Strange Stories from a Chinese Studio (Volumes 1 and 2)-9

Since he had been down the well, the neighbour who

pushed him in had beaten his own wife to death; and

his father-in-law having brought an action against him,

he had been in confinement for more than a year while

the case was being investigated.[298] When released he

was a mere bag of bones;[299] and then hearing that Tai

had come back to life, he was terribly alarmed and fled

away. The family tried to persuade Tai to take proceedings

against him, but this he would not do, alleging

that what had befallen him was a proper punishment for

his own bad behaviour, and had nothing to do with the

neighbour. Upon this, the said neighbour ventured to

return; and when the water in the well had dried up,

Tai hired men to go down and collect the bones, which

he put in coffins and buried all together in one place.

He next hunted up Mr. Lung-fei’s name in the family

tables of genealogy, and proceeded to sacrifice all kinds

of nice things at his tomb. By-and-by the Literary

Chancellor[300] heard this strange story, and was also very

pleased with Tai’s compositions; accordingly, Tai passed

successfully through his examinations, and, having taken

his master’s degree, returned home and reburied Mr.

Lung-fei at Tung-yüan, repairing thither regularly every

spring without fail.[301]

An Ta-ch‘êng was a Chung-ch‘ing man. His father,

who had gained the master’s degree, died early; and

his brother Erh-ch‘êng was a mere boy. He himself

had married a wife from the Ch‘ên family, whose name

was Shan-hu; and this young lady had much to put up

with from the violent and malicious disposition of her

husband’s mother.[302] However, she never complained;

and every morning dressed herself up smart, and went

in to pay her respects to the old lady. Once when

Ta-ch‘êng was ill, his mother abused Shan-hu for dressing

so nicely; whereupon Shan-hu went back and changed

her clothes; but even then Mrs. An was not satisfied, and

began to tear her own hair with rage. Ta-ch‘êng, who

was a very filial son, at once gave his wife a beating,

and this put an end to the scene. From that moment

his mother hated her more than ever, and although she

was everything that a daughter-in-law could be, would

never exchange a word with her. Ta-ch‘êng then

treated her in much the same way, that his mother

might see he would have nothing to do with her; still

the old lady wasn’t pleased, and was always blaming

Shan-hu for every trifle that occurred. “A wife,”

cried Ta-ch‘êng “is taken to wait upon her mother-in-law.

This state of things hardly looks like the wife

doing her duty.” So he bade Shan-hu begone,[303] and

sent an old maid-servant to see her home: but when

Shan-hu got outside the village-gate, she burst into

tears, and said, “How can a girl who has failed in her

duties as a wife ever dare to look her parents in the face?

I had better die.” Thereupon she drew a pair of scissors

and stabbed herself in the throat, covering herself immediately

with blood. The servant prevented any further

mischief, and supported her to the house of her husband’s

aunt, who was a widow living by herself, and who

made Shan-hu stay with her. The servant went back

and told Ta-ch‘êng, and he bade her say nothing to any

one, for fear his mother should hear of it. In a few

days Shan-hu’s wound was healed, and Ta-ch‘êng went

off to ask his aunt to send her away. His aunt invited

him in, but he declined, demanding loudly that

Shan-hu should be turned out; and in a few moments

Shan-hu herself came forth, and inquired what she had

done. Ta-ch‘êng said she had failed in her duty towards

his mother; whereupon Shan-hu hung her head

and made no answer, while tears of blood[304] trickled

from her eyes and stained her dress all over. Ta-ch‘êng

was much touched by this spectacle, and went away

without saying any more; but before long his mother

heard all about it, and, hurrying off to the aunt’s, began

abusing her roundly. This the aunt would not stand,

and said it was all the fault of her own bad temper,

adding, “The girl has already left you, and has nothing

more to do with the family. Miss Ch‘ên is staying with

me, not your daughter-in-law; so you had better mind

your own business.” This made Mrs. An furious; but

she was at a loss for an answer, and, seeing that the

aunt was firm, she went off home abashed and in tears.

Shan-hu herself was very much upset, and determined

to seek shelter elsewhere, finally taking up her

abode with Mrs. An’s elder sister, a lady of sixty odd

years of age, whose son had died, leaving his wife and

child to his mother’s care. This Mrs. Yü was extremely

fond of Shan-hu; and when she heard the facts of the

case, said it was all her sister’s horrid disposition, and

proposed to send Shan-hu back. The latter, however,

would not hear of this, and they continued to live together

like mother and daughter; neither would Shan-hu

accept the invitation of her two brothers to return

home and marry some one else, but remained there with

Mrs. Yü, earning enough to live upon by spinning and

such work.

Ever since Shan-hu had been sent away, Ta-ch‘êng’s

mother had been endeavouring to get him another wife;

but the fame of her temper had spread far and wide,

and no one would entertain her proposals. In three or

four years Erh-ch‘êng had grown up, and he was married

first to a young lady named Tsang-ku, whose temper

turned out to be something fearful, and far more ungovernable

even than her mother-in-law’s. When the

latter only looked angry, Tsang-ku was already at the

shrieking stage; and Erh-ch‘êng, being of a very meek

disposition, dared not side with either. Thus it came

about that Mrs. An began to be in mortal fear of

Tsang-ku; and whenever her daughter-in-law was in a

rage she would try and turn off her anger with a smile.

She seemed never to be able to please Tsang-ku, who in

her turn worked her mother-in-law like a slave, Ta-ch‘êng

himself not venturing to interfere, but only assisting his

mother in washing the dishes and sweeping the floor.

Mother and son would often go to some secluded spot,

and there in secret tell their griefs to one another; but

before long Mrs. An was stretched upon a sick bed with

nobody to attend to her except Ta-ch‘êng. He watched

her day and night without sleeping, until both eyes were

red and inflamed; and then when he went to summon

the younger son to take his place, Tsang-ku told him to

leave the house. Ta-ch‘êng now went off to inform

Mrs. Yü, hoping that she would come and assist; and

he had hardly finished his tale of woe before Shan-hu

walked in. In great confusion at seeing her, he would

have left immediately had not Shan-hu held out her arms

across the door; whereupon he bolted underneath them

and escaped. He did not dare tell his mother, and

shortly afterwards Mrs. Yü arrived, to the great joy of Ta-ch‘êng’s

mother, who made her stay in the house.

Every day something nice was sent for Mrs. Yü, and

even when she told the servants that there was no

occasion for it, she having all she wanted at her sister’s,

the things still came as usual. However, she kept none

of them for herself, but gave what came to the invalid,

who gradually began to improve. Mrs. Yü’s grandson

also used to come by his mother’s orders, and inquire

after the sick lady’s health, besides bringing a packet

of cakes and so on for her. “Ah, me!” cried Mrs.

An, “what a good daughter-in-law you have got, to be

sure. What have you done to her?” “What sort of

a person was the one you sent away?” asked her sister

in reply. “She wasn’t as bad as some one I know of,”

said Mrs. An, “though not so good as yours.” “When

she was here you had but little to do,” replied Mrs. Yü;

“and when you were angry she took no notice of it.

How was she not as good?” Mrs. An then burst into

tears, and saying how sorry she was, asked if Shan-hu

had married again; to which Mrs. Yü replied that she

did not know, but would make inquiries. In a few

more days the patient was quite well, and Mrs. Yü

proposed to return; her sister, however, begged her to

stay, and declared she should die if she didn’t. Mrs.

Yü then advised that Erh-ch‘êng and his wife should

live in a separate house, and Erh-ch‘êng spoke about

it to his wife; but she would not agree, and abused

both Ta-ch‘êng and his mother alike. It ended by

Ta-ch‘êng giving up a large share of the property, and

ultimately Tsang-ku consented, and a deed of separation

was drawn up. Mrs. Yü then went away, returning

next day with a sedan-chair to carry her sister back;

and no sooner had the latter put her foot inside Mrs.

Yü’s door, than she asked to see the daughter-in-law,

whom she immediately began to praise very highly.

“Ah,” said Mrs. Yü, “she’s a good girl, with her little

faults like the rest of us; but your daughter-in-law is

just as good, though you are not aware of it.”

“Alas!” replied her sister, “I must have been as

senseless as a statue not to have seen what she was.”

“I wonder what Shan-hu, whom you turned out of

doors, says of you,” rejoined Mrs. Yü. “Why, swears

at me, of course,” answered Mrs. An. “If you examine

yourself honestly and find nothing which should

make people swear at you, is it at all likely you would

be sworn at?” asked Mrs. Yü. “Well, all people are

fallible,” replied the other, “and as I know she is not

perfect, I conclude she would naturally swear at me.”

“If a person has just cause for resentment, and yet

does not indulge that resentment, such behaviour should

meet with a grateful acknowledgment; or if any one

has just cause for leaving another and yet does not do

so, such behaviour should entitle them to kind treatment.

Now, all the things that were sent when you

were ill, and all the various little attentions, did not

come from my daughter-in-law but from yours.” Mrs.

An was amazed at hearing this, and asked for some

explanation; whereupon Mrs. Yü continued, “Shan-hu

has been living here for a long time. Everything she

sent to you was bought with money earned by her

spinning, and that, too, continued late into the night.”

Mrs. An here burst into tears, and begged to be

allowed to see Shan-hu, who came in at Mrs. Yü’s

summons, and threw herself on the ground at her

mother-in-law’s feet. Mrs. An was much abashed, and

beat her head with shame; but Mrs. Yü made it all up

between them, and they became mother and daughter

as at first. In about ten days they went home, and, as

their property was not enough to support them, Ta-ch‘êng

had to work with his pen while his wife did the

same with her needle. Erh-ch‘êng was quite well off,

but his brother would not apply to him, neither did he

himself offer to help them. Tsang-ku, too, would have

nothing to do with her sister-in-law, because she had

been divorced; and Shan-hu in her turn, knowing what

Tsang-ku’s temper was, made no great efforts to be

friendly. So the two brothers lived apart;[305] and when

Tsang-ku was in one of her outrageous moods, all the

others would stop their ears, till at length there was only

her husband and the servants upon whom to vent her

spleen. One day a maid-servant of hers committed

suicide, and the father of the girl brought an action

against Tsang-ku for having caused her death. Erh-ch‘êng

went off to the mandarin’s to take her place as

defendant, but only got a good beating for his pains,

as the magistrate insisted that Tsang-ku herself should

appear, and answer to the charge, in spite of all her

friends could do. The consequence was she had her

fingers squeezed[306] until the flesh was entirely taken off;

and the magistrate, being a grasping man, a very

severe fine was inflicted as well. Erh-ch‘êng had now

to mortgage his property before he could raise enough

money to get Tsang-ku released; but before long the

mortgagee threatened to foreclose, and he was obliged

to enter into negotiations for the sale of it to an old

gentleman of the village named Jen. Now Mr. Jen,

knowing that half the property had belonged to Ta-ch‘êng,

said the deed of sale must be signed by the

elder brother as well; however, when Ta-ch‘êng reached

his house, the old man cried out, “I am Mr. An, M.A.,

who is this Jen that he should buy my property?”

Then, looking at Ta-ch‘êng, he added, “The filial piety

of you and your wife has obtained for me in the realms

below this interview;” upon which Ta-ch‘êng said, “O

father, since you have this power, help my younger

brother.” “The unfilial son and the vixenish daughter-in-law,”

said the old man, “deserve no pity. Go home

and quickly buy back our ancestral property.” “We

have barely enough to live upon,” replied Ta-ch‘êng;

“where, then, shall we find the necessary money?” “Beneath

the crape myrtle-tree,”[307] answered his father,

“you will find a store of silver, which you may take

and use for this purpose.” Ta-ch‘êng would have

questioned him further, but the old gentleman said no

more, recovering consciousness shortly afterwards[308] without

knowing a word of what had happened. Ta-ch‘êng

went back and told his brother, who did not altogether

believe the story; Tsang-ku, however, hurried off with

a number of men, and had soon dug a hole four or five

feet deep, at the bottom of which they found a quantity

of bricks and stones, but no gold. She then gave up

the idea and returned home, Ta-ch‘êng having meanwhile

warned his mother and wife not to go near the

place while she was digging. When Tsang-ku left,

Mrs. An went herself to have a look, and seeing only

bricks and earth mingled together, she, too, retraced her

steps. Shan-hu was the next to go, and she found the

hole full of silver bullion; and then Ta-ch‘êng repaired

to the spot and saw that there was no mistake about

it. Not thinking it right to apply this heir-loom to his

own private use, he now summoned Erh-ch‘êng to share

it; and having obtained twice as much as was necessary

to redeem the estate, the brothers returned to

their homes. Erh-ch‘êng and Tsang-ku opened their

half together, when lo! the bag was full of tiles and

rubbish. They at once suspected Ta-ch‘êng of deceiving

them, and Erh-ch‘êng ran off to see how things

were going at his brother’s. He arrived just as Ta-ch‘êng

was spreading the silver on the table, and with

his mother and wife rejoicing over their acquisition;

and when he had told them what had occurred, Ta-ch‘êng

expressed much sympathy for him, and at once

presented him with his own half of the treasure.

Erh-ch‘êng was delighted, and paid off the mortgage on

the land, feeling very grateful to his brother for such

kindness. Tsang-ku, however, declared it was a proof

that Ta-ch‘êng had been cheating him; “for how, otherwise,”

argued she, “can you understand a man sharing

anything with another, and then resigning his own

half?”

Erh-ch‘êng himself did not know what to think of it;

but next day the mortgagee sent to say that the money

paid in was all imitation silver, and that he was about to

lay the case before the authorities. Husband and wife

were greatly alarmed at this, and Tsang-ku exclaimed,

“Well, I never thought your brother was as bad as

this. He’s simply trying to take your life.” Erh-ch‘êng

himself was in a terrible fright, and hurried off

to the mortgagee to entreat for mercy; but as the latter

was extremely angry and would hear of no compromise,

Erh-ch‘êng was obliged to make over the property to

him to dispose of himself. The money was then

returned, and when he got home he found that two

lumps had been cut through, shewing merely an outside

layer of silver, about as thick as an onion-leaf, covering

nothing but copper within. Tsang-ku and Erh-ch‘êng

then agreed to keep the broken pieces themselves, but

send the rest back to Ta-ch‘êng, with a message, saying

that they were deeply indebted to him for all his kindness,

and that they had ventured to retain two of the

lumps of silver out of compliment to the giver; also

that Ta-ch‘êng might consider himself the owner of the

mortgaged land, which he could redeem or not as he

pleased. Ta-ch‘êng, who did not perceive the intention

in all this, refused to accept the land; however, Erh-ch‘êng

entreated him to do so, and at last he consented.

When he came to weigh the money, he found it was

five ounces short, and therefore bade Shan-hu pawn

something from her jewel-box to make up the amount,

with which he proceeded to pay off the mortgage. The

mortgagee, suspecting it was the same money that had

been offered him by Erh-ch‘êng, cut the pieces in

halves, and saw that it was all silver of the purest

quality. Accordingly he accepted it in liquidation

of his claim, and handed the mortgage back to Ta-ch‘êng.

Meanwhile, Erh-ch‘êng had been expecting

some catastrophe; but when he found that the mortgaged

land had been redeemed, he did not know what

to make of it. Tsang-ku thought that at the time of

the digging Ta-ch‘êng had concealed the genuine silver,

and immediately rushed off to his house, and began to

revile them all round. Ta-ch‘êng now understood why

they had sent him back the money; and Shan-hu

laughed and said, “The property is safe; why, then, this

anger?” Thereupon she made Ta-ch‘êng hand over

the deeds to Tsang-ku.

One night after this Erh-ch‘êng’s father appeared to

him in a dream, and reproached him, saying, “Unfilial

son, unfraternal brother, your hour is at hand. Wherefore

usurp rights that do not belong to you?” In the

morning Erh-ch‘êng told Tsang-ku of his dream, and

proposed to return the property to his brother; but she

only laughed at him for a fool. Just then the eldest

of his two sons, a boy of seven, died of small-pox, and

this frightened Tsang-ku so that she agreed to restore

the deeds. Ta-ch‘êng would not accept them; and

now the second child, a boy of three, died also; whereupon

Tsang-ku seized the deeds, and threw them into

her brother-in-law’s house. Spring was over, but the

land was in a terribly neglected state; so Ta-ch‘êng

set to work and put it in order again. From this moment

Tsang-ku was a changed woman towards her mother-

and sister-in-law; and when, six months later, Mrs. An

died, she was so grieved that she refused to take any

nourishment. “Alas!” cried she, “that my mother-in-law

has died thus early, and prevented me from waiting

upon her. Heaven will not allow me to retrieve my

past errors.” Tsang-ku had thirteen children,[309] but as

none of them lived, they were obliged to adopt one of

Ta-ch‘êng’s,[310] who, with his wife, lived to a good old

age, and had three sons, two of whom took their

doctor’s degree. People said this was a reward for filial

piety and brotherly love.

There

wasaFohkiengentlemannamedTsêng,who

had just taken his doctor’s degree. One day he was out

walking with several other recently-elected doctors, when

they heard that at a temple hard by there lived an

astrologer, and accordingly the party proceeded thither to

get their fortunes told. They went in and sat down, and

the astrologer made some very complimentary remarks

to Tsêng, at which he fanned himself and smiled, saying,

“Have I any chance of ever wearing the dragon robes

and the jade girdle?”[311] The astrologer[312] immediately put

on a serious face, and replied that he would be a Secretary

of State during twenty years of national tranquillity.

Thereupon Tsêng was much pleased, and began to give

himself greater airs than ever. A slight rain coming on,

they sought shelter in the priest’s quarters, where they

found an old bonze, with sunken eyes and a big nose,

sitting upon a mat. He took no notice of the strangers,

who, after having bowed to him, stretched themselves

upon the couches to chat, not forgetting to congratulate

Tsêng upon the destiny which had been foretold him.

Tsêng, too, seemed to think the thing was a matter

of certainty, and mentioned the names of several

friends he intended to advance, amongst others the

old family butler. Roars of laughter greeted this

announcement, mingled with the patter-patter of the

increasing rain outside. Tsêng then curled himself up

for a nap, when suddenly in walked two officials bearing

a commission under the Great Seal appointing Tsêng

to the Grand Secretariat. As soon as Tsêng understood

their errand, he rushed off at once to pay his respects

to the Emperor, who graciously detained him some

time in conversation, and then issued instructions that

the promotion and dismissal of all officers below the

third grade[313] should be vested in Tsêng alone. He was

next presented with the dragon robes, the jade girdle,

and a horse from the imperial stables, after which he

performed the

ko-t‘ow

[314] before His Majesty and took his

leave. He then went home, but it was no longer the old

home of his youth. Painted beams, carved pillars, and

a general profusion of luxury and elegance, made him

wonder where on earth he was; until, nervously stroking

his beard, he ventured to call out in a low tone. Immediately

the responses of numberless attendants echoed

through the place like thunder. Presents of costly food

were sent to him by all the grandees, and his gate was

absolutely blocked up by the crowds of retainers who

were constantly coming and going. When Privy Councillors

came to see him, he would rush out in haste to

receive them; when Under-Secretaries of State visited

him, he made them a polite bow; but to all below these

he would hardly vouchsafe a word. The Governor of

Shansi sent him twelve singing-girls, two of whom, Ni-ni

and Fairy, he made his favourites. All day long he had

nothing to do but find amusement as best he could, until

he bethought himself that formerly a man named Wang

had often assisted him with money. Thereupon he

memorialized the Throne and obtained official employment

for him. Then he recollected that there was

another man to whom he owed a long-standing grudge.

He at once caused this man, who was in the Government

service, to be impeached and stripped of his rank and

dignities. Thus he squared accounts with both. One

day when out in his chair a drunken man bumped

against one of his tablet-bearers.

[315] Tsêng had him

seized and sent in to the mayor’s yamên, where he died

under the bamboo. Owners of land adjoining his would

make him a present of the richest portions, fearing the

consequences if they did not do so; and thus he became

very wealthy, almost on a par with the State itself. By-and-by,

Ni-ni and Fairy died, and Tsêng was overwhelmed

with grief. Suddenly he remembered that

in former years he had seen a beautiful girl whom he

wished to purchase as a concubine, but want of money

had then prevented him from carrying out his intention.

Now there was no longer that difficulty; and accordingly

he sent off two trusty servants to get the girl by force.

In a short time she arrived, when he found that she had

grown more beautiful than ever; and so his cup of happiness

was full. But years rolled on, and gradually his

fellow-officials became estranged, Tsêng taking no notice

of their behaviour, until at last one of them impeached

him to the Throne in a long and bitter memorial.

Happily, however, the Emperor still regarded him with

favour, and for some time kept the memorial by him

unanswered. Then followed a joint memorial from the

whole of the Privy Council, including those who had once

thronged his doors, and had falsely called him their dear

father. The Imperial rescript to this document was

“Banishment to Yunnan,”[316] his son, who was Governor of

P‘ing-yang, being also implicated in his guilt. When

Tsêng heard the news, he was overcome with fear; but an

armed guard was already at his gate, and the lictors were

forcing their way into his innermost apartments. They

tore off his robe and official hat, and bound him and his

wife with cords. Then they collected together in the hall

his gold, his silver, and bank-notes,[317] to the value of many

hundred thousands of taels. His pearls, and jade, and

precious stones filled many bushel baskets. His curtains,

and screens, and beds, and other articles of furniture

were brought out by thousands; while the swaddling-clothes

of his infant boy and the shoes of his little girl

were lying littered about the steps. It was a sad sight

for Tsêng; but a worse blow was that of his concubine

carried off almost lifeless before his eyes, himself not

daring to utter a word. Then all the apartments, store-rooms,

and treasuries were sealed up; and, with a volley

of curses, the soldiers bade Tsêng begone, and proceeded

to leave the place, dragging Tsêng with them. The

husband and wife prayed that they might be allowed

some old cart, but this favour was denied them. After

about ten

li

, Tsêng’s wife could barely walk, her feet

being swollen and sore. Tsêng helped her along as

best he could, but another ten

li

reducedhimtoastate

of abject fatigue. By-and-by they saw before them a

great mountain, the summit of which was lost in the

clouds; and, fearing they should be made to ascend it,

Tsêng and his wife stood still and began to weep. The

lictors, however, clamoured round them, and would

permit of no rest. The sun was rapidly sinking, and

there was no place at hand where they could obtain

shelter for the night. So they continued on their weary

way until about half-way up the hill, when his wife’s

strength was quite exhausted, and she sat down by the

roadside. Tsêng, too, halted to rest in spite of the

soldiers and their abuse; but they had hardly stopped a

moment before down came a band of robbers upon

them, each with a sharp knife in his hand. The soldiers

immediately took to their heels, and Tsêng fell on his

knees before the robbers, saying, “I am a poor criminal

going into banishment, and have nothing to give you.

I pray you spare my life.” But the robbers sternly

replied, “We are all the victims of your crimes, and now

we want your wicked head.” Then Tsêng began to

revile them, saying, “Dogs! though I am under sentence

of banishment, I am still an officer of the State.” But

the robbers cursed him again, flourishing a sword over

his neck, and the next thing he heard was the noise

of his own head as it fell with a thud to the ground. At

the same instant two devils stepped forward and seized

him each by one hand, compelling him to go with them.

After a little while they arrived at a great city where there

was a hideously ugly king sitting upon a throne judging

between good and evil. Tsêng crawled before him on

his hands and knees to receive sentence, and the king,

after turning over a few pages of his register, thundered

out, “The punishment of a traitor who has brought

misfortune on his country: the cauldron of boiling

oil!” To this ten thousand devils responded with a cry

like a clap of thunder, and one huge monster led Tsêng

down alongside the cauldron, which was seven feet in

height, and surrounded on all sides by blazing fuel, so

that it was of a glowing red heat. Tsêng shrieked for

mercy, but it was all up with him, for the devil seized

him by the hair and the small of his back and pitched

him headlong in. Down he fell with a splash, and rose

and sank with the bubbling of the oil, which ate through

his flesh into his very vitals. He longed to die, but

death would not come to him. After about half-an-hour’s

boiling, a devil took him out on a pitchfork and

threw him down before the Infernal King, who again

consulted his note-book, and said, “You relied on your

position to treat others with contumely and injustice, for

which you must suffer on the Sword-Hill.” Again he

was led away by devils to a large hill thickly studded

with sharp swords, their points upwards like the shoots of

bamboo, with here and there the remains of many

miserable wretches who had suffered before him. Tsêng

again cried for mercy and crouched upon the ground;

but a devil bored into him with a poisoned awl until he

screamed with pain. He was then seized and flung up

high into the air, falling down right on the sword points,

to his most frightful agony. This was repeated several

times until he was almost hacked to pieces. He was

then brought once more before the king, who asked what

was the amount of his peculations while on earth. Immediately

an accountant came forward with an abacus,

and said that the whole sum was 3,210,000 taels, whereupon

the king replied, “Let him drink that amount.”

Forthwith the devils piled up a great heap of gold and

silver, and, when they had melted it in a huge crucible,

began pouring it into Tsêng’s mouth. The pain was

excruciating as the molten metal ran down his throat

into his vitals; but since in life he had never been able

to get enough of the dross, it was determined he should

feel no lack of it then. He was half-a-day drinking it,

and then the king ordered him away to be born again as

a woman[318] in Kan-chou. A few steps brought them

to a huge frame, where on an iron axle revolved a mighty

wheel many hundred

yojanas

[319] in circumference, and

shining with a brilliant light. The devils flogged Tsêng

on to the wheel, and he shut his eyes as he stepped up.

Then whiz—and away he went, feet foremost, round

with the wheel, until he felt himself tumble off and a

cold thrill ran through him, when he opened his eyes

and found he was changed into a girl. He saw his

father and mother in rags and tatters, and in one corner

a beggar’s bowl and a staff,[320] and understood the

calamity that had befallen him. Day after day he

begged about the streets, and his inside rumbled for

want of food; he had no clothes to his back. At fourteen

years of age he was sold to a gentleman as concubine;

and then, though food and clothes were not

wanting, he had to put up with the scoldings and

floggings of the wife, who one day burnt him with a

hot iron.[321] Luckily the gentleman took a fancy to him

and treated him well, which kindness Tsêng repaid by an

irreproachable fidelity. It happened, however, that on

one occasion when they were chatting together, burglars

broke into the house and killed the gentleman, Tsêng

having escaped by hiding himself under the bed. Thereupon

he was immediately charged by the wife with murder,

and on being taken before the authorities was sentenced

to die the “lingering death.”

[322] This sentence was at once

carried out with tortures more horrible than any in all the

Courts of Purgatory, in the middle of which Tsêng

heard one of his companions call out, “Hullo, there!

you’ve got the nightmare.” Tsêng got up and rubbed

his eyes, and his friends said, “It’s quite late in the day,

and we’re all very hungry.” But the old priest smiled,

and asked him if the prophecy as to his future rank was

true or not. Tsêng bowed and begged him to explain;

whereupon the old priest said, “For those who cultivate

virtue, a lily will grow up even in the fiery pit.”[323] Tsêng

had gone thither full of pride and vainglory; he went

home an altered man. From that day he thought no

more of becoming a Secretary of State, but retired into

the hills, and I know not what became of him after

that.

[324]

At Chiao-chou[325] there lived a man named Hsü, who

gained his living by trading across the sea. On one

occasion he was carried far out of his course by a violent

tempest, and reached a country of high hills and dense

jungle,[326] where, after making fast his boat and taking

provisions with him, he landed, hoping to meet with

some of the inhabitants. He then saw that the rocks

were covered with large holes, like the cells of bees;

and, hearing the sound of voices from within, he stopped

in front of one of them and peeped in. To his infinite

horror he beheld two hideous beings, with thick rows of

horrid fangs, and eyes that glared like lamps, engaged in

tearing to pieces and devouring some raw deer’s flesh;

and, turning round, he would have fled instantly from

the spot, had not the cave-men already espied him; and,

leaving their food, they seized him and dragged him in.

Thereupon ensued a chattering between them, resembling

the noise of birds or beasts,[327] and they proceeded

to pull off Hsü’s clothes as if about to eat him; but

Hsü, who was frightened almost to death, offered them

the food he had in his wallet, which they ate up with

great relish, and looked inside for more. Hsü waved his

hand to shew it was all finished, and then they angrily

seized him again; at which he cried out, “I have a

saucepan in my boat, and can cook you some.” The

cave-men did not understand what he said; but, by dint

of gesticulating freely, they at length seemed to have an

idea of what he meant; and, having taken him down to

the shore to fetch the saucepan, they returned with him

to the cave, where he lighted a fire and cooked the remainder

of the deer, with the flavour of which they

appeared to be mightily pleased. At night they rolled a

big stone to the mouth of the cave,[328] fearing lest he

should try to escape; and Hsü himself lay down at a

distance from them in doubt as to whether his life would

be spared. At daybreak the cave-men went out, leaving

the entrance blocked, and by-and-by came back with a

deer, which they gave to Hsü to cook. Hsü flayed the

carcase, and from a remote corner of the cave took

some water and prepared a large quantity, which was no

sooner ready than several other cave-men arrived to join

in the feast. When they had finished all there was, they

made signs that Hsü’s saucepan was too small; and

three or four days afterwards they brought him a large

one of the same shape as those in common use amongst

men, subsequently furnishing him with constant supplies

of wolf and deer,[329] of which they always invited him to

partake. By degrees they began to treat him kindly,

and not to shut him up when they went out; and Hsü,

too, gradually learnt to understand, and even to speak, a

little of their language, which pleased them so much that

they finally gave him a cave-woman for his wife. Hsü

was horribly afraid of her; but, as she treated him with

great consideration, always reserving tit-bits of food for

him, they lived very happily together. One day all the

cave-people got up early in the morning, and, having

adorned themselves with strings of fine pearls, they went

forth as if to meet some honoured guest, giving orders

to Hsü to cook an extra quantity of meat that day. “It

is the birthday of our King,” said Hsü’s wife to him;

and then, running out, she informed the other cave-people

that her husband had no pearls. So each gave

five from his own string, and Hsü’s wife added ten to

these, making in all fifty, which she threaded on a

hempen fibre and hung around his neck, each pearl being

worth over an hundred ounces of silver. Then they went

away, and as soon as Hsü had finished his cooking, his

wife appeared and invited him to come and receive the

King. So off they went to a huge cavern, covering

about a mow[330] of ground, in which was a huge stone,

smoothed away at the top like a table, with stone seats

at the four sides. At the upper end was a dais, over

which was spread a leopard’s skin, the other seats having

only deer-skins; and within the cavern some twenty or

thirty cave-men ranged themselves on the seats. After a

short interval a great wind began to stir up the dust, and

they all rushed out to a creature very much resembling

themselves, which hurried into the cave, and, squatting

down cross-legged, cocked its head and looked about

like a cormorant. The other cave-men then filed in and

took up their positions right and left of the dais, where

they stood gazing up at the King with their arms folded

before them in the form of a cross. The King counted

them one by one, and asked if they were all present;

and when they replied in the affirmative, he looked at

Hsü and inquired who he was. Thereupon Hsü’s wife

stepped forward and said he was her husband, and the

others all loudly extolled his skill in cookery, two of

them running out and bringing back some cooked meat,

which they set before the King. His Majesty swallowed

it by handfuls, and found it so nice that he gave orders

to be supplied regularly; and then, turning to Hsü, he

asked him why his string of beads[331] was so short. “He

has but recently arrived among us,” replied the cave-men,

“and hasn’t got a complete set;” upon which the

King drew ten pearls from the string round his own

neck and bestowed them upon Hsü. Each was as big

as the top of one’s finger, and as round as a bullet; and

Hsü’s wife threaded them for him and hung them round

his neck. Hsü himself crossed his arms and thanked

the King in the language of the country, after which

His Majesty went off in a gust of wind as rapidly as a

bird can fly, and the cave-men sat down and finished

what was left of the banquet. Four years afterwards

Hsü’s wife gave birth to a triplet of two boys and one

girl, all of whom were ordinary human beings, and not

at all like the mother; at which the other cave-people

were delighted, and would often play with them and

caress them.[332] Three years passed away, and the children

could walk about, after which their father taught

them to speak his own tongue; and in their early babblings

their human origin was manifested. The boys, as

mere children, could climb about on the mountains as

easily as though walking upon a level road; and between

them and their father there grew up a mutual feeling of

attachment. One day the mother had gone out with the

girl and one of the boys, and was absent for a long time.

A strong north wind was blowing, and Hsü, filled with

thoughts of his old home, led his other son down with

him to the beach, where lay the boat in which he had

formerly reached this country. He then proposed to

the boy that they should go away together; and, having

explained to him that they could not inform his mother,

father and son stepped on board, and, after a voyage of

only twenty-four hours, arrived safely at Chiao-chou. On

reaching home Hsü found that his wife had married

again; so he sold two of his pearls for an enormous sum

of money,[333] and set up a splendid establishment. His

son was called Piao, and at fourteen or fifteen years of

age the boy could lift a weight of three thousand catties[334]

(4,000 lbs.). He was extremely fond of athletics of all

kinds, and thus attracted the notice of the Commander-in-Chief,

who gave him a commission as sub-lieutenant.

Just at that time there happened to be some trouble on

the frontier, and young Piao, having covered himself

with glory, was made a colonel at the age of eighteen.

About that time another merchant was driven by

stress of weather to the country of the cave-men, and

had hardly stepped ashore before he observed a young

man whom he knew at once to be of Chinese origin.

The young man asked him whence he came, and finally

took him into a cave hid away in a dark valley and concealed

by the dense jungle. There he bade him remain,

and in a little while he returned with some deer’s flesh,

which he gave the merchant to eat, saying at the same

time that his own father was a Chiao-chou man. The

merchant now knew that the young man was Hsü’s son,

he himself being acquainted with Hsü as a trader in the

same line of business. “Why, he’s an old friend of

mine,” cried the latter; “his other son is now a colonel.”

The young man did not know what was meant by a

colonel, so the merchant told him it was the title of a

Chinese mandarin. “And what is a mandarin?” asked

the youth. “A mandarin,” replied the merchant, “is

one who goes out with a chair and horses; who at home

sits upon a dais in the hall; whose summons is answered

by a hundred voices; who is looked at only with sidelong

eyes, and in whose presence all people stand

aslant;—this is to be a mandarin.” The young man

was deeply touched at this recital, and at length the

merchant said to him, “Since your honoured father is

at Chiao-chou, why do you remain here?” “Indeed,”

replied the youth, “I have often indulged the same feeling;

but my mother is not a Chinese woman, and, apart

from the difference of her language and appearance, I

fear that if the other cave-people found it out they

would do us some mischief.” He then took his leave,

being in rather a disturbed state of mind, and bade the

merchant wait until the wind should prove favourable,[335]

when he promised to come and see him off, and charge

him with a letter to his father and brother. Six months

the merchant remained in that cave, occasionally taking

a peep at the cave-people passing backwards and forwards,

but not daring to leave his retreat. As soon as

the monsoon set in the young man arrived and urged

him to hurry away, begging him, also, not to forget the

letter to his father. So the merchant sailed away and

soon reached Chiao-chou, where he visited the colonel

and told him the whole story. Piao was much affected,

and wished to go in search of those members of the

family; but his father feared the dangers he would encounter,

and advised him not to think of such a thing.

However, Piao was not to be deterred; and having imparted

his scheme to the commander-in-chief, he took

with him two soldiers and set off. Adverse winds

prevailed at that time, and they beat about for half a

moon, until they were out of sight of all land, could not

see a foot before them, and had completely lost their

reckoning. Just then a mighty sea arose and capsized

their boat, tossing Piao into the water, where he floated

about for some time at the will of the waves, until suddenly

somebody dragged him out and carried him into a

house. Then he saw that his rescuer was to all appearances

a cave-man, and accordingly he addressed him in

the cave-people’s language, and told him whither he

himself was bound. “It is my native place,” replied

the cave-man, in astonishment; “but you will excuse

my saying that you are now 8,000 li out of your course.

This is the way to the country of the Poisonous Dragons,

and not your route at all.” He then went off to find a

boat for Piao, and, himself swimming in the water

behind, pushed it along like an arrow from a bow, so

quickly that by the next day they had traversed the

whole distance. On the shore Piao observed a young

man walking up and down and evidently watching him;

and, knowing that no human beings dwelt there, he

guessed at once that he was his brother. Approaching

more closely, he saw that he was right; and, seizing the

young man’s hand, he asked after his mother and sister.

On hearing that they were well, he would have gone

directly to see them; but the younger one begged him

not to do so, and ran away himself to fetch them. Meanwhile,

Piao turned to thank the cave-man who had

brought him there, but he, too, had disappeared. In a

few minutes his mother and sister arrived, and, on seeing

Piao, they could not restrain their tears. Piao then laid

his scheme before them, and when they said they feared

people would ill-treat them, he replied, “In China I

hold a high position, and people will not dare to shew

you disrespect.” Thus they determined to go. The

wind, however, was against them, and mother and son

were at a loss what to do, when suddenly the sail bellied

out towards the south, and a rustling sound was heard.

“Heaven helps us, my mother!” cried Piao, full of joy;

and, hurrying on board at once, in three days they had

reached their destination. As they landed the people

fled right and left in fear, Piao having divided his own

clothes amongst the party; and when they arrived at the

house, and his mother saw Hsü, she began to rate him

soundly for running away without her. Hsü hastened to

acknowledge his error, and then all the family and

servants were introduced to her, each one being in

mortal dread of such a singular personage. Piao now

bade his mother learn to talk Chinese, and gave her any

quantity of fine clothes and rich meats, to the infinite

delight of the old lady. She and her daughter both

dressed in man’s clothes, and by the end of a few

months were able to understand what was said to them.

The brother, named Pao [Leopard], and the sister, Yeh

[Night], were both clever enough, and immensely strong

into the bargain. Piao was ashamed that Pao could not

read, and set to work to teach him; and the youngster

was so quick that he learnt the sacred books[336] and histories

by merely reading them once over. However, he

would not enter upon a literary career, loving better to

draw a strong bow or ride a spirited horse, and finally

taking the highest military degree. He married the

daughter of a post-captain; but his sister had some

trouble in getting a husband, because of her being the

child of a cave-woman. At length a serjeant, named

Yüan, who was under her brother’s command, was

forced to take her as his wife. She could draw a

hundred-catty bow, and shoot birds at a hundred paces

without ever missing. Whenever Yüan went to battle

she went with him; and his subsequent rise to high rank

was chiefly due to her. At thirty-four years of age Pao

got a command; and in his great battles his mother, clad

in armour and grasping a spear, would fight by his side,

to the terror of all their adversaries; and when he himself

received the dignity of an hereditary title, he memorialized

the Throne to grant his mother the title of

“lady.”

Wang Shih-hsiu was a native of Lu-chou, and such

a lusty fellow that he could pick up a stone mortar.[337]

Father and son were both good foot-ball players; but

when the former was about forty years of age he was

drowned while crossing the Money Pool.[338] Some eight

or nine years later our hero happened to be on his way

to Hunan; and anchoring in the Tung-t‘ing lake,

watched the moon rising in the east and illuminating the

water into a bright sheet of light. While he was thus

engaged, lo! from out of the lake emerged five men,

bringing with them a large mat which they spread on the

surface of the water so as to cover about six yards

square. Wine and food were then arranged upon it, and

Wang heard the sound of the dishes knocking together,

but it was a dull, soft sound, not at all like that of

ordinary crockery. Three of the men sat down on the

mat and the other two waited upon them. One of the

former was dressed in yellow, the other two in white, and

each wore a black turban. Their demeanour as they sat

there side by side was grave and dignified; in appearance

they resembled three of the ancients, but by

the fitful beams of the moon Wang was unable to see

very clearly what they were like. The attendants wore

black serge dresses, and one of them seemed to be a boy,

while the other was many years older. Wang now heard

the man in the yellow dress say, “This is truly a fine

moonlight night for a drinking-bout;” to which one of

his companions replied, “It quite reminds me of the

night when Prince Kuang-li feasted at Pear-blossom

Island.”[339] The three then pledged each other in bumping

goblets, talking all the time in such a low tone that

Wang could not hear what they were saying. The boatmen

kept themselves concealed, crouching down at the

bottom of the boat; but Wang looked hard at the attendants,

the elder of whom bore a striking resemblance

to his father, though he spoke in quite a different tone of

voice. When it was drawing towards midnight, one of

them proposed a game at ball; and in a moment the

boy disappeared in the water, to return immediately with

a huge ball—quite an armful in fact—apparently full of

quicksilver, and lustrous within and without. All now

rose up, and the man in the yellow dress bade the old

attendant join them in the game. The ball was kicked

up some ten or fifteen feet in the air, and was quite

dazzling in its brilliancy; but once, when it had gone up

with a whish-h-h-h, it fell at some distance off, right in

the very middle of Wang’s boat. The occasion was

irresistible, and Wang, exerting all his strength, kicked

the ball with all his might. It seemed unusually light

and soft to the touch, and his foot broke right through.

Away went the ball to a good height, pouring forth a

stream of light like a rainbow from the hole Wang had

made, and making as it fell a curve like that of a comet

rushing across the sky. Down it glided into the water,

where it fizzed a moment and then went out. “Ho,

there!” cried out the players in anger, “what living

creature is that who dares thus to interrupt our sport?”

“Well kicked—indeed!” said the old man, “that’s a

favourite drop-kick of my own.” At this, one of the

two in white clothes began to abuse him saying, “What!

you old baggage, when we are all so annoyed in this

manner, are you to come forward and make a joke of

it? Go at once with the boy and bring back to us this

practical joker, or your own back will have a taste of the

stick.” Wang was of course unable to flee; however, he

was not a bit afraid, and grasping a sword stood there in

the middle of the boat. In a moment, the old man and

boy arrived, also armed, and then Wang knew that the

former was really his father, and called out to him at

once, “Father, I am your son.” The old man was

greatly alarmed, but father and son forgot their troubles

in the joy of meeting once again. Meanwhile, the boy

went back, and Wang’s father bade him hide, or they

would all be lost. The words were hardly out of his

mouth when the three men jumped on board the boat.

Their faces were black as pitch, their eyes as big as

pomegranates, and they at once proceeded to seize the

old man. Wang struggled hard with them, and

managing to get the boat free from her moorings, he

seized his sword and cut off one of his adversaries’

arms. The arm dropped down and the man in the

yellow dress ran away; whereupon one of those in white

rushed at Wang who immediately cut off his head, and

he fell into the water with a splash, at which the third

disappeared. Wang and his father were now anxious to

get away, when suddenly a great mouth arose from the

lake, as big and as deep as a well, and against which

they could hear the noise of the water when it struck.

This mouth blew forth a violent gust of wind, and in a

moment the waves were mountains high and all the boats

on the lake were tossing about. The boatmen were

terrified, but Wang seized one of two huge stones there

were on board for use as anchors,[340] about 130 lbs. in

weight, and threw it into the water, which immediately

began to subside; and then he threw in the other one,

upon which the wind dropped, and the lake became

calm again. Wang thought his father was a disembodied

spirit, but the old man said, “I never died. There

were nineteen of us drowned in the river, all of whom

were eaten by the fish-goblins except myself: I was

saved because I could play foot-ball. Those you saw

got into trouble with the Dragon King, and were sent

here. They were all marine creatures, and the ball they

were playing with was a fish-bladder.” Father and son

were overjoyed at meeting again, and at once proceeded

on their way. In the morning they found in the boat

a huge fin—the arm that Wang had cut off the night

before.

Lê Yün-hao and Hsia P‘ing-tzŭ lived as boys in the

same village, and when they grew up read with the same

tutor, becoming the firmest of friends. Hsia was a clever

fellow, and had acquired some reputation even at the

early age of ten. Lê was not a bit envious, but rather

looked up to him, and Hsia in return helped his friend

very much with his studies, so that he, too, made considerable

progress. This increased Hsia’s fame, though

try as he would he could never succeed at the public

examinations, and by-and-by he sickened and died. His

family was so poor they could not find money for his

burial, whereupon Lê came forward and paid all expenses,

besides taking care of his widow and children.

Every peck or bushel he would share with them, the

widow trusting entirely to his support; and thus he

acquired a good name in the village, though not being a

rich man himself he soon ran through all his own property.

“Alas!” cried he, “where talents like Hsia’s

failed, can I expect to succeed? Wealth and rank are

matters of destiny, and my present career will only end

by my dying like a dog in a ditch. I must try something

else.” So he gave up book-learning and went into

trade, and in six months he had a trifle of money in

hand.

One day when he was resting at an inn in Nanking,

he saw a great big fellow walk in and seat himself at no

great distance in a very melancholy mood. Lê asked

him if he was hungry, and on receiving no answer,

pushed some food over towards him. The stranger immediately

set to feeding himself by handfuls, and in no

time the whole had disappeared. Lê ordered another

supply, but that was quickly disposed of in like manner;

and then he told the landlord to bring a shoulder of

pork and a quantity of boiled dumplings. Thus, after

eating enough for half a dozen, his appetite was appeased

and he turned to thank his benefactor, saying,

“For three years I haven’t had such a meal.” “And

why should a fine fellow like you be in such a state of

destitution?” inquired Lê; to which the other only

replied, “The judgments of heaven may not be discussed.”

Being asked where he lived, the stranger

replied, “On land I have no home, on the water no

boat; at dawn in the village, at night in the city.” Lê

then prepared to depart; but his friend would not leave

him, declaring that he was in imminent danger, and that

he could not forget the late kindness Lê had shewn him.

So they went along together, and on the way Lê invited

the other to eat with him; but this he refused, saying

that he only took food occasionally. Lê marvelled

more than ever at this; and next day when they were on

the river a great storm arose and capsized all their boats,

Lê himself being thrown into the water with the others.

Suddenly the gale abated and the stranger bore Lê on

his back to another boat, plunging at once into the

water and bringing back the lost vessel, upon which he

placed Lê and bade him remain quietly there. He then

returned once more, this time carrying in his arms a

part of the cargo, which he replaced in the vessel, and

so he went on until it was all restored. Lê thanked

him, saying, “It was enough to save my life; but you

have added to this the restoration of my goods.”

Nothing, in fact, had been lost, and now Lê began to

regard the stranger as something more than human.

The latter here wished to take his leave, but Lê pressed

him so much to stay that at last he consented to remain.

Then Lê remarked that after all he had lost a gold pin,

and immediately the stranger plunged into the water

again, rising at length to the surface with the missing

article in his mouth, and presenting it to Lê with the remark

that he was delighted to be able to fulfil his commands.

The people on the river were all much

astonished at what they saw; meanwhile Lê went home

with his friend, and there they lived together, the big

man only eating once in ten or twelve days, but then

displaying an enormous appetite. One day he spoke of

going away, to which Lê would by no means consent;

and as it was just then about to rain and thunder, he

asked him to tell him what the clouds were like, and

what thunder was, also how he could get up to the

sky and have a look, so as to set his mind at rest on the

subject. “Would you like to have a ramble among the

clouds?” asked the stranger, as Lê was lying down to

take a nap; on awaking from which he felt himself spinning

along through the air, and not at all as if he was

lying on a bed. Opening his eyes he saw he was among

the clouds, and around him was a fleecy atmosphere.

Jumping up in great alarm, he felt giddy as if he had

been at sea, and underneath his feet he found a soft,

yielding substance, unlike the earth. Above him were

the stars, and this made him think he was dreaming;

but looking up he saw that they were set in the sky like

seeds in the cup of a lily, varying from the size of the

biggest bowl to that of a small basin. On raising his

hand he discovered that the large stars were all tightly

fixed; but he managed to pick a small one, which he

concealed in his sleeve; and then, parting the clouds

beneath him, he looked through and saw the sea glittering

like silver below. Large cities appeared no bigger

than beans—just at this moment, however, he bethought

himself that if his foot were to slip, what a tremendous

fall he would have. He now beheld two dragons

writhing their way along, and drawing a cart with a huge

vat in it, each movement of their tails sounding like the

crack of a bullock-driver’s whip. The vat was full of

water, and numbers of men were employed in ladling it

out and sprinkling it on the clouds. These men were

astonished at seeing Lê; however, a big fellow among

them called out, “All right, he’s my friend,” and then

they gave him a ladle to help them throw the water out.

Now it happened to be a very dry season, and when Lê

got hold of the ladle he took good care to throw the

water so that it should all fall on and around his own

home. The stranger then told him that he was the God

of Thunder,[341] and that he had just returned from a three

years’ punishment inflicted on him in consequence of

some neglect of his in the matter of rain. He added

that they must now part; and taking the long rope which

had been used as reins for the cart, bade Lê grip it

tightly, that he might be let down to earth. Lê was

afraid of this, but on being told there was no danger he

did so, and in a moment whish-h-h-h-h—away he went

and found himself safe and sound on terra firma. He

discovered that he had descended outside his native

village, and then the rope was drawn up into the clouds

and he saw it no more. The drought had been excessive;

for three or four miles round very little rain had

fallen, though in Lê’s own village the water-courses were

all full. On reaching home he took the star out of his

sleeve, and put it on the table. It was dull-looking like

an ordinary stone; but at night it became very brilliant

and lighted up the whole house. This made him value

it highly, and he stored it carefully away, bringing it out

only when he had guests, to light them at their wine. It

was always thus dazzlingly bright, until one evening when

his wife was sitting with him doing her hair, the star

began to diminish in brilliancy, and to flit about like a

fire-fly. Mrs. Lê sat gaping with astonishment, when all

of a sudden it flitted into her mouth and ran down her

throat. She tried to cough it up but couldn’t, to the

very great amazement of her husband. That night Lê

dreamt that his old friend Hsia appeared before him and

said, “I am the Shao-wei star. Your friendship is still

cherished by me, and now you have brought me back

from the sky. Truly our destinies are knitted together,

and I will repay your kindness by becoming your son.”

Now Lê was thirty years of age but without sons; however,

after this dream his wife bore him a male child,

and they called his name Star. He was extraordinarily

clever, and at sixteen years of age took his master’s

degree.

A Taoist priest, called Han, lived at the T‘ien-ch‘i

temple, in our district city. His knowledge of the black

art was very extensive, and the neighbours all regarded

him as an Immortal.[342] My late father was on intimate

terms with him, and whenever he went into the city

invariably paid him a visit. One day, on such an

occasion, he was proceeding thither in company with

my late uncle, when suddenly they met Han on the

road. Handing them the key of the door, he begged

them to go on and wait awhile for him, promising to

be there shortly himself. Following out these instructions

they repaired to the temple, but on unlocking the

door there was Han sitting inside—a feat which he

subsequently performed several times.

Now a relative of mine, who was terribly given to

gambling, also knew this priest, having been introduced

to him by my father. And once this relative, meeting

with a Buddhist priest from the T‘ien-fo temple, addicted

like himself to the vice of gambling, played

with him until he had lost everything, even going so far

as to pledge the whole of his property, which he lost in

a single night. Happening to call in upon Han as he

was going back, the latter noticed his exceedingly dejected

appearance, and the rambling answers he gave,

and asked him what was the matter. On hearing the

story of his losses, Han only laughed, and said, “That’s

what always overtakes the gambler, sooner or later; if,

however, you will break yourself of the habit, I will get

your money back for you.” “Ah,” cried the other,

“if you will only do that, you may break my head with

a pestle when you catch me gambling again.” So

Han gave him a talismanic formula, written out on a

piece of paper, to put in his girdle, bidding him only

win back what he had lost, and not attempt to get a

fraction more. He also handed him 1000 cash, on

condition that this sum should be repaid from his

winnings, and off went my relative delighted. The

Buddhist, however, turned up his nose at the smallness

of his means, and said it wasn’t worth his while to

stake so little; but at last he was persuaded into

having one throw for the whole lot. They then began,

the priest leading off with a fair throw, to which his

opponent replied by a better; whereupon the priest

doubled his stake, and my relative won again, going on

and on until the latter’s good luck had brought him

back all that he had previously lost. He thought,

however, that he couldn’t do better than just win a

few more strings of cash, and accordingly went on;

but gradually his luck turned, and on looking into his

girdle he found that the talisman was gone. In a great

fright he jumped up, and went off with his winnings to

the temple, where he reckoned up that after deducting

Han’s loan, and adding what he had lost towards the

end, he had exactly the amount originally his. With

shame in his face he turned to thank Han, mentioning

at the same time the loss of the talisman; at which

Han only laughed, and said, “That has got back before

you. I told you not to be over-greedy, and as you

didn’t heed me, I took the talisman away.”[343]