Strange Stories from a Chinese Studio, Vol. 2 (of 2)
by Songling Pu · English · Gutenberg #43628 · 587,794 chars · public domain (US)
The Project Gutenberg eBook of Strange Stories from a Chinese Studio, Vol. 2 (of 2)
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.
Title: Strange Stories from a Chinese Studio, Vol. 2 (of 2)
Author: Songling Pu
Translator: Herbert Allen Giles
Release date: September 3, 2013 [eBook #43628]
Most recently updated: October 23, 2024
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/43628
Credits: Produced by obstobst, Henry Flower and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STRANGE STORIES FROM A CHINESE STUDIO, VOL. 2 (OF 2) ***
STRANGE STORIES
FROM A
CHINESE STUDIO.
STRANGE STORIES
FROM A
CHINESE STUDIO.
TRANSLATED AND ANNOTATED
BY
HERBERT A. GILES,
_Of H.M.’s Consular Service_.
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. II.
LONDON:
THOS. DE LA RUE & CO.
110, BUNHILL ROW.
1880.
PRINTED BY
THOMAS DE LA RUE AND CO., BUNHILL ROW,
LONDON.
CONTENTS.
INTRODUCTION Vol. I., pp. xiii-xxxii.
STORIES.
VOL. I. VOL. II.
PAGE PAGE
Adulteration Punished -- 332
Alchemist, The -- 313
Boat-girl Bride, The -- 149
Boatmen of Lao-lung, The -- 348
Boon Companion, The 165 --
Bribery and Corruption -- 170
Buddhist Priest of Ch‘ang-ch‘ing, The 22 --
Buddhist Priests, Arrival of -- 231
Butterfly’s Revenge, The -- 289
Carrying a Corpse -- 181
Cattle Plague, The -- 253
Censor in Purgatory, The -- 238
Chang Pu-liang -- 177
Chang’s Transformation 237 --
Chou K‘o-ch‘ang and his Ghost -- 106
Clay Image, The -- 276
Cloth Merchant, The -- 127
Collecting Subscriptions -- 220
Considerate Husband, The 158 --
Country of the Cave Men, The 397 --
Courage Tested -- 116
Cruelty Avenged -- 267
Dead Priest, The -- 247
Death by Laughing 352 --
Disembodied Friend, The -- 119
Dishonesty Punished -- 279
Doctor, The -- 290
Donkey’s Revenge, The -- 64
Dr. Tsêng’s Dream 387 --
Dreaming Honours -- 327
Dutch Carpet, The -- 179
Dwarf, A 224 --
Earthquake, An -- 263
Elephants and the Lion, The -- 343
Engaged to a Nun 262 --
Examination for the Post of Guardian Angel 1 --
Faithful Dog, The -- 261
Faithful Gander, The -- 342
Faithless Widow, The -- 39
Feasting the Ruler of Purgatory -- 284
Fêng-shui -- 322
Fight with the Foxes, The 251 --
Fighting Cricket, The -- 17
Fighting Quails, The 66 --
Fisherman and his Friend, The -- 197
Flood, A 350 --
Flower-nymphs, The 285 --
Flying Cow, The -- 249
Foot-ball on the Tung-t‘ing Lake 408 --
Foreign Priests 343 --
Fortune-hunter Punished, The -- 272
Forty Strings of Cash, The -- 211
Friendship with Foxes -- 300
Gambler’s Talisman, The 419 --
Grateful Dog, The -- 308
Great Rat, The -- 303
Great Test, The -- 310
Hidden Treasure, The -- 345
His Father’s Ghost -- 142
Hsiang-ju’s Misfortunes 225 --
Husband Punished, The 422 --
Incorrupt Official, The -- 358
Infernal Regions, In the -- 95
Ingratitude Punished -- 138
Injustice of Heaven, The -- 111
Invisible Priest, The -- 235
Jen Hsiu, The Gambler 196 --
Joining the Immortals 53 --
Jonah, A Chinese -- 176
Judge Lu 92 --
Justice for Rebels -- 184
Killing a Serpent -- 190
King, The 257 --
Life Prolonged -- 273
Lingering Death, The -- 325
Little Chu 143 --
Lo-ch‘a Country and the Sea Market, The -- 1
Lost Brother, The 203 --
Mad Priest, The -- 282
Magic Mirror, The -- 114
Magic Path, The -- 36
Magic Sword, The 124 --
Magical Arts 47 --
Magnanimous Girl, The 160 --
Making Animals -- 265
Man who was changed into a Crow, The 278 --
Man who was thrown down a Well, The 365 --
Marriage Lottery, The 428 --
Marriage of the Fox’s Daughter, The 26 --
Marriage of the Virgin Goddess, The -- 257
Master-thief, The 347 --
Metempsychosis -- 207
“Mirror and Listen” Trick, The -- 251
Miss Chiao-no 33 --
Miss Lien-hsiang, The Fox-girl 168 --
Miss Quarta Hu 152 --
Miss Ying-ning; or, the Laughing Girl 106 --
Mr. Tung; or, Virtue Rewarded -- 244
Mr. Willow and the Locusts -- 242
Mysterious Head, The -- 135
Painted Skin, The 76 --
Painted Wall, The 9 --
Performing Mice, The 218 --
Perseverance Rewarded 186 --
Picture Horse, The -- 286
Pious Surgeon, The -- 351
Planchette -- 295
Planting a Pear-tree 14 --
Playing at Hanging 354 --
Priest’s Warning, The -- 205
Princess Lily, The -- 56
Princess of the Tung-t‘ing Lake -- 43
Quarrelsome Brothers, The 313 --
Raising the Dead -- 318
Rat Wife, The 355 --
Resuscitated Corpse, The -- 193
Rip van Winkle, A Chinese -- 85
Roc, The -- 340
Salt Smuggler, The -- 215
Saving Life -- 213
Sea-serpent, The -- 113
Self-punished Murderer, The 345 --
She-wolf and the Herd-boys, The -- 330
Shui-mang Plant, The 136 --
Singing Frogs, The 217 --
Singular case of Ophthalmia -- 102
Singular Verdict -- 307
Sisters, The 336 --
Smelling Essays -- 139
Snow in Summer -- 294
Solomon, A Chinese -- 335
Solomon, Another -- 355
Spirit of the Hills, The -- 137
Spirits of the Po-yang Lake, The -- 109
Spiritualistic Séances -- 131
Stolen Eyes, The -- 233
Strange Companion, A -- 130
Stream of Cash, The -- 110
Supernatural Wife, A -- 166
Taking Revenge -- 25
Talking Pupils, The 5 --
Ta-nan in Search of his Father 296 --
Taoist Devotee, A -- 183
Taoist Miracles -- 226
Taoist Priest, A 246 --
Taoist Priest of Lao-shan, The 17 --
Theft of the Peach -- 186
Three Genii, The 214 --
Three States of Existence, The -- 90
Thunder God, The 413 --
Tiger Guest, The 330 --
Tiger of Chao-ch‘êng, The 219 --
Tipsy Turtle, The -- 28
Trader’s Son, The 85 --
Two Brides, The -- 158
Unjust Sentence, The -- 80
Virtuous Daughter-in-law, The 374 --
Wei-ch‘i Devil, The -- 268
Wine Insect, The -- 259
Wolf Dream, The -- 73
Wolves -- 305
Wonderful Stone, The 306 --
Young Gentleman who couldn’t spell, The 326 --
Young Lady of the Tung-t‘ing Lake, The 271 --
APPENDIX A -- 361
„ B -- 389
STRANGE STORIES
FROM A
CHINESE STUDIO.
LXIII.
THE LO-CH‘A COUNTRY AND THE SEA-MARKET.[1]
Once upon a time there was a young man, named Ma Chün, who was also
known as Lung-mei. He was the son of a trader, and a youth of
surpassing beauty. His manners were courteous, and he loved nothing
better than singing and playing. He used to associate with actors, and
with an embroidered handkerchief round his head the effect was that of
a beautiful woman. Hence he acquired the sobriquet of the Beauty. At
fourteen years of age he graduated and began to make a name for
himself; but his father, who was growing old and wished to retire from
business, said to him, “My boy, book-learning will never fill your
belly or put a coat on your back; you had much better stick to the old
thing.” Accordingly, Ma from that time occupied himself with scales
and weights, with principle and interest, and such matters.
He made a voyage across the sea, and was carried away by a typhoon.
After being tossed about for many days and nights he arrived at a
country where the people were hideously ugly. When these people saw Ma
they thought he was a devil and all ran screeching away. Ma was
somewhat alarmed at this, but finding that it was they who were
frightened at him, he quickly turned their fear to his own advantage.
If he came across people eating and drinking he would rush upon them,
and when they fled away for fear, he would regale himself upon what
they had left. By-and-by he went to a village among the hills, and
there the people had at any rate some facial resemblance to ordinary
men. But they were all in rags and tatters like beggars. So Ma sat
down to rest under a tree, and the villagers, not daring to come near
him, contented themselves with looking at him from a distance. They
soon found, however, that he did not want to eat them, and by degrees
approached a little closer to him. Ma, smiling, began to talk; and
although their language was different, yet he was able to make himself
tolerably intelligible, and told them whence he had come. The
villagers were much pleased, and spread the news that the stranger was
not a man-eater. Nevertheless, the very ugliest of all would only take
a look and be off again; they would not come near him. Those who did
go up to him were not very much unlike his own countrymen, the
Chinese. They brought him plenty of food and wine. Ma asked them what
they were afraid of. They replied, “We had heard from our forefathers
that 26,000 _li_ to the west there is a country called China. We had
heard that the people of that land were the most extraordinary in
appearance you can possibly imagine. Hitherto it has been hearsay; we
can now believe it.” He then asked them how it was they were so poor.
They answered, “You see, in our country everything depends, not on
literary talent, but on beauty. The most beautiful are made ministers
of state; the next handsomest are made judges and magistrates; and the
third class in looks are employed in the palace of the king. Thus
these are enabled out of their pay to provide for their wives and
families. But we, from our very birth, are regarded by our parents as
inauspicious, and are left to perish, some of us being occasionally
preserved by more humane parents to prevent the extinction of the
family.” Ma asked the name of their country, and they told him it was
Lo-ch‘a. Also that the capital city was some 30 _li_ to the north. He
begged them to take him there, and next day at cock-crow he started
thitherwards in their company, arriving just about dawn. The walls of
the city were made of black stone, as black as ink, and the city
gate-houses were about 100 feet high. Red stones were used for tiles,
and picking up a broken piece Ma found that it marked his finger-nail
like vermilion. They arrived just when the Court was rising, and saw
all the equipages of the officials. The village people pointed out
one who they said was Prime Minister. His ears drooped forward in
flaps; he had three nostrils, and his eye-lashes were just like bamboo
screens hanging in front of his eyes. Then several came out on
horseback, and they said these were the privy councillors. So they
went on, telling him the rank of all the ugly uncouth fellows he saw.
The lower they got down in the official scale the less hideous the
officials were. By-and-by Ma went back, the people in the streets
marvelling very much to see him, and tumbling helter-skelter one over
another as if they had met a goblin. The villagers shouted out to
re-assure them, and then they stood at a distance to look at him. When
he got back, there was not a man, woman, or child in the whole nation
but knew that there was a strange man at the village; and the gentry
and officials became very desirous to see him. However, if he went to
any of their houses the porter always slammed the door in his face,
and the master, mistress, and family, in general, would only peep at,
and speak to him through the cracks. Not a single one dared receive
him face to face; but, finally, the village people, at a loss what to
do, bethought themselves of a man who had been sent by a former king
on official business among strange nations. “He,” said they, “having
seen many kinds of men, will not be afraid of you.” So they went to
his house, where they were received in a very friendly way. He seemed
to be about eighty or ninety years of age; his eye-balls protruded,
and his beard curled up like a hedge-hog. He said, “In my youth I was
sent by the king among many nations, but I never went to China. I am
now one hundred and twenty years of age, and that I should be
permitted to see a native of your country is a fact which it will be
my duty to report to the Throne. For ten years and more I have not
been to Court, but have remained here in seclusion; yet I will now
make an effort on your behalf.” Then followed a banquet, and when the
wine had already circulated pretty freely, some dozen singing girls
came in and sang and danced before them. The girls all wore white
embroidered turbans, and long scarlet robes which trailed on the
ground. The words they uttered were unintelligible, and the tunes they
played perfectly hideous. The host, however, seemed to enjoy it very
much, and said to Ma, “Have you music in China?” He replied that they
had, and the old man asked for a specimen. Ma hummed him a tune,
beating time on the table, with which he was very much pleased,
declaring that his guest had the voice of a phœnix and the notes of a
dragon, such as he had never heard before. The next day he presented a
memorial to the Throne, and the king at once commanded Ma to appear
before him. Several of the ministers, however, represented that his
appearance was so hideous it might frighten His Majesty, and the king
accordingly desisted from his intention. The old man returned and told
Ma, being quite upset about it. They remained together some time until
they had drunk themselves tipsy. Then Ma, seizing a sword, began to
attitudinize, smearing his face all over with coal-dust. He acted the
part of Chang Fei,[2] at which his host was so delighted that he
begged him to appear before the Prime Minister in the character of
Chang Fei. Ma replied, “I don’t mind a little amateur acting, but how
can I play the hypocrite[3] for my own personal advantage?” On being
pressed he consented, and the old man prepared a great feast, and
asked some of the high officials to be present, telling Ma to paint
himself as before. When the guests had arrived, Ma was brought out to
see them; whereupon they all exclaimed, “Ai-yah! how is it he was so
ugly before and is now so beautiful?” By-and-by, when they were all
taking wine together, Ma began to sing them a most bewitching song,
and they got so excited over it that next day they recommended him to
the king. The king sent a special summons for him to appear, and asked
him many questions about the government of China, to all of which Ma
replied in detail, eliciting sighs of admiration from His Majesty. He
was honoured with a banquet in the royal guest-pavilion, and when the
king had made himself tipsy he said to him, “I hear you are a very
skilful musician. Will you be good enough to let me hear you?” Ma then
got up and began to attitudinize, singing a plaintive air like the
girls with the turbans. The king was charmed, and at once made him a
privy councillor, giving him a private banquet, and bestowing other
marks of royal favour. As time went on his fellow-officials found out
the secret of his painted face,[4] and whenever he was among them they
were always whispering together, besides which they avoided being near
him as much as possible. Thus Ma was left to himself, and found his
position anything but pleasant in consequence. So he memorialized the
Throne, asking to be allowed to retire from office, but his request
was refused. He then said his health was bad, and got three months’
sick leave, during which he packed up his valuables and went back to
the village. The villagers on his arrival went down on their knees to
him, and he distributed gold and jewels amongst his old friends. They
were very glad to see him, and said, “Your kindness shall be repaid
when we go to the sea-market; we will bring you some pearls and
things.” Ma asked them where that was. They said it was at the bottom
of the sea, where the mermaids[5] kept their treasures, and that as
many as twelve nations were accustomed to go thither to trade. Also
that it was frequented by spirits, and that to get there it was
necessary to pass through red vapours and great waves. “Dear Sir,”
they said, “do not yourself risk this great danger, but let us take
your money and purchase these rare pearls for you. The season is now
at hand.” Ma asked them how they knew this. They said, “Whenever we
see red birds flying backwards and forwards over the sea, we know that
within seven days the market will open.” He asked when they were
going to start, that he might accompany them; but they begged him not
to think of doing so. He replied, “I am a sailor: how can I be afraid
of wind and waves?” Very soon after this people came with merchandise
to forward, and so Ma packed up and went on board the vessel that was
going.
This vessel held some tens of people, was flat-bottomed with a railing
all round, and, rowed by ten men, it cut through the water like an
arrow. After a voyage of three days they saw afar off faint outlines
of towers and minarets, and crowds of trading vessels. They soon
arrived at the city, the walls of which were made of bricks as long as
a man’s body, the tops of its buildings being lost in the Milky
Way.[6] Having made fast their boat they went in, and saw laid out in
the market rare pearls and wondrous precious stones of dazzling
beauty, such as are quite unknown amongst men. Then they saw a young
man come forth riding upon a beautiful steed. The people of the market
stood back to let him pass, saying he was the third son of the king;
but when the Prince saw Ma, he exclaimed, “This is no foreigner,” and
immediately an attendant drew near and asked his name and country. Ma
made a bow, and standing at one side told his name and family. The
prince smiled, and said, “For you to have honoured our country thus is
no small piece of good luck.” He then gave him a horse and begged him
to follow. They went out of the city gate and down to the sea-shore,
whereupon their horses plunged into the water. Ma was terribly
frightened and screamed out; but the sea opened dry before them and
formed a wall of water on either side. In a little time they reached
the king’s palace, the beams of which were made of tortoise-shell and
the tiles of fishes’ scales. The four walls were of crystal, and
dazzled the eye like mirrors. They got down off their horses and went
in, and Ma was introduced to the king. The young prince said, “Sire, I
have been to the market, and have got a gentleman from China.”
Whereupon Ma made obeisance before the king, who addressed him as
follows:--“Sir, from a talented scholar like yourself I venture to ask
for a few stanzas upon our sea-market. Pray do not refuse.” Ma
thereupon made a _kot‘ow_ and undertook the king’s command. Using an
ink-slab of crystal, a brush of dragon’s beard, paper as white as
snow, and ink scented like the larkspur,[7] Ma immediately threw off
some thousand odd verses, which he laid at the feet of the king. When
His Majesty saw them, he said, “Sir, your genius does honour to these
marine nations of ours.” Then, summoning the members of the royal
family, the king gave a great feast in the Coloured Cloud pavilion;
and, when the wine had circulated freely, seizing a great goblet in
his hand, the king rose and said before all the guests, “It is a
thousand pities, Sir, that you are not married. What say you to
entering the bonds of wedlock?” Ma rose blushing, and stammered out
his thanks; upon which the king looking round spoke a few words to the
attendants, and in a few moments in came a bevy of court ladies
supporting the king’s daughter, whose ornaments went tinkle, tinkle,
as she walked along. Immediately the nuptial drums and trumpets began
to sound forth, and bride and bridegroom worshipped Heaven and Earth
together.[8] Stealing a glance Ma saw that the princess was endowed
with a fairy-like loveliness. When the ceremony was over she retired,
and by-and-by the wine-party broke up. Then came several
beautifully-dressed waiting-maids, who with painted candles escorted
Ma within. The bridal couch was made of coral adorned with eight kinds
of precious stones, and the curtains were thickly hung with pearls as
big as acorns. Next day at dawn a crowd of young slave-girls trooped
into the room to offer their services; whereupon Ma got up and went
off to Court to pay his respects to the king. He was then duly
received as royal son-in-law and made an officer of state. The fame of
his poetical talents spread far and wide, and the kings of the various
seas sent officers to congratulate him, vying with each other in their
invitations to him. Ma dressed himself in gorgeous clothes, and went
forth riding on a superb steed, with a mounted body-guard all
splendidly armed. There were musicians on horseback and musicians in
chariots, and in three days he had visited every one of the marine
kingdoms, making his name known in all directions. In the palace there
was a jade tree, about as big round as a man could clasp. Its roots
were as clear as glass, and up the middle ran, as it were, a stick of
pale yellow. The branches were the size of one’s arm; the leaves like
white jade, as thick as a copper cash. The foliage was dense, and
beneath its shade the ladies of the palace were wont to sit and sing.
The flowers which covered the tree resembled grapes, and if a single
petal fell to the earth it made a ringing sound. Taking one up, it
would be found to be exactly like carved cornelian, very bright and
pretty to look at. From time to time a wonderful bird came and sang
there. Its feathers were of a golden hue, and its tail as long as its
body. Its notes were like the tinkling of jade, very plaintive and
touching to listen to. When Ma heard this bird sing, it called up in
him recollections of his old home, and accordingly he said to the
princess, “I have now been away from my own country for three years,
separated from my father and mother. Thinking of them my tears flow
and the perspiration runs down my back. Can you return with me?” His
wife replied, “The way of immortals is not that of men. I am unable to
do what you ask, but I cannot allow the feelings of husband and wife
to break the tie of parent and child. Let us devise some plan.” When
Ma heard this he wept bitterly, and the princess sighed and said, “We
cannot both stay or both go.” The next day the king said to him, “I
hear that you are pining after your old home. Will to-morrow suit you
for taking leave?” Ma thanked the king for his great kindness, which
he declared he could never forget, and promised to return very
shortly. That evening the princess and Ma talked over their wine of
their approaching separation. Ma said they would soon meet again; but
his wife averred that their married life was at an end. Then he wept
afresh, but the princess said, “Like a filial son you are going home
to your parents. In the meetings and separations of this life, a
hundred years seem but a single day; why, then, should we give way to
tears like children? I will be true to you; do you be faithful to me;
and then, though separated, we shall be united in spirit, a happy
pair. Is it necessary to live side by side in order to grow old
together? If you break our contract your next marriage will not be a
propitious one; but if loneliness[9] overtakes you then choose a
concubine. There is one point more of which I would speak, with
reference to our married life. I am about to become a mother, and I
pray you give me a name for your child.” To this Ma replied, “If a
girl I would have her called Lung-kung; if a boy, then name him
Fu-hai.”[10] The princess asked for some token of remembrance, and Ma
gave her a pair of jade lilies that he had got during his stay in the
marine kingdom. She added, “On the 8th of the 4th moon, three years
hence, when you once more steer your course for this country, I will
give you up your child.” She next packed a leather bag full of jewels
and handed it to Ma, saying, “Take care of this; it will be a
provision for many generations.” When the day began to break a
splendid farewell feast was given him by the king, and Ma bade them
all adieu. The princess, in a car drawn by snow-white sheep, escorted
him to the boundary of the marine kingdom, where he dismounted and
stepped ashore. “Farewell!” cried the princess, as her returning car
bore her rapidly away, and the sea, closing over her, snatched her
from her husband’s sight. Ma returned to his home across the ocean.
Some had thought him long since dead and gone; all marvelled at his
story. Happily his father and mother were yet alive, though his former
wife had married another man; and so he understood why the princess
had pledged him to constancy, for she already knew that this had taken
place. His father wished him to take another wife, but he would not.
He only took a concubine. Then, after the three years had passed away,
he started across the sea on his return journey, when lo! he beheld,
riding on the wave-crests and splashing about the water in playing,
two young children. On going near, one of them seized hold of him and
sprung into his arms; upon which the elder cried until he, too, was
taken up. They were a boy and girl, both very lovely, and wearing
embroidered caps adorned with jade lilies. On the back of one of them
was a worked case, in which Ma found the following letter:--
“I presume my father and mother-in-law are well. Three years have
passed away and destiny still keeps us apart. Across the great ocean,
the letter-bird would find no path.[11] I have been with you in my
dreams until I am quite worn out. Does the blue sky look down upon any
grief like mine? Yet Ch‘ang-ngo[12] lives solitary in the moon, and
Chih Nü[13] laments that she cannot cross the Silver River. Who am I
that I should expect happiness to be mine? Truly this thought turns my
tears into joy. Two months after your departure I had twins, who can
already prattle away in the language of childhood, at one moment
snatching a date, at another a pear. Had they no mother they would
still live. These I now send to you, with the jade lilies you gave me
in their hats, in token of the sender. When you take them upon your
knee, think that I am standing by your side. I know that you have kept
your promise to me, and I am happy. I shall take no second husband,
even unto death. All thoughts of dress and finery are gone from me; my
looking-glass sees no new fashions; my face has long been unpowdered,
my eyebrows unblacked. You are my Ulysses, I am your Penelope;[14]
though not actually leading a married life, how can it be said that
we are not husband and wife. Your father and mother will take their
grandchildren upon their knees, though they have never set eyes upon
the bride. Alas! there is something wrong in this. Next year your
mother will enter upon the long night. I shall be there by the side of
the grave as is becoming in her daughter-in-law. From this time forth
our daughter will be well; later on she will be able to grasp her
mother’s hand. Our boy, when he grows up, may possibly be able to come
to and fro. Adieu, dear husband, adieu, though I am leaving much
unsaid.” Ma read the letter over and over again, his tears flowing all
the time. His two children clung round his neck, and begged him to
take them home. “Ah, my children,” said he, “where is your home?” Then
they all wept bitterly, and Ma, looking at the great ocean stretching
away to meet the sky, lovely and pathless, embraced his children, and
proceeded sorrowfully to return. Knowing, too, that his mother could
not last long, he prepared everything necessary for the ceremony of
interment, and planted a hundred young pine-trees at her grave.[15]
The following year the old lady did die, and her coffin was borne to
its last resting-place, when lo! there was the princess standing by
the side of the grave. The lookers-on were much alarmed, but in a
moment there was a flash of lightning, followed by a clap of thunder
and a squall of rain, and she was gone. It was then noticed that many
of the young pine-trees which had died were one and all brought to
life. Subsequently, Fu-hai went in search of the mother for whom he
pined so much, and after some days’ absence returned. Lung-kung, being
a girl, could not accompany him, but she mourned much in secret. One
dark day her mother entered and bid her dry her eyes, saying, “My
child, you must get married. Why these tears?” She then gave her a
tree of coral eight feet in height, some Baroos camphor,[16] one
hundred valuable pearls, and two boxes inlaid with gold and precious
stones, as her dowry. Ma having found out she was there, rushed in and
seizing her hand began to weep for joy, when suddenly a violent peal
of thunder rent the building, and the princess had vanished.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] The term “sea-market” is generally understood in the sense of
_mirage_, or some similar phenomenon.
[2] A famous General who played a leading part in the wars of the
Three Kingdoms. See No. XCIII., note 127.
[3] A hit at the hypocrisy of the age.
[4] Shewing that hypocrisy is bad policy in the long run.
[5] The tears of Chinese mermaids are said to be pearls.
[6] See No. XIX., note 135.
[7] Good ink of the kind miscalled “Indian,” is usually very highly
scented; and from a habit the Chinese have of sucking their
writing-brushes to a fine point, the phrase “to eat ink” has become a
synonym of “to study.”
[8] This all-important point in a Chinese marriage ceremony is the
equivalent of our own “signing in the vestry.”
[9] Literally, “if you have no one to cook your food.”
[10] “Dragon Palace” and “Happy Sea,” respectively.
[11] Alluding to an old legend of a letter conveyed by a bird.
[12] See No. V., note 49.
[13] The “Spinning Damsel,” or name of a star in Lyra, connected with
which there is a celebrated legend of its annual transit across the
Milky Way.
[14] These are of course only the equivalents of the Chinese names in
the text.
[15] To keep off the much-dreaded wind, which disturbs the rest of the
departed.
[16] For which a very high price is obtained in China.
LXIV.
THE FIGHTING CRICKET.
During the reign of Hsüan Tê,[17] cricket fighting was very much in
vogue at court, levies of crickets being exacted from the people as a
tax. On one occasion the magistrate of Hua-yin, wishing to make
friends with the Governor, presented him with a cricket which, on
being set to fight, displayed very remarkable powers; so much so that
the Governor commanded the magistrate to supply him regularly with
these insects. The latter, in his turn, ordered the beadles of his
district to provide him with crickets; and then it became a practice
for people who had nothing else to do to catch and rear them for this
purpose. Thus the price of crickets rose very high; and when the
beadle’s[18] runners came to exact even a single one, it was enough
to ruin several families.
Now in the village of which we are speaking there lived a man named
Ch‘êng, a student who had often failed for his bachelor’s degree; and,
being a stupid sort of fellow, his name was sent in for the post of
beadle. He did all he could to get out of it, but without success; and
by the end of the year his small patrimony was gone. Just then came a
call for crickets, and Ch‘êng, not daring to make a like call upon his
neighbours, was at his wits’ end, and in his distress determined to
commit suicide. “What’s the use of that?” cried his wife. “You’d do
better to go out and try to find some.” So off went Ch‘êng in the
early morning, with a bamboo tube and a silk net, not returning till
late at night; and he searched about in tumble-down walls, in bushes,
under stones, and in holes, but without catching more than two or
three, do what he would. Even those he did catch were weak creatures,
and of no use at all, which made the magistrate fix a limit of time,
the result of which was that in a few days Ch‘êng got one hundred
blows with the bamboo. This made him so sore that he was quite unable
to go after the crickets any more, and, as he lay tossing and turning
on the bed, he determined once again to put an end to his life.
About that time a hump-backed fortune-teller of great skill arrived at
the village, and Ch‘êng’s wife, putting together a trifle of money,
went off to seek his assistance. The door was literally blocked
up--fair young girls and white-headed dames crowding in from all
quarters. A room was darkened, and a bamboo screen hung at the door,
an altar being arranged outside at which the fortune-seekers burnt
incense in a brazier, and prostrated themselves twice, while the
soothsayer stood by the side, and, looking up into vacancy, prayed for
a response. His lips opened and shut, but nobody heard what he said,
all standing there in awe waiting for the answer. In a few moments a
piece of paper was thrown from behind the screen, and the soothsayer
said that the petitioner’s desire would be accomplished in the way he
wished. Ch‘êng’s wife now advanced, and, placing some money on the
altar, burnt her incense and prostrated herself in a similar manner.
In a few moments the screen began to move, and a piece of paper was
thrown down, on which there were no words, but only a picture. In the
middle was a building like a temple, and behind this a small hill, at
the foot of which were a number of curious stones, with the long,
spiky feelers of innumerable crickets appearing from behind. Hard by
was a frog, which seemed to be engaged in putting itself into various
kinds of attitudes. The good woman had no idea what it all meant; but
she noticed the crickets, and accordingly went off home to tell her
husband. “Ah,” said he, “this is to shew me where to hunt for
crickets;” and, on looking closely at the picture, he saw that the
building very much resembled a temple to the east of their village. So
he forced himself to get up, and, leaning on a stick, went out to seek
crickets behind the temple. Rounding an old grave, he came upon a
place where stones were lying scattered about as in the picture, and
then he set himself to watch attentively. He might as well have been
looking for a needle or a grain of mustard-seed; and by degrees he
became quite exhausted, without finding anything, when suddenly an old
frog jumped out. Ch‘êng was a little startled, but immediately pursued
the frog, which retreated into the bushes. He then saw one of the
insects he wanted sitting at the root of a bramble; but on making a
grab at it, the cricket ran into a hole, from which he was unable to
move it until he poured in some water, when out the little creature
came. It was a magnificent specimen, strong and handsome, with a fine
tail, green neck, and golden wings; and, putting it in his basket, he
returned home in high glee to receive the congratulations of his
family. He would not have taken anything for this cricket, and
proceeded to feed it up carefully in a bowl. Its belly was the colour
of a crab’s, its back that of a sweet chestnut; and Ch‘êng tended it
most lovingly, waiting for the time when the magistrate should call
upon him for a cricket.
Meanwhile, a son of Ch‘êng’s, aged nine, one day took the opportunity
of his father being out to open the bowl. Instantaneously the cricket
made a spring forward and was gone; and all efforts to catch it again
were unavailing. At length the boy made a grab at it with his hand,
but only succeeded in seizing one of its legs, which thereupon broke,
and the little creature soon afterwards died. Ch‘êng’s wife turned
deadly pale when her son, with tears in his eyes, told her what had
happened. “Oh! won’t you catch it when your father comes home,” said
she; at which the boy ran away, crying bitterly. Soon after Ch‘êng
arrived, and when he heard his wife’s story he felt as if he had been
turned to ice, and went in search of his son, who, however, was
nowhere to be found, until at length they discovered his body lying at
the bottom of a well. Their anger was thus turned to grief, and death
seemed as though it would be a pleasant relief to them as they sat
facing each other in silence in their thatched and smokeless[19] hut.
At evening they prepared to bury the boy; but, on touching the body,
lo! he was still breathing. Overjoyed, they placed him upon the bed,
and towards the middle of the night he came round; but a drop of
bitterness was mingled in his parents’ cup when they found that his
reason had fled. His father, however, caught sight of the empty bowl
in which he had kept the cricket, and ceased to think any more about
his son, never once closing his eyes all night; and as day gradually
broke, there he lay stiff and stark, until suddenly he heard the
chirping of a cricket outside the house door. Jumping up in a great
hurry to see, there was his lost insect; but, on trying to catch it,
away it hopped directly. At last he got it under his hand, though,
when he came to close his fingers on it, there was nothing in them. So
he went on, chasing it up and down, until finally it hopped into a
corner of the wall; and then, looking carefully about, he espied it
once more, no longer the same in appearance, but small, and of a dark
red colour. Ch‘êng stood looking at it, without trying to catch such a
worthless specimen, when all of a sudden the little creature hopped
into his sleeve; and, on examining it more nearly, he saw that it
really was a handsome insect, with well-formed head and neck, and
forthwith took it indoors. He was now anxious to try its prowess; and
it so happened that a young fellow of the village, who had a fine
cricket which used to win every bout it fought, and was so valuable to
him that he wanted a high price for it, called on Ch‘êng that very
day. He laughed heartily at Ch‘êng’s champion, and, producing his own,
placed it side by side, to the great disadvantage of the former.
Ch‘êng’s countenance fell, and he no longer wished to back his
cricket; however, the young fellow urged him, and he thought that
there was no use in rearing a feeble insect, and that he had better
sacrifice it for a laugh; so they put them together in a bowl. The
little cricket lay quite still like a piece of wood, at which the
young fellow roared again, and louder than ever when it did not move
even though tickled with a pig’s bristle. By dint of tickling it was
roused at last, and then it fell upon its adversary with such fury,
that in a moment the young fellow’s cricket would have been killed
outright had not its master interfered and stopped the fight. The
little cricket then stood up and chirped to Ch‘êng as a sign of
victory; and Ch‘êng, overjoyed, was just talking over the battle with
the young fellow, when a cock caught sight of the insect, and ran up
to eat it. Ch‘êng was in a great state of alarm; but the cock luckily
missed its aim, and the cricket hopped away, its enemy pursuing at
full speed. In another moment it would have been snapped up, when, lo!
to his great astonishment, Ch‘êng saw his cricket seated on the cock’s
head, holding firmly on to its comb. He then put it into a cage, and
by-and-by sent it to the magistrate, who, seeing what a small one he
had provided, was very angry indeed. Ch‘êng told the story of the
cock, which the magistrate refused to believe, and set it to fight
with other crickets, all of which it vanquished without exception. He
then tried it with a cock, and as all turned out as Ch‘êng had said,
he gave him a present, and sent the cricket in to the Governor. The
Governor put it into a golden cage, and forwarded it to the palace,
accompanied by some remarks on its performances; and when there, it
was found that of all the splendid collection of His Imperial Majesty,
not one was worthy to be placed alongside of this one. It would dance
in time to music, and thus became a great favourite, the Emperor in
return bestowing magnificent gifts of horses and silks upon the
Governor. The Governor did not forget whence he had obtained the
cricket, and the magistrate also well rewarded Ch‘êng by excusing him
from the duties of beadle, and by instructing the Literary Chancellor
to pass him for the first degree. A few months afterwards Ch‘êng’s son
recovered his intellect, and said that he had been a cricket, and had
proved himself a very skilful fighter.[20] The Governor, too, rewarded
Ch‘êng handsomely, and in a few years he was a rich man, with flocks,
and herds, and houses, and acres, quite one of the wealthiest of
mankind.
FOOTNOTES:
[17] Of the Ming dynasty; reigned A.D. 1426-1436.
[18] These beadles are chosen by the officials from among the
respectable and substantial of the people to preside over a small area
and be responsible for the general good behaviour of its inhabitants.
The post is one of honour and occasional emolument, since all
petitions presented to the authorities, all mortgages, transfers of
land, &c., should bear the beadle’s seal or signature in evidence of
their _bonâ fide_ character. On the other hand, the beadle is punished
by fine, and sometimes bambooed, if robberies are too frequent within
his jurisdiction, or if he fails to secure the person of any
malefactor particularly wanted by his superior officers. And other
causes may combine to make the post a dangerous one; but no one is
allowed to refuse acceptance of it point-blank.
[19] A favourite Chinese expression, signifying the absence of food.
[20] That is to say, his spirit had entered, during his period of
temporary insanity, into the cricket which had allowed itself to be
caught by his father, and had animated it to fight with such
extraordinary vigour in order to make good the loss occasioned by his
carelessness in letting the other escape.
LXV.
TAKING REVENGE.
Hsiang Kao, otherwise called Ch‘u-tan, was a T‘ai-yüan man, and deeply
attached to his half-brother Shêng. Shêng himself was desperately
enamoured of a young lady named Po-ssŭ,[21] who was also very fond of
him: but the mother wanted too much money for her daughter. Now a rich
young fellow named Chuang thought he should like to get Po-ssŭ for
himself, and proposed to buy her as a concubine. “No, no,” said Po-ssŭ
to her mother, “I prefer being Shêng’s wife to becoming Chuang’s
concubine.” So her mother consented, and informed Shêng, who had only
recently buried his first wife; at which he was delighted and made
preparations to take her over to his own house. When Chuang heard this
he was infuriated against Shêng for thus depriving him of Po-ssŭ; and
chancing to meet him out one day, set to and abused him roundly.
Shêng answered him back, and then Chuang ordered his attendants to
fall upon Shêng and beat him well, which they did, leaving him
lifeless on the ground. When Hsiang heard what had taken place he ran
out and found his brother lying dead upon the ground. Overcome with
grief, he proceeded to the magistrate’s, and accused Chuang of murder;
but the latter bribed so heavily that nothing came of the accusation.
This worked Hsiang to frenzy, and he determined to assassinate Chuang
on the high road; with which intent he daily concealed himself, with a
sharp knife about him, among the bushes on the hill-side, waiting for
Chuang to pass. By degrees, this plan of his became known far and
wide, and accordingly Chuang never went out except with a strong
body-guard, besides which he engaged at a high price the services of a
very skilful archer, named Chiao T‘ung, so that Hsiang had no means of
carrying out his intention. However, he continued to lie in wait day
after day, and on one occasion it began to rain heavily, and in a
short time Hsiang was wet through to the skin. Then the wind got up,
and a hailstorm followed, and by-and-by Hsiang was quite numbed with
the cold. On the top of the hill there was a small temple wherein
lived a Taoist priest, whom Hsiang knew from the latter having
occasionally begged alms in the village, and to whom he had often
given a meal. This priest, seeing how wet he was, gave him some other
clothes, and told him to put them on; but no sooner had he done so
than he crouched down like a dog, and found that he had been changed
into a tiger, and that the priest had vanished. It now occurred to him
to seize this opportunity of revenging himself upon his enemy; and
away he went to his old ambush, where lo and behold! he found his own
body lying stiff and stark. Fearing lest it should become food for
birds of prey, he guarded it carefully, until at length one day Chuang
passed by. Out rushed the tiger and sprung upon Chuang, biting his
head off, and swallowing it upon the spot; at which Chiao T‘ung, the
archer, turned round and shot the animal through the heart. Just at
that moment Hsiang awaked as though from a dream, but it was some time
before he could crawl home, where he arrived to the great delight of
his family, who didn’t know what had become of him. Hsiang said not a
word, lying quietly on the bed until some of his people came in to
congratulate him on the death of his great enemy Chuang. Hsiang then
cried out, “I was that tiger,” and proceeded to relate the whole
story, which thus got about until it reached the ears of Chuang’s son,
who immediately set to work to bring his father’s murderer to justice.
The magistrate, however, did not consider this wild story as
sufficient evidence against him, and thereupon dismissed the case.
FOOTNOTE:
[21] This is the term used by the Chinese for “Persia,” often put by
metonymy for things which come from that country, _sc._ “valuables.”
Thus, “to be poor in Persia” is to have but few jewels, gold and
silver ornaments, and even clothes.
LXVI.
THE TIPSY TURTLE.
At Lin-t‘iao there lived a Mr. Fêng, whose other name the person who
told me this story could not remember; he belonged to a good family,
though now somewhat falling into decay. Now a certain man, who caught
turtles, owed him some money which he could not pay, but whenever he
captured any turtles he used to send one to Mr. Fêng. One day he took
him an enormous creature, with a white spot on its forehead; but Fêng
was so struck with something in its appearance, that he let it go
again. A little while afterwards he was returning home from his
son-in-law’s, and had reached the banks of the river,[22] when in the
dusk of the evening he saw a drunken man come rolling along, attended
by two or three servants. No sooner did he perceive Fêng than he
called out, “Who are you?” to which Fêng replied that he was a
traveller. “And haven’t you got a name?” shouted out the drunken man
in a rage, “that you must call yourself a traveller?” To this Fêng
made no reply, but tried to pass by; whereupon he found himself seized
by the sleeve and unable to move. His adversary smelt horribly of
wine, and at length Fêng asked him, saying, “And pray who are you?”
“Oh, I am the late magistrate at Nan-tu,” answered he; “what do you
want to know for?” “A nice disgrace to society you are, too,” cried
Fêng; “however, I am glad to hear you are only _late_ magistrate, for
if you had been present magistrate there would be bad times in store
for travellers.” This made the drunken man furious, and he was
proceeding to use violence, when Fêng cried out, “My name is
So-and-so, and I’m not the man to stand this sort of thing from
anybody.” No sooner had he uttered these words than the drunken man’s
rage was turned into joy, and, falling on his knees before Fêng, he
said, “My benefactor! pray excuse my rudeness.” Then getting up, he
told his servants to go on ahead and get something ready; Fêng at
first declining to go with him, but yielding on being pressed. Taking
his hand, the drunken man led him along a short distance until they
reached a village, where there was a very nice house and grounds,
quite like the establishment of a person of position. As his friend
was now getting sober, Fêng inquired what might be his name. “Don’t be
frightened when I tell you,” said the other; “I am the Eighth Prince
of the T‘iao river. I have just been out to take wine with a friend,
and somehow I got tipsy; hence my bad behaviour to you, which please
forgive.” Fêng now knew that he was not of mortal flesh and blood;
but, seeing how kindly he himself was treated, he was not a bit
afraid. A banquet followed, with plenty of wine, of which the Eighth
Prince drank so freely that Fêng thought he would soon be worse than
ever, and accordingly said he felt tipsy himself, and asked to be
allowed to go to bed. “Never fear,” answered the Prince, who perceived
Fêng’s thoughts; “many drunkards will tell you that they cannot
remember in the morning the extravagances of the previous night, but I
tell you this is all nonsense, and that in nine cases out of ten those
extravagances are committed wittingly and with malice prepense.[23]
Now, though I am not the same order of being as yourself, I should
never venture to behave badly in your good presence; so pray do not
leave me thus.” Fêng then sat down again and said to the Prince,
“Since you are aware of this, why not change your ways?” “Ah,” replied
the Prince, “when I was a magistrate I drank much more than I do now;
but I got into disgrace with the Emperor and was banished here, since
which time, ten years and more, I have tried to reform. Now, however,
I am drawing near the wood,[24] and being unable to move about much,
the old vice has come upon me again; I have found it impossible to
stop myself, but perhaps what you say may do me some good.” While they
were thus talking, the sound of a distant bell broke upon their ears;
and the Prince, getting up and seizing Fêng’s hand, said, “We cannot
remain together any longer; but I will give you something by which I
may in part requite your kindness to me. It must not be kept for any
great length of time; when you have attained your wishes, then I will
receive it back again.” Thereupon he spit out of his mouth a tiny man,
no more than an inch high, and scratching Fêng’s arm with his nails
until Fêng felt as if the skin was gone, he quickly laid the little
man upon the spot. When he let go, the latter had already sunk into
the skin, and nothing was to be seen but a cicatrix well healed over.
Fêng now asked what it all meant, but the Prince only laughed, and
said, “It’s time for you to go,” and forthwith escorted him to the
door. The prince here bade him adieu, and when he looked round,
Prince, village, and house had all disappeared together, leaving
behind a great turtle which waddled down into the water, and
disappeared likewise. He could now easily account for the Prince’s
present to him; and from this moment his sight became intensely keen.
He could see precious stones lying in the bowels of the earth, and was
able to look down as far as Hell itself; besides which he suddenly
found that he knew the names of many things of which he had never
heard before. From below his own bedroom he dug up many hundred ounces
of pure silver, upon which he lived very comfortably; and once when a
house was for sale, he perceived that in it lay concealed a vast
quantity of gold, so he immediately bought it, and so became immensely
rich in all kinds of valuables. He secured a mirror, on the back of
which was a phœnix, surrounded by water and clouds, and portraits of
the celebrated wives of the Emperor Shun,[25] so beautifully executed
that each hair of the head and eyebrows could easily be counted. If
any woman’s face came upon the mirror, there it remained indelibly
fixed and not to be rubbed out; but if the same woman looked into the
mirror again, dressed in a different dress, or if some other woman
chanced to look in, then the former face would gradually fade away.
Now the third princess in Prince Su’s family was very beautiful; and
Fêng, who had long heard of her fame, concealed himself on the
K‘ung-tung hill, when he knew the Princess was going there. He waited
until she alighted from her chair, and then getting the mirror full
upon her, he walked off home. Laying it on the table, he saw therein a
lovely girl in the act of raising her handkerchief, and with a sweet
smile playing over her face; her lips seemed about to move, and a
twinkle was discernible in her eyes.[26] Delighted with this picture,
he put the mirror very carefully away; but in about a year his wife
had let the story leak out, and the Prince, hearing of it, threw Fêng
into prison, and took possession of the mirror. Fêng was to be
beheaded; however, he bribed one of the Prince’s ladies to tell His
Highness that if he would pardon him all the treasures of the earth
might easily become his; whereas, on the other hand, his death could
not possibly be of any advantage to the Prince. The Prince now thought
of confiscating all his goods and banishing him; but the third
princess observed, that as he had already seen her, were he to die ten
times over it would not give her back her lost face, and that she had
much better marry him. The Prince would not hear of this, whereupon
his daughter shut herself up and refused all nourishment, at which the
ladies of the palace were dreadfully alarmed, and reported it at once
to the Prince. Fêng was accordingly liberated, and was informed of the
determination of the Princess, which, however, he declined to fall in
with, saying that he was not going thus to sacrifice the wife of his
days of poverty,[27] and would rather die than carry out such an
order. He added that if His Highness would consent, he would purchase
his liberty at the price of everything he had. The Prince was
exceedingly angry at this, and seized Fêng again; and meanwhile one of
the concubines got Fêng’s wife into the palace, intending to poison
her. Fêng’s wife, however, brought her a beautiful present of a coral
stand for a looking-glass, and was so agreeable in her conversation,
that the concubine took a great fancy to her, and presented her to the
Princess, who was equally pleased, and forthwith determined that they
would both be Fêng’s wives.[28] When Fêng heard of this plan, he said
to his wife, “With a Prince’s daughter there can be no distinctions of
first and second wife;” but Mrs. Fêng paid no heed to him, and
immediately sent off to the Prince such an enormous quantity of
valuables that it took a thousand men to carry them, and the Prince
himself had never before heard of such treasures in his life. Fêng was
now liberated once more, and solemnized his marriage with the
Princess.
One night after this he dreamt that the Eighth Prince came to him and
asked him to return his former present, saying that to keep it too
long would be injurious to his chances of life. Fêng asked him to
take a drink, but the Eighth Prince said that he had forsworn wine,
acting under Fêng’s advice, for three years. He then bit Fêng’s arm,
and the latter waked up with the pain to find that the cicatrix on his
arm was no longer there.
FOOTNOTES:
[22] The name here used is the _Hêng_ or “ceaseless” river, which is
applied by the Chinese to the Ganges. A certain number, extending to
fifty-three places of figures, is called “Ganges sand,” in allusion to
a famous remark that “Buddha and the Bôdhisatvas knew of the creation
and destruction of every grain of dust in Jambudwipa (the universe);
how much more the number of the sand-particles in the river Ganges?”
[23] Drunkenness is not recognised in China as an extenuating
circumstance; neither, indeed, is insanity,--a lunatic who takes
another man’s life being equally liable with ordinary persons to the
forfeiture of his own.
[24] A favourite Chinese figure expressive of old age. It dates back
to the celebrated commentary by Tso Ch‘iu Ming on Confucius’ _Spring
and Autumn_ (See No. XLI., note 237):--“Hsi is twenty-three and I am
twenty-five; and marrying thus we shall approach the wood together;”
the “wood” being, of course, that of the coffin.
[25] See No. VIII., note 63.
[26]
“... Move these eyes?
... Here are severed lips.”
--_Merchant of Venice_, Act iii., sc. 2.
[27] See No. LIII., note 288.
[28] This method of arranging a matrimonial difficulty is a common one
in Chinese fiction, but I should say quite unknown in real life.
LXVII.
THE MAGIC PATH.
In the province of Kuangtung there lived a scholar named Kuo, who was
one evening on his way home from a friend’s, when he lost his way
among the hills. He got into a thick jungle, where, after about an
hour’s wandering, he suddenly heard the sound of laughing and talking
on the top of the hill. Hurrying up in the direction of the sound, he
beheld some ten or a dozen persons sitting on the ground engaged in
drinking. No sooner had they caught sight of Kuo than they all cried
out, “Come along! just room for one more; you’re in the nick of time.”
So Kuo sat down with the company, most of whom, he noticed, belonged
to the literati,[29] and began by asking them to direct him on his way
home; but one of them cried out, “A nice sort of fellow you are, to
be bothering about your way home, and paying no attention to the fine
moon we have got to-night.” The speaker then presented him with a
goblet of wine of exquisite bouquet, which Kuo drank off at a draught,
and another gentleman filled up again for him at once. Now, Kuo was
pretty good in that line, and being very thirsty withal from his long
walk, tossed off bumper after bumper, to the great delight of his
hosts, who were unanimous in voting him a jolly good fellow. He was,
moreover, full of fun, and could imitate exactly the note of any kind
of bird; so all of a sudden he began on the sly to twitter like a
swallow, to the great astonishment of the others, who wondered how it
was a swallow could be out so late. He then changed his note to that
of a cuckoo, sitting there laughing and saying nothing, while his
hosts were discussing the extraordinary sounds they had just heard.
After a while he imitated a parrot, and cried, “Mr. Kuo is very drunk:
you’d better see him home;” and then the sounds ceased, beginning
again by-and-by, when at last the others found out who it was, and all
burst out laughing. They screwed up their mouths and tried to whistle
like Kuo, but none of them could do so; and soon one of them observed,
“What a pity Madam Ch‘ing isn’t with us: we must rendezvous here again
at mid-autumn, and you, Mr. Kuo, must be sure and come.” Kuo said he
would, whereupon another of his hosts got up and remarked that, as he
had given them such an amusing entertainment, they would try to shew
him a few acrobatic feats. They all arose, and one of them planting
his feet firmly, a second jumped up on to his shoulders, a third on to
the second’s shoulders, and a fourth on to his, until it was too high
for the rest to jump up, and accordingly they began to climb as though
it had been a ladder. When they were all up, and the topmost head
seemed to touch the clouds, the whole column bent gradually down until
it lay along the ground transformed into a path. Kuo remained for some
time in a state of considerable alarm, and then, setting out along
this path, ultimately reached his own home. Some days afterwards he
revisited the spot, and saw the remains of a feast lying about on the
ground, with dense bushes on all sides, but no sign of a path. At
mid-autumn he thought of keeping his engagement; however, his friends
persuaded him not to go.
FOOTNOTE:
[29] This term, while really including all literary men, of no matter
what rank or standing, is more usually confined to that large section
of unemployed scholarship made up of (1) those who are waiting to get
started in an official career, (2) those who have taken one or more
degrees and are preparing for the next, (3) those who have failed to
distinguish themselves at the public examinations, and eke out a small
patrimony by taking pupils, and (4) scholars of sufficiently high
qualifications who have no taste for official life.
LXVIII.
THE FAITHLESS WIDOW.[30]
Mr. Niu was a Kiangsi man who traded in piece goods. He married a wife
from the Chêng family, by whom he had two children, a boy and a girl.
When thirty-three years of age he fell ill and died, his son Chung
being then only twelve and his little girl eight or nine. His wife did
not remain faithful to his memory, but, selling off all the property,
pocketed the proceeds and married another man, leaving her two
children almost in a state of destitution with their aunt, Niu’s
sister-in-law, an old lady of sixty, who had lived with them
previously, and had now nowhere to seek a shelter. A few years later
this aunt died, and the family fortunes began to sink even lower than
before; Chung, however, was now grown up, and determined to carry on
his father’s trade, only he had no capital to start with. His sister
marrying a rich trader named Mao, she begged her husband to lend Chung
ten ounces of silver, which he did, and Chung immediately started for
Nanking. On the road he fell in with some bandits, who robbed him of
all he had, and consequently he was unable to return; but one day when
he was at a pawnshop he noticed that the master of the shop was
wonderfully like his late father, and on going out and making
inquiries he found that this pawnbroker bore precisely the same names.
In great astonishment, he forthwith proceeded to frequent the place
with no other object than to watch this man, who, on the other hand,
took no notice of Chung; and by the end of three days, having
satisfied himself that he really saw his own father, and yet not
daring to disclose his own identity, he made application through one
of the assistants, on the score of being himself a Kiangsi man, to be
employed in the shop. Accordingly, an indenture was drawn up; and when
the master noticed Chung’s name and place of residence he started, and
asked him whence he came. With tears in his eyes Chung addressed him
by his father’s name, and then the pawnbroker became lost in a deep
reverie, by-and-by asking Chung how his mother was. Now Chung did not
like to allude to his father’s death, and turned the question by
saying, “My father went away on business six years ago, and never came
back; my mother married again and left us, and had it not been for my
aunt our corpses would long ago have been cast out in the kennel.”
Then the pawnbroker was much moved, and cried out, “I am your father!”
seizing his son’s hand and leading him within to see his step-mother.
This lady was about twenty-two, and, having no children of her own,
was delighted with Chung, and prepared a banquet for him in the inner
apartments. Mr. Niu himself was, however, somewhat melancholy, and
wished to return to his old home; but his wife, fearing that there
would be no one to manage the business, persuaded him to remain; so he
taught his son the trade, and in three months was able to leave it all
to him. He then prepared for his journey, whereupon Chung informed his
step-mother that his father was really dead, to which she replied in
great consternation that she knew him only as a trader to the place,
and that six years previously he had married her, which proved
conclusively that he couldn’t be dead. He then recounted the whole
story, which was a perfect mystery to both of them; and twenty-four
hours afterwards in walked his father, leading a woman whose hair was
all dishevelled. Chung looked at her and saw that she was his own
mother; and Niu took her by the ear and began to revile her, saying,
“Why did you desert my children?” to which the wretched woman made no
reply. He then bit her across the neck, at which she screamed to Chung
for assistance, and he, not being able to bear the sight, stepped in
between them. His father was more than ever enraged at this, when, lo!
Chung’s mother had disappeared. While they were still lost in
astonishment at this strange scene, Mr. Niu’s colour changed; in
another moment his empty clothes had dropped upon the ground, and he
himself became a black vapour and also vanished from their sight. The
step-mother and son were much overcome; they took Niu’s clothes and
buried them, and after that Chung continued his father’s business and
soon amassed great wealth. On returning to his native place he found
that his mother had actually died on the very day of the above
occurrence, and that his father had been seen by the whole family.
FOOTNOTE:
[30] Unless under exceptional circumstances it is not considered
creditable in China for widows to marry again. It may here be
mentioned that the honorary tablets conferred from time to time by His
Imperial Majesty upon virtuous widows are only given to women who,
widowed before the age of thirty, have remained in that state for a
period of thirty years. The meaning of this is obvious: temptations
are supposed to be fewer and less dangerous after thirty, which is the
equivalent of forty with us; and it is wholly improbable that thirty
years of virtuous life, at which period the widow would be at least
fifty, would be followed by any act that might cast a stain upon the
tablet thus bestowed.
LXIX.
THE PRINCESS OF THE TUNG-T‘ING LAKE.
Ch‘ên Pi-chiao was a Pekingese; and being a poor man he attached
himself as secretary to the suite of a high military official named
Chia. On one occasion, while anchored on the Tung-t‘ing lake, they saw
a dolphin[31] floating on the surface of the water; and General Chia
took his bow and shot at it, wounding the creature in the back. A fish
was hanging on to its tail, and would not let go; so both were pulled
out of the water together, and attached to the mast. There they lay
gasping, the dolphin opening its mouth as if pleading for life, until
at length young Ch‘ên begged the General to let them go again; and
then he himself half jokingly put a piece of plaster upon the
dolphin’s wound, and had the two thrown back into the water, where
they were seen for some time afterwards diving and rising again to the
surface. About a year afterwards, Ch‘ên was once more crossing the
Tung-t‘ing lake on his way home, when the boat was upset in a squall,
and he himself only saved by clinging to a bamboo crate, which
finally, after floating about all night, caught in the overhanging
branch of a tree, and thus enabled him to scramble on shore.
By-and-by, another body floated in, and this turned out to be his
servant; but on dragging him out, he found life was already extinct.
In great distress, he sat himself down to rest, and saw beautiful
green hills and waving willows, but not a single human being of whom
he could ask the way. From early dawn till the morning was far
advanced he remained in that state; and then, thinking he saw his
servant’s body move, he stretched out his hand to feel it, and before
long the man threw up several quarts of water and recovered his
consciousness. They now dried their clothes in the sun, and by noon
these were fit to put on; at which period the pangs of hunger began to
assail them, and accordingly they started over the hills in the hope
of coming upon some habitation of man. As they were walking along, an
arrow whizzed past, and the next moment two young ladies dashed by on
handsome palfreys. Each had a scarlet band round her head, with a
bunch of pheasant’s feathers stuck in her hair, and wore a purple
riding-jacket with small sleeves, confined by a green embroidered
girdle round the waist. One of them carried a cross-bow for shooting
bullets, and the other had on her arm a dark-coloured bow-and-arrow
case. Reaching the brow of the hill, Ch‘ên beheld a number of riders
engaged in beating the surrounding cover, all of whom were beautiful
girls and dressed exactly alike. Afraid to advance any further, he
inquired of a youth who appeared to be in attendance, and the latter
told him that it was a hunting party from the palace; and then, having
supplied him with food from his wallet, he bade him retire quickly,
adding that if he fell in with them he would assuredly be put to
death. Thereupon Ch‘ên hurried away; and descending the hill, turned
into a copse where there was a building which he thought would in all
probability be a monastery. On getting nearer, he saw that the place
was surrounded by a wall, and between him and a half-open red-door was
a brook spanned by a stone bridge leading up to it. Pulling back the
door, he beheld within a number of ornamental buildings circling in
the air like so many clouds, and for all the world resembling the
Imperial pleasure-grounds; and thinking it must be the park of some
official personage, he walked quietly in, enjoying the delicious
fragrance of the flowers as he pushed aside the thick vegetation which
obstructed his way. After traversing a winding path fenced in by
balustrades, Ch‘ên reached a second enclosure, wherein were a quantity
of tall willow-trees which swept the red eaves of the buildings with
their branches. The note of some bird would set the petals of the
flowers fluttering in the air, and the least wind would bring the
seed-vessels down from the elm-trees above; and the effect upon the
eye and heart of the beholder was something quite unknown in the world
of mortals. Passing through a small kiosque, Ch‘ên and his servant
came upon a swing which seemed as though suspended from the clouds,
while the ropes hung idly down in the utter stillness that
prevailed.[32] Thinking by this that they were approaching the ladies’
apartments,[33] Ch‘ên would have turned back, but at that moment he
heard sounds of horses’ feet at the door, and what seemed to be the
laughter of a bevy of girls. So he and his servant hid themselves in a
bush; and by-and-by, as the sounds came nearer, he heard one of the
young ladies say, “We’ve had but poor sport to-day;” whereupon another
cried out, “If the princess hadn’t shot that wild goose, we should
have taken all this trouble for nothing.” Shortly after this, a number
of girls dressed in red came in escorting a young lady, who went and
sat down under the kiosque. She wore a hunting costume with tight[34]
sleeves, and was about fourteen or fifteen years old. Her hair looked
like a cloud of mist at the back of her head, and her waist seemed as
though a breath of wind might snap it[35]--incomparable for beauty,
even among the celebrities of old. Just then the attendants handed her
some exquisitely fragrant tea, and stood glittering round her like a
bank of beautiful embroidery. In a few moments the young lady arose
and descended the kiosque; at which one of her attendants cried out,
“Is your Highness too fatigued by riding to take a turn in the swing?”
The princess replied that she was not; and immediately some supported
her under the shoulders, while others seized her arms, and others
again arranged her petticoats, and brought her the proper shoes.[36]
Thus they helped her into the swing, she herself stretching out her
shining arms, and putting her feet into a suitable pair of slippers;
and then--away she went, light as a flying-swallow, far up into the
fleecy clouds. As soon as she had had enough, the attendants helped
her out, and one of them exclaimed, “Truly, your Highness is a
perfect angel!” At this the young lady laughed, and walked away, Ch‘ên
gazing after her in a state of semi-consciousness, until, at length,
the voices died away, and he and his servant crept forth. Walking up
and down near the swing, he suddenly espied a red handkerchief near
the paling, which he knew had been dropped by one of the young ladies;
and, thrusting it joyfully into his sleeve, he walked up and entered
the kiosque. There, upon a table, lay writing materials, and taking
out the handkerchief he indited upon it the following lines:--
“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,[37] 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[38] him. Liang, at first, thought it
must be the party of some high official, and wondered at the scarcity
of attendants;[39] 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,[40] 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.[41] 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,[42] 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;[43] 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.
FOOTNOTES:
[31] Literally, a “pig old-woman dragon.” Porpoise (Fr.
_porc-poisson_) suggests itself at once; but I think fresh-water
dolphin is the best term, especially as the Tung-t‘ing lake is many
hundred miles inland. The commentator explains it by _t‘o_, which
would be “alligator” or “cayman,” and is of course out of the
question. My friend, Mr. L. C. Hopkins, has taken the trouble to make
some investigations for me on this subject. He tells me that this
fish, also called the “river pig,” has first to be surrounded and
secured by a strong net. Being too large to be hauled on board a boat,
it is then driven ashore, where oil is extracted from the carcase and
used for giving a gloss to silk thread, &c.
[32] Literally, in the utter absence of anybody.
[33] In passing near to the women’s quarters in a friend’s house, it
is etiquette to cough slightly, that inmates may be warned and
withdraw from the doors or windows in time to escape observation. Over
and over again at interviews with mandarins of all grades I have heard
the rustling of the ladies’ dresses from some coigne of vantage,
whence every movement of mine was being watched by an inquisitive
crowd; and on one occasion I actually saw an eye peering through a
small hole in the partition behind me.
[34] Literally, “bald”--_i.e._, without the usual width and
ornamentation of a Chinese lady’s sleeve.
[35] Small waists are much admired in China, but any such artificial
aids as stays and tight lacing are quite unknown. A certain Prince Wei
admitted none but the possessors of small waists into his harem; hence
his establishment came to be called the _Palace of Small Waists_.
[36] Probably of felt or some such material, to prevent the young lady
from slipping as she stood, not sat, in the swing.
[37] A rebel chieftain of the legendary period of China’s history, who
took up arms against the Emperor Huang Ti (B.C. 2697-2597), but was
subsequently defeated in what was perhaps the first decisive battle of
the world.
[38] This favourite process consists in gently thumping the person
operated upon all over the back with the soft part of the closed
fists. Compare Lane, _Arabian Nights_, Vol. I., p. 551:--“She then
pressed me to her bosom, and laid me on the bed, and continued gently
kneading my limbs until slumber overcame me.”
[39] See No. LVI., note 315. A considerable number of the attendants
there mentioned would accompany any high official, some in the same,
the rest in another barge.
[40] Generally known as the “cut-wave God.”
[41] At all great banquets in China a theatrical troupe is engaged to
perform while the dinner, which may last from four to six hours, drags
its slow length along.
[42] See No. LIV., note 292.
[43] The name of a celebrated beauty.
LXX.
THE PRINCESS LILY.
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,[44] 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,[45] and then, seizing a girdle, began to measure the size of her
waist[46] 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.”[47] 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.
FOOTNOTES:
[44] In this favourite pastime of the literati in China the important
point is that each word in the second line should be a due and proper
antithesis of the word in the first line to which it corresponds.
[45] See No. LXII., note 349.
[46] See No. LXIX., note 35.
[47] The language in which this fanciful document is couched is
precisely such as would be used by an officer of the Government in
announcing some national calamity; hence the value of these
tales,--models as they are of the purest possible style.
LXXI.
THE DONKEY’S REVENGE.
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,[48] he accidentally met him at
Pao-t‘u-ch‘üan.[49] 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,[50] 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,[51] his eyes closed, and a
servant-boy standing by with a chowry.[52] 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.”[53] 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.
FOOTNOTES:
[48] The examination consists of three bouts of three days each,
during which periods the candidates remain shut up in their
examination cells day and night.
[49] The name of a place.
[50] This interesting ceremony is performed by placing little conical
pastilles on a certain number of spots, varying from three to twelve,
on the candidate’s head. These are then lighted and allowed to burn
down into the flesh, while the surrounding parts are vigorously rubbed
by attendant priests in order to lessen the pain. The whole thing
lasts about twenty minutes, and is always performed on the eve of
Shâkyamuni Buddha’s birthday. The above was well described by Mr. S.
L. Baldwin in the _Foochow Herald_.
[51] There is a room in most Buddhist temples specially devoted to
this purpose.
[52] The Buddhist emblem of cleanliness; generally a yak’s tail, and
commonly used as a fly-brush.
[53] Tree-worship can hardly be said to exist in China at the present
day; though at a comparatively recent epoch this phase of religious
sentiment must have been widely spread. See _The Flower Nymphs_ and
_Mr. Willow_.
LXXII.
THE WOLF DREAM.
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[54] 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;[55] 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,[56] 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;[57] 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,[58] 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.”[59] 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.[60]
FOOTNOTES:
[54] Literally, “had been allotted the post of Nan-fu magistrate,”
such appointments being always determined by drawing lots.
[55] Such is one common explanation of catalepsy (see No. I., note
40), it being further averred that the proper lictors of the Infernal
regions are unable to remain long in the _light_ of the upper world.
[56] Upon a wall at the entrance to every official residence is
painted a huge fabulous animal, called _Greed_, in such a position
that the resident mandarin must see it every time he goes out of his
front gates. It is to warn him against greed and the crimes that are
sure to flow from it.
[57] Such, indeed, is the case at the present day in China, and
elsewhere.
[58] See No. VII., note 54.
[59] The great sorrow of decapitation as opposed to strangulation is
that the body will appear in the realms below without a head. The
family of any condemned man who may have sufficient means always bribe
the executioner to sew it on again.
[60] This story is an admirable _exposé_ of Chinese official
corruption, as rampant at the present day as ever in the long history
of China.
LXXIII.
THE UNJUST SENTENCE.
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[61] 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.[62] 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[63] 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[64] in the following year, out of gratitude for his noble
behaviour.
FOOTNOTES:
[61] See No. LXIV., note 18.
[62] Such has, doubtless, been the occasional result of torture in
China; but the singular keenness of the mandarins, as a body, in
recognising the innocent and detecting the guilty,--that is, when
their own avaricious interests are not involved,--makes this
contingency so rare as to be almost unknown. A good instance came
under my own notice at Swatow in 1876. For years a Chinese servant had
been employed at the foreign Custom House to carry a certain sum of
money every week to the bank, and at length his honesty was above
suspicion. On the occasion to which I allude he had been sent as usual
with the bag of dollars, but after a short absence he rushed back with
a frightful gash on his right arm, evidently inflicted by a heavy
chopper, and laying the bone bare. The money was gone. He said he had
been invited into a tea-house by a couple of soldiers whom he could
point out; that they had tried to wrest the bag from him, and that at
length one of them seized a chopper and inflicted so severe a wound on
his arm, that in his agony he dropped the money, and the soldiers made
off with it. The latter were promptly arrested and confronted with
their accuser; but, with almost indecent haste, the police magistrate
dismissed the case against them, and declared that he believed the man
had made away with the money and inflicted the wound on himself. And
so it turned out to be, under overwhelming evidence. This servant of
proved fidelity had given way to a rash hope of making a little money
at the gaming-table; had hurried into one of these hells and lost
everything in three stakes; had wounded himself on the right arm (he
was a left-handed man), and had concocted the story of the soldiers,
all within the space of about twenty-five minutes. When he saw that he
was detected, he confessed everything, without having received a
single blow of the bamboo; but up to the moment of his confession the
foreign feeling against that police-magistrate was undeniably strong.
[63] See No. I., note 39.
[64] See No. LXVIII., note 30. The circumstances which led to this
marriage would certainly be considered “exceptional.”
LXXIV.
A RIP VAN WINKLE.[65]
[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.[66]]
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:[67] 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,[68] 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.][69]
FOOTNOTES:
[65] This being a long and tedious story, I have given only such part
of it as is remarkable for its similarity to Washington Irving’s
famous narrative.
[66] See No. IV., note 46.
[67] Borrowed from Buddhism.
[68] Alluding to a similar story, related in the _Record of the
Immortals_, of how these two friends lost their way while gathering
simples on the hills, and were met and entertained by two lovely young
damsels for the space of half-a-year. When, however, they subsequently
returned home, they found that ten generations had passed away.
[69] Besides the above, there is the story of a man named Wang, who,
wandering one day in the mountains, came upon some old men playing a
game of _wei-ch‘i_ (see _Appendix_); and after watching them for some
time, he found that the handle of an axe he had with him had mouldered
away into dust. Seven generations of men had passed away in the
interval. Also, a similar legend of a horseman, who, when riding over
the hills, saw several old men playing a game with rushes, and tied
his horse to a tree while he himself approached to observe them. A few
minutes afterwards he turned to depart, but found only the skeleton of
his horse and the rotten remnants of the saddle and bridle. He then
sought his home, but that was gone too; and so he laid himself down
upon the ground and died of a broken heart.
LXXV.
THE THREE STATES OF EXISTENCE.
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,[70]
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.”[71] 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.
FOOTNOTES:
[70] See _Appendix_ A.
[71] If there is one institution in the Chinese empire which is
jealously guarded and honestly administered, it is the great system of
competitive examinations which has obtained in China now for many
centuries. And yet frauds do take place, in spite of the exceptionally
heavy penalties incurred upon detection. Friends are occasionally
smuggled through by the aid of marked essays; and dishonest candidates
avail themselves of “sleeve editions,” as they are called, of the
books in which they are to be examined. On the whole, the result is a
successful one. As a rule the best candidates pull through; while, in
exceptional cases, unquestionably good men are rejected. Of the latter
class, the author of this work is a most striking instance. Excelling
in literary attainments of the highest order, he failed more than once
to obtain his master’s degree, and finally threw up in disgust.
Thenceforward he became the enemy of the mandarinate; and how he has
lashed the corruption of his age may be read in such stories as _The
Wolf Dream_, and many others, while the policy that he himself would
have adopted, had he been fortunate enough to succeed, must remain for
ever a matter of doubt and speculation.
LXXVI.
IN THE INFERNAL REGIONS.
Hsi Fang-p‘ing was a native of Tung-an. His father’s name was Hsi
Lien--a hasty-tempered man, who had quarrelled with a neighbour named
Yang. By-and-by Yang died: and some years afterwards when Lien was on
his death-bed, he cried out that Yang was bribing the devils in hell
to torture him. His body then swelled up and turned red, and in a few
moments he had breathed his last. His son wept bitterly, and refused
all food, saying, “Alas! my poor father is now being maltreated by
cruel devils; I must go down and help to redress his wrongs.”
Thereupon he ceased speaking, and sat for a long time like one dazed,
his soul having already quitted its tenement of clay. To himself he
appeared to be outside the house, not knowing in what direction to go,
so he inquired from one of the passers-by which was the way to the
district city.[72] Before long he found himself there, and, directing
his steps towards the prison, found his father lying outside[73] in a
very shocking state. When the latter beheld his son, he burst into
tears, and declared that the gaolers had been bribed to beat him,
which they did both day and night, until they had reduced him to his
present sorry plight. Then Fang-p‘ing turned round in a great rage,
and began to curse the gaolers. “Out upon you!” cried he; “if my
father is guilty he should be punished according to law, and not at
the will of a set of scoundrels like you.” Thereupon he hurried away,
and prepared a petition, which he took with him to present at the
morning session of the City God; but his enemy, Yang, had meanwhile
set to work, and bribed so effectually, that the City God dismissed
his petition for want of corroborative evidence.[74] Fang-p‘ing was
furious, but could do nothing; so he started at once for the
prefectural city, where he managed to get his plaint received, though
it was nearly a month before it came on for hearing, and then all he
got was a reference back to the district city, where he was severely
tortured, and escorted back to the door of his own home, for fear he
should give further trouble. However, he did not go in, but stole
away and proceeded to lay his complaint before one of the ten Judges
of Purgatory; whereupon the two mandarins who had previously ill-used
him, came forward and secretly offered him a thousand ounces of silver
if he would withdraw the charge. This he positively refused to do; and
some days subsequently the landlord of the inn, where he was staying,
told him he had been a fool for his pains, and that he would now get
neither money nor justice, the Judge himself having already been
tampered with. Fang-p‘ing thought this was mere gossip, and would not
believe it; but, when his case was called, the Judge utterly refused
to hear the charge, and ordered him twenty blows with the bamboo,
which were administered in spite of all his protestations. He then
cried out, “Ah! it’s all because I have no money to give you;” which
so incensed the Judge, that he told the lictors to throw Fang-p‘ing on
the fire-bed. This was a great iron couch, with a roaring fire
underneath, which made it red-hot; and upon that the devils cast
Fang-p‘ing, having first stripped off his clothes, pressing him down
on it, until the fire ate into his very bones, though in spite of that
he could not die. After a while the devils said he had had enough, and
made him get off the iron bed, and put his clothes on again. He was
just able to walk, and when he went back into court, the Judge asked
him if he wanted to make any further complaints. “Alas!” cried he, “my
wrongs are still unredressed, and I should only be lying were I to say
I would complain no more.” The Judge then inquired what he had to
complain of; to which Fang-p‘ing replied that it was of the injustice
of his recent punishment. This enraged the Judge so much that he
ordered his attendants to saw Fang-p‘ing in two. He was then led away
by devils, to a place where he was thrust in between a couple of
wooden boards, the ground on all sides being wet and sticky with
blood. Just at that moment he was summoned to return before the Judge,
who asked him if he was still of the same mind; and, on his replying
in the affirmative, he was taken back again, and bound between the two
boards. The saw was then applied, and as it went through his brain he
experienced the most cruel agonies, which, however, he managed to
endure without uttering a cry. “He’s a tough customer,” said one of
the devils, as the saw made its way gradually through his chest; to
which the other replied, “Truly, this is filial piety; and, as the
poor fellow has done nothing, let us turn the saw a little out of the
direct line, so as to avoid injuring his heart.” Fang-p‘ing then felt
the saw make a curve inside him, which caused him even more pain than
before; and, in a few moments, he was cut through right down to the
ground, and the two halves of his body fell apart, along with the
boards to which they were tied, one on either side. The devils went
back to report progress, and were then ordered to join Fang-p‘ing
together again, and bring him in. This they accordingly did,--the cut
all down Fang-p‘ing’s body hurting him dreadfully, and feeling as if
it would re-open every minute. But, as Fang-p‘ing was unable to walk,
one of the devils took out a cord and tied it round his waist, as a
reward, he said, for his filial piety. The pain immediately ceased,
and Fang-p‘ing appeared once more before the Judge, this time
promising that he would make no more complaints. The Judge now gave
orders that he should be sent up to earth, and the devils, escorting
him out of the north gate of the city, shewed him his way home, and
went away. Fang-p‘ing now saw that there was even less chance of
securing justice in the Infernal Regions than upon the earth above;
and, having no means of getting at the Great King to plead his case,
he bethought himself of a certain upright and benevolent God, called
Erh Lang, who was a relative of the Great King’s, and him he
determined to seek. So he turned about and took his way southwards,
but was immediately seized by some devils, sent out by the Judge to
watch that he really went back to his home. These devils hurried him
again into the Judge’s presence, where he was received, contrary to
his expectation, with great affability; the Judge himself praising his
filial piety, but declaring that he need trouble no further in the
matter, as his father had already been born again in a wealthy and
illustrious family. “And upon you,” added the Judge, “I now bestow a
present of one thousand ounces of silver to take home with you, as
well as the old age of a centenarian, with which I hope you will be
satisfied.” He then shewed Fang-p‘ing the stamped record of this, and
sent him away in charge of the devils. The latter now began to abuse
him for giving them so much trouble, but Fang-p‘ing turned sharply
upon them, and threatened to take them back before the Judge. They
were then silent, and marched along for about half-a-day, until at
length they reached a village, where the devils invited Fang-p‘ing
into a house, the door of which was standing half-open. Fang-p‘ing was
just going in, when suddenly the devils gave him a shove from behind,
and ... there he was, born again on earth as a little girl. For three
days he pined and cried, without taking any food, and then he died.
But his spirit did not forget Erh Lang, and set out at once in search
of that God. He had not gone far when he fell in with the retinue of
some high personage, and one of the attendants seized him for getting
in the way, and hurried him before his master. He was taken to a
chariot, where he saw a handsome young man, sitting in great state;
and thinking that now was his chance, he told the young man, who he
imagined to be a high mandarin, all his sad story from beginning to
end. His bonds were then loosed, and he went along with the young man
until they reached a place where several officials came out to receive
them; and to one of these he confided Fang-p‘ing, who now learnt that
the young man was no other than God himself, the officials being the
nine princes of heaven, and the one to whose care he was entrusted no
other than Erh Lang. This last was very tall, and had a long white
beard, not at all like the popular representation of a God; and when
the other princes had gone, he took Fang-p‘ing into a court-room,
where he saw his father and their old enemy, Yang, besides all the
lictors and others who had been mixed up in the case. By-and-by, some
criminals were brought in in cages, and these turned out to be the
Judge, Prefect, and Magistrate. The trial was then commenced, the
three wicked officers trembling and shaking in their shoes; and when
he had heard the evidence, Erh Lang proceeded to pass sentence upon
the prisoners, each of whom he sentenced, after enlarging upon the
enormity of their several crimes, to be roasted, boiled, and otherwise
put to most excruciating tortures. As for Fang-p‘ing, he accorded him
three extra decades of life, as a reward for his filial piety, and a
copy of the sentence was put in his pocket. Father and son journeyed
along together, and at length reached their home; that is to say,
Fang-p‘ing was the first to recover consciousness, and then bade the
servants open his father’s coffin, which they immediately did, and the
old man at once came back to life. But when Fang-p‘ing looked for his
copy of the sentence, lo! it had disappeared. As for the Yang family,
poverty soon overtook them, and all their lands passed into
Fang-p‘ing’s hands; for as sure as any one else bought them, they
became sterile forthwith, and would produce nothing; but Fang-p‘ing
and his father lived on happily, both reaching the age of ninety and
odd years.[75]
FOOTNOTES:
[72] The Infernal Regions are supposed to be pretty much a counterpart
of the world above, except in the matter of light.
[73] The visitor to Canton cannot fail to observe batches of prisoners
with chains on them sitting in the street outside the prisons, many of
them engaged in plying their particular trades.
[74] The judge in a Chinese court is necessarily very much dependent
on his secretaries; and, except in special cases, he takes his cue
almost entirely from them. They take theirs from whichever party to
the case knows best how to “cross the palm.”
[75] The whole story is of course simply a satire upon the venality
and injustice of the ruling classes in China.
LXXVII.
SINGULAR CASE OF OPHTHALMIA.
A Mr. Ku, of Chiang-nan, was stopping in an inn at Chi-hsia, when he
was attacked by a very severe inflammation of the eyes. Day and night
he lay on his bed groaning, no medicines being of any avail; and when
he did get a little better, his recovery was accompanied by a singular
phenomenon. Every time he closed his eyes, he beheld in front of him a
number of large buildings, with all their doors wide open, and people
passing and repassing in the background, none of whom he recognised by
sight. One day he had just sat down to have a good look, when, all of
a sudden, he felt himself passing through the open doors. He went on
through three court-yards without meeting any one; but, on looking
into some rooms on either side, he saw a great number of young girls
sitting, lying, and kneeling about on a red carpet, which was spread
on the ground. Just then a man came out from behind the building, and,
seeing Ku, said to him, “Ah, the Prince said there was a stranger at
the door; I suppose you are the person he meant.” He then asked Ku to
walk in, which the latter was at first unwilling to do; however, he
yielded to the man’s instances, and accompanied him in, asking whose
palace it was. His guide told him it belonged to the son of the Ninth
Prince, and that he had arrived at the nick of time, for a number of
friends and relatives had chosen this very day to come and
congratulate the young gentleman on his recent recovery from a severe
illness. Meanwhile another person had come out to hurry them on, and
they soon reached a spot where there was a pavilion facing the north,
with an ornamental terrace and red balustrades, supported by nine
pillars. Ascending the steps, they found the place full of visitors,
and then espied a young man seated with his face to the north,[76]
whom they at once knew to be the Prince’s son, and thereupon they
prostrated themselves before him, the whole company rising as they did
so. The young Prince made Ku sit down to the east of him, and caused
wine to be served; after which some singing-girls came in and
performed the Hua-fêng-chu.[77] They had got to about the third scene,
when, all of a sudden, Ku heard the landlord of the inn and his
servant shouting out to him that dinner was ready, and was dreadfully
afraid that the young Prince, too, had heard. No one, however, seemed
to have noticed anything, so Ku begged to be excused a moment, as he
wished to change his clothes, and immediately ran out. He then looked
up, and saw the sun low in the west, and his servant standing by his
bedside, whereupon he knew that he had never left the inn. He was much
chagrined at this, and wished to go back as fast as he could; he,
therefore, dismissed his servant, and on shutting his eyes once more,
he found everything just as he had left it, except that where, on the
first occasion, he had observed the young girls, there were none now
to be seen, but only some dishevelled hump-backed creatures, who cried
out at him, and asked him what he meant by spying about there. Ku
didn’t dare reply, but hurried past them as quickly as he could, and
on to the pavilion of the young Prince. There he found him still
sitting, but with a black beard over a foot in length; and the Prince
was anxious to know where he had been, saying that seven scenes of the
play were already over. He then seized a big goblet of wine, and made
Ku drink it as a penalty, by which time the play was finished, and the
list was handed up for a further selection. The “Marriage of P‘êng
Tsu” was selected, and then the singing-girls began to hand round the
wine in cocoa-nuts big enough to hold about five quarts, which Ku
declined, on the ground that he was suffering from weak eyes, and was
consequently afraid to drink too much. “If your eyes are bad,” cried
the young Prince, “the Court physician is at hand, and can attend to
you.” Thereupon, one of the guests sitting to the east came forward,
and opening Ku’s eyes with his fingers, touched them with some white
ointment, which he applied from the end of a jade pin. He then bade Ku
close his eyes, and take a short nap; so the Prince had him conducted
into a sleeping-room, where he found the bed so soft, and surrounded
by such delicious perfume, that he soon fell into a deep slumber.
By-and-by he was awaked by what appeared to be the clashing of
cymbals, and fancied that the play was still going on; but on opening
his eyes, he saw that it was only the inn-dog, which was licking an
oilman’s gong.[78] His ophthalmia, however, was quite cured; and when
he shut his eyes again he could see nothing.
FOOTNOTES:
[76] In Book V. of Mencius’ works we read that Shun, the perfect man,
stood with his face to the south, while the Emperor Yao (see No.
VIII., note 63) and his nobles faced the north. This arrangement is
said to have been adopted in deference to Shun’s virtue; for in modern
times the Emperor always sits facing the south.
[77] Name of a celebrated play.
[78] These are about as big as a cheese-plate and attached to a short
stick, from which hangs suspended a small button of metal in such a
manner as to clash against the face of the gong at every turn of the
hand. The names and descriptions of various instruments employed by
costermongers in China would fill a good-sized volume.
LXXVIII.
CHOU K‘O-CH‘ANG AND HIS GHOST.
At Huai-shang there lived a graduate named Chou T‘ien-i, who, though
fifty years of age, had but one son, called K‘o-ch‘ang, whom he loved
very dearly. This boy, when about thirteen or fourteen, was a
handsome, well-favoured fellow, strangely averse to study, and often
playing truant from school, sometimes for the whole day, without any
remonstrance on the part of his father. One day he went away and did
not come back in the evening; neither, after a diligent search, could
any traces of him be discovered. His father and mother were in
despair, and hardly cared to live; but after a year and more had
passed away, lo and behold! K‘o-ch‘ang returned, saying that he had
been beguiled away by a Taoist priest, who, however, had not done him
any harm, and that he had seized a moment while the priest was absent
to escape and find his way home again. His father was delighted, and
asked him no more questions, but set to work to give him an education;
and K‘o-ch‘ang was so much cleverer and more intelligent than he had
been before, that by the following year he had taken his bachelor’s
degree and had made quite a name for himself. Immediately all the good
families of the neighbourhood wanted to secure him as a son-in-law.
Among others proposed there was an extremely nice girl, the daughter
of a gentleman named Chao, who had taken his doctor’s degree, and
K‘o-ch‘ang’s father was very anxious that he should marry the young
lady. The youth himself would not hear of it, but stuck to his books
and took his master’s degree, quite refusing to entertain any thought
of marriage; and this so exasperated his mother that one day the good
lady began to rate him soundly. K‘o-ch‘ang got up in a great rage and
cried out, “I have long been wanting to get away, and have only
remained for your sakes. I shall now say farewell, and leave Miss Chao
for any one that likes to marry her.” At this his mother tried to
detain him, but in a moment he had fallen forwards on the ground, and
there was nothing left of him but his hat and clothes. They were all
dreadfully frightened, thinking that it must have been K‘o-ch‘ang’s
ghost who had been with them, and gave themselves up to weeping and
lamentation; however, the very next day K‘o-ch‘ang arrived,
accompanied by a retinue of horses and servants, his story being that
he had formerly been kidnapped[79] and sold to a wealthy trader, who,
being then childless, had adopted him, but who, when he subsequently
had a son born to him by his own wife, sent K‘o-ch‘ang back to his old
home. And as soon as his father began to question him as to his
studies, his utter dulness and want of knowledge soon made it clear
that he was the real K‘o-ch‘ang of old; but he was already known as a
man who had got his master’s degree, (that is, the ghost of him had
got it,) so it was determined in the family to keep the whole affair
secret. This K‘o-ch‘ang was only too ready to espouse Miss Chao; and
before a year had passed over their heads his wife had presented the
old people with the much longed-for grandson.
FOOTNOTE:
[79] See No. XXIII., note 154.
LXXIX.
THE SPIRITS OF THE PO-YANG LAKE.
An official, named Chai, was appointed to a post at Jao-chou, and on
his way thither crossed the Po-yang lake. Happening to visit the
shrine of the local spirits, he noticed a carved image of the
patriotic Ting P‘u-lang,[80] and another of a namesake of his own, the
latter occupying a very inferior position. “Come! come!” said Chai,
“my patron saint shan’t be put in the background like that;” so he
moved the image into a more honourable place, and then went back on
board his boat again. Soon after, a great wind struck the vessel, and
carried away the mast and sails; at which the sailors, in great alarm,
set to work to howl and cry. However, in a few moments they saw a
small skiff come cutting through the waves, and before long they were
all safely on board. The man who rowed it was strangely like the image
in the shrine, the position of which Chai had changed; but they were
hardly out of danger when the squall had passed over, and skiff and
man had both vanished.
FOOTNOTE:
[80] A famous official who lived in the reign of Hung Wu, first
Emperor of the Ming dynasty (A.D. 1368-1399). I have not been able to
discover what was the particular act for which he has been celebrated
as “loyal to the death.”
LXXX.
THE STREAM OF CASH.
A certain gentleman’s servant was one day in his master’s garden, when
he beheld a stream of cash[81] flowing by, two or three feet in
breadth and of about the same depth. He immediately seized two large
handfuls, and then threw himself down on the top of the stream in
order to try and secure the rest. However, when he got up he found
that it had all flowed away from under him, none being left except
what he had got in his two hands.
[“Ah!” says the commentator, “money is properly a circulating medium,
and is not intended for a man to lie upon and keep all to
himself.”][82]
FOOTNOTES:
[81] See No. II., note 42.
[82] The Chinese, fond as they are of introducing water, under the
form of miniature lakes, into their gardens and pleasure-grounds, do
not approve of a running stream near the dwelling-house. I myself knew
a case of a man, provided with a pretty little house, rent free,
alongside of which ran a mountain-rill, who left the place and paid
for lodgings out of his own pocket rather than live so close to a
stream which he averred _carried all his good luck away_. Yet this man
was a fair scholar and a graduate to boot.
LXXXI.
THE INJUSTICE OF HEAVEN.
Mr. Hsü was a magistrate at Shantung. A certain upper chamber of his
house was used as a store-room; but some creature managed so
frequently to get in and make havoc among the stores, for which the
servants were always being scolded, that at length some of the latter
determined to keep watch. By-and-by they saw a huge spider as big as a
peck measure, and hurried off to tell their master, who thought it so
strange that he gave orders to the servants to feed the insect with
cakes. It thus became very tame, and would always come forth when
hungry, returning as soon as it had taken enough to eat.[83] Years
passed away, and one day Mr. Hsü was consulting his archives, when
suddenly the spider appeared and ran under the table. Thinking it was
hungry, he bade his servants give it a cake; but the next moment he
noticed two snakes, of about the thickness of a chop-stick, lying one
on each side. The spider drew in its legs as if in mortal fear, and
the snakes began to swell out until they were as big round as an egg;
at which Mr. Hsü was greatly alarmed, and would have hurried away,
when crash! went a peal of thunder, killing every person in the house.
Mr. Hsü himself recovered consciousness after a little while, but only
to see his wife and servants, seven persons in all, lying dead; and
after a month’s illness he, too, departed this life. Now Mr. Hsü was
an upright, honourable man, who really had the interests of the people
at heart. A subscription was accordingly raised to pay his funeral
expenses, and on the day of his burial the air was rent for miles
round with cries of weeping and lamentation.
[Hereon the commentator, I Shih-shih, makes the following
remark:--“That dragons play with pearls[84] I have always regarded as
an old woman’s tale. Is it possible, then, that the story is a fact? I
have heard, too, that the thunder strikes only the guilty man;[85]
and, if so, how could a virtuous official be visited with this dire
calamity?”]
FOOTNOTES:
[83] That Chinaman thinks his a hard lot who cannot “eat till he is
full.” It may be noticed here that the Chinese seem not so much to
enjoy the process of eating as the subsequent state of repletion. As a
rule, they bolt their food, and get their enjoyment out of it
afterwards.
[84] The full explanation and origin of this saying I have failed to
elucidate. Dragons are often represented with pearls before their
mouths; and these they are supposed to spit out or swallow as fancy
may take them. The pearl, too, is said to be the essence of the
dragon’s nature, without which it would be powerless; but this is all
I know about the subject.
[85] Such is the common belief in China at the present day. There is a
God of Thunder who punishes wicked people; the lightning is merely a
mirror, by the aid of which he singles out his victims.
LXXXII.
THE SEA-SERPENT.
A trader named Chia was voyaging on the south seas, when one night it
suddenly became as light as day on board his ship. Jumping up to see
what was the matter, he beheld a huge creature with its body half out
of the water, towering up like a hill. Its eyes resembled two suns,
and threw a light far and wide; and when the trader asked the boatmen
what it was, there was not one who could say. They all crouched down
and watched it; and by-and-by the monster gradually disappeared in the
water again, leaving everything in darkness as before. And when they
reached port, they found all the people talking about a strange
phenomenon of a great light that had appeared in the night, the time
of which coincided exactly with the strange scene they themselves had
witnessed.[86]
FOOTNOTE:
[86] The “sea-serpent” in this case was probably nothing more or less
than some meteoric phenomenon.
LXXXIII.
THE MAGIC MIRROR.[87]
“... But if you would really like to have something that has belonged
to me,” said she, “you shall.” Whereupon she took out a mirror and
gave it to him, saying, “Whenever you want to see me, you must look
for me in your books; otherwise I shall not be visible;”--and in a
moment she had vanished. Liu went home very melancholy at heart; but
when he looked in the mirror, there was Fêng-hsien, standing with her
back to him, gazing, as it were, at some one who was going away, and
about a hundred paces from her. He then bethought himself of her
injunctions, and settled down to his studies, refusing to receive any
visitors; and a few days subsequently, when he happened to look in the
mirror, there was Fêng-hsien, with her face turned towards him, and
smiling in every feature. After this, he was always taking out the
mirror to look at her; however, in about a month his good resolutions
began to disappear, and he once more went out to enjoy himself and
waste his time as before. When he returned home and looked in the
mirror, Fêng-hsien seemed to be crying bitterly; and the day after,
when he looked at her again, she had her back turned towards him as on
the day he received the mirror. He now knew that it was because he had
neglected his studies, and forthwith set to work again with all
diligence, until in a month’s time she had turned round once again.
Henceforward, whenever anything interrupted his progress, Fêng-hsien’s
countenance became sad; but whenever he was getting on well, her
sadness was changed to smiles. Night and morning Liu would look at the
mirror, regarding it quite in the light of a revered preceptor; and in
three years’ time he took his degree in triumph. “Now,” cried he, “I
shall be able to look Fêng-hsien in the face.” And there, sure enough,
she was, with her delicately-pencilled arched eye-brows, and her teeth
just showing between her lips, as happy-looking as she could be, when,
all of a sudden, she seemed to speak, and Liu heard her say, “A pretty
pair we make, I must allow”--and the next moment Fêng-hsien stood by
his side.
FOOTNOTE:
[87] The following is merely a single episode taken from a long and
otherwise uninteresting story. Miss Fêng-hsien was a fox; hence her
power to bestow such a singular present as the mirror here described,
the object of which was to incite her lover to success--the condition
of their future union.
LXXXIV.
COURAGE TESTED.
Mr. Tung was a Hsü-chou man, very fond of playing broad-sword, and a
light-hearted, devil-may-care fellow, who was often involving himself
in trouble. One day he fell in with a traveller who was riding on a
mule and going the same way as himself; whereupon they entered into
conversation, and began to talk to each other about feats of strength
and so on. The traveller said his name was T‘ung,[88] and that he
belonged to Liao-yang; that he had been twenty years away from home,
and had just returned from beyond the sea. “And I venture to say,”
cried Tung, “that in your wanderings on the Four Seas[89] you have
seen a great many people; but have you seen any supernaturally clever
ones?” T‘ung asked him to what he alluded; and then Tung explained
what his own particular hobby was, adding how much he would like to
learn from them any tricks in the art of broad-sword. “Supernatural,”
replied the traveller, “are to be found everywhere. It needs but that
a man should be a loyal subject and a filial son for him to know all
that the supernaturals know.” “Right you are, indeed!” cried Tung, as
he drew a short sword from his belt, and, tapping the blade with his
fingers, began to accompany it with a song. He then cut down a tree
that was by the wayside, to shew T‘ung how sharp it was; at which
T‘ung smoothed his beard and smiled, begging to be allowed to have a
look at the weapon. Tung handed it to him, and, when he had turned it
over two or three times, he said, “This is a very inferior piece of
steel; now, though I know nothing about broad-sword myself, I have a
weapon which is really of some use.” He then drew from beneath his
coat a sword of a foot or so in length, and with it he began to pare
pieces off Tung’s sword, which seemed as soft as a melon, and which he
cut quite away like a horse’s hoof. Tung was greatly astonished, and
borrowed the other’s sword to examine it, returning it after carefully
wiping the blade. He then invited T‘ung to his house, and made him
stay the night; and, after begging him to explain the mystery of his
sword, began to nurse his leg and sit listening respectfully without
saying a word. It was already pretty late, when suddenly there was a
sound of scuffling next door, where Tung’s father lived; and, on
putting his ear to the wall, he heard an angry voice saying, “Tell
your son to come here at once, and then I will spare you.” This was
followed by other sounds of beating and a continued groaning, in a
voice which Tung knew to be his father’s. He therefore seized a spear,
and was about to rush forth, but T‘ung held him back, saying, “You’ll
be killed for a certainty if you go. Let us think of some other plan.”
Tung asked what plan he could suggest; to which the other replied,
“The robbers are killing your father: there is no help for you; but as
you have no brothers, just go and tell your wife and children what
your last wishes are, while I try and rouse the servants.” Tung agreed
to this, and ran in to tell his wife, who clung to him and implored
him not to go, until at length all his courage had ebbed away, and he
went upstairs with her to get his bow and arrows ready to resist the
robbers’ attack. At that juncture he heard the voice of his friend
T‘ung, outside on the eaves of the house, saying, with a laugh, “All
right; the robbers have gone;” but on lighting a candle, he could see
nothing of him. He then stole out to the front door, where he met his
father with a lantern in his hand, coming in from a party at a
neighbour’s house; and the whole court-yard was covered with the ashes
of burnt grass, whereby he knew that T‘ung the traveller was himself a
supernatural.[90]
FOOTNOTES:
[88] Besides the all-important aspirate, this name is pronounced in a
different _tone_ from the first-mentioned “Tung;” and is moreover
expressed in writing by a totally different character. To a Chinese
ear, the two words are as unlikely to be confounded as Brown and
Jones.
[89] The Four Seas are supposed by the Chinese to bound the habitable
portions of the earth, which, by the way, they further believe to be
square. In the centre of all is China, extending far and wide in every
direction, the eye of the universe, the Middle Kingdom. Away at a
distance from her shores lie a number of small islands, wherein dwell
such barbarous nations as the English, French, Dutch, etc.
[90] The commentator, I Shih-shih, adds a note to this story which
might be summed up in our own--
“The [wo]man that deliberates is lost.”
LXXXV.
THE DISEMBODIED FRIEND.
Mr. Ch‘ên, M.A., of Shun-t‘ien Fu, when a boy of sixteen, went to
school at a Buddhist temple.[91] There were a great many scholars
besides himself, and, among others, one named Ch‘u, who said he came
from Shantung. This Ch‘u was a very hard-working fellow; he never
seemed to be idle, and actually slept in the school-room, not going
home at all. Ch‘ên became much attached to him, and one day asked him
why he never went away. “Well, you see,” replied Ch‘u, “my people are
very poor, and can hardly afford to pay for my schooling; but, by dint
of working half the night, two of my days are equal to three of
anybody else’s.” Thereupon Ch‘ên said he would bring his own bed to
the school, and that they would sleep there together; to which Ch‘u
replied that the teaching they got wasn’t worth much, and that they
would do better by putting themselves under a certain old scholar
named Lü. This they were easily able to do, as the arrangement at the
temple was monthly, and at the end of each month anyone was free to go
or to come. So off they went to this Mr. Lü, a man of considerable
literary attainments, who had found himself in Shun-t‘ien Fu without a
cash in his pocket, and was accordingly obliged to take pupils. He was
delighted at getting two additions to his number and, Ch‘u showing
himself an apt scholar, the two soon became very great friends,
sleeping in the same room and eating at the same table. At the end of
the month Ch‘u asked for leave of absence, and, to the astonishment of
all, ten days elapsed without anything being heard of him. It then
chanced that Ch‘ên went to the T‘ien-ning temple, and there he saw
Ch‘u under one of the verandahs, occupied in cutting wood for
lucifer-matches.[92] The latter was much disconcerted by the arrival
of Ch‘ên, who asked him why he had given up his studies; so the latter
took him aside, and explained that he was so poor as to be obliged to
work half a month to scrape together funds enough for his next month’s
schooling. “You come along back with me,” cried Ch‘ên, on hearing
this, “I will arrange for the payment,” which Ch‘u immediately
consented to do on condition that Ch‘ên would keep the whole thing a
profound secret. Now Ch‘ên’s father was a wealthy tradesman, and from
his till Ch‘ên abstracted money wherewith to pay for Ch‘u; and
by-and-by, when his father found him out, he confessed why he had done
so. Thereupon Ch‘ên’s father called him a fool, and would not let him
resume his studies; at which Ch‘u was much hurt, and would have left
the school too, but that old Mr. Lü discovered what had taken place,
and gave him the money to return to Ch‘ên’s father, keeping him still
at the school, and treating him quite like his own son. So Ch‘ên
studied no more, but whenever he met Ch‘u he always asked him to join
in some refreshment at a restaurant, Ch‘u invariably refusing, but
yielding at length to his entreaties, being himself loth to break off
their old acquaintanceship.
Thus two years passed away, when Ch‘ên’s father died, and Ch‘ên went
back to his books under the guidance of old Mr. Lü, who was very glad
to see such determination. Of course Ch‘ên was now far behind Ch‘u;
and in about six months Lü’s son arrived, having begged his way in
search of his father, so Mr. Lü gave up his school and returned home
with a purse which his pupils had made up for him, Ch‘u adding nothing
thereto but his tears. At parting, Mr. Lü advised Ch‘ên to take Ch‘u
as his tutor, and this he did, establishing him comfortably in the
house with him. The examination was very shortly to commence, and
Ch‘ên felt convinced that he should not get through; but Ch‘u said he
thought he should be able to manage the matter for him. On the
appointed day he introduced Ch‘ên to a gentleman who he said was a
cousin of his, named Liu, and asked Ch‘ên to accompany this cousin,
which Ch‘ên was just proceeding to do when Ch‘u pulled him back from
behind,[93] and he would have fallen down but that the cousin pulled
him up again, and then, after having scrutinized his appearance,
carried him off to his own house. There being no ladies there, Ch‘ên
was put into the inner apartments; and a few days afterwards Liu said
to him, “A great many people will be at the gardens to-day; let us go
and amuse ourselves awhile, and afterwards I will send you home
again.” He then gave orders that a servant should proceed on ahead
with tea and wine, and by-and-by they themselves went, and were soon
in the thick of the fête. Crossing over a bridge, they saw beneath an
old willow tree a little painted skiff, and were soon on board,
engaged in freely passing round the wine. However, finding this a
little dull, Liu bade his servant go and see if Miss Li, the famous
singing-girl, was at home; and in a few minutes the servant returned
bringing Miss Li with him. Ch‘ên had met her before, and so they at
once exchanged greetings, while Liu begged her to be good enough to
favour them with a song. Miss Li, who seemed labouring under a fit of
melancholy, forthwith began a funeral dirge; at which Ch‘ên was not
much pleased, and observed that such a theme was hardly suitable to
the occasion. With a forced smile, Miss Li changed her key, and gave
them a love-song; whereupon Ch‘ên seized her hand, and said, “There’s
that song of the Huan-sha river,[94] which you sang once before; I
have read it over several times, but have quite forgotten the words.”
Then Miss Li began--
“Eyes overflowing with tears, she sits gazing into her glass,
Lifting the bamboo screen, one of her comrades approaches;
She bends her head and seems intent on her bow-like slippers,
And forces her eyebrows to arch themselves into a smile.
With her scarlet sleeve she wipes the tears from her perfumed cheek,
In fear and trembling lest they should guess the thoughts that
o’erwhelm her.”[95]
Ch‘ên repeated this over several times, until at length the skiff
stopped, and they passed through a long verandah, where a great many
verses had been inscribed on the walls,[96] to which Ch‘ên at once
proceeded to add a stanza of his own. Evening was now coming on, and
Liu remarked that the candidates would be just about leaving the
examination-hall;[97] so he escorted him back to his own home, and
there left him. The room was dark, and there was no one with him; but
by-and-by the servants ushered in some one whom at first he took to be
Ch‘u. However, he soon saw that it was not Ch‘u, and in another moment
the stranger had fallen against him and knocked him down. “Master’s
fainted!” cried the servants, as they ran to pick him up; and then
Ch‘ên discovered that the one who had fallen down was really no other
than himself.[98] On getting up, he saw Ch‘u standing by his side; and
when they had sent away the servants the latter said, “Don’t be
alarmed: I am nothing more than a disembodied spirit. My time for
re-appearing on earth[99] is long overdue, but I could not forget your
great kindness to me, and accordingly I have remained under this form
in order to assist in the accomplishment of your wishes. The three
bouts[100] are over, and your ambition will be gratified.” Ch‘ên then
inquired if Ch‘u could assist him in like manner for his doctor’s
degree; to which the latter replied, “Alas! the luck descending to you
from your ancestors is not equal to that.[101] They were a niggardly
lot, and unfit for the posthumous honours you would thus confer on
them.” Ch‘ên next asked him whither he was going; and Ch‘u replied
that he hoped, through the agency of his cousin, who was a clerk in
Purgatory, to be born again in old Mr. Lü’s family. They then bade
each other adieu; and, when morning came, Ch‘ên set off to call on
Miss Li, the singing-girl; but on reaching her house he found that she
had been dead some days.[102] He walked on to the gardens, and there
he saw traces of verses that had been written on the walls, and
evidently rubbed out, so as to be hardly decipherable. In a moment it
flashed across him that the verses and their composers belonged to the
other world. Towards evening Ch‘u re-appeared in high spirits, saying
that he had succeeded in his design, and had come to wish Ch‘ên a long
farewell. Holding out his open palms, he requested Ch‘ên to write the
word _Ch‘u_ on each; and then, after refusing to take a parting cup,
he went away, telling Ch‘ên that the examination-list would soon be
out, and that they would meet again before long. Ch‘ên brushed away
his tears and escorted him to the door, where a man, who had been
waiting for him, laid his hand on Ch‘u’s head and pressed it downwards
until Ch‘u was perfectly flat. The man then put him in a sack and
carried him off on his back. A few days afterwards the list came out,
and, to his great joy, Ch‘ên found his name among the successful
candidates; whereupon he immediately started off to visit his old
tutor, Mr. Lü.[103] Now Mr. Lü’s wife had had no children for ten
years, being about fifty years of age, when suddenly she gave birth to
a son, who was born with both fists doubled up so that no one could
open them. On his arrival Ch‘ên begged to see the child, and declared
that inside its hands would be found written the word Ch‘u. Old Mr. Lü
laughed at this; but no sooner had the child set eyes on Ch‘ên than
both its fists opened spontaneously, and there was the word as Ch‘ên
had said. The story was soon told, and Ch‘ên went home, after making a
handsome present to the family; and later on, when Mr. Lü went up for
his doctor’s degree[104] and stayed at Ch‘ên’s house, his son was
thirteen years old, and had already matriculated as a candidate for
literary honours.
FOOTNOTES:
[91] Buddhist priests not unusually increase the revenue of their
monastery by taking pupils; and it is only fair to them to add that
the curriculum is strictly secular, the boys learning precisely what
they would at an ordinary school and nothing else.
[92] These consist simply of thin slips of wood dipped in brimstone,
and resemble those used in England as late as the first quarter of the
present century. They are said to have been invented by the people of
Hang-chou, the capital of Chekiang; but it is quite possible that the
hint may have first reached China from the west. They were called _yin
kuang_ “bring light,” (_cf._ _lucifer_), _fa chu_ “give forth
illumination,” and other names. Lucifer matches are now generally
spoken of as _tzŭ lai huo_ “self-come fire,” and are almost
universally employed, except in remote parts where the flint and steel
still hold sway.
[93] The whole point of the story hinges on this.
[94] Beside which lived Hsi Shih, the famous beauty of the fifth
century after Christ.
[95] I fear that the translation of this “Singing-girl’s Lament” falls
so considerably below the pathetic original as to give but a poor idea
of the real merit of the latter as a lyric gem.
[96] The Chinese have precisely the same mania as our Browns, Joneses,
and Robinsons, for scribbling and carving their names and compositions
all over the available parts of any place of public resort. The
literature of inn walls alone would fill many ponderous tomes.
[97] The examination, which lasts nine days, has been going on all
this time.
[98] That is, his own body, into which Ch‘u’s spirit had temporarily
passed, his own occupying, meanwhile, the body of his friend.
[99] That is, for being born again, the sole hope and ambition of a
disembodied shade.
[100] See No. LXXI., note 48.
[101] See No. LXI., note 346.
[102] His own spirit in Ch‘u’s body had met her in a disembodied
state.
[103] Such is the invariable custom. Large presents are usually made
by those who can afford the outlay, and the tutor’s name has ever
afterwards an honourable place in the family records.
[104] See No. XLVIII., note 274.
LXXXVI.
THE CLOTH MERCHANT.
A certain cloth merchant went to Ch‘ing-chou, where he happened to
stroll into an old temple, all tumble-down and in ruins. He was
lamenting over this sad state of things, when a priest who stood by
observed that a devout believer like himself could hardly do better
than put the place into repair, and thus obtain favour in the eyes of
Buddha. This the merchant consented to do; whereupon the priest
invited him to walk into the private quarters of the temple, and
treated him with much courtesy; but he went on to propose that our
friend the merchant should also undertake the general ornamentation of
the place both inside and out.[105] The latter declared he could not
afford the expense, and the priest began to get very angry, and urged
him so strongly that at last the merchant, in terror, promised to give
all the money he had. After this he was preparing to go away, but the
priest detained him, saying, “You haven’t given the money of your own
free will, and consequently you’ll be owing me a grudge: I can’t do
better than make an end of you at once.” Thereupon he seized a knife,
and refused to listen to all the cloth merchant’s entreaties, until at
length the latter asked to be allowed to hang himself, to which the
priest consented; and, showing him into a dark room, told him to make
haste about it.
At this juncture, a Tartar-General[106] happened to pass by the
temple; and from a distance, through a breach in the old wall, he saw
a damsel in a red dress pass into the priest’s quarters. This roused
his suspicions,[107] and dismounting from his horse, he entered the
temple and searched high and low, but without discovering anything.
The dark room above-mentioned was locked and double-barred, and the
priest refused to open it, saying the place was haunted. The General
in a rage burst open the door, and there beheld the cloth merchant
hanging from a beam. He cut him down at once, and in a short time he
was brought round and told the General the whole story. They then
searched for the damsel, but she was nowhere to be found, having been
nothing more than a divine manifestation. The General cut off the
priest’s head and restored the cloth merchant’s property to him, after
which the latter put the temple in thorough repair and kept it well
supplied with lights and incense ever afterwards.
Mr. Chao, M.A., told me this story with all its details.[108]
FOOTNOTES:
[105] The elaborate gilding and wood-work of an ordinary Chinese
temple form a very serious item in the expense of restoration. Public
subscriptions are usually the means employed for raising sufficient
funds, the names of subscribers and amount given by each being
published in some conspicuous position. Occasionally devout
priests--black swans, indeed, in China--shut themselves up in boxes
studded with nails, one of which they pull out every time a certain
donation is given, and there they remain until every nail is
withdrawn. But after all it is difficult to say whether they endure
these trials so much for the faith’s sake as for the funds from which
they derive more of the luxuries of life, and the temporary notoriety
gained by thus coming before the public. A Chinese proverb says, “The
image-maker doesn’t worship Buddha. He knows too much about the idol;”
and the application of this saying may safely be extended to the
majority of Buddhist priests in China.
[106] This is the title generally applied to the Manchu commanders of
Manchu garrisons, who are stationed at certain of the most important
points of the Chinese Empire, and whose presence is intended as a
check upon the action of the civil authorities.
[107] See No. VI., note 52.
[108] The moral being, of course, that Buddha protects those who look
after his interests on earth.
LXXXVII.
A STRANGE COMPANION.
Han Kung-fu, of Yü-ch‘êng, told me that he was one day travelling
along a road with a man of his village, named P‘êng, when all of a
sudden the latter disappeared, leaving his mule to jog along with an
empty saddle. At the same moment, Mr. Han heard his voice calling for
assistance, and apparently proceeding from inside one of the panniers
strapped across the mule’s back; and on looking closely, there indeed
he was in one of the panniers, which, however, did not seem to be at
all displaced by his weight. On trying to get him out the mouth of the
pannier closed itself tightly; and it was only when he cut it open
with a knife that he saw P‘êng curled up in it like a dog. He then
helped him out, and asked him how he managed to get in; but this he
was unable to say. It further appeared that his family was under fox
influence, many strange things of this kind having happened before.
LXXXVIII.
SPIRITUALISTIC SÉANCES.
It is customary in Shantung, when any one is sick, for the womenfolk
to engage an old sorceress or medium, who strums on a tambourine and
performs certain mysterious antics. This custom obtains even more in
the capital, where young ladies of the best families frequently
organize such _séances_ among themselves. On a table in the hall they
spread out a profusion of wine and meat, and burn huge candles which
make the place as light as day. Then the sorceress, shortening her
skirts, stands on one leg and performs the _shang-yang_,[109] while
two of the others support her, one on each side. All this time she is
chattering unintelligible sentences,[110] something between a song
and a prayer, the words being confused but uttered in a sort of tune;
while the hall resounds with the thunder of drums, enough to stun a
person, with which her vaticinations are mixed up and lost. By-and-by
her head begins to droop, and her eyes to look aslant; and but for her
two supporters she would inevitably fall to the ground. Suddenly she
stretches forth her neck and bounds several feet into the air, upon
which the other women regard her in terror, saying, “The spirits have
come to eat;” and immediately all the candles are blown out and
everything is in total darkness. Thus they remain for about a quarter
of an hour, afraid to speak a word, which in any case would not be
heard through the din, until at length the sorceress calls out the
personal name of the head of the family[111] and some others;
whereupon they immediately relight the candles and hurry up to ask if
the reply of the spirits is favourable or otherwise. They then see
that every scrap of the food and every drop of the wine has
disappeared. Meanwhile, they watch the old woman’s expression, whereby
they can tell if the spirits are well disposed; and each one asks her
some question, to which she as promptly replies. Should there be any
unbelievers among the party, the spirits are at once aware of their
presence; and the old sorceress, pointing her finger at such a one,
cries out, “Disrespectful mocker! where are your trousers?” upon which
the mocker alluded to looks down, and lo! her trousers are gone--gone
to the top of a tree in the court-yard, where they will subsequently
be found.[112]
Manchu women and girls, especially, are firm believers in
spiritualism. On the slightest provocation they consult their medium,
who comes into the room gorgeously dressed, and riding on an imitation
horse or tiger.[113] In her hand she holds a long spear, with which
she mounts the couch[114] and postures in an extraordinary manner, the
animal she rides snorting or roaring fiercely all the time. Some call
her Kuan Ti,[115] others Chang Fei, and others again Chou Kung, from
her terribly martial aspect, which strikes fear into all beholders.
And should any daring fellow try to peep in while the _séance_ is
going on, out of the window darts the spear, transfixes his hat, and
draws it off his head into the room, while women and girls, young and
old, hop round one after the other like geese, on one leg, without
seeming to get the least fatigued.
FOOTNOTES:
[109] It is related in the _Family Sayings_, an apocryphal work which
professes to give conversations of Confucius, that a number of
one-legged birds having suddenly appeared in Ch‘i, the Duke of Ch‘i
sent off to ask the Sage what was the meaning of this strange
phenomenon. Confucius replied, “The bird is the _shang-yang_, and
portends beneficial rain.” And formerly the boys and girls in Shantung
would hop about on one leg, crying, “The _shang-yang_ has come;” after
which rain would be sure to follow.
[110] Speaking in the unknown tongue, like the Irvingites and others.
[111] This is a clever hit. The “personal” name of a man may not be
uttered except by his father or mother, grandfather, grandmother,
uncles, etc. Thus, the mere use of the personal name of the _head of a
family_ proves conclusively that the spirit of someone of his
ancestors must be present.
[112] I consider the whole of the above a curious story to be found in
a Chinese work exactly 200 years old, but no part of it more so than
the forcible removal of some part of the clothing, which has been so
prominent a feature in the _séances_ of our own day. It may be added
that in many a court-yard in Peking will be found one or more trees,
which cause the view from the city wall to be very pleasing to the
eye, in spite of the filth and ruins which a closer inspection
reveals.
[113] The arrangement being that of the hobby-horse of by-gone days.
[114] The couches of the north of China are brick beds, heated by a
stove underneath, and covered with a mat. Upon one of these is
generally a dwarf table and a couple of pillows; and here it is that
the Chinaman loves to recline, his wine-kettle, opium-pipe, or teapot
within reach, and a friend at his side, with whom he may converse far
into the night.
[115] See No. LXXIII., note 63. Chang Fei was the bosom-friend of the
last, and was his associa
Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/43628