Strange Stories from a Chinese Studio (Volumes 1 and 2)-8

Meanwhile, his brothers went on quarrelling among

themselves as usual; and one day Chi-kung, enraged at

an insult offered to his mother, killed Chi-yeh. He was

immediately thrown into prison, where he was severely

bambooed, and in a few days he died. Chi-yeh’s wife,

whose maiden name was Fêng, now spent the days of

mourning in cursing her husband’s murderer; and when

Chi-kung’s wife heard this, she flew into a towering

passion, and said to her, “If your husband is dead, mine

isn’t alive.” She then drew a knife and killed her, completing

the tragedy by herself committing suicide in a

well.

Mr. Fêng, the father of the murdered woman, was

very much distressed at his daughter’s untimely end;

and, taking with him several members of the family

with arms concealed under their clothes, they proceeded

to Hsiao’s house, and there gave his wife a

most terrific beating. It was now Ch‘êng’s turn to be

angry. “The members of my family are dying like

sheep,” cried he; “what do you mean by this, Mr.

Fêng?” He then rushed out upon them with a roar,

accompanied by all his own brothers and their sons; and

the Fêng family was utterly routed. Seizing old Fêng

himself, Ch‘êng cut off both his ears; and when his son

tried to rescue him, Chi-chi ran up and broke both his

legs with an iron crowbar. Every one of the Fêng

family was badly wounded, and thus dispersed, leaving old

Fêng’s son lying in the middle of the road. The others

not knowing what to do with him, Ch‘êng took him

under his arm, and, having thrown him down in the

Fêng village, returned home, giving orders to Chi-chi to

go immediately to the authorities and enter their plaint

the first.[252]

The Fêng family had, however, anticipated them,

and all the Tsêngs were accordingly thrown into

prison, except Chung, who managed to escape. He ran

away to the place where Yu-yü lived, and was pacing

backwards and forwards before the door, afraid lest his

brother should not have forgiven past offences, when suddenly

Yu-yü, with his son and nephew, arrived, on their

return from the examination. “What do you want, my

brother?” asked Yu-yü; whereupon Chung prostrated

himself at the roadside, and then Yu-yü, seizing his

hand, led him within to make further inquiries.

“Alas! alas!” cried Yu-yü, when he had heard the

story, “I knew that some dreadful calamity would be

the result of all this wicked behaviour. But why have

you come hither? I have been absent so long that I am

no more acquainted with the local authorities; and if I

now went to ask a favour of them, I should probably

only be insulted for my pains. However, if none of the

Fêng family die of their wounds, and if we three may

chance to be successful in our examination, something

may perhaps be done to mitigate this calamity.”[253] Yu-yü

then kept Chung to dinner, and at night he shared their

room, which kind treatment made him at once grateful

and repentant. By the end of ten days he was so struck

with the behaviour of the father, sons, uncle, nephew,

and cousins, one toward the other, that he burst into

tears, and said, “Now I know how badly I behaved in

days gone by.” His uncle was overjoyed at his repentance,

and sympathised with his feelings, when suddenly

it was announced that Yu-yü and his son had both

passed the examination for master’s degree, and that

Chi-tsu was proximé accessit. This delighted them all

very much. They did not, however, attend the Fu-t‘ai’s

congratulatory feast,[254] but went off first to worship at the

tombs of their ancestors.

Now, at the time of the Ming dynasty a man who had

taken his master’s degree was a very considerable personage,[255]

and the Fêngs accordingly began to draw in their

horns. Yu-yü, too, met them half-way. He got a friend

to convey to them presents of food and money to help

them in recovering from their injuries, and thus the

prosecution was withdrawn. Then all his brothers implored

him with tears in their eyes to return home, and,

after burning incense with them,[256] and making them

enter into a bond with him that by-gones should be

by-gones, he acceded to their request. Chi-tsu, however,

would not leave his uncle; and Hsiao himself said

to Yu-yü, “I don’t deserve such a son as that. Keep

him, and teach him as you have done hitherto, and let

him be as one of your own children; but if at some

future time he succeeds in his examination, then I will

beg you to return him to me.” Yu-yü consented to

this; and three years afterwards Chi-tsu did take his

master’s degree, upon which he sent him back to his

own family.

Both husband and wife were very loth to leave

their uncle’s house, and they had hardly been at

home three days before one of their children, only three

years old, ran away and went back, returning to his

great-uncle’s as often as he was recaptured. This induced

Hsiao to remove to the next house to Yu-yü’s,

and, by opening a door between the two, they made one

establishment of the whole. Ch‘êng was now getting

old, and the family affairs devolved entirely upon Yu-yü,

who managed things so well that their reputation for

filial piety and fraternal love was soon spread far and

wide.

[257]

At Chia-p‘ing there lived a certain young gentleman

of considerable talent and very prepossessing appearance.

When seventeen years of age he went up for his

bachelor’s degree; and as he was passing the door of

a house, he saw within a pretty-looking girl, who not

only riveted his gaze, but also smiled and nodded her

head at him. Quite pleased at this, he approached the

young lady and began to talk, she, meanwhile, inquiring

of him where he lived, and if alone or otherwise. He

assured her he was quite by himself; and then she said,

“Well, I will come and see you, but you mustn’t let

any one know.” The young gentleman agreed, and

when he got home he sent all the servants to another

part of the house, and by-and-by the young lady arrived.

She said her name was Wên-chi, and that her admiration

for her host’s noble bearing had made her visit him,

unknown to her mistress. “And gladly,” added she,

“would I be your handmaid for life.” Our hero was

delighted, and proposed to purchase her from the mistress

she mentioned; and from this time she was in the habit

of coming in every other day or so. On one occasion it

was raining hard, and, after hanging up her wet cloak

upon a peg, she took off her shoes, and bade the young

gentleman clean them for her. He noticed that they

were newly embroidered with all the colours of the rainbow,

but utterly spoilt by the soaking rain; and was

just saying what a pity it was, when the young lady cried

out, “I should never have asked you to do such menial

work except to show my love for you.” All this time

the rain was falling fast outside, and Wên-chi now repeated

the following line:—

“A nipping wind and chilly rain fill the river and the city.”

“There,” said she, “cap that.” The young gentleman

replied that he could not, as he did not even

understand what it meant. “Oh, really,” retorted the

young lady, “if you’re not more of a scholar than that,

I shall begin to think very little of you.” She then told

him he had better practice making verses, and he

promised he would do so.

By degrees Miss Wên-chi’s frequent visits attracted

the notice of the servants, as also of a brother-in-law

named Sung, who was likewise a gentleman of position;

and the latter begged our hero to be allowed to have

a peep at her. He was told in reply that the young

lady had strictly forbidden that any one should see her;

however, he concealed himself in the servants’ quarters,

and when she arrived he looked at her through the

window. Almost beside himself, he now opened the

door; whereupon Wên-chi jumping up, vaulted over the

wall and disappeared. Sung was really smitten with

her, and went off to her mistress to try and arrange

for her purchase; but when he mentioned Wên-chi’s

name, he was informed that they had once had such

a girl, who had died several years previously. In great

amazement Sung went back and told his brother-in-law,

and he now knew that his beloved Wên-chi was a

disembodied spirit. So when she came again he asked

her if it was so; to which she replied, “It is; but as you

wanted a nice wife and I a handsome husband, I thought

we should be a suitable pair. What matters it that one

is a mortal and the other a spirit?” The young gentleman

thoroughly coincided in her view of the case; and

when his examination was over, and he was homeward

bound, Wên-chi accompanied him, invisible to others

and visible to him alone. Arriving at his parents’ house,

he installed her in the library; and the day she went

to pay the customary bride’s visit to her father and

mother,[258] he told his own mother the whole story. She

and his father were greatly alarmed, and ordered him

to have no more to do with her; but he would not listen

to this, and then his parents tried by all kinds of devices

to get rid of the girl, none of which met with any

success.

One day our hero had left upon the table some written

instructions for one of the servants, wherein he had

made a number of mistakes in spelling, such as paper

for pepper, jinjer for ginger, and so on; and when Wên-chi

saw this, she wrote at the foot:—

“Paper for pepper do I see?

Jinjer for ginger can it be?

Of such a husband I’m afraid;

I’d rather be a servant-maid.”

She then said to the young gentleman, “Imagining

you to be a man of culture, I hid my blushes and

sought you out the first.[259] Alas, your qualifications are on

the outside; should I not thus be a laughing-stock to

all?” She then disappeared, at which the young gentleman

was much hurt; but not knowing to what she

alluded, he gave the instructions to his servant, and

so made himself the butt of all who heard the story.

A young man named Kung, a native of Min-chou, on

his way to the examination at Hsi-ngan, rested awhile

in an inn, and ordered some wine to drink. Just then a

very tall and noble-looking stranger walked in, and,

seating himself by the side of Kung, entered into

conversation with him. Kung offered him a cup of

wine, which the stranger did not refuse; saying, at the

same time, that his name was Miao. But he was a

rough, coarse fellow; and Kung, therefore, when the

wine was finished, did not call for any more. Miao then

rose, and observing that Kung did not appreciate a man

of his capacity, went out into the market to buy some,

returning shortly with a huge bowl full. Kung declined

the proffered wine; but Miao, seizing his arm to persuade

him, gripped it so painfully that Kung was

forced to drink a few more cups, Miao himself swilling

away as hard as he could go out of a soup-plate. “I am

not good at entertaining people,” cried Miao, at length;

“pray go on or stop just as you please.” Kung accordingly

put together his things and went off; but he had

not gone more than a few miles when his horse was

taken ill, and lay down in the road. While he was waiting

there with all his heavy baggage, revolving in his mind

what he should do, up came Mr. Miao; who, when he

heard what was the matter, took off his coat and handed

it to the servant, and lifting up the horse, carried it off

on his back to the nearest inn, which was about six

or seven miles distant. Arriving there he put the

animal in the stable, and before long Kung and his

servants arrived too. Kung was much astonished

at Mr. Miao’s feat; and, believing him to be superhuman,

began to treat him with the utmost deference,

ordering both wine and food to be procured for their

refreshment. “My appetite,” remarked Miao, “is one

that you could not easily satisfy. Let us stick to wine.”

So they finished another stoup together, and then Miao

got up and took his leave, saying, “It will be some time

before your horse is well; I cannot wait for you.” He

then went away.

After the examination several friends of Kung’s invited

him to join them in a picnic to the Flowery Hill; and

just as they were all feasting and laughing together, lo!

Mr. Miao walked up. In one hand he held a large

flagon, and in the other a ham, both of which he laid

down on the ground before them. “Hearing,” said

he, “that you gentlemen were coming here, I have

tacked myself on to you, like a fly to a horse’s tail.”[260]

Kung and his friends then rose and received him with

the usual ceremonies, after which they all sat down

promiscuously.[261] By-and-by, when the wine had gone

round pretty freely, some one proposed capping verses;

whereupon Miao cried out, “Oh, we’re very jolly

drinking like this; what’s the use of making oneself

uncomfortable?” The others, however, would not listen

to him, and agreed that as a forfeit a huge goblet of

wine should be drunk by any defaulter. “Let us rather

make death the penalty,” said Miao; to which they

replied, laughing, that such a punishment was a trifle

too severe; and then Miao retorted that if it was not

to be death, even a rough fellow like himself might

be able to join. A Mr. Chin, who was sitting at the

top of the line, then began:—

“From the hill-top high, wide extends the gaze—”

upon which Miao immediately carried on with

“Redly gleams the sword o’er the shattered vase.”[262]

The next gentleman thought for a long time, during

which Miao was helping himself to wine; and by-and-by

they had all capped the verse, but so wretchedly that

Miao called out, “Oh, come! if we aren’t to be fined

for these,[263] we had better abstain from making any more.”

As none of them would agree to this, Miao could stand

it no longer, and roared like a dragon till the hills and

valleys echoed again. He then went down on his hands

and knees, and jumped about like a lion, which utterly

confused the poets, and put an end to their lucubrations.

The wine had now been round a good many times, and

being half tipsy each began to repeat to the other the

verses he had handed in at the recent examination,[264]

all at the same time indulging in any amount of mutual

flattery. This so disgusted Miao that he drew Kung

aside to have a game at “guess-fingers;”[265] but as they

went on droning away all the same, he at length cried

out, “Do stop your rubbish, fit only for your own

wives,[266] and not for general company.” The others

were much abashed at this, and so angry were they

at Miao’s rudeness that they went on repeating all the

louder. Miao then threw himself on the ground in

a passion, and with a roar changed into a tiger, immediately

springing upon the company, and killing them

all except Kung and Mr. Chin. He then ran off roaring

loudly. Now this Mr. Chin succeeded in taking his

master’s degree; and three years afterwards, happening

to revisit the Flowery Hill, he beheld a Mr. Chi, one of

those very gentlemen who had previously been killed

by the tiger. In great alarm he was making off, when

Chi seized his bridle and would not let him proceed.

So he got down from his horse, and inquired what was

the matter; to which Chi replied, “I am now the slave

of Miao, and have to endure bitter toil for him. He

must kill some one else before I can be set free.[267] Three

days hence a man, arrayed in the robes and cap of a

scholar, should be eaten by the tiger at the foot of the

Ts‘ang-lung Hill. Do you on that day take some gentleman

thither, and thus help your old friend.” Chin was

too frightened to say much, but promising that he would

do so, rode away home. He then began to consider the

matter over with himself, and, regarding it as a plot, he

determined to break his engagement, and let his friend

remain the tiger’s devil. He chanced, however, to

repeat the story to a Mr. Chiang who was a relative of

his, and one of the local scholars; and as this gentleman

had a grudge against another scholar, named Yu,

who had come out equal with him at the examination,

he made up his mind to destroy him. So he invited Yu

to accompany him on that day to the place in question,

mentioning that he himself should appear in undress

only. Yu could not make out the reason for this; but

when he reached the spot there he found all kinds of

wine and food ready for his entertainment. Now that

very day the Prefect had come to the hill; and being

a friend of the Chiang family, and hearing that Chiang

was below, sent for him to come up. Chiang did not

dare to appear before him in undress, and borrowed Yu’s

clothes and hat; but he had no sooner got them on

than out rushed the tiger and carried him away in its

mouth.

His Excellency the Grand Secretary Mao came

from an obscure family in the district of Yeh, his

father being only a poor cow-herd. At the same place

there resided a wealthy gentleman, named Chang, who

owned a burial-ground in the neighbourhood; and

some one informed him that while passing by he had

heard sounds of wrangling from within the grave, and

voices saying, “Make haste and go away; do not

disturb His Excellency’s home.” Chang did not much

believe this; but subsequently he had several dreams

in which he was told that the burial-ground in question

really belonged to the Mao family, and that he had no

right whatever to it. From this moment the affairs of

his house began to go wrong;[268] and at length he listened

to the remonstrances of friends and removed his dead

elsewhere.

One day Mao’s father, the cow-herd, was out near

this burial-ground, when, a storm of rain coming on, he

took refuge in the now empty grave, while the rain came

down harder than ever, and by-and-by flooded the whole

place and drowned the old man. The Grand Secretary

was then a mere boy, and his mother went off to

Chang to beg a piece of ground wherein to bury her

dead husband. When Chang heard her name he was

greatly astonished; and on going to look at the spot

where the old man was drowned, found that it was

exactly at the proper place for the coffin. More than

ever amazed, he gave orders that the body should be

buried there in the old grave, and also bade Mao’s

mother bring her son to see him. When the funeral

was over, she went with Mao to Mr. Chang’s house, to

thank him for his kindness; and so pleased was he

with the boy that he kept him to be educated, ranking

him as one of his own sons. He also said he would

give him his eldest daughter as a wife, an offer which

Mao’s mother hardly dared accept; but Mrs. Chang

said that the thing was settled and couldn’t be altered,

so then she was obliged to consent. The young lady,

however, had a great contempt for Mao, and made no

effort to disguise her feelings; and if any one spoke to

her of him, she would put her fingers in her ears, declaring

she would die sooner than marry the cow-boy.

On the day appointed for the wedding, the bridegroom

arrived, and was feasted within, while outside the door a

handsome chair was in waiting to convey away the

bride, who all this time was standing crying in a corner,

wiping her eyes with her sleeve, and absolutely refusing

to dress. Just then the bridegroom sent in to say he

was going,[269] and the drums and trumpets struck up the

wedding march, at which the bride’s tears only fell the

faster as her hair hung dishevelled down her back.

Her father managed to detain Mao awhile, and went in

to urge his daughter to make haste, she weeping bitterly

as if she did not hear what he was saying. He now got

into a rage, which only made her cry the louder; and in

the middle of it all a servant came to say the bridegroom

wished to take his leave. The father ran out

and said his daughter wasn’t quite ready, begging Mao

to wait a little longer; and then hurried back again to

the bride. Thus they went on for some time, backwards

and forwards, until at last things began to look

serious, for the young lady obstinately refused to yield;

and Mr. Chang was ready to commit suicide for want of

anything better. Just then his second daughter was

standing by upbraiding her elder sister for her disobedience,

when suddenly the latter turned round in a

rage, and cried out, “So you are imitating the rest of

them, you little minx; why don’t you go and marry him

yourself?” “My father did not betroth me to Mr.

Mao,” answered she, “but if he had I should not

require you to persuade me to accept him.” Her father

was delighted with this reply, and at once went off and

consulted with his wife as to whether they could venture

to substitute the second for the elder; and then her

mother came and said to her, “That bad girl there

won’t obey her parent’s commands; we wish, therefore,

to put you in her place: will you consent to this arrangement?”

The younger sister readily agreed, saying

that had they told her to marry a beggar she would not

have dared to refuse, and that she had not such a low

opinion of Mr. Mao as all that. Her father and

mother rejoiced exceedingly at receiving this reply; and

dressing her up in her sister’s clothes, put her in the

bridal chair and sent her off. She proved an excellent

wife, and lived in harmony with her husband; but she

was troubled with a disease of the hair, which caused

Mr. Mao some annoyance. Later on, she told him how

she had changed places with her sister, and this made

him think more highly of her than before. Soon after

Mao took his bachelor’s degree, and then set off to

present himself as a candidate for the master’s degree.

On the way he passed by an inn, the landlord of which

had dreamt the night before that a spirit appeared to

him and said, “To-morrow Mr. Mao, first on the list,

will come. Some day he will extricate you from a

difficulty.” Accordingly the landlord got up early, and

took especial note of all guests who came from the eastward,

until at last Mao himself arrived. The landlord

was very glad to see him, and provided him with the

best of everything, refusing to take any payment for it

all, but telling what he had dreamt the night before.

Mao now began to give himself airs; and, reflecting

that his wife’s want of hair would make him look

ridiculous, he determined that as soon as he attained

to rank and power he would find another spouse. But

alas! when the successful list of candidates was published,

Mao’s name was not among them; and he

retraced his steps with a heavy heart, and by another

road, so as to avoid meeting the innkeeper. Three years

afterwards he went up again, and the landlord received

him with precisely the same attentions as on the previous

occasion; upon which Mao said to him, “Your former

words did not come true; I am now ashamed to put

you to so much trouble.” “Ah,” replied the landlord,

“you meant to get rid of your wife, and the Ruler of

the world below struck out your name.[270] My dream

couldn’t have been false.” In great astonishment, Mao

asked what he meant by these words; and then he

learnt that after his departure the landlord had had a

second dream informing him of the above facts. Mao

was much alarmed at what he heard, and remained as

motionless as a wooden image, until the landlord said

to him, “You, Sir, as a scholar, should have more self-respect,

and you will certainly take the highest place.”

By-and-by when the list came out, Mao was the first

of all; and almost simultaneously his wife’s hair began

to grow quite thick, making her much better-looking

than she had hitherto been.

Now her elder sister had married a rich young fellow

of good family, who lived in the neighbourhood, which

made the young lady more contemptuous than ever;

but he was so extravagant and so idle that their property

was soon gone, and they were positively in want

of food. Hearing, too, of Mr. Mao’s success at the

examination, she was overwhelmed with shame and vexation,

and avoided even meeting her sister in the street.

Just then her husband died and left her destitute; and

about the same time Mao took his doctor’s degree,

which so aggravated her feelings that, in a passion, she

became a nun. Subsequently, when Mao rose to be a

high officer of state, she sent a novice to his yamên to

try and get a subscription out of him for the temple;

and Mao’s wife, who gave several pieces of silk and

other things, secretly inserted a sum of money among

them. The novice, not knowing this, reported what she

had received to the elder sister, who cried out in a passion,

“I wanted money to buy food with; of what use are

these things to me?” So she bade the novice take

them back; and when Mao and his wife saw her return,

they suspected what had happened, and opening the

parcel found the money still there. They now understood

why the presents had been refused; and taking

the money, Mao said to the novice, “If one hundred

ounces of silver is too much luck for your mistress to

secure, of course she could never have secured a high

official, such as I am now, for her husband.” He then

took fifty ounces, and giving them to the novice, sent

her away, adding, “Hand this to your mistress, I’m

afraid more would be too much for her.”[271] The novice

returned and repeated all that had been said; and then

the elder sister sighed to think what a failure her life

had been, and how she had rejected the worthy to

accept the worthless. After this, the innkeeper got into

trouble about a case of murder, and was imprisoned;

but Mao exerted his influence, and obtained the man’s

pardon.

[272] PRIESTS.

The Buddhist priest, T‘i-k‘ung, relates that when he

was at Ch‘ing-chou he saw two foreign priests of very

extraordinary appearance. They wore rings in their ears,

were dressed in yellow cloth, and had curly hair and

beards. They said they had come from the countries of

the west; and hearing that the Governor of the district

was a devoted follower of Buddha, they went to visit

him. The Governor sent a couple of servants to

escort them to the monastery of the place, where the

abbot, Ling-p‘ei, did not receive them very cordially;

but the secular manager, seeing that they were not

ordinary individuals, entertained them and kept them

there for the night. Some one asked if there were many

strange men in the west, and what magical arts were

practised by the Lohans;[273] whereupon one of them

laughed, and putting forth his hand from his sleeve,

showed a small pagoda, fully a foot in height, and beautifully

carved, standing upon the palm. Now very high

up in the wall there was a niche; and the priest threw

the pagoda up to it, when lo! it stood there firm and

straight. After a few moments the pagoda began to incline

to one side, and a glory, as from a relic of some

saint, was diffused throughout the room. The other

priest then bared his arms, and stretched out his left

until it was five or six feet in length, at the same time

shortening his right arm until it dwindled to nothing.

He then stretched out the latter until it was as long as

his left arm.

Mr. Li took his doctor’s degree late in life.[274] On the

28th of the 9th moon of the 4th year of K‘ang Hsi,[275]

he killed his wife. The neighbours reported the murder

to the officials, and the high authorities instructed the

district magistrate to investigate the case. At this

juncture Mr. Li was standing at the door of his residence;

and snatching a butcher’s knife from a stall

hard by, he rushed into the Ch‘êng-huang[276] temple,

where, mounting the theatrical stage,[277] he threw himself

on his knees, and spoke as follows:—“The spirit here

will punish me. I am not to be prosecuted by evil men

who, from party motives, confuse right and wrong. The

spirit moves me to cut off an ear.” Thereupon he cut

off his left ear and threw it down from the stage. He

then said the spirit was going to fine him a hand for

cheating people out of their money; and he forthwith

chopped off his left hand. Lastly, he cried out that he

was to be punished severely for all his many crimes;

and immediately cut his own throat. The Viceroy

subsequently received the Imperial permission to deprive

him of his rank[278] and bring him to trial; but he was

then being punished by a higher power in the realms of

darkness below. See the Peking Gazette.[279]

Before his rebellion,[280] Prince Wu frequently told his

soldiers that if any one of them could catch a tiger unaided

he would give him a handsome pension and the

title of the Tiger Daunter. In his camp there was a

man named Pao-chu, as strong and agile as a monkey;

and once when a new tower was being built, the wooden

framework having only just been set up, Pao-chu walked

along the eaves, and finally got up on to the very tip-top

beam, where he ran backwards and forwards several

times. He then jumped down, alighting safely on his

feet.

Now Prince Wu had a favourite concubine, who was a

skilful player on the guitar; and the nuts of the instrument

she used were of warm jade,[281] so that when played

upon there was a general feeling of warmth throughout

the room. The young lady was extremely careful of this

treasure, and never produced it for any one to see unless

on receipt of the Prince’s written order. One night, in

the middle of a banquet, a guest begged to be allowed to

see this wonderful guitar; but the Prince, being in a lazy

mood, said it should be exhibited to him on the following

day. Pao-chu, who was standing by, then observed

that he could get it without troubling the Prince to write

an order. Some one was therefore sent off beforehand

to instruct all the officials to be on the watch, and then

the Prince told Pao-chu he might go; and after scaling

numerous walls the latter found himself near the lady’s

room. Lamps were burning brightly within; the doors

were bolted and barred, and it was impossible to effect

an entrance. Under the verandah, however, was a

cockatoo fast asleep on its perch; and Pao-chu first

mewing several times like a cat, followed it up by imitating

the voice of the bird, and cried out as though in distress,

“The cat! the cat!” He then heard the concubine

call to one of the slave girls, and bid her go rescue the

cockatoo which was being killed; and, hiding himself in

a dark corner, he saw a girl come forth with a light in

her hand. She had barely got outside the door when he

rushed in, and there he saw the lady sitting with the

guitar on a table before her. Seizing the instrument he

turned and fled; upon which the concubine shrieked out,

“Thieves! thieves!” And the guard, seeing a man

making off with the guitar, at once started in pursuit.

Arrows fell round Pao-chu like drops of rain, but he

climbed up one of a number of huge ash trees growing

there, and from its top leaped on to the top of the

next, and so on, until he had reached the furthermost

tree, when he jumped on to the roof of a house, and

from that to another, more as if he were flying than anything

else. In a few minutes he had disappeared, and

before long presented himself suddenly at the banquet-table

with the guitar in his hand, the entrance-gate

having been securely barred all the time, and not a dog

or a cock aroused.

In the twenty-first year of K‘ang Hsi[282] there was a

severe drought, not a green blade appearing in the

parched ground all through the spring and well into the

summer. On the 13th of the 6th moon a little rain fell,

and people began to plant their rice. On the 18th there

was a heavy fall, and beans were sown.

Now at a certain village there was an old man, who,

noticing two bullocks fighting on the hills, told the

villagers that a great flood was at hand, and forthwith

removed with his family to another part of the country.

The villagers all laughed at him; but before very long

rain began to fall in torrents, lasting all through the

night, until the water was several feet deep, and carrying

away the houses. Among the others was a man who,

neglecting to save his two children, with his wife assisted

his aged mother to reach a place of safety, from which

they looked down at their old home, now only an

expanse of water, without hope of ever seeing the

children again. When the flood had subsided, they

went back, to find the whole place a complete ruin;

but in their own house they discovered the two boys

playing and laughing on the bed as if nothing had

happened. Some one remarked that this was a reward

for the filial piety of the parents. It happened on the

20th of the 6th moon.[283]

A Mr. Sun Ching-hsia, a marshal of undergraduates,[284]

told me that in his village there was a certain man who

had been killed by the rebels when they passed through

the place. The man’s head was left hanging down on

his chest; and as soon as the rebels had gone, his

servants secured the body and were about to bury it.

Hearing, however, a sound of breathing, they looked

more closely, and found that the windpipe was not

wholly severed; and, setting his head in its proper place,

they carried him back home. In twenty-four hours he

began to moan; and by dint of carefully feeding him

with a spoon, within six months he had quite recovered.

Some ten years afterwards he was chatting with a few

friends, when one of them made a joke which called

forth loud applause from the others. Our hero, too,

clapped his hands; but, as he was bending backwards

and forwards with laughter, the seam on his neck split

open, and down fell his head with a gush of blood.

His friends now found that he was quite dead, and his

father immediately commenced an action against the

joker;[285] but a sum of money was subscribed by those

present and given to the father, who buried his son and

stopped further proceedings.

A number of wild young fellows were one day out

walking when they saw a young lady approach, riding on

a pony.[286] One of them said to the others, “I’ll back

myself to make that girl laugh,” and a supper was at

once staked by both sides on the result. Our hero then

ran out in front of the pony, and kept on shouting “I’m

going to die! I’m going to die!” at the same time

pulling out from over the top of a wall a stalk of millet,

to which he attached his own waistband, and tying the

latter round his neck, made a pretence of hanging himself.

The young lady did laugh as she passed by, to the

great amusement of the assembled company; but as

when she was already some distance off their friend did

not move, the others laughed louder than ever. However,

on going up to him they saw that his tongue protruded,

and that his eyes were glazed; he was, in fact,

quite dead. Was it not strange that a man should be

able to hang himself on a millet stalk?[287] It is a good

warning against practical joking.

Hsi Shan was a native of Kao-mi, and a trader by

occupation. He frequently slept at a place called

Mêng-i. One day he was delayed on the road by rain,

and when he arrived at his usual quarters it was already

late in the night. He knocked at all the doors, but no

one answered; and he was walking backwards and forwards

in the piazza when suddenly a door flew open and

an old man came out. He invited the traveller to

enter, an invitation to which Hsi Shan gladly responded;

and, tying up his mule, he went in. The place was

totally unfurnished; and the old man began by saying that

it was only out of compassion that he had asked him in,

as his house was not an inn. “There are only three or

four of us,” added he; “and my wife and daughter are

fast asleep. We have some of yesterday’s food, which I

will get ready for you; you must not object to its being

cold.” He then went within, and shortly afterwards returned

with a low couch, which he placed on the ground,

begging his guest to be seated, at the same time hurrying

back for a low table, and soon for a number of other

things, until at last Hsi Shan was quite uncomfortable,

and entreated his host to rest himself awhile. By-and-by

a young lady came out, bringing some wine; upon which

the old man said, “Oh, our A-ch‘ien has got up.” She

was about sixteen or seventeen, a slender and pretty-looking

girl; and as Hsi Shan had an unmarried brother,

he began to think directly that she would do for him.

So he inquired of the old man his name and address, to

which the latter replied that his name was Ku, and that

his children had all died save this one daughter. “I

didn’t like to wake her just now, but I suppose my wife

told her to get up.” Hsi Shan then asked the name of

his son-in-law, and was informed that the young lady was

not yet engaged,—at which he was secretly very much

pleased. A tray of food was now brought in, evidently

the remains from the day before; and when he had

finished eating, Hsi Shan began respectfully to address

the old man as follows:—“I am only a poor wayfarer,

but I shall never forget the kindness with which you

have treated me. Let me presume upon it, and submit

to your consideration a plan I have in my head. My

younger brother, San-lang, is seventeen years old. He

is a student, and by no means unsteady or dull. May I

hope that you will unite our families together, and not

think it presumption on my part?” “I, too, am but a

temporary sojourner,” replied the old man, rejoicing;

“and if you will only let me have a part of your house,

I shall be very glad to come and live with you.” Hsi

Shan consented to this, and got up and thanked him for

the promise of his daughter; upon which the old man

set to work to make him comfortable for the night, and

then went away. At cock-crow he was outside, calling

his guest to come and have a wash; and when Hsi Shan

had packed up ready to go, he offered to pay for his

night’s entertainment. This, however, the old man refused,

saying, “I could hardly charge a stranger anything

for a single meal; how much less could I take money

from my intended son-in-law?” They then separated,

and in about a month Hsi Shan returned; but when he

was a short distance from the village he met an old

woman with a young lady, both dressed in deep mourning.

As they approached he began to suspect it was

A-ch‘ien; and the young lady, after turning round to

look at him, pulled the old woman’s sleeve, and whispered

something in her ear, which Hsi Shan himself did

not hear. The old woman stopped immediately, and

asked if she was addressing Mr. Hsi; and when informed

that she was, she said mournfully, “Alas! my

husband has been killed by the falling of a wall. We

are going to bury him to-day. There is no one at home;

but please wait here, and we will be back by-and-by.”

They then disappeared among the trees; and, returning

after a short absence, they walked along together in the

dusk of the evening. The old woman complained

bitterly of their lonely and helpless state, and Hsi

Shan himself was moved to compassion by the sight of

her tears. She told him that the people of the neighbourhood

were a bad lot, and that if he thought of

marrying the poor widow’s daughter, he had better lose

no time in doing so. Hsi Shan said he was willing; and

when they reached the house the old woman, after lighting

the lamp and setting food before him, proceeded to

speak as follows:—“Knowing, Sir, that you would

shortly arrive, we sold all our grain except about twenty

piculs. We cannot take this with us so far; but a mile

or so to the north of the village, at the first house you

come to, there lives a man named T‘an Erh-ch‘üan, who

often buys grain from me. Don’t think it too much

trouble to oblige me by taking a sack with you on your

mule and proceeding thither at once. Tell Mr. T‘an

that the old lady of the southern village has several

piculs of grain which she wishes to sell in order to get

money for a journey, and beg him to send some animals

to carry it.” The old woman then gave him a sack of

grain; and Hsi Shan, whipping up his mule, was soon at

the place; and, knocking at the door, a great fat fellow

came out, to whom he told his errand. Emptying the

sack he had brought, he went back himself first; and

before long a couple of men arrived leading five mules.

The old woman took them into the granary, which was a

cellar below ground, and Hsi Shan, going down himself,

handed up the bags to the mother and daughter, who

passed them on from one to the other. In a little while

the men had got a load, with which they went off, returning

altogether four times before all the grain was

exhausted. They then paid the old woman, who kept

one man and two mules, and, packing up her things, set

off towards the east. After travelling some seven miles

day began to break; and by-and-by they reached a

market town, where the old woman hired animals and

sent back T‘an’s servant. When they arrived at Hsi

Shan’s home he related the whole story to his parents,

who were very pleased at what had happened, and provided

separate apartments for the old lady, at the same

time engaging a fortune-teller to fix on a lucky day for

A-ch‘ien’s marriage with their son San-lang. The old

woman prepared a handsome trousseau; and as for

A-ch‘ien herself, she spoke but little, seldom losing her

temper, and if any one addressed her she would only

reply with a smile. She employed all her time in spinning,

and thus became a general favourite with all alike.

“Tell your brother,” said she to San-lang, “that when

he happens to pass our old residence he will do well not

to make any mention of my mother and myself.”

In three or four years’ time the Hsi family had made

plenty of money, and San-lang had taken his bachelor’s

degree, when one day Hsi Shan happened to pass a

night with the people who lived next door to the house

where he had met A-ch‘ien. After telling them the

story of his having had nowhere to sleep, and taking

refuge with the old man and woman, his host said to

him, “You must make a mistake, Sir; the house you

allude to belongs to my uncle, but was abandoned three

years ago in consequence of its being haunted. It has

now been uninhabited for a long time. What old man

and woman can have entertained you there?” Hsi Shan

was very much astonished at this, but did not put much

faith in what he heard; meanwhile his host continued,

“For ten years no one dared enter the house; however,

one day the back wall fell down, and my uncle, going to

look at it, found, half-buried underneath the ruins, a large

rat, almost as big as a cat. It was still moving, and my

uncle went off to call for assistance, but when he got

back the rat had disappeared. Everyone suspected some

supernatural agency to be at work, though on returning

to the spot ten days afterwards nothing was to be either

heard or seen; and about a year subsequently the place

was inhabited once more.” Hsi Shan was more than

ever amazed at what he now heard, and on reaching

home told the family what had occurred; for he feared

that his brother’s wife was not a human being, and became

rather anxious about him. San-lang himself

continued to be much attached to A-ch‘ien; but by-and-by

the other members of the family let A-ch‘ien

perceive that they had suspicions about her. So one

night she complained to San-lang, saying, “I have been

a good wife to you for some years: now I have become

an object of contempt. I pray you give me my divorce,[288]

and seek for yourself some worthier mate.” She then burst

into a flood of tears; whereupon San-lang said, “You

should know my feelings by this time. Ever since you

entered the house the family has prospered; and that

prosperity is entirely due to you. Who can say it is not

so?” “I know full well,” replied A-ch‘ien, “what you

feel; still there are the others, and I do not wish to

share the fate of an autumn fan.”[289] At length San-lang

succeeded in pacifying her; but Hsi Shan could not

dismiss the subject from his thoughts, and gave out that

he was going to get a first-rate mouser, with a view to

testing A-ch‘ien. She did not seem very frightened at

this, though evidently ill at ease; and one night she told

San-lang that her mother was not very well, and that he

needn’t come to bid her good night as usual. In the

morning mother and daughter had disappeared; at which

San-lang was greatly alarmed, and sent out to look for

them in every direction. No traces of the fugitives could

be discovered, and San-lang was overwhelmed with grief,

unable either to eat or to sleep. His father and brother

thought it was a lucky thing for him, and advised him to

console himself with another wife. This, however, he

refused to do; until, about a year afterwards, nothing

more having been heard of A-ch‘ien, he could not resist

their importunities any longer, and bought himself a

concubine. But he never ceased to think of A-ch‘ien;

and some years later, when the prosperity of the family

was on the wane, they all began to regret her loss.

Now San-lang had a step-brother, named Lan, who,

when travelling to Chiao-chou on business, passed a

night at the house of a relative named Lu. He noticed

that during the night sounds of weeping and lamentation

proceeded from their next-door neighbours, but he did

not inquire the reason of it; however, on his way back

he heard the same sounds, and then asked what was the

cause of such demonstrations. Mr. Lu told him that a

few years ago an old widow and her daughter had come

there to live, and that the mother had died about a

month previously, leaving her child quite alone in the

world. Lan inquired what her name was, and Mr. Lu

said it was Ku; “But,” added he, “the door is closely

barred, and as they never had any communication with

the village, I know nothing of their antecedents.” “It’s

my sister-in-law,” cried Lan, in amazement, and at once

proceeded to knock at the door of the house. Some

one came to the front door, and said, in a voice that

betokened recent weeping, “Who’s there? There

are no men in this house.”[290] Lan looked through a

crack, and saw that the young lady really was his sister-in-law;

so he called out, “Sister, open the door. I am

your step-brother A-sui.” A-ch‘ien immediately opened

the door and asked him in, and recounted to him the

whole story of her troubles. “Your husband,” said Lan,

“is always thinking of you. For a trifling difference

you need hardly have run away so far from him.” He

then proposed to hire a vehicle and take her home; but

A-ch‘ien replied, “I came hither with my mother to

hide because I was held in contempt, and should make

myself ridiculous by now returning thus. If I am to go

back, my elder brother Hsi Shan must no longer live

with us; otherwise, I will assuredly poison myself.”

Lan then went home and told San-lang, who set off and

travelled all night until he reached the place where

A-ch‘ien was. Husband and wife were overjoyed to

meet again, and the following day San-lang notified the

landlord of the house where A-ch‘ien had been living.

Now this landlord had long desired to secure A-ch‘ien

as a concubine for himself; and, after making no claim

for rent for several years, he began to hint as much to

her mother. The old lady, however, refused flatly;

but shortly afterwards she died, and then the landlord

thought that he might be able to succeed. At this

juncture San-lang arrived, and the landlord sought to

hamper him by putting in his claim for rent; and, as

San-lang was anything but well off at the moment, it

really did annoy him very much. A-ch‘ien here came to

the rescue, showing San-lang a large quantity of grain

she had in the house, and bidding him use it to settle

accounts with the landlord. The latter declared he

could not accept grain, but must be paid in silver;

whereupon A-ch‘ien sighed and said it was all her unfortunate

self that had brought this upon them, at the

same time telling San-lang of the landlord’s former proposition.

San-lang was very angry, and was about to

take out a summons against him, when Mr. Lu interposed,

and, by selling the grain in the neighbourhood,

managed to collect sufficient money to pay off the rent.

San-lang and his wife then returned home; and the

former, having explained the circumstances to his parents,

separated his household from that of his brother.

A-ch‘ien now proceeded to build, with her own money,

a granary, which was a matter of some astonishment to

the family, there not being a hundredweight of grain in

the place. But in about a year the granary was full,[291]

and before very long San-lang was a rich man, Hsi Shan

remaining as poor as before. Accordingly, A-ch‘ien persuaded

her husband’s parents to come and live with

them, and made frequent presents of money to the elder

brother; so that her husband said, “Well, at any rate,

you bear no malice.” “Your brother’s behaviour,” replied

she, “was from his regard for you. Had it not been

for him, you and I would never have met.” After this

there were no more supernatural manifestations.

Mr. Tai, of An-ch‘ing, was a wild fellow when young.

One day as he was returning home tipsy,[292] he met by the

way a dead cousin of his named Chi; and having, in his

drunken state, quite forgotten that his cousin was dead,

he asked him where he was going. “I am already a

disembodied spirit,” replied Chi; “don’t you remember?”

Tai was a little disturbed at this; but, being

under the influence of liquor, he was not frightened, and

inquired of his cousin what he was doing in the realms

below. “I am employed as scribe,” said Chi, “in the

court of the Great King.” “Then you must know all

about our happiness and misfortunes to come,” cried

Tai. “It is my business,” answered his cousin, “so of

course I know. But I see such an enormous mass that,

unless of special reference to myself or family, I take

no notice of any of it. Three days ago, by the way,

I saw your name in the register.” Tai immediately

asked what there was about himself, and his cousin

replied, “I will not deceive you; your name was

put down for a dark and dismal hell.” Tai was

dreadfully alarmed, and at the same time sobered, and

entreated his cousin to assist him in some way. “You

may try,” said Chi, “what merit will do for you as a

means of mitigating your punishment; but the register

of your sins is as thick as my finger, and nothing short

of the most deserving acts will be of any avail. What

can a poor fellow like myself do for you? Were you to

perform one good act every day, you would not complete

the necessary total under a year and more, and it is now

too late for that. But henceforth amend your ways, and

there may still be a chance of escape for you.” When

Tai heard these words he prostrated himself on the

ground, imploring his cousin to help him; but, on raising

his head, Chi had disappeared; he therefore returned

sorrowfully home, and set to work to cleanse his heart

and order his behaviour.

Now Tai’s next door neighbour had long suspected

him of paying too much attention to his wife; and one

day meeting Tai in the fields shortly after the events

narrated above, he inveigled him into inspecting a dry

well, and then pushed him down. The well was many

feet deep, and the man felt certain that Tai was killed;

however, in the middle of the night he came round, and

sitting up at the bottom, he began to shout for assistance,

but could not make any one hear him. On the following

day, the neighbour, fearing that Tai might possibly have

recovered consciousness, went to listen at the mouth of

the well; and hearing him cry out for help, began to

throw down a quantity of stones. Tai took refuge in a

cave at the side, and did not dare utter another sound;

but his enemy knew he was not dead, and forthwith

filled the well almost up to the top with earth. In the

cave it was as dark as pitch, exactly like the Infernal

Regions; and not being able to get anything to eat or

drink, Tai gave up all hopes of life. He crawled on his

hands and knees further into the cave, but was prevented

by water from going further than a few paces, and

returned to take up his position at the old spot. At first

he felt hungry; by-and-by, however, this sensation passed

away; and then reflecting that there, at the bottom of a

well, he could hardly perform any good action, he passed

his time in calling loudly on the name of Buddha.[293]

Before long he saw a number of Will-o’-the-Wisps

flitting over the water and illuminating the gloom of the

cave; and immediately prayed to them, saying, “O

Will-o’-the-Wisps, I have heard that ye are the shades of

wronged and injured people. I have not long to live,

and am without hope of escape; still I would gladly

relieve the monotony of my situation by exchanging a

few words with you.” Thereupon, all the Wills came

flitting across the water to him; and among them was a

man of about half the ordinary size. Tai asked him

whence he came; to which he replied, “This is an old

coal-mine. The proprietor, in working the coal, disturbed

the position of some graves;[294] and Mr. Lung-fei

flooded the mine and drowned forty-three workmen.

We are the shades of those men.” He further said he

did not know who Mr. Lung-fei was, except that he was

secretary to the City God, and that in compassion for the

misfortunes of the innocent workmen, he was in the

habit of sending them a quantity of gruel every three or

four days. “But the cold water,” added he, “soaks

into our bones, and there is but small chance of ever

getting them removed. If, Sir, you some day return to

the world above, I pray you fish up our decaying bones

and bury them in some public burying-ground. You

will thus earn for yourself boundless gratitude in the

realms below.” Tai promised that if he had the luck to

escape he would do as they wished; “but how,” cried

he, “situated as I am, can I ever hope to look again

upon the light of day?” He then began to teach the

Wills to say their prayers, making for them beads[295] out

of bits of mud, and repeating to them the liturgies of

Buddha. He could not tell night from morning; he

slept when he felt tired, and when he waked he sat up.

Suddenly, he perceived in the distance the light of

lamps, at which the shades all rejoiced, and said, “It is

Mr. Lung-fei with our food.” They then invited Tai to

go with them; and when he said he couldn’t because of

the water, they bore him along over it so that he hardly

seemed to walk. After twisting and turning about for

nearly a quarter of a mile, he reached a place at which

the Wills bade him walk by himself; and then he appeared

to mount a flight of steps, at the top of which he

found himself in an apartment lighted by a candle as

thick round as one’s arm. Not having seen the light of

fire for some time, he was overjoyed and walked in; but

observing an old man in a scholar’s dress and cap seated

in the post of honour, he stopped, not liking to advance

further. But the old man had already caught sight of

him, and asked him how he, a living man, had come

there. Tai threw himself on the ground at his feet, and

told him all; whereupon the old man cried out, “My

great-grandson!” He then bade him get up; and

offering him a seat, explained that his own name was Tai

Ch‘ien, and that he was otherwise known as Lung-fei.

He said, moreover, that in days gone by a worthless

grandson of his named T‘ang, had associated himself

with a lot of scoundrels and sunk a well near his grave,

disturbing the peace of his everlasting night; and that

therefore he had flooded the place with salt water and

drowned them. He then inquired as to the general

condition of the family at that time.

Now Tai was a descendant of one of five brothers, from

the eldest of whom T‘ang himself was also descended;

and an influential man of the place had bribed T‘ang to

open a mine[296] alongside the family grave. His brothers

were afraid to interfere; and by-and-by the water rose

and drowned all the workmen; whereupon actions for

damages were commenced by the relatives of the deceased,[297]

and T‘ang and his friend were reduced to

poverty, and T‘ang’s descendants to absolute destitution.

Tai was a son of one of T‘ang’s brothers, and having

heard this story from his seniors, now repeated it to the

old man. “How could they be otherwise than unfortunate,”

cried the latter, “with such an unfilial progenitor?

But since you have come hither, you must on

no account neglect your studies.” The old man then

provided him with food and wine, and spreading a

volume of essays according to the old style before him,

bade him study it most carefully. He also gave him

themes for composition, and corrected his essays as if he

had been his tutor. The candle remained always burning

in the room, never needing to be snuffed and never

decreasing. When he was tired he went to sleep, but

he never knew day from night. The old man occasionally

went out, leaving a boy to attend to his great-grandson’s

wants. It seemed that several years passed

away thus, but Tai had no troubles of any kind to annoy

him. He had no other book except the volume of

essays, one hundred in all, which he read through more

than four thousand times. One day the old man said to

him, “Your term of expiation is nearly completed, and

you will be able to return to the world above. My

grave is near the coal-mine, and the grosser breeze plays

upon my bones. Remember to remove them to Tung-yüan.”

Tai promised he would see to this; and then

the old man summoned all the shades together and instructed

them to escort Tai back to the place where they

had found him. The shades now bowed one after the

other, and begged Tai to think of them as well, while

Tai himself was quite at a loss to guess how he was

going to get out.

Meanwhile, Tai’s family had searched for him everywhere,

and his mother had brought his case to the

notice of the officials, thereby implicating a large

number of persons, but without getting any trace of the

missing man. Three or four years passed away and

there was a change of magistrate; in consequence of

which the search was relaxed, and Tai’s wife, not being

happy where she was, married another husband. Just

then an inhabitant of the place set about repairing the

old well and found Tai’s body in the cave at the bottom.

Touching it, he found it was not dead, and at once gave

information to the family. Tai was promptly conveyed

home, and within a day he could tell his own story.