Strange Stories from a Chinese Studio (Volumes 1 and 2)-11

“What form divine was just now sporting nigh?—

’Twas she, I trow of ‘golden lily’ fame;

Her charms the moon’s fair denizens might shame,

Her fairy footsteps bear her to the sky.”

Humming this stanza to himself, Ch‘ên walked along

seeking for the path by which he had entered; but

every door was securely barred, and he knew not what

to do. So he went back to the kiosque, when suddenly

one of the young ladies appeared, and asked him in

astonishment what he did there. “I have lost my way,”

replied Ch‘ên; “I pray you lend me your assistance.”

“Do you happen to have found a red handkerchief?” said

the girl. “I have, indeed,” answered Ch‘ên, “but I fear

I have made it somewhat dirty;” and, suiting the action to

the word, he drew it forth, and handed it to her. “Wretched

man!” cried the young lady, “you are undone. This

is a handkerchief the princess is constantly using, and you

have gone and scribbled all over it; what will become of

you now?” Ch‘ên was in a great fright, and begged the

young lady to intercede for him; to which she replied,

“It was bad enough that you should come here and

spy about; however, being a scholar, and a man of

refinement, I would have done my best for you; but

after this, how am I to help you?” Off she then ran

with the handkerchief, while Ch‘ên remained behind

in an agony of suspense, and longing for the wings of a

bird to bear him away from his fate. By-and-by, the

young lady returned and congratulated him, saying,

“There is some hope for you. The Princess read your

verses several times over, and was not at all angry. You

will probably be released; but, meanwhile, wait here,

and don’t climb the trees, or try to get through the

walls, or you may not escape after all.” Evening was

now drawing on, and Ch‘ên knew not, for certain, what

was about to happen; at the same time he was very

empty, and, what with hunger and anxiety, death would

have been almost a happy release. Before long, the

young lady returned with a lamp in her hand, and

followed by a slave-girl bearing wine and food, which

she forthwith presented to Ch‘ên. The latter asked if

there was any news about himself; to which the young

lady replied that she had just mentioned his case to

the Princess who, not knowing what to do with him

at that hour of the night, had given orders that he

should at once be provided with food, “which, at any

rate,” added she, “is not bad news.” The whole night

long Ch‘ên walked up and down unable to take rest;

and it was not till late in the morning that the young

lady appeared with more food for him. Imploring her

once more to intercede on his behalf, she told him that

the Princess had not instructed them either to kill or to

release him, and that it would not be fitting for such as

herself to be bothering the Princess with suggestions.

So there Ch‘ên still remained until another day had

almost gone, hoping for the welcome moment; and then

the young lady rushed hurriedly in, saying, “You are

lost! Some one has told the Queen, and she, in a fit

of anger, threw the handkerchief on the ground, and

made use of very violent language. Oh dear! oh dear!

I’m sure something dreadful will happen.” Ch‘ên threw

himself on his knees, his face as pale as ashes, and

begged to know what he should do; but at that moment

sounds were heard outside, and the young lady waved

her hand to him, and ran away. Immediately a crowd

came pouring in through the door, with ropes ready

to secure the object of their search; and among them

was a slave-girl, who looked fixedly at our hero, and

cried out, “Why, surely you are Mr. Ch‘ên, aren’t you?”

at the same time stopping the others from binding him

until she should have reported to the Queen. In a few

minutes she came back, and said the Queen requested

him to walk in; and in he went, through a number

of doors, trembling all the time with fear, until he

reached a hall, the screen before which was ornamented

with green jade and silver. A beautiful girl drew aside

the bamboo curtain at the door, and announced, “Mr.

Ch‘ên;” and he himself advanced, and fell down before

a lady, who was sitting upon a dais at the other end,

knocking his head upon the ground, and crying out,

“Thy servant is from a far-off country; spare, oh!

spare his life.” “Sir!” replied the Queen, rising hastily

from her seat, and extending a hand to Ch‘ên, “but for

you, I should not be here to-day. Pray excuse the

rudeness of my maids.” Thereupon a splendid repast

was served, and wine was poured out in chased goblets,

to the no small astonishment of Ch‘ên, who could not

understand why he was treated thus. “Your kindness,”

observed the Queen, “in restoring me to life, I am

quite unable to repay; however, as you have made

my daughter the subject of your verse, the match is

clearly ordained by fate, and I shall send her along

to be your handmaid.” Ch‘ên hardly knew what to

make of this extraordinary accomplishment of his wishes,

but the marriage was solemnized there and then; bands

of music struck up wedding-airs, beautiful mats were laid

down for them to walk upon, and the whole place was

brilliantly lighted with a profusion of coloured lamps.

Then Ch‘ên said to the Princess, “That a stray and

unknown traveller like myself, guilty of spoiling your

Highness’s handkerchief, should have escaped the

fate he deserved, was already more than could be

expected; but now to receive you in marriage—this,

indeed, far surpasses my wildest expectations.” “My

mother,” replied the Princess, “is married to the King

of this lake, and is herself a daughter of the River

Prince. Last year, when on her way to visit her parents,

she happened to cross the lake, and was wounded by an

arrow; but you saved her life, and gave her plaster for

the wound. Our family, therefore, is grateful to you,

and can never forget your good act. And do not regard

me as of another species than yourself; the Dragon King

has bestowed upon me the elixir of immortality, and this

I will gladly share with you.” Then Ch‘ên knew that

his wife was a spirit, and by-and-by he asked her how

the slave-girl had recognised him; to which she replied,

that the girl was the small fish which had been found

hanging to the dolphin’s tail. He then inquired why,

as they didn’t intend to kill him, he had been kept so

long a prisoner. “I was charmed with your literary

talent,” answered the Princess, “but I did not venture

to take the responsibility upon myself; and no one saw

how I tossed and turned the livelong night.” “Dear

friend,” said Ch‘ên; “but, come, tell me who was it that

brought my food.” “A trusty waiting-maid of mine,”

replied the Princess; “her name is A-nien.” Ch‘ên

then asked how he could ever repay her, and the

Princess told him there would be plenty of time to

think of that; and when he inquired where the king,

her father, was, she said he had gone off with the God

of War to fight against Ch‘ih-yu,[392] and had not returned.

A few days passed, and Ch‘ên began to think his people

at home would be anxious about him; so he sent off

his servant with a letter to tell them he was safe and

sound, at which they were all overjoyed, believing him

to have been lost in the wreck of the boat, of which

event news had already reached them. However, they

were unable to send him any reply, and were considerably

distressed as to how he would find his way home again.

Six months afterwards Ch‘ên himself appeared, dressed

in fine clothes, and riding on a splendid horse, with

plenty of money, and valuable jewels in his pocket—evidently

a man of wealth. From that time forth he

kept up a magnificent establishment; and in seven or

eight years had become the father of five children.

Every day he kept open house, and if any one asked

him about his adventures, he would readily tell them

without reservation. Now a friend of his, named Liang,

whom he had known since they were boys together, and

who, after holding an appointment for some years in

Nan-fu, was crossing the Tung-t‘ing Lake, on his way

home, suddenly beheld an ornamental barge, with carved

wood-work and red windows, passing over the foamy

waves to the sound of music and singing from within.

Just then a beautiful young lady leant out of one of the

windows, which she had pushed open, and by her side

Liang saw a young man sitting, in a

négligé attitude,

while two nice-looking girls stood by and shampooed[393]

him. Liang, at first, thought it must be the party of

some high official, and wondered at the scarcity of

attendants;[394] but, on looking more closely at the young

man, he saw it was no other than his old friend Ch‘ên.

Thereupon he began almost involuntarily to shout out

to him; and when Ch‘ên heard his own name, he

stopped the rowers, and walked out towards the figure-head,[395]

beckoning Liang to cross over into his boat,

where the remains of their feast was quickly cleared

away, and fresh supplies of wine, and tea, and all kinds

of costly foods spread out by handsome slave-girls.

“It’s ten years since we met,” said Liang, “and what a

rich man you have become in the meantime.” “Well,”

replied Ch‘ên, “do you think that so very extraordinary

for a poor fellow like me?” Liang then asked him who

was the lady with whom he was taking wine, and Ch‘ên

said she was his wife, which very much astonished Liang,

who further inquired whither they were going. “Westwards,”

answered Ch‘ên, and prevented any further questions

by giving a signal for the music, which effectually

put a stop to all further conversation.[396] By-and-by,

Liang found the wine getting into his head, and seized

the opportunity to ask Ch‘ên to make him a present of

one of his beautiful slave-girls. “You are drunk,[397] my

friend,” replied Ch‘ên; “however, I will give you the

price of one as a pledge of our old friendship.” And,

turning to a servant, he bade him present Liang with

a splendid pearl, saying, “Now you can buy a Green

Pearl;[398] you see I am not stingy;” adding forthwith,

“but I am pressed for time, and can stay no longer with

my old friend.” So he escorted Liang back to his boat,

and, having let go the rope, proceeded on his way. Now,

when Liang reached home, and called at Ch‘ên’s house,

whom should he see but Ch‘ên himself drinking with

a party of friends. “Why, I saw you only yesterday,”

cried Liang, “upon the Tung-t‘ing. How quickly you

have got back!” Ch‘ên denied this, and then Liang

repeated the whole story, at the conclusion of which,

Ch‘ên laughed, and said, “You must be mistaken. Do

you imagine I can be in two places at once?” The

company were all much astonished, and knew not what

to make of it; and subsequently when Ch‘ên, who died

at the age of eighty, was being carried to his grave,

the bearers thought the coffin seemed remarkably light,

and on opening it to see, found that the body had

disappeared.

At Chiao-chou there lived a man named Tou Hsün,

otherwise known as Hsiao-hui. One day he had just

dropped off to sleep when he beheld a man in serge

clothes standing by the bedside, and apparently anxious

to communicate something to him. Tou inquired his

errand; to which the man replied that he was the bearer

of an invitation from his master. “And who is your

master?” asked Tou. “Oh, he doesn’t live far off,”

replied the other; so away they went together, and after

some time came to a place where there were innumerable

white houses rising one above the other, and shaded

by dense groves of lemon-trees. They threaded their

way past countless doors, not at all similar to those

usually used, and saw a great many official-looking men

and women passing and repassing, each of whom called

out to the man in serge, “Has Mr. Tou come?” to

which he always replied in the affirmative. Here a

mandarin met them and escorted Tou into a palace,

upon which the latter remarked, “This is really very

kind of you; but I haven’t the honour of knowing you,

and I feel somewhat diffident about going in.” “Our

Prince,” answered his guide, “has long heard of you as

a man of good family and excellent principles, and is

very anxious to make your acquaintance.” “Who is

your Prince?” inquired Tou. “You’ll see for yourself

in a moment,” said the other; and just then out came

two girls with banners, and guided Tou through a great

number of doors until they came to a throne, upon

which sat the Prince. His Highness immediately descended

to meet him, and made him take the seat of

honour; after which ceremony exquisite viands of all

kinds were spread out before them. Looking up, Tou

noticed a scroll, on which was inscribed, The Cassia

Court, and he was just beginning to feel puzzled as to

what he should say next, when the Prince addressed him

as follows:—“The honour of having you for a neighbour

is, as it were, a bond of affinity between us. Let

us, then, give ourselves up to enjoyment, and put away

suspicion and fear.” Tou murmured his acquiescence;

and when the wine had gone round several times there

arose from a distance the sound of pipes and singing,

unaccompanied, however, by the usual drum, and very

much subdued in volume. Thereupon the Prince

looked about him and cried out, “We are about to

set a verse for any of you gentlemen to cap; here you

are:—‘Genius seeks the Cassia Court.’” While the

courtiers were all engaged in thinking of some fit

antithesis,[399] Tou added, “Refinement loves the Lily flower;”

upon which the Prince exclaimed, “How strange! Lily

is my daughter’s name; and, after such a coincidence,

she must come in for you to see her.” In a few moments

the tinkling of her ornaments and a delicious

fragrance of musk announced the arrival of the Princess,

who was between sixteen and seventeen and endowed

with surpassing beauty. The Prince bade her make an

obeisance to Tou, at the same time introducing her as

his daughter Lily; and as soon as the ceremony was

over the young lady moved away. Tou remained in a

state of stupefaction, and, when the Prince proposed

that they should pledge each other in another bumper,

paid not the slightest attention to what he said. Then

the Prince, perceiving what had distracted his guest’s

attention, remarked that he was anxious to find a consort

for his daughter, but that unfortunately there was

the difficulty of species, and he didn’t know what to do;

but again Tou took no notice of what the Prince was

saying, until at length one of the bystanders plucked his

sleeve, and asked him if he hadn’t seen that the Prince

wished to drink with him, and had just been addressing

some remarks to him. Thereupon Tou started, and, recovering

himself at once, rose from the table and

apologized to the Prince for his rudeness, declaring that

he had taken so much wine he didn’t know what he

was doing. “Besides,” said he, “your Highness has

doubtless business to transact; I will therefore take my

leave.” “I am extremely pleased to have seen you,”

replied the Prince, “and only regret that you are in such

a hurry to be gone. However, I won’t detain you now;

but, if you don’t forget all about us, I shall be very glad

to invite you here again.” He then gave orders that Tou

should be escorted home; and on the way one of the

courtiers asked the latter why he had said nothing when

the Prince had spoken of a consort for his daughter, as

his Highness had evidently made the remark with an

eye to securing Tou as his son-in-law. The latter was

now sorry that he had missed his opportunity; meanwhile

they reached his house, and he himself awoke.

The sun had already set, and there he sat in the gloom

thinking of what had happened. In the evening he put

out his candle, hoping to continue his dream; but, alas!

the thread was broken, and all he could do was to pour

forth his repentance in sighs. One night he was sleeping

at a friend’s house when suddenly an officer of the

court walked in and summoned him to appear before the

Prince; so up he jumped, and hurried off at once to the

palace, where he prostrated himself before the throne.

The Prince raised him and made him sit down, saying

that since they had last met he had become aware that

Tou would be willing to marry his daughter, and hoped

that he might be allowed to offer her as a handmaid.

Tou rose and thanked the Prince, who thereupon gave

orders for a banquet to be prepared; and when they had

finished their wine it was announced that the Princess

had completed her toilet. Immediately a bevy of young

ladies came in with the Princess in their midst, a red

veil covering her head, and her tiny footsteps sounding

like rippling water as they led her up to be introduced to

Tou. When the ceremonies were concluded, Tou said

to the Princess, “In your presence, Madam, it would be

easy to forget even death itself; but, tell me, is not this

all a dream?” “And how can it be a dream,” asked

the Princess, “when you and I are here together?”Next morning Tou amused himself by helping the

Princess to paint her face,[400] and then, seizing a girdle,

began to measure the size of her waist[401] and the length

of her fingers and feet. “Are you crazy?” cried she,

laughing; to which Tou replied, “I have been deceived

so often by dreams, that I am now making a careful

record. If such it turns out to be, I shall still have

something as a souvenir of you.” While they were thus

chatting a maid rushed into the room, shrieking out,

“Alas, alas! a great monster has got into the palace:

the Prince has fled into a side chamber: destruction is

surely come upon us.” Tou was in a great fright when

he heard this, and rushed off to see the Prince, who

grasped his hand and, with tears in his eyes, begged him

not to desert them. “Our relationship,” cried he, “was

cemented when Heaven sent this calamity upon us; and

now my kingdom will be overthrown. What shall I

do?” Tou begged to know what was the matter; and

then the Prince laid a despatch upon the table, telling

Tou to open it and make himself acquainted with its

contents. This despatch ran as follows:—“The Grand

Secretary of State, Black Wings, to His Royal Highness,

announcing the arrival of an extraordinary monster, and

advising the immediate removal of the Court in order to

preserve the vitality of the empire. A report has just

been received from the officer in charge of the Yellow

Gate stating that, ever since the 6th of the 5th moon, a

huge monster, 10,000 feet in length, has been lying

coiled up outside the entrance to the palace, and that it

has already devoured 13,800 and odd of your Highness’s

subjects, and is spreading desolation far and wide. On

receipt of this information your servant proceeded to

make a reconnaissance, and there beheld a venomous

reptile with a head as big as a mountain and eyes like

vast sheets of water. Every time it raised its head,

whole buildings disappeared down its throat; and, on

stretching itself out, walls and houses were alike laid in

ruins. In all antiquity there is no record of such a

scourge. The fate of our temples and ancestral halls is

now a mere question of hours; we therefore pray your

Royal Highness to depart at once with the Royal Family

and seek somewhere else a happier abode.”[402] When

Tou had read this document his face turned ashy pale;

and just then a messenger rushed in, shrieking out,

“Here is the monster!” at which the whole Court burst

into lamentations as if their last hour was at hand. The

Prince was beside himself with fear; all he could do

was to beg Tou to look to his own safety without regarding

the wife through whom he was involved in their

misfortunes. The Princess, however, who was standing

by bitterly lamenting the fate that had fallen upon them,

begged Tou not to desert her; and, after a moment’s

hesitation, he said he should be only too happy to place

his own poor home at their immediate disposal if they

would only deign to honour him. “How can we talk of

deigning,” cried the Princess, “at such a moment as

this? I pray you take us there as quickly as possible.”

So Tou gave her his arm, and in no time they had arrived

at Tou’s house, which the Princess at once

pronounced to be a charming place of residence, and

better even than their former kingdom. “But I must

now ask you,” said she to Tou, “to make some arrangement

for my father and mother, that the old order of

things may be continued here.” Tou at first offered

objections to this; whereupon the Princess said that a

man who would not help another in his hour of need

was not much of a man, and immediately went off into

a fit of hysterics, from which Tou was trying his best to

recall her, when all of a sudden he awoke and found

that it was all a dream. However, he still heard a

buzzing in his ears which he knew was not made by any

human being, and, on looking carefully about he discovered

two or three bees which had settled on his

pillow. He was very much astonished at this, and consulted

with his friend, who was also greatly amazed at

his strange story; and then the latter pointed out a

number of other bees on various parts of his dress, none

of which would go away even when brushed off. His

friend now advised him to get a hive for them, which he

did without delay; and immediately it was filled by a

whole swarm of bees, which came flying from over the

wall in great numbers. On tracing whence they had come,

it was found that they belonged to an old gentleman who

lived near, and who had kept bees for more than thirty

years previously. Tou thereupon went and told him the

story; and when the old gentleman examined his hive

he found the bees all gone. On breaking it open he

discovered a large snake inside of about ten feet in

length, which he immediately killed, recognising in it

the “huge monster” of Tou’s adventure. As for the

bees, they remained with Tou, and increased in numbers

every year.Chung Ch‘ing-yü was a scholar of some reputation,

who lived in Manchuria. When he went up for his

master’s degree, he heard that there was a Taoist priest

at the capital who would tell people’s fortunes, and was

very anxious to see him; and at the conclusion of the

second part of the examination,[403] he accidentally met

him at Pao-t‘u-ch‘üan.[404] The priest was over sixty years

of age, and had the usual white beard, flowing down

over his breast. Around him stood a perfect wall of

people inquiring their future fortunes, and to each the

old man made a brief reply: but when he saw Chung

among the crowd, he was overjoyed, and, seizing him by

the hand, said, “Sir, your virtuous intentions command

my esteem.” He then led him up behind a screen, and

asked if he did not wish to know what was to come;

and when Chung replied in the affirmative, the priest

informed him that his prospects were bad. “You may

succeed in passing this examination,” continued he, “but

on returning covered with honour to your home, I fear

that your mother will be no longer there.” Now Chung

was a very filial son; and as soon as he heard these

words, his tears began to flow, and he declared that he

would go back without competing any further. The

priest observed that if he let this chance slip, he could

never hope for success; to which Chung replied that, on

the other hand, if his mother were to die he could never

hope to have her back again, and that even the rank of

Viceroy would not repay him for her loss. “Well,”

said the priest, “you and I were connected in a former

existence, and I must do my best to help you now.”

So he took out a pill which he gave to Chung, and told

him that if he sent it post-haste by some one to his

mother, it would prolong her life for seven days, and

thus he would be able to see her once again after the

examination was over. Chung took the pill, and went

off in very low spirits; but he soon reflected that the

span of human life is a matter of destiny, and that

every day he could spend at home would be one more

day devoted to the service of his mother. Accordingly,

he got ready to start at once, and, hiring a donkey,

actually set out on his way back. When he had gone

about half-a-mile, the donkey turned round and ran

home; and when he used his whip, the animal threw

itself down on the ground. Chung got into a great

perspiration, and his servant recommended him to

remain where he was; but this he would not hear of,

and hired another donkey, which served him exactly

the same trick as the other one. The sun was now

sinking behind the hills, and his servant advised his

master to stay and finish his examination while he

himself went back home before him. Chung had no

alternative but to assent, and the next day he hurried

through with his papers, starting immediately afterwards,

and not stopping at all on the way either to eat or to

sleep. All night long he went on, and arrived to find

his mother in a very critical state; however, when he

gave her the pill she so far recovered that he was able

to go in and see her. Grasping his hand, she begged

him not to weep, telling him that she had just dreamt

she had been down to the Infernal Regions, where the

King of Hell had informed her with a gracious smile

that her record was fairly clean, and that in view of the

filial piety of her son she was to have twelve years more

of life. Chung was rejoiced at this, and his mother

was soon restored to her former health.Before long the news arrived that Chung had passed

his examination; upon which he bade adieu to his

mother, and went off to the capital, where he bribed the

eunuchs of the palace to communicate with his friend

the Taoist priest. The latter was very much pleased,

and came out to see him, whereupon Chung prostrated

himself at his feet. “Ah,” said the priest, “this

success of yours, and the prolongation of your good

mother’s life, is all a reward for your virtuous conduct.

What have I done in the matter?” Chung was very

much astonished that the priest should already know

what had happened; however, he now inquired as to

his own future. “You will never rise to high rank,”

replied the priest, “but you will attain the years of an

octogenarian. In a former state of existence you and

I were once travelling together, when you threw a stone

at a dog, and accidentally killed a frog. Now that frog

has re-appeared in life as a donkey, and according to

all principles of destiny you ought to suffer for what

you did; but your filial piety has touched the Gods, a

protecting star-influence has passed into your nativity

sheet, and you will come to no harm. On the other

hand, there is your wife; in her former state she was

not as virtuous as she might have been, and her punishment

in this life was to be widowed quite young; you,

however, have secured the prolongation of your own

term of years, and therefore I fear that before long

your wife will pay the penalty of death.” Chung

was much grieved at hearing this; but after a while

he asked the priest where his second wife to

be was living. “At Chung-chou,” replied the latter;

“she is now fourteen years old.” The priest then

bade him adieu, telling him that if any mischance

should befall him he was to hurry off towards the south-east.

About a year after this, Chung’s wife did die;

and his mother then desiring him to go and visit his

uncle, who was a magistrate in Kiangsi, on which

journey he would have to pass through Chung-chou,

it seemed like a fulfilment of the old priest’s prophecy.

As he went along, he came to a village on the banks

of a river, where a large crowd of people was gathered

together round a theatrical performance which was going

on there. Chung would have passed quietly by, had

not a stray donkey followed so close behind him that he

turned round and hit it over the ears. This startled

the donkey so much that it ran off full gallop, and

knocked a rich gentleman’s child, who was sitting with

its nurse on the bank, right into the water, before any

one of the servants could lend a hand to save it.

Immediately there was a great outcry against Chung,

who gave his mule the rein and dashed away, mindful

of the priest’s warning, towards the south-east. After

riding about seven miles, he reached a mountain village,

where he saw an old man standing at the door of a

house, and, jumping off his mule, made him a low

bow. The old man asked him in, and inquired his

name and whence he came; to which Chung replied by

telling him the whole adventure. “Never fear,” said

the old man; “you can stay here, while I send out to

learn the position of affairs.” By the evening his messenger

had returned, and then they knew for the first

time that the child belonged to a wealthy family. The

old man looked grave and said, “Had it been anybody

else’s child, I might have helped you; as it is I can do

nothing.” Chung was greatly alarmed at this; however,

the old man told him to remain quietly there for the

night, and see what turn matters might take. Chung

was overwhelmed with anxiety, and did not sleep a

wink; and next morning he heard that the constables

were after him, and that it was death to any one who

should conceal him. The old man changed countenance

at this, and went inside, leaving Chung to his own

reflections; but towards the middle of the night he

came and knocked at Chung’s door, and, sitting down,

began to ask how old his wife was. Chung replied that

he was a widower; at which the old man seemed rather

pleased, and declared that in such case help would be

forthcoming; “for,” said he, “my sister’s husband has

taken the vows and become a priest,[405] and my sister

herself has died, leaving an orphan girl who has now no

home; and if you would only marry her....”

Chung was delighted, more especially as this would be

both the fulfilment of the Taoist priest’s prophecy, and a

means of extricating himself from his present difficulty;

at the same time, he declared he should be sorry to

implicate his future father-in-law. “Never fear about

that,” replied the old man; “my sister’s husband is

pretty skilful in the black art. He has not mixed much

with the world of late; but when you are married, you

can discuss the matter with my niece.” So Chung

married the young lady, who was sixteen years of age,

and very beautiful; but whenever he looked at her he

took occasion to sigh. At last she said, “I may be

ugly; but you needn’t be in such a hurry to let me

know it;” whereupon Chung begged her pardon, and

said he felt himself only too lucky to have met with such

a divine creature; adding that he sighed because he

feared some misfortune was coming on them which

would separate them for ever. He then told her his

story, and the young lady was very angry that she should

have been drawn into such a difficulty without a word of

warning. Chung fell on his knees, and said he had

already consulted with her uncle, who was unable himself

to do anything, much as he wished it. He continued

that he was aware of her power; and then,

pointing out that his alliance was not altogether beneath

her, made all kinds of promises if she would only help

him out of this trouble. The young lady was no

longer able to refuse, but informed him that to apply

to her father would entail certain disagreeable consequences,

as he had retired from the world, and did

not any more recognise her as his daughter. That

night they did not attempt to sleep, spending the interval

in padding their knees with thick felt concealed

beneath their clothes; and then they got into chairs and

were carried off to the hills. After journeying some

distance, they were compelled by the nature of the road

to alight and walk; and it was only by a great effort

that Chung succeeded at last in getting his wife to the

top. At the door of the temple they sat down to rest,

the powder and paint on the young lady’s face having

all mixed with the perspiration trickling down; but when

Chung began to apologize for bringing her to this pass,

she replied that it was a mere trifle compared with what

was to come. By-and-by, they went inside; and

threading their way to the wall beyond, found the

young lady’s father sitting in contemplation,[406] his eyes

closed, and a servant-boy standing by with a chowry.[407]

Everything was beautifully clean and nice, but before

the dais were sharp stones scattered about as thick as

the stars in the sky. The young lady did not venture

to select a favourable spot; she fell on her knees at once,

and Chung did likewise behind her. Then her father

opened his eyes, shutting them again almost instantaneously;

whereupon the young lady said, “For a long

time I have not paid my respects to you. I am now

married, and I have brought my husband to see you.”

A long time passed away, and then her father opened

his eyes and said, “You’re giving a great deal of

trouble,” immediately relapsing into silence again.

There the husband and wife remained until the stones

seemed to pierce into their very bones; but after a

while the father cried out, “Have you brought the

donkey?” His daughter replied that they had not;

whereupon they were told to go and fetch it at once,

which they did, not knowing what the meaning of this

order was. After a few more days’ kneeling, they

suddenly heard that the murderer of the child had been

caught and beheaded, and were just congratulating each

other on the success of their scheme, when a servant

came in with a stick in his hand, the top of which had

been chopped off. “This stick,” said the servant, “died

instead of you. Bury it reverently, that the wrong done

to the tree may be somewhat atoned for.”[408] Then Chung

saw that at the place where the top of the stick had

been chopped off there were traces of blood; he therefore

buried it with the usual ceremony, and immediately

set off with his wife, and returned to his own home.

Mr. Pai was a native of Chi-li, and his eldest son

was called Chia. The latter had been some two years

holding an appointment[409] as magistrate in the south; but

because of the great distance between them, his family

had heard nothing of him. One day a distant connection,

named Ting, called at the house; and Mr. Pai,

not having seen this gentleman for a long time, treated

him with much cordiality. Now Ting was one of those

persons who are occasionally employed by the Judge of

the Infernal Regions to make arrests on earth;[410] and, as

they were chatting together, Mr. Pai questioned him

about the realms below. Ting told him all kinds of

strange things, but Pai did not believe them, answering

only by a smile. Some days afterwards, he had just lain

down to sleep when Ting walked in and asked him to go

for a stroll; so they went off together, and by-and-by

reached the city. “There,” said Ting, pointing to a

door, “lives your nephew,” alluding to a son of Mr.

Pai’s elder sister, who was a magistrate in Honan; and

when Pai expressed his doubts as to the accuracy of this

statement, Ting led him in, when, lo and behold! there

was his nephew, sitting in his court dressed in his official

robes. Around him stood the guard, and it was impossible

to get near him; but Ting remarked that his son’s

residence was not far off, and asked Pai if he would not

like to see him too. The latter assenting, they walked

along till they came to a large building, which Ting said

was the place. However, there was a fierce wolf at the

entrance,[411] and Mr. Pai was afraid to go in. Ting bade

him enter, and accordingly they walked in, when they

found that all the employés of the place, some of whom

were standing about and others lying down to sleep,

were all wolves. The central pathway was piled up with

whitening bones, and Mr. Pai began to feel horribly

alarmed but Ting kept close to him all the time, and

at length they got safely in. Pai’s son, Chia, was just

coming out; and when he saw his father accompanied

by Ting, he was overjoyed, and, asking them to sit

down, bade the attendants serve some refreshment.

Thereupon a great big wolf brought in in his mouth

the carcase of a dead man, and set it before them, at

which Mr. Pai rose up in consternation, and asked his

son what this meant. “It’s only a little refreshment for

you, father,” replied Chia; but this did not calm Mr.

Pai’s agitation, who would have retired precipitately, had

it not been for the crowd of wolves which barred the

path. Just as he was at a loss what to do, there was a

general stampede among the animals which scurried

away, some under the couches and some under the

tables and chairs; and while he was wondering what the

cause of this could be, in marched two knights in golden

armour, who looked sternly at Chia, and, producing a

black rope, proceeded to bind him hand and foot. Chia

fell down before them, and was changed into a tiger with

horrid fangs; and then one of the knights drew a glittering

sword and would have cut off its head, had not

the other cried out, “Not yet! not yet! that is for the

fourth month next year. Let us now only take out its

teeth.” Immediately that knight produced a huge

mallet, and, with a few blows, scattered the tiger’s teeth

all over the floor, the tiger roaring so loudly with pain as

to shake the very hills, and frightening all the wits out of

Mr. Pai—who woke up with a start. He found he had

been dreaming, and at once sent off to invite Ting to

come and see him; but Ting sent back to say he must

beg to be excused. Then Mr. Pai, pondering on what

he had seen in his dream, despatched his second son

with a letter to Chia, full of warnings and good advice;

and lo! when his son arrived, he found that his elder

brother had lost all his front teeth, these having been

knocked out, as he averred, by a fall he had had from

his horse when tipsy; and, on comparing dates, the day

of that fall was found to coincide with the day of his

father’s dream. The younger brother was greatly amazed

at this, and took out their father’s letter, which he gave

to Chia to read. The latter changed colour, but immediately

asked his brother what there was to be astonished

at in the coincidence of a dream. And just at that time

he was busily engaged in bribing his superiors to put him

first on the list for promotion, so that he soon forgot all

about the circumstance; while the younger, observing

what harpies Chia’s subordinates were, taking presents

from one man and using their influence for another, in

one unbroken stream of corruption, sought out his elder

brother, and, with tears in his eyes, implored him to put

some check upon their rapacity. “My brother,” replied

Chia, “your life has been passed in an obscure village;

you know nothing of our official routine. We are promoted

or degraded at the will of our superiors, and not

by the voice of the people. He, therefore, who gratifies

his superiors is marked out for success;[412] whereas he

who consults the wishes of the people is unable to gratify

his superiors as well.” Chia’s brother saw that his advice

was thrown away; he accordingly returned home and

told his father all that had taken place. The old man

was much affected, but there was nothing that he could do

in the matter, so he devoted himself to assisting the poor,

and such acts of charity, daily praying the Gods that the

wicked son alone might suffer for his crimes, and not

entail misery on his innocent wife and children. The

next year it was reported that Chia had been recommended

for a post in the Board of Civil Office,[413] and

friends crowded the father’s door, offering their congratulations

upon the happy event. But the old man sighed

and took to his bed, pretending he was too unwell to

receive visitors. Before long another message came, informing

them that Chia had fallen in with bandits while

on his way home, and that he and all his retinue had

been killed. Then his father arose and said, “Verily the

Gods are good unto me, for they have visited his sins

upon himself alone;” and he immediately proceeded to

burn incense and return thanks. Some of his friends

would have persuaded him that the report was probably

untrue; but the old man had no doubts as to its correctness,

and made haste to get ready his son’s grave. But

Chia was not yet dead. In the fatal fourth moon he

had started on his journey and had fallen in with

bandits, to whom he had offered all his money and

valuables; upon which the latter cried out, “We have

come to avenge the cruel wrongs of many hundreds of

victims; do you imagine we want only that?” They

then cut off his head, and the head of his wicked secretary,

and the heads of several of his servants who had

been foremost in carrying out his shameful orders, and

were now accompanying him to the capital. They then

divided the booty between them, and made off with all

speed. Chia’s soul remained near his body for some

time, until at length a high mandarin passing by asked

who it was that was lying there dead. One of his

servants replied that he had been a magistrate at such

and such a place, and that his name was Pai. “What!”

said the mandarin, “the son of old Mr. Pai? It is hard

that his father should live to see such sorrow as this.

Put his head on again.”[414] Then a man stepped forward

and placed Chia’s head upon his shoulders again, when

the mandarin interrupted him, saying, “A crooked-minded

man should not have a straight body: put his

head on sideways.” By-and-by Chia’s soul returned to

its tenement; and when his wife and children arrived to

take away the corpse, they found that he was still breathing.

Carrying him home, they poured some nourishment

down his throat, which he was able to swallow; but there

he was at an out-of-the-way place, without the means of

continuing his journey. It was some six months before

his father heard the real state of the case, and then he

sent off the second son to bring his brother home. Chia

had indeed come to life again, but he was able to see

down his own back, and was regarded ever afterwards

more as a monstrosity than as a man. Subsequently the

nephew, whom old Mr. Pai had seen sitting in state

surrounded by officials, actually became an Imperial

Censor, so that every detail of the dream was thus

strangely realised.[415]

Mr. Chu was a native of Yang-ku, and, as a young

man, was much given to playing tricks and talking in a

loose kind of way. Having lost his wife, he went off to

ask a certain old woman to arrange another match for

him; and on the way, he chanced to fall in with a

neighbour’s wife who took his fancy very much. So he

said in joke to the old woman, “Get me that stylish-looking,

handsome lady, and I shall be quite satisfied.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” replied the old woman, also

joking, “if you will manage to kill her present husband;”

upon which Chu laughed and said he certainly

would do so. Now about a month afterwards, the said

husband, who had gone out to collect some money due

to him, was actually killed in a lonely spot; and the

magistrate of the district immediately summoned the

neighbours and beadle[416] and held the usual inquest, but

was unable to find any clue to the murderer. However,

the old woman told the story of her conversation with

Chu, and suspicion at once fell upon him. The constables

came and arrested him; but he stoutly denied

the charge; and the magistrate now began to suspect the

wife of the murdered man. Accordingly, she was

severely beaten and tortured in several ways until her

strength failed her, and she falsely acknowledged her

guilt.[417] Chu was then examined, and he said, “This

delicate woman could not bear the agony of your tortures;

what she has stated is untrue; and, even should

her wrong escape the notice of the Gods, for her to die

in this way with a stain upon her name is more than I

can endure. I will tell the whole truth. I killed the

husband that I might secure the wife: she knew nothing

at all about it.” And when the magistrate asked for

some proof, Chu said his bloody clothes would be

evidence enough; but when they sent to search his

house, no bloody clothes were forthcoming. He was

then beaten till he fainted; yet when he came round he

still stuck to what he had said. “It is my mother,”

cried he, “who will not sign the death-warrant of her

son. Let me go myself and I will get the clothes.” So

he was escorted by a guard to his home, and there he

explained to his mother that whether she gave up or

withheld the clothes, it was all the same; that in either

case he would have to die, and it was better to die early

than late. Thereupon his mother wept bitterly, and

going into the bedroom, brought out, after a short delay,

the required clothes, which were taken at once to the

magistrate’s. There was now no doubt as to the truth of

Chu’s story; and as nothing occurred to change the

magistrate’s opinion, Chu was thrown into prison to

await the day for his execution. Meanwhile, as the

magistrate was one day inspecting his gaol, suddenly a

man appeared in the hall, who glared at him fiercely and

roared out, “Dull-headed fool! unfit to be the guardian

of the people’s interests!”—whereupon the crowd of servants

standing round rushed forward to seize him, but with

one sweep of his arms he laid them all flat on the ground.

The magistrate was frightened out of his wits, and tried

to escape, but the man cried out to him, “I am one of

Kuan Ti’s[418] lieutenants. If you move an inch you are

lost.” So the magistrate stood there, shaking from head

to foot with fear, while his visitor continued, “The

murderer is Kung Piao: Chu had nothing to do with

it.”

The lieutenant then fell down on the ground, and

was to all appearance lifeless; however, after a while he

recovered, his face having quite changed, and when they

asked him his name, lo! it was Kung Piao. Under the

application of the bamboo he confessed his guilt.

Always an unprincipled man, he had heard that the

murdered man was going out to collect money, and

thinking he would be sure to bring it back with him, he

had killed him, but had found nothing. Then when he

learnt that Chu had acknowledged the crime as his own

doing, he had rejoiced in secret at such a stroke of luck.

How he had got into the magistrate’s hall he was quite

unable to say. The magistrate now called for some explanation

of Chu’s bloody clothes, which Chu himself

was unable to give; but his mother, who was at once

sent for, stated that she had cut her own arm to stain

them, and when they examined her they found on her

left arm the scar of a recent wound. The magistrate

was lost in amazement at all this; unfortunately for him

the reversal of his sentence cost him his appointment,

and he died in poverty, unable to find his way home.

As for Chu, the widow of the murdered man married

him[419] in the following year, out of gratitude for his noble

behaviour.

[420]

[The story runs that a Mr. Chia, after obtaining, with

the assistance of a mysterious friend, his master’s degree,

became alive to the vanity of mere earthly honours, and

determined to devote himself to the practice of Taoism,

in the hope of obtaining the elixir of immortality.[421]]

So early one morning Chia and his friend, whose

name was Lang, stole away together, without letting

Chia’s family know anything about it; and by-and-by

they found themselves among the hills, in a vast cave

where there was another world and another sky. An old

man was sitting there in great state, and Lang presented

Chia to him as his future master. “Why have you come

so soon?” asked the old man; to which Lang replied,

“My friend’s determination is firmly fixed: I pray you

receive him amongst you.” “Since you have come,”

said the old man, turning to Chia, “you must begin by

putting away from you your earthly body.” Chia murmured

his assent, and was then escorted by Lang to

sleeping-chamber where he was provided with food,

after which Lang went away. The room was beautifully

clean:[422] the doors had no panels and the windows no

lattices; and all the furniture was one table and one

couch. Chia took off his shoes and lay down, with the

moon shining brightly into the room; and beginning

soon to feel hungry, he tried one of the cakes on the

table, which he found sweet and very satisfying. He

thought Lang would be sure to come back, but there he

remained hour after hour by himself, never hearing a

sound. He noticed, however, that the room was fragrant

with a delicious perfume; his viscera seemed to be removed

from his body, by which his intellectual faculties

were much increased; and every one of his veins and

arteries could be easily counted. Then suddenly he

heard a sound like that of a cat scratching itself; and,

looking out of the window, he beheld a tiger sitting under

the verandah. He was horribly frightened for the

moment, but immediately recalling the admonition of

the old man, he collected himself and sat quietly down

again. The tiger seemed to know that there was a man

inside, for it entered the room directly afterwards, and

walking straight up to the couch sniffed at Chia’s feet.

Whereupon there was a noise outside, as if a fowl were

having its legs tied, and the tiger ran away. Shortly

afterwards a beautiful young girl came in, suffusing an

exquisite fragrance around; and going up to the couch

where Chia was, she bent over him and whispered,

“Here I am.” Her breath was like the sweet odour of

perfumes; but as Chia did not move, she whispered

again, “Are you sleeping?” The voice sounded to

Chia remarkably like that of his wife; however, he reflected

that these were all probably nothing more than

tests of his determination, so he closed his eyes firmly

for a while. But by-and-by the young lady called him

by his pet name, and then he opened his eyes wide to

discover that she was no other than his own wife. On

asking her how she had come there, she replied that Mr.

Lang was afraid her husband would be lonely, and had

sent an old woman to guide her to him. Just then they

heard the old man outside in a towering rage, and

Chia’s wife, not knowing where to conceal herself,

jumped over a low wall near by and disappeared. In

came the old man, and gave Lang a severe beating

before Chia’s face, bidding him at once to get rid of his

visitor; so Lang led Chia away over the low wall, saying,

“I knew how anxious you were to consummate your

immortality, and accordingly I tried to hurry things on

a bit; but now I see that your time has not yet come:

hence this beating I have had. Good-by: we shall meet

again some day.” He then shewed Chia the way to his

home, and waving his hand bade him farewell. Chia

looked down—for he was in the moon—and beheld the

old familiar village and recollecting that his wife was

not a good walker and would not have got very far,

hurried on to overtake her. Before long he was at his

own door, but he noticed that the place was all tumble-down

and in ruins, and not as it was when he went away.

As for the people he saw, old and young alike, he did

not recognise one of them; and recollecting the story of

how Liu and Yüan came back from heaven,[423] he was

afraid to go in at the door. So he sat down and rested

outside; and after a while an old man leaning on a staff

came out, whereupon Chia asked him which was the

house of Mr. Chia. “This is it,” replied the old man;

“you probably wish to hear the extraordinary story connected

with the family? I know all about it. They say

that Mr. Chia ran away just after he had taken his

master’s degree, when his son was only seven or eight

years old; and that about seven years afterwards the

child’s mother went into a deep sleep from which she

did not awake. As long as her son was alive he changed

his mother’s clothes for her according to the seasons, but

when he died, her grandsons fell into poverty, and had

nothing but an old shanty to put the sleeping lady into.

Last month she awaked, having been asleep for over a

hundred years. People from far and near have been

coming in great numbers to hear the strange story; of

late, however, there have been rather fewer.” Chia was

amazed when he heard all this, and, turning to the old

man, said, “I am Chia Fêng-chih.” This astonished the

old man very much, and off he went to make the announcement

to Chia’s family. The eldest grandson was

dead; and the second, a man of about fifty, refused to

believe that such a young-looking man was really his

grandfather; but in a few moments out came Chia’s

wife, and she recognised her husband at once. They

then fell upon each other’s necks and mingled their tears

together.

[After which the story is drawn out to a considerable

length, but is quite devoid of interest.][424]

A certain man of the province of Hunan could

recall what had happened to him in three previous lives.

In the first, he was a magistrate; and, on one occasion,

when he had been nominated Assistant-Examiner,[425] a

candidate, named Hsing, was unsuccessful. Hsing went

home dreadfully mortified, and soon after died; but his

spirit appeared before the King of Purgatory, and read

aloud the rejected essay, whereupon thousands of other

shades, all of whom had suffered in a similar way,

thronged around, and unanimously elected Hsing as

their chief. The Examiner was immediately summoned

to take his trial, and when he arrived the King asked

him, saying, “As you are appointed to examine the

various essays, how is it that you throw out the able

and admit the worthless?” “Sire,” replied he, “the

ultimate decision rests with the Grand Examiner; I

only pass them on to him.” The King then issued a

warrant for the apprehension of the Grand Examiner,

and, as soon as he appeared, he was told what had

just now been said against him; to which he answered,

“I am only able to make a general estimate of the

merits of the candidates. Valuable essays may be kept

back from me by my Associate-Examiners, in which case

I am powerless.”[426] But the King cried out, “It’s all very

well for you two thus to throw the blame on each other;

you are both guilty, and both of you must be bambooed

according to law.” This sentence was about to be

carried into effect, when Hsing, who was not at all

satisfied with its lack of severity, set up such a fearful

screeching and howling, in which he was well supported

by all the other hundreds and thousands of shades, that

the King stopped short, and inquired what was the

matter. Thereupon Hsing informed His Majesty that

the sentence was too light, and that the Examiners

should both have their eyes gouged out, so as not to

be able to read essays any more. The King would

not consent to this, explaining to the noisy rabble

that the Examiners did not purposely reject good

essays, but only because they themselves were naturally

wanting in capacity. The shades then begged that, at

any rate, their hearts might be cut out, and to this

the King was obliged to yield; so the Examiners were

seized by the attendants, their garments stripped off,

and their bodies ripped open with sharp knives. The

blood poured out on the ground, and the victims

screamed with pain; at which all the shades rejoiced

exceedingly, and said, “Here we have been pent up,

with no one to redress our wrongs; but now Mr. Hsing

has come, our injuries are washed away.” They then

dispersed with great noise and hubbub. As for our

Associate-Examiner, after his heart had been cut out, he

came to life again as the son of a poor man in Shensi;

and when he was twenty years old he fell into the hands

of the rebels, who were at that time giving great trouble to

the country. By-and-by, a certain official was sent at the

head of some soldiers to put down the insurrection, and

he succeeded in capturing a large number of the rebels,

among whom was our hero. The latter reflected that he

himself was no rebel, and he was hoping that he would

be able to obtain his release in consequence, when he

noticed that the officer in charge was also a man of his

own age, and, on looking more closely, he saw that it

was his old enemy, Hsing. “Alas!” cried he, “such

is destiny;” and so indeed it turned out, for all the

other prisoners were forthwith released, and he alone

was beheaded. Once more his spirit stood before the

King of Purgatory, this time with an accusation against

Hsing. The King, however, would not summon Hsing

at once, but said he should be allowed to complete his

term of official life on earth; and it was not till thirty

years afterwards that Hsing appeared to answer to the

charge. Then, because he had made light of the lives

of his people, he was condemned to be born again as a

brute-beast; and our hero, too, inasmuch as he had

been known to beat his father and mother, was sentenced

to a similar fate. The latter, fearing the future

vengeance of Hsing, persuaded the King to give him

the advantage of size; and, accordingly, orders were

issued that he was to be born again as a big, and

Hsing as a little, dog. The big dog came to life in a

shop in Shun-t‘ien Fu, and was one day lying down in

the street, when a trader from the south arrived,

bringing with him a little golden-haired dog, about the

size of a wild cat, which, lo and behold! turned out to

be Hsing. The other, thinking Hsing’s size would

render him an easy prey, seized him at once; but the

little one caught him from underneath by the throat,

and hung there firmly, like a bell. The big dog tried

hard to shake him off, and the people of the shop did

their best to separate them, but all was of no avail, and

in a few moments both dogs were dead. Upon their

spirits presenting themselves, as usual, before the King,

each with its grievance against the other, the King cried

out, “When will ye have done with your wrongs and

your animosities? I will now settle the matter finally

for you;” and immediately commanded that Hsing

should become the other’s son-in-law in the next world.

The latter was then born at Ch‘ing-yün, and when he

was twenty-eight years of age took his master’s degree.

He had one daughter, a very pretty girl, whom many of

his wealthy neighbours would have been glad to get for

their sons; but he would not accept any of their

offers. On one occasion, he happened to pass through

the prefectural city just as the examination for bachelor’s

degree was over; and the candidate who had come out

at the top of the list, though named Li, was no other

than Mr. Hsing. So he led this man away, and took

him to an inn, where he treated him with the utmost

cordiality, finally arranging that, as Mr. Li was still

unmarried, he should marry his pretty daughter. Everyone,

of course, thought that this was done in admiration

of Li’s talents, ignorant that destiny had already decreed

the union of the young couple. No sooner were they

married than Li, proud of his own literary achievements,

began to slight his father-in-law, and often passed many

months without going near him; all of which the

father-in-law bore very patiently, and when, at length,

Li had repeatedly failed to get on any farther in his

career, he even went so far as to set to work, by all

manner of means, to secure his success; after which they

lived happily together as father and son.