerless girl, and he straightway informed

the old woman that he had such an article as she required,

but could not say whether it would match hers

or not. So they compared their squares together, and

there was not a fraction of difference between them,

either in length or breadth. The old woman was

overjoyed, and inquiring where Lin lived, bade him go

home and get a bridal chair, leaving his square behind

him as a pledge of his good faith. This he refused to

do; but the old woman laughed, and said, “You are too

cautious, Sir; do you think I should run away for a

square?” Lin was thus constrained to leave it behind

him, and hurrying away for a chair, made the best of

his way back. When, however, he got there, the old

woman was gone. In great alarm he inquired of the

people who lived near as to her whereabouts; no one,

however, knew; and it being already late he returned

disconsolately to his boat. On the way, he met a chair

coming towards him, and immediately the screen was

drawn aside, and a voice cried out, “Mr. Lin! why so

late?” Looking closely, he saw that it was the old

woman, who, after asking him if he hadn’t suspected

her of playing him false, told him that just after he

left she had had the offer of a chair; and knowing that

he, being only a stranger in the place, would have some

trouble in obtaining one, she had sent her daughter

on to his boat. Lin then begged she would return with

him, to which she would not consent; and accordingly,

not fully trusting what she said, he hurried on himself

as fast as he could, and, jumping into the boat, found

the young lady already there. She rose to meet him

with a smile, and then he was astonished to see that

her stockings were the colour of a kingfisher’s wing, her

shoes purple, and her appearance generally like that of

the girl he had met on the Tung-t‘ing lake. While he

was still confused, the young lady remarked, “You

stare, Sir, as if you had never seen me before!” but

just then Lin noticed the tear in her stocking made by his

own teeth, and cried out in amazement, “What! are you

Chih-ch‘eng?” The young lady laughed at this; whereupon

Lin rose, and, making her a profound bow, said,

“If you are that divine creature, I pray you tell me at

once, and set my anxiety at rest.” “Sir,” replied she, “I

will tell you all. That personage you met on the boat

was actually the king of the Tung-t‘ing lake. He was

so pleased with your talent that he wished to bestow me

upon you; but, because I was a great favourite with

Her Majesty the Queen, he went back to consult with

her. I have now come at the Queen’s own command.”

Lin was highly pleased; and washing his hands, burnt

incense, with his face towards the lake, as if it were the

Imperial Court, and then they went home together.

Subsequently, when Lin had occasion to go to Wu-ch‘ang,

his wife asked to be allowed to avail herself of

the opportunity to visit her parents; and when they

reached the lake, she drew a hair-pin from her hair, and

threw it into the water. Immediately a boat rose from

the lake, and Lin’s wife, stepping into it, vanished from

sight like a bird on the wing. Lin remained waiting for

her on the prow of his vessel, at the spot where she had

disappeared; and by-and-by, he beheld a house-boat

approach, from the window of which there flew a beautiful

bird which was no other than Chih-ch‘eng. Then

some one handed out from the same window gold and

silk, and precious things in great abundance, all presents

to them from the Queen. After this, Chih-ch‘eng went

home regularly twice every year, and Lin soon became

a very rich man, the things he had being such as no one

had ever before seen or heard of.

Mr. Yü Jung was a Hu-nan man. The person who

told me his story did not recollect from what department

or district he came. His family was very poor; and

once, when returning home after failure at the examination,

he ran quite out of funds. Being ashamed to

beg, and feeling uncomfortably hungry, he turned to rest

awhile in the Wu Wang[228] temple, where he poured out

all his sorrows at the feet of the God. His prayers

over, he was about to lie down in the outer porch, when

suddenly a man took him and led him into the presence

of Wu Wang; and then, falling on his knees, said,

“Your Majesty, there is a vacancy among the black-robes;

the appointment might be bestowed on this

man.” The King assented, and Yü received a suit of

black clothes; and when he had put these on he was

changed into a crow, and flew away. Outside he saw a

number of fellow-crows collected together, and immediately

joined them, settling with them on the masts of

the boats, and imitating them in catching and eating the

meat or cakes which the passengers and boatmen on

board threw up to them in the air.[229] In a little while he

was no longer hungry, and, soaring aloft, alighted on the

top of a tree quite satisfied with his change of condition.

Two or three days passed, and the King, now pitying his

solitary state, provided him with a very elegant mate,

whose name was Chu-ch‘ing, and who took every opportunity

of warning him when he exposed himself too

much in search of food. However, he did not pay

much attention to this, and one day a soldier shot him

in the breast with a cross-bow; but luckily Chu-ch‘ing

got away with him in her beak, and he was not captured.

This enraged the other crows very much, and

with their wings they flapped the water into such big

waves that all the boats were upset. Chu-ch‘ing now

procured food and fed her husband; but his wound was

a severe one, and by the end of the day he was dead—at

which moment he waked, as it were, from a dream,

and found himself lying in the temple.

The people of the place had found Mr. Yü to all appearance

dead; and not knowing how he had come by

his death, and finding that his body was not quite cold,

had set some one to watch him. They now learnt what

had happened to him, and making up a purse between

them, sent him away home. Three years afterwards he

was passing by the same spot, and went in to worship at

the temple; also preparing a quantity of food, and

inviting the crows to come down and eat it. He then

prayed, saying, “If Chu-ch‘ing is among you, let her

remain.” When the crows had eaten the food they all

flew away; and by-and-by Yü returned, having succeeded

in obtaining his master’s degree. Again he visited Wu

Wang’s temple, and sacrificed a calf as a feast for the

crows; and again he prayed as on the previous occasion.

That night he slept on the lake, and, just as the candles

were lighted and he had sat down, suddenly there was a

noise as of birds settling, and lo! some twenty beautiful

young ladies stood before him. “Have you been quite

well since we parted?” asked one of them; to which

Yü replied that he should like to know whom he had the

honour of addressing. “Don’t you remember Chu-ch‘ing?”

said the young lady; and then Yü was overjoyed,

and inquired how she had come. “I am now,”

replied Chu-ch‘ing, “a spirit of the Han river, and seldom

go back to my old home; but in consequence of

what you did on two occasions, I have come to see you

once more.” They then sat talking together like husband

and wife reunited after long absence, and Yü

proposed that she should return with him on his way

south. Chu-ch‘ing, however, said she must go west

again, and upon this point they could not come to any

agreement. Next morning, when Yü waked up, he found

himself in a lofty room with two large candles burning

brightly, and no longer in his own boat. In utter

amazement he arose and asked where he was. “At

Han-yang,” replied Chu-ch‘ing; “my home is your

home; why need you go south?” By-and-by, when it

got lighter, in came a number of serving-women with

wine, which they placed on a low table on the top of a

broad couch; and then husband and wife sat down to

drink together. “Where are all my servants?” asked

Yü; and when he heard they were still on the boat, he

said he was afraid the boat people would not be able to

wait. “Never mind,” replied Chu-ch‘ing; “I have

plenty of money, and I’ll help you to make it up to

them.” Yü therefore remained with her, feasting and

enjoying himself, and forgetting all about going home.

As for the boatmen, when they waked up and found

themselves at Han-yang, they were greatly astonished;

and, seeing that the servants could find no trace of their

missing master, they wished to go about their own business.

They were unable, however, to undo the cable,

and so they all remained there together for more than a

couple of months, by the end of which time Mr. Yü

became anxious to return home, and said to Chu-ch‘ing,

“If I stay here, my family connections will be completely

severed. Besides, as we are husband and wife, it

is only right that you should pay a visit to my home.”

“That,” replied Chu-ch‘ing, “I cannot do; and even

were I able to go, you have a wife there already, and

where would you put me? It is better for me to stop

where I am, and thus you will have a second family.”

Yü said she would be so far off that he could not always

be dropping in; whereupon Chu-ch‘ing produced a black

suit, and replied, “Here are your old clothes. Whenever

you want to see me, put these on and come, and on your

arrival I will take them off for you.” She then prepared

a parting feast for her husband, at which he got very

tipsy; and when he waked up he was on board his boat

again, and at his old anchorage on the lake. The boatmen

and his servants were all there, and they looked at

one another in mutual amazement; and when they asked

Yü where he had been, he hardly knew what to say. By

the side of his pillow he discovered a bundle in which

were some new clothes Chu-ch‘ing had given him, shoes,

stockings, &c.; and folded up with them was the suit

of black. In addition to these he found an embroidered

belt for tying round the waist, which was stuffed full of

gold. He now started on his way south, and, when he

reached the end of his journey, dismissed the boatmen

with a handsome present.

After being at home for some months, his thoughts

reverted to Han-yang; and, taking out the black clothes,

he put them on, when wings immediately grew from his

ribs, and with a flap he was gone. In about four hours

he arrived at Han-yang, and, wheeling round and round

in the air, espied below him a solitary islet, on which

stood a house, and there he proceeded to alight. A

maid-servant had already seen him coming, and cried

out, “Here’s master!” and in a few moments out came

Chu-ch‘ing, and bade the attendants take off Mr. Yü’s

feathers. They were not long in setting him free, and

then, hand in hand, he and Chu-ch‘ing went into the

house together. “You have come at a happy moment,”

said his wife, as they sat down to tell each other all the

news; and in three days’ time she gave birth to a boy,

whom they called Han-ch‘an, which means “born on the

Han river.” Three days after the event all the river-nymphs

came to congratulate them, and brought many

handsome presents. They were a charming band, not

one being over thirty years of age; and, going into the

bedroom and approaching the bed, each one pressed her

thumb on the baby’s nose, saying, “Long life to thee,

little one!” Yü asked who they all were, and Chu-ch‘ing

told him they belonged to the same family of spirits as

herself; “And the two last of all,” said she, “dressed in

white like the lily, are the nymphs who gave away their

girdles at Hankow.”[230]

A few months passed away, and then Chu-ch‘ing sent

her husband back in a boat to his old home. No sails

or oars were used, but the boat sped along of itself; and

at the end of the river journey there were men waiting

with horses to convey him to his own door. After this

he went backwards and forwards very frequently; and in

time Han-ch‘an grew up to be a fine boy, the apple of his

father’s eye. Unhappily his first wife had no children,

and she was extremely anxious to see Han-ch‘an; so Yü

communicated this to Chu-ch‘ing, who at once packed

up a box and sent him back with his father, on the

understanding that he was to return in three months.

However, the other wife became quite as fond of him as

if he had been her own child, and ten months passed

without her being able to bear the thought of parting

with him. But one day Han-ch‘an was taken violently

ill, and died; upon which Yü’s wife was overwhelmed

with grief, and wished to die too. Yü then set off for

Han-yang, to carry the tidings to Chu-ch‘ing; and when

he arrived, lo! there was Han-ch‘an, with his shoes and

socks off, lying on the bed. He was greatly rejoiced at

this, and asked Chu-ch‘ing what it all meant. “Why,”

replied she, “the term agreed upon by us had long

expired, and, as I wanted my boy, I sent for him.” Yü

then told her how much his other wife loved Han-ch‘an,

but Chu-ch‘ing said she must wait until there was another

child, and then she should have him. Later on Chu-ch‘ing

had twins, a boy and a girl, the former named

Han-shêng and the latter Yü-p‘ei; whereupon Han-ch‘an

went back again with his father, who, finding it inconvenient

to be travelling backwards and forwards three or

four times in a year, removed with his family to the city

of Han-yang. At twelve years of age Han-ch‘an took

his bachelor’s degree; and his mother, thinking there

was no girl among mortals good enough for her son, sent

for him to come home, that she herself might find a wife

for him, which she did in the person of a Miss Chih-niang,

who was the daughter of a spirit like herself. Yü’s

first wife then died, and the three children all went to

mourn her loss, Han-ch‘an remaining in Hu-nan after

the funeral, but the other two returning with their father,

and not leaving their mother again.

At the lower temple on Mount Lao the camellias[231]

are twenty feet in height, and many spans in circumference.

The peonies are more than ten feet high;

and when the flowers are in bloom the effect is that of

gorgeous tapestry.

There was a Mr. Huang, of Chiao-chow, who built

himself a house at that spot, for the purposes of study;

and one day he saw from his window a young lady

dressed in white wandering about amongst the flowers.

Reflecting that she could not possibly belong to the

monastery,[232] he went out to meet her, but she had

already disappeared. After this he frequently observed

her, and once hid himself in a thick-foliaged bush,

waiting for her to come. By-and-by she appeared,

bringing with her another young lady dressed in red,

who, as he noticed from his distant point of observation,

was an exceedingly good-looking girl. When

they approached nearer, the young lady in the red

dress ran back, saying, “There is a man here!”

whereupon Mr. Huang jumped out upon them, and

away they went in a scare, with their skirts and long

sleeves fluttering in the breeze, and perfuming the air

around. Huang pursued them as far as a low wall,

where they suddenly vanished from his gaze. In

great distress at thus losing the fair creatures, he took

a pencil and wrote upon a tree the following lines:—

“The pangs of love my heart enthrall

As I stand opposite this wall.

I dread some hateful tyrant’s power,

With none to save you in that hour.”

Returning home he was absorbed in his own

thoughts, when all at once the young lady walked in,

and he rose up joyfully to meet her. “I thought you

were a brigand,” said his visitor, smiling; “you nearly

frightened me to death. I did not know you were a

great scholar whose acquaintance I now hope to have

the honour of making.” Mr. Huang asked the young

lady her name, &c., to which she replied, “My name

is Hsiang-yü, and I belong to P‘ing-k‘ang-hsiang; but

a magician has condemned me to remain on this hill

much against my own inclination.” “Tell me his

name,” cried Huang, “and I’ll soon set you free.”

“There is no need for that,” answered the young lady;

“I suffer no injury from him, and the place is not an

inconvenient one for making the acquaintance of such

worthy gentlemen as yourself.” Huang then inquired

who was the young lady in red, and she told him that

her name was Chiang-hsüeh, and that they were half-sisters;

“and now,” added she, “I will sing you a song;

but please don’t laugh at me.” She then began as

follows:—

“In pleasant company the hours fly fast,

And through the window daybreak peeps at last.

Ah, would that, like the swallow and his mate,

To live together were our happy fate.”

Huang here grasped her hand[233] and said, “Beauty

without and intellect within—enough to make a man

love you and forget all about death, regarding one day’s

absence like the separation of a thousand years. I

pray you come again whenever an opportunity may

present itself.” From this time the young lady would

frequently walk in to have a chat, but would never bring

her sister with her in spite of all Mr. Huang’s entreaties.

Huang thought they weren’t friends, but Hsiang said her

sister did not care for society in the same way that she

herself did, promising at the same time to try and

persuade her to come at some future day. One evening

Hsiang-yü arrived in a melancholy frame of mind, and

told Huang that he was wanting more when he couldn’t

even keep what he had got; “for to-morrow,” said she,

“we part.” Huang asked what she meant; and then

wiping away her tears with her sleeve, Hsiang-yü declared

it was destiny, and that she couldn’t well tell him.

“Your former prophecy,” continued she, “has come too

true; and now it may well be said of me—

‘Fallen into the tyrant’s power,

With none to save me in that hour.’”

Huang again tried to question her, but she would tell

him nothing; and by-and-by she rose and took her

leave. This seemed very strange; however, next day

a visitor came, who, after wandering round the garden,

was much taken with a white peony,[234] which he dug

up and carried away with him. Huang now awaked to

the fact that Hsiang-yü was a flower nymph, and became

very disconsolate in consequence of what had happened;

but when he subsequently heard that the peony only

lived a few days after being taken away, he wept bitterly,

and composed an elegy in fifty stanzas, besides going

daily to the hole from which it had been taken, and

watering the ground with his tears. One day, as he was

returning thence, he espied the young lady of the red

clothes also wiping away her tears alongside the hole,

and immediately walked back gently towards her. She

did not run away, and Huang, grasping her sleeve,

joined with her in her lamentations. When these were

concluded he invited her to his house, and then she

burst out with a sigh, saying, “Alas! that the sister of

my early years should be thus suddenly taken from me.

Hearing you, Sir, mourn as you did, I have also been

moved to tears. Those you shed have sunk down deep

to the realms below, and may perhaps succeed in

restoring her to us; but the sympathies of the dead are

destroyed for ever, and how then can she laugh and talk

with us again?” “My luck is bad,” said Huang, “that

I should injure those I love, neither can I have the good

fortune to draw towards me another such a beauty.

But tell me, when I often sent messages by Hsiang-yü to

you, why did you not come?” “I knew,” replied she,

“what nine young fellows out of ten are; but I did not

know what you were.” She then took leave, Huang

telling her how dull he felt without Hsiang-yü, and

begging her to come again. For some days she did not

appear; and Huang remained in a state of great melancholy,

tossing and turning on his bed and wetting the

pillow with his tears, until one night he got up, put

on his clothes, and trimmed the lamp; and having

called for pen and ink, he composed the following

lines:—

“On my cottage roof the evening raindrops beat;

I draw the blind and near the window take my seat.

To my longing gaze no loved one appears;

Drip, drip, drip, drip: fast flow my tears.”

This he read aloud; and when he had finished, a

voice outside said, “You want some one to cap your

verses there!” Listening attentively, he knew it was

Chiang-hsüeh; and opening the door he let her in. She

looked at his stanza, and added impromptu—

“She is no longer in the room;

A single lamp relieves the gloom;

One solitary man is there;

He and his shadow make a pair.”

As Huang read these words his tears fell fast; and

then, turning to Chiang-hsüeh, he upbraided her for not

having been to see him. “I can’t come so often as

Hsiang-yü did,” replied she, “but only now and then

when you are very dull.” After this she used to drop in

occasionally, and Huang said Hsiang-yü was his beloved

wife, and she his dear friend, always trying to find out

every time she came which flower in the garden she was,

that he might bring her home with him, and save her

from the fate of Hsiang-yü. “The old earth should not

be disturbed,” said she, “and it would not do any good

to tell you. If you couldn’t keep your wife always with

you, how will you be sure of keeping a friend?”

Huang, however, paid no heed to this, and seizing her

arm, led her out into the garden, where he stopped at

every peony and asked if this was the one; to which

Chiang-hsüeh made no reply, but only put her hand to

her mouth and laughed.

At New Year’s time Huang went home, and a couple

of months afterwards he dreamt that Chiang-hsüeh came

to tell him she was in great trouble, begging him to

hurry off as soon as possible to her rescue. When he

woke up, he thought his dream a very strange one; and

ordering his servant and horses to be ready, started at

once for the hills. There he found that the priests were

about to build a new room; and finding a camellia in

the way, the contractor had given orders that it should

be cut down. Huang now understood his dream, and

immediately took steps to prevent the destruction of the

flower. That night Chiang-hsüeh came to thank him,

and Huang laughed and said, “It serves you right for

not telling me which you were. Now I know you, and

if you don’t come and see me, I’ll get a firebrand and

make it hot for you.” “That’s just why I didn’t tell you

before,” replied she. “The presence of my dear friend,”

said Huang, after a pause, “makes me think more of my

lost wife. It is long since I have mourned for her.

Shall we go and bemoan her loss together?” So they

went off and shed many a tear on the spot where

formerly Hsiang-yü had stood, until at last Chiang-hsüeh

wiped her eyes and said it was time to go. A few

evenings later Huang was sitting alone when suddenly

Chiang-hsüeh entered, her face radiant with smiles.

“Good news!” cried she, “the Flower-God,[235] moved

by your tears, has granted Hsiang-yü a return to life.”

Huang was overjoyed, and asked when she would come;

to which Chiang-hsüeh replied, that she could not say

for certain, but that it would not be long. “I came here

on your account,” said Huang; “don’t let me be duller

than you can help.” “All right,” answered she, and

then went away, not returning for the next two evenings.

Huang then went into the garden and threw his arms

around her plant, entreating her to come and see him,

though without eliciting any response. He accordingly

went back, and began twisting up a torch, when all at

once in she came, and snatching the torch out of his

hand, threw it away, saying, “You’re a bad fellow, and I

don’t like you, and I shan’t have any more to do with you.”

However, Huang soon succeeded in pacifying her, and

by-and-by in walked Hsiang-yü herself. Huang now

wept tears of joy as he seized her hand, and drawing

Chiang-hsüeh towards them, the three friends mingled

their tears together. They then sat down and talked over

the miseries of separation, Huang meanwhile noticing

that Hsiang-yü seemed to be unsubstantial, and that

when he grasped her hand his fingers seemed to close

only on themselves, and not as in the days gone by.

This Hsiang-yü explained, saying, “When I was a

flower-nymph I had a body; but now I am only the

disembodied spirit of that flower. Do not regard me

as a reality, but rather as an apparition seen in a

dream.” “You have come at the nick of time,” cried

Chiang-hsüeh; “your husband there was just getting

troublesome.” Hsiang-yü now instructed Huang to take

a little powdered white-berry, and mixing it with some

sulphur, to pour out a libation to her, adding, “This day

next year I will return your kindness.” The young

ladies then went away, and next day Huang observed

the shoots of a young peony growing up where Hsiang-yü

had once stood. So he made the libation as she

had told him, and had the plant very carefully tended,

even building a fence all round to protect it. Hsiang-yü

came to thank him for this, and he proposed that the

plant should be removed to his own home; but to this

she would not agree, “for,” said she, “I am not very

strong, and could not stand being transplanted. Besides,

all things have their appointed place; and as I

was not originally intended for your home, it might

shorten my life to be sent there. We can love each

other very well here.” Huang then asked why Chiang-hsüeh

did not come; to which Hsiang-yü replied that

they must make her, and proceeded with him into the

garden, where, after picking a blade of grass, she

measured upwards from the roots of Chiang-hsüeh’s

plant to a distance of four feet six inches, at which

point she stopped, and Huang began to scratch a mark

on the place with his nails. At that moment Chiang-hsüeh

came from behind the plant, and in mock anger

cried out, “You hussy you! what do you aid that

wretch for?” “Don’t be angry, my dear,” said

Hsiang-yü; “help me to amuse him for a year only,

and then you shan’t be bothered any more.” So they

went on, Huang watching the plant thrive, until by the

spring it was over two feet in height. He then went

home, giving the priests a handsome present, and

bidding them take great care of it. Next year, in the

fourth moon, he returned and found upon the plant a

bud just ready to break; and as he was walking round,

the stem shook violently as if it would snap, and suddenly

the bud opened into a flower as large as a plate,

disclosing a beautiful maiden within, sitting upon one

of the pistils, and only a few inches in height. In the

twinkling of an eye she had jumped out, and lo! it

was Hsiang-yü. “Through the wind and the rain I

have waited for you,” cried she; “why have you come

so late?” They then went into the house, where they

found Chiang-hsüeh already arrived, and sat down to

enjoy themselves as they had done in former times.

Shortly afterwards Huang’s wife died, and he took up his

abode at Mount Lao for good and all. The peonies

were at that time as large round as one’s arm; and

whenever Huang went to look at them, he always said,

“Some day my spirit will be there by your side;” to

which the two girls used to reply with a laugh, and

say, “Mind you don’t forget.” Ten years after these

events, Huang became dangerously ill, and his son,

who had come to see him, was very much distressed

about him. “I am about to be born,” cried his

father; “I am not going to die. Why do you weep?”

He also told the priests that if later on they should

see a red shoot, with five leaves, thrusting itself forth

alongside of the peony, that would be himself. This was

all he said, and his son proceeded to convey him home,

where he died immediately on arrival. Next year a

shoot did come up exactly as he had mentioned; and

the priests, struck by the coincidence, watered it and

supplied it with earth. In three years it was a tall

plant, and a good span in circumference, but without

flowers. When the old priest died, the others took no

care of it; and as it did not flower they cut it down.

The white peony then faded and died; and before long

the camellia was dead too.

Hsi Ch‘êng-lieh was a Ch‘êng-tu man. He had a wife

and a concubine, the latter named Ho Chao-jung. His

wife dying, he took a second by name Shên, who bullied

the concubine dreadfully, and by her constant wrangling

made his life perfectly unbearable, so that one day in a

fit of anger he ran away and left them. Shortly afterwards

Ho gave birth to a son, and called him Ta-nan;

but as Hsi did not return, the wife Shên turned them out

of the house, making them a daily allowance of food.

By degrees Ta-nan became a big boy; and his mother,

not daring to ask for an increase of victuals, was obliged

to earn a little money by spinning. Meanwhile, Ta-nan,

seeing all his companions go to school and learn to read,

told his mother he should like to go too; and accordingly,

as he was still very young, she sent him for a few

days’ probation. He turned out to be so clever that he

soon beat the other boys; at which the master of the

school was much pleased, and offered to teach him for

nothing.[236] His mother, therefore, sent him regularly,

making what trifling presents she could to the master;

and by the end of two or three years he had a first-rate

knowledge of the Sacred Books.[237] One day he came

home and asked his mother, saying, “All the fellows at

our school get money from their fathers to buy cakes.

Why don’t I?” “Wait till you are grown up,” replied

his mother, “and I will explain it to you.” “Why,

mother,” cried he, “I’m only seven or eight years old.

What a time it will be before I’m grown up.” “Whenever

you pass the temple of the God of War on your

way to school,” said his mother, “you should go in and

pray awhile; that would make you grow faster.” Ta-nan

believed she was serious; and every day, going and

coming, he went in and worshipped at that temple.

When his mother found this out, she asked him how

soon he was praying to be grown up; to which he replied

that he only prayed that by the following year he might

be as big as if he were fifteen or sixteen years old. His

mother laughed; but Ta-nan went on, increasing in

wisdom and stature alike, until by the time he was ten,

he looked quite thirteen or fourteen, and his master was

no longer able to correct his essays. Then he said to

his mother, “You promised me that when I grew up you

would tell me where my father is. Tell me now.” “By-and-by,

by-and-by,” replied his mother; so he waited

another year, and then pressed her so eagerly to tell him

that she could no longer refuse, and related to him the

whole story. He heard her recital with tears and

lamentations, and expressed a wish to go in search of his

father; but his mother objected that he was too young,

and also that no one knew where his father was. Ta-nan

said nothing; however, in the middle of the day he did

not come home as usual, and his mother at once sent off

to the school, where she found he had not shewn himself

since breakfast. In great alarm, and thinking that he

had been playing truant, she paid some people to go and

hunt for him everywhere, but was unable to obtain the

slightest clue to his whereabouts. As to Ta-nan himself,

when he left the house he followed the road without

knowing whither he was going, until at length he met a

man who was on his way to K‘uei-chou, and said his

name was Ch‘ien. Ta-nan begged of him something to

eat, and went along with him; Mr. Ch‘ien even procuring

an animal for him to ride because he walked too slowly.

The expenses of the journey were all defrayed by Ch‘ien;

and when they arrived at K‘uei-chou they dined together,

Ch‘ien secretly putting some drug in Ta-nan’s

food which soon reduced him to a state of unconsciousness.

Ch‘ien then carried him off to a temple, and, pretending

that Ta-nan was his son, offered him to the

priests[238] on the plea that he had no money to continue his

journey. The priests, seeing what a nice-looking boy he

was, were only too ready to buy him; and when Ch‘ien

had got his money he went away. They then gave

Ta-nan a draught which brought him round; but as soon

as the abbot heard of the affair and saw Ta-nan himself,

he would not allow them to keep him, sending him away

with a purse of money in his pocket. Ta-nan next met

a gentleman named Chiang, from Lu-chou, who was returning

home after having failed at the examination; and

this Mr. Chiang was so pleased with the story of his

filial piety that he took him to his own home at Lu-chou.

There he remained for a month and more, asking everybody

he saw for news of his father, until one day he was

told that there was a man named Hsi among the Fokien

traders. So he bade good-by to Mr. Chiang, and set off

for Fokien, his patron providing him with clothes and

shoes, and the people of the place making up a subscription

for him. On the road he met two traders in cotton

cloth who were going to Fu-ch‘ing, and he joined their

party; but they had not travelled many stages before

these men found out that he had money, and taking him

to a lonely spot, bound him hand and foot and made off

with all he had. Before long a Mr. Ch‘ên, of Yung-fu,

happened to pass by, and at once unbound him, and

giving him a seat in one of his own vehicles, carried him

off home. This Mr. Ch‘ên was a wealthy man, and in

his house Ta-nan had opportunities of meeting with

traders from all quarters. He therefore begged them to

aid him by making inquiries about his father, himself

remaining as a fellow student with Mr. Ch‘ên’s sons, and

roaming the country no more, neither hearing any news

of his former and now distant home.

Meanwhile, his mother, Ho, had lived alone for three

or four years, until the wife, Shên, wishing to reduce the

expenses, tried to persuade her to find another husband.

As Ho was now supporting herself, she steadfastly refused

to do this; and then Shên sold her to a Chung-ch‘ing

trader, who took her away with him. However,

she so frightened this man by hacking herself about with

a knife, that when the wounds were healed he was only

too happy to get rid of her to a trader from Yen-t‘ing,

who in his turn, after Ho had nearly disembowelled

herself, readily listened to her repeated cries that she

wished to become a nun. However, he persuaded her

to hire herself out as housekeeper to a friend of his, as

a means of reimbursing himself for his outlay in

purchasing her; but no sooner had she set eyes on the

gentleman in question than she found it was her own

husband. For Hsi had given up the career of a scholar,

and gone into business; and as he had no wife, he was

consequently in want of a housekeeper. They were

very glad to see each other again; and on relating their

several adventures, Hsi knew for the first time that he

had a son who had gone forth in search of his father.

Hsi then asked all the traders and commercial travellers

to keep a look out for Ta-nan, at the same time raising

Ho from the status of concubine to that of wife. In

consequence, however, of the many hardships Ho had

gone through, her health was anything but good, and she

was unable to do the work of the house; so she advised

her husband to buy a concubine. This he was most unwilling

to do, remembering too well the former squabbling

he had to endure; but ultimately he yielded, asked

a friend to buy for him an oldish woman—at any rate

more than thirty years of age. A few months afterwards

his friend arrived, bringing with him a person of about

that age; and on looking closely at her, Hsi saw that she

was no other than his own wife Shên!

Now this lady had lived by herself for a year and more

when her brother Pao advised her to marry again, which

she accordingly agreed to do. She was prevented, however,

by the younger branches of the family from selling

the landed property; but she disposed of everything

else, and the proceeds passed into her brother’s hands.

About that time a Pao-ning trader, hearing that she had

plenty of money, bribed her brother to marry her to

himself; and afterwards, finding that she was a disagreeable

woman, took possession of everything she had, and

advertised her for sale. No one caring to buy a woman

of her age, and her master being on the eve of starting

for K‘uei-chou, took her with him, finally getting rid of

her to Hsi, who was in the same line of business as himself.

When she stood before her former husband, she

was overwhelmed with shame and fear, and had not a

word to say; but Hsi gathered an outline of what had

happened from the trader, and then said to her, “Your

second marriage with this Pao-ning gentleman was

doubtless contracted after you had given up all hope

of seeing me again. It doesn’t matter in the least, as

now I am not in search of a wife but only of a concubine.

So you had better begin by paying your

respects to your mistress here, my wife Ho Chao-jung.”

Shên was ashamed to do this: but Hsi reminded her of

the time when she had been in the wife’s place, and in

spite of all Ho’s intercession insisted that she should do

so, stimulating her to obedience by the smart application

of a stick. Shên was therefore compelled to yield, but at

the same time she never tried to gain Ho’s favour, and

kept away from her as much as possible. Ho, on the

other hand, treated her with great consideration, and

never took her to task on the performance of her duties;

whilst Hsi himself, whenever he had a dinner-party,

made her wait at table, though Ho often entreated him

to hire a maid.

Now the magistrate at Yen-t‘ing was named Ch‘ên

Tsung-ssŭ, and once when Hsi had some trifling difficulty

with one of the neighbours he was further accused

to this official of having forced his wife to assume the

position of concubine. The magistrate, however, refused

to take up the case, to the great satisfaction of Hsi and

his wife, who lauded him to the skies as a virtuous

mandarin. A few nights after, at rather a late hour, the

servant knocked at the door, and called out, “The

magistrate has come!” Hsi jumped up in a hurry, and

began looking for his clothes and shoes; but the magistrate

was already in the bedroom without either of

them understanding what it all meant: when suddenly

Ho, examining him closely, cried out, “It is my son!”

She then burst into tears, and the magistrate, throwing

himself on the ground, wept with his mother. It seemed

he had taken the name of the gentleman with whom he

had lived, and had since entered upon an official career.

That on his way to the capital[239] he had made a détour

and visited his old home, where he heard to his infinite

sorrow that both his mothers had married again; and

that his relatives, finding him already a man of position,

had restored to him the family property, of which he had

left some one in charge in the hope that his father might

return. That then he had been appointed to Yen-t‘ing,

but had wished to throw up the post and travel in search

of his father, from which design he had been dissuaded

by Mr. Ch‘ên. Also that he had met a fortune-teller

from whom he had obtained the following response to

his inquiries:—“The lesser is the greater; the younger

is the elder. Seeking the cock, you find the hen; seeking

one, you get two. Your official life will be

successful.” Ch‘ên then took up his appointment, but

not finding his father he confined himself entirely to a

vegetable diet, and gave up the use of wine.[240] The

above-mentioned case had subsequently come under his

notice, and seeing the name Hsi, he quietly sent his

private servant to find out, and thus discovered that this

Hsi was his father. At night-fall he set off himself, and

when he saw his mother he knew that the fortune-teller

had told him true. Bidding them all say nothing to

anybody about what had occurred, he provided money

for the journey, and sent them back home. On arriving

there, they found the place newly painted, and with their

increased retinue of servants and horses, they were quite

a wealthy family. As to Shên when she found what a

great man Ta-nan had become, she put still more

restraint upon herself; but her brother Pao brought an

action for the purpose of reinstating her as wife. The

presiding official happened to be a man of probity, and

delivered the following judgment:—“Greedy of gain

you urged your sister to re-marry. After she had driven

Hsi away, she took two fresh husbands. How have you

the face to talk about reinstating her as wife?” He

thereupon ordered Pao to be severely bambooed, and

from this time there was no longer any doubt about

Shên’s status. She was the lesser and Ho the greater;

and yet in the matter of clothes and food Ho shewed

herself by no means grasping. Shên was at first afraid

that Ho would pay her out, and was consequently more

than ever repentant; and Hsi himself, letting by-gones

be by-gones, gave orders that Shên should be called

madam by all alike, though of course she was excluded

from any titles that might be gained for them by Ta-nan.[241]

In the prefecture of Shun-t‘ien[242] there lived a man

named Hsing Yün-fei, who was an amateur mineralogist

and would pay any price for a good specimen. One

day as he was fishing in the river, something caught

his net, and diving down he brought up a stone about

a foot in diameter, beautifully carved on all sides to

resemble clustering hills and peaks. He was quite as

pleased with this as if he had found some precious

stone; and having had an elegant sandal-wood stand

made for it, he set his prize upon the table. Whenever it

was about to rain, clouds, which from a distance looked

like new cotton wool, would come forth from each of

the holes or grottoes on the stone, and appear to close

them up. By-and-by an influential personage called

at the house and begged to see the stone, immediately

seizing it and handing it over to a lusty servant, at

the same time whipping his horse and riding away.

Hsing was in despair; but all he could do was to mourn

the loss of his stone, and indulge his anger against

the thief. Meanwhile, the servant, who had carried

off the stone on his back, stopped to rest at a bridge;

when all of a sudden his hand slipped and the stone

fell into the water. His master was extremely put out

at this, and gave him a sound beating; subsequently

hiring several divers, who tried every means in their

power to recover the stone, but were quite unable to

find it. He then went away, having first published a

notice of reward, and by these means many were

tempted to seek for the stone. Soon after, Hsing

himself came to the spot, and as he mournfully approached

the bank, lo! the water became clear, and

he could see the stone lying at the bottom. Taking

off his clothes he quickly jumped in and brought it

out, together with the sandal-wood stand which was

still with it. He carried it off home, but being no

longer desirous of shewing it to people, he had an

inner room cleaned and put it in there. Some time

afterwards an old man knocked at the door and asked

to be allowed to see the stone; whereupon Hsing replied

that he had lost it a long time ago. “Isn’t that it in

the inner room?” said the old man, smiling. “Oh,

walk in and see for yourself if you don’t believe me,”

answered Hsing; and the old man did walk in, and there

was the stone on the table. This took Hsing very much

aback; and the old man then laid his hand upon the

stone and said, “This is an old family relic of mine:

I lost it many months since. How does it come to

be here? I pray you now restore it to me.” Hsing

didn’t know what to say, but declared he was the owner

of the stone; upon which the old man remarked, “If

it is really yours, what evidence can you bring to prove

it?” Hsing made no reply; and the old man continued,

“To show you that I know this stone, I may mention

that it has altogether ninety-two grottoes, and that in the

largest of these are five words:—

‘A stone from Heaven above.’”

Hsing looked and found that there were actually some

small characters, no larger than grains of rice, which

by straining his eyes a little he managed to read; also,

that the number of grottoes was as the old man had

said. However, he would not give him the stone; and

the old man laughed, and asked, “Pray, what right have

you to keep other people’s things?” He then bowed

and went away, Hsing escorting him as far as the door;

but when he returned to the room, the stone had

disappeared. In a great fright, he ran after the old

man, who had walked slowly and was not far off, and

seizing his sleeve entreated him to give back the stone.

“Do you think,” said the latter, “that I could conceal a

stone a foot in diameter in my sleeve?” But Hsing

knew that he must be superhuman, and led him back to

the house, where he threw himself on his knees and

begged that he might have the stone. “Is it yours

or mine?” asked the old man. “Of course it is yours,”

replied Hsing, “though I hope you will consent to deny

yourself the pleasure of keeping it.” “In that case,”

said the old man, “it is back again;” and going into

the inner room, they found the stone in its old place.

“The jewels of this world,” observed Hsing’s visitor,

“should be given to those who know how to take care

of them. This stone can choose its own master, and

I am very pleased that it should remain with you;

at the same time I must inform you that it was in

too great a hurry to come into the world of mortals,

and has not yet been freed from all contingent calamities.

I had better take it away with me, and three years

hence you shall have it again. If, however, you insist

on keeping it, then your span of life will be shortened

by three years, that your terms of existence may

harmonize together. Are you willing?” Hsing said

he was; whereupon the old man with his fingers closed

up three of the stone’s grottoes, which yielded to his

touch like mud. When this was done, he turned to

Hsing and told him that the grottoes on that stone

represented the years of his life; and then he took his

leave, firmly refusing to remain any longer, and not disclosing

his name.

More than a year after this, Hsing had occasion to go

away on business, and in the night a thief broke in

and carried off the stone, taking nothing else at all.

When Hsing came home, he was dreadfully grieved,

as if his whole object in life was gone; and made all

possible inquiries and efforts to get it back, but without

the slightest result. Some time passed away, when

one day going into a temple Hsing noticed a man

selling stones, and amongst the rest he saw his old

friend. Of course he immediately wanted to regain

possession of it; but as the stone-seller would not

consent, he shouldered the stone and went off to the

nearest mandarin. The stone-seller was then asked

what proof he could give that the stone was his; and

he replied that the number of grottoes was eighty-nine.

Hsing inquired if that was all he had to say, and when

the other acknowledged that it was, he himself told

the magistrate what were the characters inscribed within,

also calling attention to the finger marks at the closed-up

grottoes. He therefore gained his case, and the mandarin

would have bambooed the stone-seller, had he not

declared that he bought it in the market for twenty

ounces of silver,—whereupon he was dismissed.

A high official next offered Hsing one hundred ounces

of silver for it; but he refused to sell it even for ten

thousand, which so enraged the would-be purchaser that

he worked up a case against Hsing,[243] and got him put in

prison. Hsing was thereby compelled to pawn a great

deal of his property; and then the official sent some one

to try if the affair could not be managed through his

son, to which Hsing, on hearing of the attempt, steadily

refused to consent, saying that he and the stone could

not be parted even in death. His wife, however, and

his son, laid their heads together, and sent the stone

to the high official, and Hsing only heard of it when

he arrived home from the prison. He cursed his wife and

beat his son, and frequently tried to make away with

himself, though luckily his servants always managed to

prevent him from succeeding.[244] At night he dreamt that a

noble-looking personage appeared to him, and said, “My

name is Shih Ch‘ing-hsü—(Stone from Heaven). Do

not grieve. I purposely quitted you for a year and more;

but next year on the 20th of the eighth moon, at dawn,

come to the Hai-tai Gate and buy me back for two

strings of cash.” Hsing was overjoyed at this dream,

and carefully took down the day mentioned. Meanwhile

the stone was at the official’s private house; but

as the cloud manifestations ceased, the stone was less

and less prized; and the following year when the official

was disgraced for maladministration and subsequently

died, Hsing met some of his servants at the Hai-tai

Gate going off to sell the stone, and purchased it back

from them for two strings of cash.

Hsing lived till he was eighty-nine; and then having

prepared the necessaries for his interment, bade his

son bury the stone with him,[245] which was accordingly

done. Six months later robbers broke into the vault[246]

and made off with the stone, and his son tried in vain

to secure their capture; however, a few days afterwards,

he was travelling with his servants, when suddenly two

men rushed forth dripping with perspiration, and looking

up into the air, acknowledged their crime, saying, “Mr.

Hsing, please don’t torment us thus! We took the

stone, and sold it for only four ounces of silver.”

Hsing’s son and his servants then seized these men,

and took them before the magistrate, where they at once

acknowledged their guilt. Asking what had become

of the stone, they said they had sold it to a member

of the magistrate’s family; and when it was produced,

that official took such a fancy to it that he gave it to one

of his servants and bade him place it in the treasury.

Thereupon the stone slipped out of the servant’s hand

and broke into a hundred pieces, to the great astonishment

of all present. The magistrate now had the

thieves bambooed and sent them away; but Hsing’s

son picked up the broken pieces of the stone, and buried

them in his father’s grave.

At K‘un-yang there lived a wealthy man named

Tsêng. When he died, and before he was put in the

coffin, tears were seen to gush forth from both eyes of

the corpse, to the infinite amazement of his six sons.

His second son, T‘i, otherwise called Yu-yü, who had

gained for himself the reputation of being a scholar, said

it was a bad omen, and warned his brothers to be careful

and not give cause for sorrow to the dead,—at which the

others only laughed at him as an idiot.

Tsêng’s first wife and eldest son having been carried

off by the rebels when the latter was only seven or eight

years old, he married a second wife, by whom he had

three sons, Hsiao, Chung, and Hsin; besides three other

sons by a concubine—namely, the above-mentioned T‘i,

or Yu-yü, Jen, and Yi. Now the three by the second

wife banded themselves together against the three by the

concubine, saying that the latter were a base-born lot;

and whenever a guest was present and either of them

happened to be in the room, Hsiao and his two brothers

would not take the slightest notice of them. This enraged

Jen and Yi very much, and they went to consult

with Yu-yü as to how they should avenge themselves for

such slights. Yu-yü, however, tried every means in his

power to pacify them, and would not take part in any

plot; and, as they were much younger than he, they took

his advice,[247] and did nothing.

Hsiao had a daughter, who died shortly after her marriage

to a Mr. Chou; and her father begged Yu-yü and his other

brothers to go with him and give his late daughter’s mother-in-law

a sound beating.[248] Yu-yü would not hear of it for a

moment; so Hsiao in a rage got his brothers Chung and

Hsin, with a lot of rowdies from the neighbourhood, and

went off and did it themselves, scattering the goods and

chattels of the family about, and smashing everything

they could lay their hands on. An action was immediately

brought by the Chou family, and Hsiao and his

two brothers were thrown into prison by the angry

mandarin, who purposed sending the case before a

higher tribunal. Yu-yü, however, whose high character

was well known to that official, interceded for them, and

himself went to the Chou family and tendered the most

humble apologies for what had occurred. The Chou

family, out of respect for Yu-yü, suffered the case to

drop, and Hsiao regained his liberty, though he did not

evince the slightest gratitude for his brother’s exertions.

Shortly after, Yu-yü’s mother died; but Hsiao and the

other two refused to put on mourning for her, going on

with their usual feasting and drinking as if nothing had

happened. Jen and Yi were furious at this; but Yu-yü

only observed, “What they do is their own indecorous

behaviour; it does not injure us.” Then, again, when

the funeral was about to take place, Hsiao, Chung, and

Hsin stood before the door of the vault, and would not

allow the others to bury their mother there. So Yu-yü

buried her alongside the principal grave. Before long

Hsiao’s wife died, and Yu-yü told Jen and Yi to accompany

him to the house and condole with the widower; to

which they both objected, saying, “He would not wear

mourning for our mother; shall we do so for his wife?”[249]

Ultimately Yu-yü had to go alone; and while he was

pouring forth his lamentations beside the bier, he heard

Jen and Yi playing drums and trumpets outside the

door. Hsiao flew into a tremendous passion, and went

after them with his own two brothers to give them a good

thrashing. Yu-yü, too, seized a big stick and accompanied

them to the house where Jen and Yi were;

whereupon Jen made his escape; but as Yi was clambering

over the wall, Yu-yü hit him from behind and

knocked him down. Hsiao and the others then set upon

him with their fists and sticks, and would never have

stopped but that Yu-yü interposed his body between

them and made them desist. Hsiao was very angry at

this, and began to abuse Yu-yü, who said, “The punishment

was for want of decorum, for which death would be

too severe. I can neither connive at their bad behaviour,

nor at your cruelty. If your anger is not appeased,

strike me.” Hsiao now turned his fury against Yu-yü,

and being well seconded by his two brothers, they beat

Yu-yü until the neighbours separated them and put an

end to the row. Yu-yü at once proceeded to Hsiao’s

house to apologize for what had occurred; but Hsiao

drove him away, and would not let him take part in the

funeral ceremonies. Meanwhile, as Yi’s wounds were

very severe, and he could neither eat nor drink, his

brother Jen went on his behalf to the magistrate,

stating in the petition that the accused had not worn

mourning for their father’s concubine. The magistrate

issued a warrant; and, besides causing the arrest of

Hsiao, Chung, and Hsin, he ordered Yu-yü to prosecute

them as well. Yu-yü, however, was so much cut about

the head and face that he could not appear in court, but

he wrote out a petition, in which he begged that the case

might be quashed; and this the magistrate consented

to do. Yi soon got better, the feeling of hatred and resentment

increasing in the family day by day; while Jen

and Yi, who were younger than the others, complained

to Yu-yü of their recent punishment, saying, “The

relationship of elder and younger brothers exists for

others, why not for us?” “Ah,” replied Yu-yü, “that is

what I might well say; not you.” Yu-yü then tried to

persuade them to forget the past; but, not succeeding in

his attempt, he shut up his house, and went off with his

wife to live somewhere else, about twenty miles away.

Now, although when Yu-yü was among them he did not

help the two younger ones, yet his presence acted as

some restraint upon Hsiao and the other two; but now

that he was gone their conduct was beyond all bounds.

They sought out Jen and Yi in their own houses, and not

only reviled them, but abused the memory of their dead

mother, against which Jen and Yi could only retaliate by

keeping the door shut against them. However, they determined

to do them some injury, and carried knives

about with them wherever they went for that purpose.

One day the eldest brother, Ch‘êng, who had been

carried off by the rebels, returned with his wife; and,

after three days’ deliberation, Hsiao and the other two

determined that, as he had been so long separated from

the family, he had no further claims upon them for

house-room, &c. Jen and Yi were secretly delighted at

this result, and at once inviting Ch‘êng to stay with

them, sent news of his arrival to Yu-yü, who came back

directly, and agreed with the others to hand over a share

of the property to their elder brother. Hsiao and his

clique were much enraged at this purchase of Ch‘êng’s

good will, and, hurrying to their brothers’ houses,

assailed them with every possible kind of abuse.

Ch‘êng, who had long been accustomed to scenes of

violence among the rebels, now got into a great passion,

and cried out, “When I came home none of you would

give me a place to live in. Only these younger ones

recognised the ties of blood,[250] and you would punish

them for so doing. Do you think to drive me away?”

Thereupon he threw a stone at Hsiao and knocked him

down; and Jen and Yi rushed out with clubs and gave

the three of them a severe thrashing. Ch‘êng did not

wait for them to lay a plaint, but set off to the magistrate

on the spot, and preferred a charge against his

three brothers. The magistrate, as before, sent for

Yu-yü to ask his opinion, and Yu-yü had no alternative

but to go, entering the yamên with downcast head, his

tears flowing in silence all the while. The magistrate

inquired of him how the matter stood; to which he replied

only by begging His Honour to hear the case;

which the magistrate accordingly did, deciding that the

whole of the property was to be divided equally among

the seven brothers. Thenceforth Jen and Yi became

more and more attached to Ch‘êng; and one day, in

conversation, they happened to tell him the story of their

mother’s funeral. Ch‘êng was exceedingly angry, and

declared that such behaviour was that of brute beasts,

proposing at the same time that the vault should be

opened and that she should be re-buried in the proper

place. Jen and Yi went off and told this to Yu-yü, who

immediately came and begged Ch‘êng to desist from his

scheme; to which, however, he paid no attention, and

fixed a day for her interment in the family vault. He

then built a hut near by, and, with a knife lopping the

branches off the trees, informed the brothers that any of

them who did not appear at the funeral in the usual

mourning would be treated by him in a manner similar

to the trees. So they were all obliged to go, and the

obsequies were conducted in a fitting manner. The

brothers were now at peace together, Ch‘êng keeping

them in first-rate order, and always treating Hsiao,

Chung, and Hsin with much more severity than the

others. To Yu-yü he shewed a marked deference, and,

whenever he was in a rage, would always be appeased by

a word from him. Hsiao, too, was always going to

Yu-yü to complain of the treatment he received at

Ch‘êng’s hands when he did anything that Ch‘êng disapproved

of; and then, if Yu-yü quietly reproved him,

he would be dissatisfied, so that at last Yu-yü could

stand it no longer, and again went away and took a

house at a considerable distance, where he remained

almost entirely cut off from the others. By the time

two years had passed away Ch‘êng had completely succeeded

in establishing harmony amongst them, and

quarrels were of rare occurrence. Hsiao was then forty-six

years old, and had five sons; Chi-yeh and Chi-tê, the

first and third, by his wife; Chi-kung and Chi-chi, the

second and fourth, by a concubine; and Chi-tsu, by a

slave. They were all grown up, and exactly imitated

their father’s former behaviour, banding themselves together

one against the other, and so on, without their

father being able to make them behave better. Chi-tsu

had no brothers of his own, and, being the youngest, the

others bullied him dreadfully; until at length, being on a

visit to his wife’s family, who lived not far from Yu-yü’s

house, he went slightly out of his way to call and see his

uncle. There he found his three cousins living peaceably

together and pursuing their studies, and was so

pleased that he remained with them some time, and said

not a word as to returning home. His uncle urged him

to go back, but he entreated to be allowed to stay; and

then his uncle told him it was not that he grudged his

daily food: it was because his father and mother did not

know where he was. Chi-tsu accordingly went home,

and a few months afterwards, when he and his wife were

on the point of starting to congratulate his wife’s mother

on the anniversary of her birthday, he explained to his

father that he should not come home again. When his

father asked him why not, he partly divulged his reasons

for going; whereupon his father said he was afraid his

uncle would bear malice for what happened in the past,

and that he would not be able to remain there long.

“Father,” replied Chi-tsu, “uncle Yu-yü is a good and

virtuous man.” He set out with his wife, and when they

arrived Yu-yü gave them separate quarters, and made

Chi-tsu rank as one of his own sons, making him join

the eldest, Chi-san, in his studies. Chi-tsu was a clever

fellow, and now enrolled himself as a resident of the

place where his uncle lived.[251]