Chapter 10

The Painted Horse Cui of Linqing came from a poor family. His garden walls were unrepaired. Every morning at dawn, he would see a horse lying among the dewy grasses—black in body with white markings; only its tail was unkempt, as if singed and broken by fire. He drove it away, but it returned again at night, and he knew not whence it came. Cui had a good friend serving as an official in Jin, and he wished to go to him, but was distressed by the lack of a sturdy mount. So he caught the horse, put a bridle on it, and rode off. He charged his household, saying: "Should anyone come looking for a horse, tell them I have gone to Jin." Once on the road, the horse galloped swiftly, covering a hundred li in an instant. At night it ate little hay or beans, and he thought it ill. The next day he reined it in tightly and would not let it run; but the horse stamped its hooves, neighed, and snorted foam, as vigorous and fiery as before. He gave it its head again, and by noon it had already reached Jin. When he rode into the market, all who saw it praised it without exception. The Prince of Jin, hearing of it, offered a high price to buy it. Cui, fearing that the true owner might come seeking it, dared not sell. After half a year with no word, he sold it to the Prince's residence for eight hundred taels of gold, and bought himself a sturdy mule to return home. Later the Prince, pressed by urgent business, sent a commandant riding the horse to Linqing. The horse bolted, and the commandant pursued it to Cui's eastern neighbor's house. It entered the gate and vanished. He searched the premises of the master. The master, surnamed Zeng, truly had seen nothing. When he entered the inner chamber, he saw hanging on the wall a painting of a horse by Zi'ang—one horse in it was of precisely the same markings, and at the tail it was scorched by incense. Only then did he realize that the horse was a painting-ogre. The commandant, finding it difficult to report back to the Prince, sued Zeng. At that time Cui, having gained the horse-money, had amassed ten thousand in savings, and willingly lent Zeng the price to send the commandant away. Zeng was deeply grateful to him, not knowing that Cui was the very man who had sold the horse in the first place. The Swindle A servant of a certain Censor was standing in the marketplace one day when a man in fine clothes and cap drew near and struck up a conversation. Gradually he asked the surname, given name, and official standing of the Censor's master, and the servant told him all. The man said: "My surname is Wang, and I am an inner attendant of the noble Princess." Their talk grew more cordial, and he said: "The official path is perilous. All who are eminent attach themselves to the households of imperial relatives. To whom does your master look for patronage?" The servant answered: "To none." Wang said: "This is what is called grudging small expense and forgetting great disaster." The servant said: "To whom might one turn?" Wang replied: "The Princess treats people with courtesy and can shelter them. A certain Vice Minister obtained advancement through me. If you would but risk a thousand taels as gift, it would not be difficult to gain audience with Her Highness." The servant was delighted and asked where he lived. Wang pointed to a gateway and said: "We are in the same lane—do you not know it?" The servant returned and reported to the Censor. The Censor was pleased, and at once laid out a grand feast, sending his servant to invite Wang. Wang came with pleasure. During the feast he spoke in great detail of the Princess's temperament and daily affairs. He also said: "Were it not for the bond of being neighbors, even if you offered a hundred taels of gold as reward, I would not be willing to serve as your beast of burden." The Censor was all the more impressed and grateful. At parting they made an appointment. Wang said: "Sir, you need only prepare the gifts. I shall take the opportunity to speak of it, and before long I will bring you word." Several days passed before he arrived, riding a handsome horse. He said to the Censor: "Make haste and prepare your carriage to go. The Princess has many affairs—those seeking audience press one upon another from dawn to dusk, with no moment of leisure. Now I have found a brief gap; you must go at once. If you delay, there may be no chance to see her for a long time." The Censor then brought out doubled gold and costly gifts and followed him. After twisting and turning for more than ten li, they finally reached the Princess's mansion. He dismounted and waited in attendance. Wang first went in with the gifts. After a long while, he came out and announced: "The Princess summons such-and-such Censor." Thereupon several people relayed the call in succession. The Censor entered with bowed back, and saw a beautiful woman seated in the high hall, her countenance like an immortal, her robes and ornaments dazzling; attendant maids all in embroidered silks, arrayed in rows. The Censor prostrated himself and performed all the rites. An order was passed down that he be seated beneath the eaves, and a golden bowl was brought for tea. The Princess spoke a few gracious words of imperial warmth, and the Censor withdrew solemnly. From within there were bestowed embroidered boots and a sable cap. After returning home, he was deeply grateful to Wang and sent a visiting card to thank him—but the gate was shut and no one was there. He suspected Wang was still in attendance on his mistress. He called three times in three days, but never saw him again. He sent someone to inquire at the Princess's gate, but the tall doors were barred and bolted. He questioned the neighbors, and they all said: "No Princess has ever lived here. A few people rented the house and lived here before, but they left three days ago." The messenger returned with this report, and master and servant were left utterly dejected. A certain Deputy General, carrying funds, entered the capital with the intention of obtaining a seal of office, but suffered from having no connection. One day a man in furs and riding a fine horse called on him, saying of himself: "My elder brother on my wife's side is a close attendant of the Son of Heaven." After tea, he drew the General aside and said: "At present there is a vacancy for General in such-and-such place. If you will not begrudge a heavy outlay, I shall charge my brother-in-law to speak favorably of you before the Holy Emperor, and this post can be yours—even those with great power cannot wrest it away." The General doubted his truthfulness. The man said: "There is no need to hesitate. I seek only to draw a small portion from my brother-in-law; from you, General, I expect not a single copper. We shall agree on a fixed sum, and sign a bond as pledge. Only after the imperial summons will I demand actual payment; if it fails, your money is still in your hands—who can snatch it from your bosom?" The General was pleased and agreed. The next day the man returned and led the General to see his brother-in-law, who said his surname was Tian. His establishment was as imposing as that of a marquis. The General paid his respects, but Tian was most arrogant and gave him little courtesy. The man held the bond to the General and said: "I have just discussed it with my brother-in-law—it cannot be done for less than ten thousand gold. Please sign at the end." The General complied. Tian said: "Men's hearts are unfathomable; after the affair, I fear there may be recanting." The man laughed and said: "Brother, you worry too much. Since we can give it, can we not also take it away? Moreover, among the generals and ministers at court, there are those who would gladly pay homage but cannot. The General's future is vast—he should not be so faint-hearted." The General swore solemnly and took his leave. The man escorted him out, saying: "In three days I shall bring you the imperial command." After two days, just as the sun was in the west, several men came roaring in and said: "His Majesty sits waiting!" The General was greatly startled and hurried into the court. He saw the Son of Heaven seated in the hall, with armed guards standing in grim array. After the General had performed his obeisances and dance, the Emperor ordered him to sit and inquired after him with great solicitude. He turned to his attendants and said: "I have heard that this General is exceptionally valiant—now that I see him, truly he has the makings of a general!" Then he said: "Such-and-such place is a strategic and vital spot; I now entrust it to you. Do not fail my intent—the day of your enfeoffment is not far off." The General bowed in gratitude and withdrew. Then the fur-clad man of the former days followed him to his lodgings and, according to the bond, received payment and departed. Thereupon the General rested at ease awaiting his seal, daily boasting of his glory among relatives and friends. After several days, he made inquiries and found that the vacancy had already been given to another. In great anger, he went to the Ministry of War and protested: "I received the Emperor's personal appointment—how could it be granted to another?" The Minister of War was astonished. When the General related his favored treatment, it seemed half like a dream. The Minister, enraged, had him arrested and delivered to the Commandant of Justice. Only then did he give the name of the man who had introduced him—but no such person existed in the court. After spending another ten thousand in gold, he was finally stripped of his post and dismissed. Strange indeed! Though a military man may be dull, could the very gate of the court be counterfeited? I suspect some sorcery was at work—what is called "the great thief who carries no spear or bow." A gentleman of Jiaxiang named Li was skilled in playing the qin. One day he happened to go to the eastern outskirts and saw workmen digging earth and unearthing an old qin, which he bought for a low price. When he wiped it, it emitted an unusual gleam; he fitted it with strings and played it, and its clear, piercing tones were extraordinary. Overjoyed, as if he had obtained a precious jade disc, he stored it in an embroidered bag and hid it in a secret chamber, not showing it even to his closest relatives. The assistant magistrate of the county, one Mr. Cheng, had newly taken up his post and sent his card to call on Li. Li was not given to socializing, but since Cheng had made the first move, he returned the courtesy. A few days later, Cheng again invited him to drink, and only after repeated urging did Li go. Cheng was a man of exquisite refinement and charm, with conversation free and easy, and Li took a liking to him. The next day, Li sent a note inviting Cheng in return, and their laughter and talk grew even more cordial. From then on, on moonlit evenings and flower-bright mornings, they were seldom apart. After more than a year, Li happened to see, in Cheng's office, an embroidered bag containing a qin placed on a table. Li opened it and examined it. Cheng asked, "Are you also versed in this?" Li said, "It has always been my greatest love." Cheng said in surprise, "We have been friends for some time now; why have I never heard your superlative skill?" He stirred the incense burner and lit some aloeswood, then asked Li to play a short piece. Li complied respectfully. Cheng said, "A great master! Allow me to offer my humble skill; do not laugh at this lesser practitioner." He then played the *Song of Riding the Wind*, its notes cool and clear, carrying the feeling of transcending the world and leaving the mundane behind. Li was even more captivated and wished to become his pupil. From then on, the two were bound by their qin playing, and their friendship deepened. After more than a year, Li had learned all of Cheng's techniques. Yet whenever Cheng visited Li, Li would offer him his ordinary qin and refused to reveal the one he had hidden. One evening, slightly tipsy, Cheng said, "I have recently learned a new piece—would you care to hear it?" He played the *Xiang Consort*, its melancholy plaint like weeping. Li praised it profusely. Cheng said, "My only regret is the lack of a fine qin; with a fine qin, the tone would be even better." Li said joyfully, "I have a qin in my possession, quite different from ordinary instruments. Now that I have met a Zhong Ziqi, how could I keep it hidden any longer?" He then opened his cabinet and brought out the bagged qin. Cheng brushed the dust from it with his sleeve, leaned over the table and played again, the firm and gentle notes perfectly in time, the craftsmanship exquisite and divine. Li could not stop beating time in applause. Cheng said, "My humble skill does not do this fine qin justice. If my wife could play it, I believe there would be one or two notes worth hearing." Li said in surprise, "Is your lady also skilled in this?" Cheng laughed and said, "This very piece I played was transmitted to me by my wife." Li said, "It is a pity she is in the inner chambers; I, a humble student, cannot hear her." Cheng said, "We are like members of the same family; we need not be bound by formalities. Tomorrow, please bring your qin, and I shall have her play for you from behind a screen." Li was delighted. The next day, Li carried his qin and went. Cheng prepared a feast and they drank merrily. After a while, Cheng took the qin inside, then came back out and sat down. Soon, a graceful figure in beautiful attire could be dimly seen behind the screen, and presently a fragrance drifted out of the door. After a little longer, the soft sound of strings began; Li could not tell what tune it was, but he felt his heart stirred and his very bones entranced, as if his soul were about to take flight. When the piece ended, she came to peer through the screen—she was a peerless beauty of about twenty. Cheng urged Li to drink deeply from a large goblet, while inside she changed to the *Rhapsody on Idle Feelings*, and Li's mind and spirit grew ever more captivated. He drank too much and became drunk, rose from his seat to take his leave, and asked for his qin. Cheng said, "In your drunkenness, you might have an accident. Come again tomorrow, and I shall have my lady display her full skill." Li went home. The next day, Li called on him, but the office was utterly silent, with only an old servant at the gate. When asked, the servant said, "The master left with his family at the fifth watch; I do not know for what purpose. He said he would return in about three days." Li waited until the appointed day, but by dusk there was still no word. The clerks and constables all became suspicious and reported the matter to the magistrate, who ordered the door broken open to inspect the room. The room was completely empty, with only the table and couch remaining. The matter was reported to the higher authorities, but none could guess the reason. Li was so distraught over the loss of his qin that he could neither eat nor sleep. He traveled thousands of li to inquire at Cheng's home. Cheng was originally from Chu; three years earlier, he had purchased the post of magistrate of Jiaxiang. Li took his name and inquired after his native place, but in all of Chu there was no such person. Someone said, "There was a Daoist named Cheng who was skilled at playing the qin; it was also said he had the art of transmuting base metal into gold. Three years ago, he suddenly left and was never seen again." Li suspected this was the man. Upon further inquiry into his age and appearance, they matched perfectly without error. Li then understood that the Daoist had taken office solely for the sake of the qin. They had known each other for over a year, yet Cheng had never mentioned music; gradually he brought out the qin, gradually he displayed his skill, and gradually he enticed Li with a beautiful woman. After soaking in this way for three years, he obtained the qin and departed. The Daoist's obsession was even greater than Li's own. The world is full of schemes, but this Daoist was among the most refined of schemers. --- **Releasing Butterflies** When Wang Jusheng of Changshan, a *jinshi* graduate, served as magistrate, whenever he heard a lawsuit, he would impose fines according to the severity of the offense, requiring the offender to ransom himself by releasing butterflies. In the hall, hundreds and thousands would be set loose at once, like wind-scattered brocade, and Wang would slap the table and laugh heartily. One night, he dreamed of a woman in splendid attire, who entered calmly and said, "Suffering under your cruel administration, many of my sisters have perished. I shall see that you receive a small taste of romantic punishment first." Having spoken, she turned into a butterfly and fluttered away in circles. The next day, as he was drinking alone in his office, word suddenly arrived that the Imperial Censor was coming. Flustered, he rushed out, and the women of his household playfully pinned a white flower to his cap in jest, which he forgot to remove. When the Censor saw it, he deemed it disrespectful, subjected Wang to a harsh reprimand, and departed. From then on, the order to fine offenders with butterflies was halted. --- Yu Chongyin of Qingcheng was by nature reckless and unconventional. When he served as a judicial commissioner, during the Lantern Festival he tied fireworks and firecrackers all over a donkey, from head to tail, and led it to the prefect's gate. He struck the watchman's clapper and announced himself, saying, "I present a fire-donkey; may I trouble you to come out and see it?" At that time, the prefect had a beloved son suffering from smallpox and was in a foul mood, so he declined. Yu insisted. The prefect had no choice but to order the gatekeeper to unlock the door. The moment the gate opened, Yu ignited the fuses and shoved the donkey inside. The explosions startled the donkey, which reared and bolted wildly; flying sparks shot at people, and none dared approach. The donkey crashed through the halls and into the chambers, smashing bowls and breaking pots, reducing everything it touched to dust with its sparks, and burning all the window screens to ash. The household raised a great outcry. The sick child was so frightened that his smallpox sank in, and he died that very night. The prefect, in his grief and rage, prepared to impeach Yu. Yu begged through various officials and went to the prefect's hall to offer a humble apology on his knees, and only then was he spared. --- **A Son Born to a Man** Yang Fu, the military commander of Fujian, kept a catamite, whose belly began to move. After ten full months, the boy dreamed that a divine being cut open both his flanks and took something out. When he awoke, two male infants lay crying, one on each side of him. He rose and looked at his flanks; the cut marks were plainly visible. The children were named Tianshe and Dishe—Heaven's Shelter and Earth's Shelter. The Historian of the Strange says: "This happened before the rebellion of the Wu藩. After Wu rebelled, the Fujian governor, Lord Cai, suspected that Yang was plotting against him and, fearing he might start a revolt, summoned him on some other pretext. Yang's wife, who had always been wise and courageous, suspected something and tried to dissuade Yang from going. Yang would not listen. His wife wept as she saw him off. She then returned and assembled all the generals, donned armor and took up arms, awaiting news. Before long, word came that her husband had been executed, whereupon she turned and attacked Cai. Cai, in a panic, did not know what to do. Fortunately, his standard troops held their ground, and when the attack failed, she withdrew. Only after she had gone far away did Cai finally don his armor and rush out, leading his men in a great clamor. People told the story and laughed at him. A few years later, the rebels submitted to amnesty. Not long after, Cai died suddenly. On his deathbed, he saw Yang entering with weapons, and all those around him saw it too. Alas! Though his spirit was heroic, his head could not be reattached! The portent of the unnatural birth—was its omen not to be found in this?" --- **Zhong Sheng** Zhong Qingyu was a famous scholar of Liaodong. He went to Jinan to take the provincial examination. Having heard that there was a Daoist at the prince's residence who knew people's fortunes and misfortunes, his heart was drawn to him. After the second session, he went to Baotu Spring and happened to meet him there. He was over sixty years old, with a beard reaching past his chest—a white-haired Daoist. A crowd gathered around him asking about calamities and blessings, and the Daoist answered them all with subtle hints. Spying Qingyu among the crowd, he took his hand with pleasure, saying, "Your heart, your conduct, and your virtue are worthy of respect!" He drew him up into a pavilion, dismissed the others, and asked, "Do you wish to know the future?" "Yes," said Qingyu. "Your allotted fortune is extremely thin," said the Daoist, "yet you may hope to pass this provincial examination. But after you return in glory, I fear you will not see your venerable mother again." Qingyu, being filial to the extreme, wept at these words and wished to give up the examination and go home. The Daoist said, "If you go beyond this point, you will not gain even a single degree." Qingyu said, "If I cannot see my mother before she dies, I can no longer be considered a man. What use would it be to become a minister of state?" The Daoist said, "In a former life, I was fated to have a bond with you, so today I must do my utmost." He then gave him a pill, saying, "You may send someone to take it to her day and night. If she takes it, it will prolong her life by seven days. Finish the examination and then go; you and your mother will still be able to see each other." Qingyu hid it away and hurried out, his spirit utterly lost. He reasoned that the day of their final parting was fixed, and that if he returned home one day earlier, he would gain one more day of serving her. Taking his servant, he hired a donkey and set off eastward at once. After driving it a li or so, the donkey suddenly bolted back; he dismounted but it would not obey, and when he tried to hold it, it kicked. Qingyu was at his wit's end, sweating with agitation. His servant urged him to stop, but he would not listen. He hired another donkey, but it did the same. The sun was already sinking behind the mountains, and he knew not what to do. His servant urged him again, saying, "Tomorrow the examination will be over—why fight over this single morning and evening? Please let us go back and finish the task; that would be the better plan." With no choice, he agreed. The next day he finished his papers hastily, set out immediately, not even pausing for food or rest, and raced home like a shooting star. His mother was critically ill, but after he administered the elixir, she gradually recovered. He went in to see her and wept by her bed. She shook her head to stop him, took his hand, and said joyfully, "I just dreamed that I went to the underworld and saw the king, whose expression was gentle. He said, after examining my life, that I had committed no great sins; and now, mindful of your son's pure filial piety, I grant you an extra twelve years of life." Qingyu was delighted too. After several days, she was indeed as healthy and strong as before. Not long after, he heard news of his success, and taking leave of his mother, he went to Jinan. There he bribed a eunuch to convey his respects to the Daoist. The Daoist came out cheerfully, and Qingyu prostrated himself before him. The Daoist said, "You have already passed with distinction, and your venerable mother has gained additional years—these are all due to your abundant virtue. What power did this Daoist have in it?" Qingyu, amazed that he had foreknown it, bowed and asked about his whole life. The Daoist said, "You will not attain great eminence, but to reach a ripe old age is enough. In your former life, you and I were fellow monks. You threw a stone at a dog but accidentally killed a frog; that frog has now been reborn as a donkey. According to the predetermined reckoning, you should have died young by violence. But now your filial virtue has moved the spirits, and a star of deliverance has entered your fate, so you should be safe. However, your wife in her former life was unfaithful as a woman, and her number is to be widowed young. Now that you have prolonged your life through virtue, she is not your proper match—I fear that within a year, your 'jade terrace' will topple." Qingyu was grieved for a long time, and asked where his next wife would be. "In the Central Plains," said the Daoist, "and she is now fourteen years old." As they parted, he warned, "If ever you meet with danger, you must flee to the southeast." More than a year later, his wife indeed fell ill and died. Qingyu's maternal uncle was a magistrate in Xijiang, and his mother sent him to visit him, so that on the way he might pass through the Central Plains and fulfill the prophecy about his second wife. He happened upon a village where plays were being performed by the river, and gentlemen and ladies mingled in great numbers. He was about to rein his mount and pass by when a loose male donkey followed along behind him, causing his mule to kick out in fright. Qingyu looked back and struck the donkey on the ear with his whip; the donkey, startled, bolted off at full speed. At that moment a prince's heir, a lad of six or seven, was sitting on the dike in the arms of his wet nurse; the donkey charged past, and the attendants had no time to guard against it, knocking both nurse and child into the river. The crowd raised a great outcry and wanted to seize him. Qingyu spurred his mule and fled at full gallop. Suddenly he remembered the Daoist's words and made all speed toward the southeast. After some twenty li, he entered a mountain village where an old man stood at his gate. He dismounted and saluted him. The old man invited him in, said his surname was Fang, and asked where he had come from. Qingyu prostrated himself on the ground and told him the whole story. The old man said, "No matter. Please stay here for a while, and I shall have the searchers driven off." By evening, news came that the victim was the prince's heir. The old man was greatly alarmed, saying, "Another family might be able to manage this, but for this one, I truly can do nothing!" Qingyu wept without end. The old man pondered and said, "There is no way out. Please stay the night and let us see how urgent the matter becomes; perhaps we can still devise something." Qingyu was so full of fear and worry that he could not sleep the whole night. The next day he spied and listened, and learned that official warrants had already been issued for search and arrest, and that anyone concealing the culprit would be executed in the marketplace. The old man looked troubled and withdrew without a word. Qingyu, filled with doubt and dread, could find no peace. In the middle of the night, the old man came in, sat down, and asked, "How old is your wife?" Qingyu replied that he was a widower. The old man said joyfully, "My plan is accomplished." When asked, he replied, "My brother-in-law is devoted to the Dao and has hung up his staff at South Mountain. My sister has passed away, leaving an orphan daughter, who has been reared by servants and is quite clever. What do you say to her taking up the broom and dustpan for you?" Qingyu was delighted that this matched the Daoist's words, and also hoped that being near to relatives might gain him their assistance. He said, "This student is truly fortunate. But I am a criminal from afar, and I greatly fear that I may bring trouble upon my father-in-law." The old man said, "This is for your sake. My brother-in-law's Daoist arts are quite wondrous, but he has long had nothing to do with worldly affairs. After the wedding, you can discuss it with my niece—she will surely find a plan." Qingyu was overjoyed and married into the family. The girl was sixteen, and surpassingly beautiful. Qingyu often sighed before her. She said, "Though I am plain, why do you so quickly show dislike and aversion?" He apologized, saying, "You are a fairy, and I am fortunate to be matched with you. But I have a calamity hanging over me, and I fear it will cause us to part." He then told her the truth. The girl said angrily, "My uncle is inhuman! This is a calamity that reaches heaven; there is no way to manage it, yet he did not make it clear but trapped me in a pit!" Qingyu knelt at length and said, "It was I who begged my uncle with my very life; he was compassionate but at his wits' end. I know that you can raise the dead and regrow flesh on bones. I am truly unworthy to be called a good match, but my family is not dishonorable. If I can be reborn, there will be a day when I offer you incense and flowers." The girl sighed and said, "Since things have come to this, what more can I say? But my father has long shaved his head and lives in a monastery; his affection for his children is already cut off. There is no help for it but to go and beg him together—but I fear we shall suffer no small humiliation." So they spent a sleepless night, making thick knee-pads of felt and cotton and hiding them under their clothes. Then they called for sedan chairs and went ten li or more into South Mountain. The mountain path was tortuous and perilously steep; they could no longer ride. Getting down from the chairs, the girl found every step difficult, and Qingyu took her arm to support her, struggling and stumbling until they finally reached the top. Not far ahead they saw the mountain gate and sat down together to rest. The girl was panting and streaming with sweat, her powder and rouge running down. When Qingyu saw this, his feelings could not endure, and he said, "It is for my sake that you have suffered such hardship!" The girl said sadly, "I fear this is not yet hardship!" After they had recovered somewhat, they entered the temple together, bowed before the Buddha, and went on. Turning through winding passages into the meditation hall, they saw an old monk seated in lotus posture with his eyes seemingly closed, while a youth stood by with a whisk in attendance. The abbot's quarters were swept clean and bright; but before his seat, gravel and pebbles were spread out, as thickly clustered as the stars. The girl did not dare to choose her spot but knelt upon them; Qingyu followed and knelt behind her. The monk opened his eyes for one look and then closed them again. The girl paid her respects, saying, "It has been long since I came to inquire after you. Now I am married, and so I have brought my husband to see you." After a long time, the monk opened his eyes and said, "You girl—what a burden you are!" and said no more. The husband and wife knelt on for a long while until their strength was nearly spent and the gravel and sand seemed to press into their very bones, so that the pain was unbearable. After another interval, the monk at last said, "Have you brought the mule or not?" The girl answered, "No." He said, "Go back at once, the two of you, and bring it here quickly." They bowed and rose, then made their way out, exhausted. After they returned home, they did as ordered, though they did not understand his meaning, and waited quietly. After several days, it was reported that the criminal had been caught and executed. The husband and wife congratulated each other. Before long, a youth was sent from the mountain, bearing a broken staff, which he handed to Qingyu, saying, "The one who died in your place is this gentleman." He then instructed him to bury it and offer sacrifice, so as to absolve the wrong done to the bamboo and wood. Qingyu looked at it; at the broken end there were bloodstains. He prayed over it and buried it. The husband and wife did not dare to remain long, and sped back to Liaodong by night. The Ghost Wife Tai'an Nie Pengyun and his wife were very harmonious in their marital relations. When his wife fell ill and died, Nie was plunged into grief, sitting and lying in melancholy, distracted as if he had lost something. One evening as he sat alone, his wife suddenly pushed open the door and entered. Startled, he asked, "Why have you come?" She smiled and said, "I am already a ghost. Moved by your mourning, I begged the authorities below to allow me to meet with you for a while." Nie was delighted and took her to the bed; everything was just as before. From then on they met under the stars and moon, and more than a year passed. Nie did not speak of remarrying. His uncles, brothers, and cousins, fearing that the family line would be cut off, privately urged him to take another wife. Nie complied and betrothed himself to a girl from a good family. But fearing his wife would be displeased, he kept it secret. Before long, the wedding day drew near. The ghost learned of it and reproached him, saying, "Because of your righteousness, I braved the punishments of the underworld; now you break our sworn vow – is this how the devoted should act?" Nie explained the will of his clan. The ghost remained displeased and took her leave, cutting him off. Though Nie felt pity for her, his plan had succeeded. On the wedding night, as the couple lay together, the ghost suddenly appeared and struck the bride on the bed, crying loudly, "How dare you occupy my bed!" The bride rose and began to resist. Nie, frightened and abashed, crouched there, not daring to take sides. Soon the cock crowed and the ghost departed. The bride, suspecting that Nie's former wife was not really dead and that he had duped her, tried to hang herself. Nie recounted the whole story in detail, and only then did the bride understand that it was a ghost. Every evening the ghost returned. The bride, afraid, avoided her. The ghost would not sleep with Nie either, but only pinched his flesh with her fingers; then she would stare at him angrily by candlelight, silently. This continued for several nights. Nie was troubled by it. In a nearby village there was a man skilled in such arts; he carved a peachwood peg and drove it into each of the four corners of the grave, and the apparition ceased. General Huang When Huang Jingnan Degong was still obscure, he was travelling to the capital with two licentiates when they encountered bandits on the road. The licentiates were terrified and knelt to offer their valuables. Huang was furious; without a weapon in hand, he grasped the legs of a mule with both hands, lifted it, and hurled it at the bandits. Caught off guard, their horses fell and the riders tumbled. Huang punched them until their arms broke, searched their bags, and returned the goods to the licentiates. The licentiates admired his courage and urged him with funds to join the army. Later he repeatedly performed outstanding feats and was eventually girded with the python robe and jade belt. Three Dynasties Elder A certain grand secretary had been a minister of the former Ming dynasty and had surrendered to the roving rebels, for which the world criticized him. In his old age he retired to the countryside. When his ancestral hall was completed, several people slept in it overnight. At dawn they saw a plaque in the hall bearing the words: "Elder of Three Dynasties." And a couplet: "One two three four five six seven, Filial piety, brotherly respect, loyalty, trustworthiness, propriety, righteousness, integrity." No one knew when it had been hung. They found it strange and could not grasp its meaning. Someone interpreted it: "The first line implies 'lacking eight' (wangba), and the second implies 'without shame' (wuchi)." When Grand Coordinator Hong marched south and returned in triumph, he arrived at Jinling and held a requiem for the fallen soldiers. A former student came to pay his respects and, after bowing, presented a piece of writing. Hong, long weary of literary matters, declined on the grounds of dim eyesight. The man said, "Only trouble yourself to sit and listen; allow me to recite it for you." He then drew a text from his sleeve and read aloud in a loud voice – it was the eulogy composed by the late Ming Emperor Sizong for Hong when he was believed to have died in battle at Liaoyang. After reading, he wept loudly and departed. Medicine There was a poor man named Zhang from Yi county. On the road he encountered a Daoist priest skilled in physiognomy, who examined him and said, "You will become rich through the practice of an art." Zhang asked, "Which art should I follow?" The priest looked him over again and said, "Medicine will do." Zhang said, "I barely know the characters for 'zhi' and 'wu' – how could I do that?" The priest laughed and said, "How pedantic! Why must a famous doctor know many characters? Just practice it." Zhang returned home, but being poor and without occupation, he gathered folk remedies and cleared a space in the marketplace to set up a shop, laying out fish teeth and beehive items, seeking a living by his tongue, yet no one thought much of him. It happened that the prefect of Qingzhou had a cough and issued official orders to the subordinate counties to seek physicians. Yi was a remote mountainous area with few doctors; the magistrate, fearing he could not meet the demand, ordered the villagers to report on their own. So they all recommended Zhang. The magistrate immediately summoned him. At that time Zhang himself had a phlegmatic cough and could not cure himself; hearing the order he was terrified and firmly declined. But the magistrate would not listen and finally sent him off by post. On the road he passed through deep mountains, became extremely thirsty, and his cough grew worse. He entered a village to ask for water, but the water there was as costly as jade nectar; he begged everywhere but no one gave him any. He saw a woman straining wild vegetables – there were many vegetables and little water, and the liquid in the basin was thick and turbid like spittle. Zhang, parched and desperate, asked for the leftover liquid to drink. After a short while, his thirst was quenched and his cough immediately stopped. He secretly thought: this must be a good remedy. When he reached the prefectural city, the other doctors had already treated the prefect with no improvement. Zhang asked for a private place, made a false list of medicines and had it shown both inside and outside; then he sent people to gather wild greens from the populace, strained them according to the method, and presented the liquid to the prefect. After one dose, the illness was completely cured. The prefect was greatly pleased, rewarded him handsomely, and awarded him a gold plaque. From then on his fame spread widely; his door was always crowded, and every case he took on was cured without exception. Once a man with a cold described his symptoms and asked for a prescription. Zhang happened to be drunk and mistakenly gave him a remedy for malaria. When he sobered up he realized his error, but dared not tell anyone. Three days later, a visitor came with lavish gifts to thank him; on inquiry, it turned out that the man with the cold had vomited and purged heavily and recovered. There were many such cases. Zhang thus became wealthy, and from then on he valued his reputation and price; he would not go unless the fee was substantial and a sedan chair was sent. An old man named Han from Yidu was a famous doctor. Before he was known, he peddled medicines in various places. One evening he had no place to stay and lodged at a house where the son was dying of a cold, so they begged him to treat him. Han thought that if he did not treat him, he had nowhere else to go, but he truly had no cure. He paced back and forth, rubbing his body with his hands, and the dirt came off in flakes; he rolled them into pills. Suddenly he thought he could use these to fool them, and it would not do any harm. Even if the patient did not recover by dawn, he would have already earned a night's sleep and a meal. So he gave them. In the middle of the night, the host pounded urgently on his door. Fearing that the son had died and that he would be attacked, Han jumped up in fright, leaped over the wall, and fled. The host pursued him for several li, and when Han could run no further, he stopped. Only then did he learn that the patient had sweated and recovered. He was brought back and feasted sumptuously; upon his departure he was richly rewarded. Hiding a Louse A certain villager, while sitting under a tree, caught a louse, wrapped it in a piece of paper, stuffed it into a hole in the tree, and went away. Two or three years later, he passed by that place again, suddenly remembered it, and looked – the paper wrapping in the hole was still intact. He opened it to examine it, and the louse was as thin as bran. He placed it in his palm and looked at it closely. After a little while, his palm became intensely itchy, and the louse's belly gradually swelled. He put it down and went home. Where it had itched, a lump rose and swelled; after several days he died. Dreaming of Wolves Bai Weng was a man from Zhili. His eldest son, Jia, took up an official post in the southern region through divination, and for three years there was no news of him. It happened that a certain Ding, a distant relative by marriage, came to call, and the old man entertained him cordially. Ding had long been a go-between for the netherworld. During their conversation, the old man often asked about matters of the underworld, but Ding's replies were fanciful; the old man did not take them seriously, merely smiling faintly. A few days after Ding left, when the old man was lying down, he saw Ding come again and invite him to go roaming together. He followed him and they entered a city gate. After a while, Ding pointed to a gate and said, "Here lives your sister's son." At that time the old man had a nephew who was magistrate of Jin, so he exclaimed in surprise, "How is he here?" Ding said, "If you don't believe me, go in and you will know." The old man entered and indeed saw his nephew, wearing a cicada hat and embroidered with the xiezhi, seated in the hall, with halberd banners lined up on both sides, and no one could get through. Ding pulled him out and said, "My son's yamen is not far from here—would you like to see him as well?" The old man agreed. After a short while they arrived at a mansion, and Ding said, "Go in." Peering through the gate, he saw a huge wolf blocking the way, and was so terrified that he dared not enter. Ding said again, "Go in." Passing through another gate, he saw in the hall and below the hall, sitting and lying, all were wolves. Looking further at the courtyard, the white bones were piled like mountains, and he grew even more frightened. Ding then shielded the old man with his body and led him in. Just then his son Jia came out from inside, and was delighted to see his father and Ding. After sitting a while, he ordered attendants to prepare dishes and vegetables. Suddenly a huge wolf dragged in a dead man. The old man trembled with fear and rose, saying, "What is this for?" Jia said, "Just to fill the kitchen larder." The old man urgently stopped him. His heart was troubled and uneasy, and he took his leave, wishing to go out, but a pack of wolves blocked the way. Just as he was at a loss whether to advance or retreat, he suddenly saw all the wolves howling and scattering in confusion, some scurrying under the bed, others hiding beneath tables. Bewildered, he could not understand the reason. Soon two golden-armored fierce warriors entered with glaring eyes, produced black chains, and chained Jia. Jia threw himself to the ground and turned into a tiger, with jagged fangs. One of the men drew a sharp sword to cut off its head. The other said, "Not yet, not yet—this is a matter for next April; for now, let us merely knock out its teeth." Then he brought out a great hammer and struck the teeth, which fell broken to the ground. The tiger roared loudly, its voice shaking the mountains. The old man was greatly terrified, and suddenly awoke—only then did he realize it had been a dream. Finding it strange, he sent someone to summon Ding, but Ding declined and did not come. The old man recorded his dream and sent his second son to visit Jia, with a letter of earnest admonition and grief. When the son arrived, he saw that his elder brother's front teeth were all gone; startled, he asked about it, and was told that they had been broken in a fall from a horse while drunk. Checking the date, it was the very day of his father's dream. He was even more alarmed. He produced his father's letter. Jia read it and changed color, but said, "That is just a coincidence with a phantom dream—why make such a fuss?" At that time he was bribing those in power and had been recommended first, so he did not take the ominous dream to heart. The younger brother stayed for several days and saw that the yamen was full of corrupt underlings, and those offering bribes and pleading for favors continued without cease even at midnight. With tears he remonstrated and tried to stop it. Jia said, "Brother, you have always lived in a humble cottage, so you do not know the key workings of officialdom. The power to promote or demote lies with the superiors, not with the common people. If the superiors are pleased, that makes a good official; what method of loving the people could ever please the superiors?" The younger brother knew he could not dissuade him, so he returned home and told his father. When the old man heard it, he wept bitterly. He could do nothing but give away his family wealth to relieve the poor, pray daily to the gods, and only hope that the retribution for his unfilial son would not implicate his wife and children. The next year, word came that Jia had been recommended and promoted to the Ministry of Personnel, and well-wishers filled the gate; the old man only sighed, and took to his bed, feigning illness and refusing to go out. Not long after, he heard that his son had encountered bandits on the way home, and that both master and servant had perished. The old man then rose and said to others, "The anger of the ghosts and gods stopped at his own person; one cannot say that they have not been generous in protecting my family." He then burned incense and gave thanks. Those who came to console the old man all thought it was a false rumor on the road, but the old man alone believed it without doubt, and set a date to prepare the burial ground. —Yet Jia was not dead at all. Earlier, in the fourth month, Jia had left his post. Just after leaving the border of his jurisdiction, he encountered bandits. Jia offered all his baggage to them. The bandits said, "We have come to vent the grievances of the people of this district—do you think we came only for this?" Thereupon they cut off his head. They also asked the family members, "Who is Si Dacheng?" —Si had been Jia's trusted confidant and an accomplice in his tyranny. —The family members all pointed him out. The bandits killed him as well. There were four more corrupt underlings—Jia's collectors of extorted wealth, whom he was about to take to the capital—they also searched them out and executed them. Only then did they divide the loot, fill their bags, and gallop away. Jia's soul lay by the roadside, and he saw a high official pass by, who asked, "Who is the one killed?" The outrider replied, "Magistrate Bai of such-and-such county." The official said, "This is Bai's son; we should not let the old man see such a cruel sight later. Let his head be reattached." Then a man picked up the head and placed it on the neck stump, saying, "An evil man should not be made to face straight; let the shoulders bear the neck instead." Then they left. After a while, Jia revived. His wife and children went to collect his body, saw that he still had a faint breath, and carried him along; they slowly fed him water, and he could drink. But they were stranded in a lodging inn, too poor to return home. After about half a year, the old man finally received the true news and sent his second son to bring him back. Although Jia had revived, his eyes could now see his own back, and he was no longer counted among the ranks of men. The old man's nephew, who was a magistrate, had a reputation for good governance; that year he was selected for promotion to the post of imperial censor, exactly as in the dream. The Historian of the Strange remarks: "I privately sigh that everywhere in the world officials are tigers and underlings are wolves—and even if the official is not a tiger, the underling will be a wolf, to say nothing of those who are fiercer than tigers! The trouble with men is that they cannot see their own backs; but to revive them and make them see their own backs—how subtle is the teaching of ghosts and spirits!" --- The presented scholar Li Kuangjiu of Zouping was quite incorrupt and clear-sighted in office. There was once a rich man who was framed by others, and a yamen runner frightened him, saying, "The official wants two hundred taels of silver from you; you should prepare it quickly—otherwise you are ruined!" The rich man, terrified, promised to prepare half the amount. The runner shook his head, refusing. The rich man pleaded miserably. The runner said, "I will do my utmost, but I fear he may not agree. When the trial is held, watch me plead your case; whether he agrees or not, you will see that I have no other intention." Shortly after, the official took up the case. The runner knew that Li had given up smoking, so he approached and asked, "Would you like a smoke?" Li shook his head. The runner immediately went down and said, "Just now I mentioned the amount, but the official shook his head and would not agree—did you see that?" The rich man believed him, grew fearful, and promised the full amount. The runner knew Li was fond of tea, so he approached and asked, "Would you like some tea?" Li nodded. The runner pretended to brew tea, went down, and said, "It is settled! Just now he nodded—did you see that?" After the trial concluded, the rich man was acquitted, and the runner then took the bribe and also demanded a reward. Alas! The official thought himself incorrupt, yet the road was full of those cursing his greed. This is another case of letting wolves run loose without knowing it. There are many more like this in the world, and it may serve as a mirror for those in office. --- Night Brightness A merchant traveler was sailing on the southern sea. At the third watch, the boat suddenly became as bright as dawn. He rose to look and saw a huge creature, half its body out of the water, towering like a mountain; its eyes were like two suns just rising, casting light in all directions, illuminating the whole earth. Alarmed, he asked the boatmen, but none knew anything about it. Together they crouched down and watched. After a while, it gradually shrank back into the water, and darkness returned. Later, when they reached Fujian, everyone there said that on a certain night it had become bright and then dark again, and it was told as a marvel. Calculating the time, it was the very night when they had seen that strange thing on the boat. --- Summer Snow On the sixth day of the seventh month in the year Dinghai, heavy snow fell in Suzhou. The people were terrified and all prayed at the temple of the Great King. The Great King suddenly possessed a man and spoke, saying, "Nowadays, whoever is called 'Lord' has the word 'Great' added; because you consider my divinity small, can I not deserve the word 'Great'?" The crowd, frightened, all called out "Great Lord," and the snow stopped at once. From this one can see that even spirits love flattery—no wonder that those who curry favor with their superiors get many carriages. The Historian of the Strange says: "The customs of the age have changed—those below grow ever more sycophantic, those above ever more arrogant. Even within the forty-odd years of the Kangxi reign, the evolution of titles has departed from antiquity to a most laughable degree. The title *ye* for a *juren* began only twenty years ago; *laoye* for a *jinshi* began thirty years ago; *dalaoye* for a department or court official began twenty-five years ago. In former times, when a district magistrate called upon the provincial governor, nothing more than *laodaren* was used; now that appellation has long been abandoned. Even if there be a gentleman among them, he too follows the common path of flattery and dares not utter a dissenting word. As for the wives of officials being called *taitai*, that dates back only a few years. Formerly, only the mothers of officials received that title; that a wife should be so addressed is seen nowhere but in the licentious histories, where one finds a Lin Qiao—beyond that, it has never been observed. In the Tang dynasty, the emperor wished to add the title *Grand Scholar* to Zhang Shuo. Zhang Shuo declined, saying: 'Among Scholars there has never been the title of Grand—I dare not accept it.' Today's 'Grand'—who made it grand? It began with the flattery of petty men, and thereby won the favor of the arrogant and noble, who accepted it without demur, and thus the practice spread throughout the realm. I venture to think that in a few years, those called *ye* will advance to *lao*, and those called *lao* will advance to *da*—but I know not what exalted appellation will be devised above *da*! It defies all imagination!" On the third day of the sixth month in the year *dinghai*, in Guide Prefecture, Henan, snow fell more than a foot thick, and all the grain was frozen to death. Alas, they knew not the art of flattering the Great King! How sad! --- Transformed into a Man In the town of Mudu in Suzhou, a peasant girl sat in her courtyard at night, when suddenly a meteor fell upon her head. She collapsed to the ground and died. Her parents, old and without sons, had only this daughter, and wailed in grief as they tried to revive her. After some time she regained consciousness, and laughing said, "I am now a man!" Upon examination, it was indeed so. Her family did not take it as an omen of ill fortune, but rather secretly rejoiced that she had suddenly gained a man's body. Strange indeed. This too was an event of the *dinghai* year. --- The Crane Avenger At a certain temple in Tianjin, a pair of cranes nested atop the owl-shaped ridge ornaments. Hidden in the ceiling boards was a great snake as large as a basin, which, whenever the crane chicks grew their wing feathers, would emerge and devour them all. The cranes cried mournfully for several days and then departed. For three years this continued, and people assumed they would never return; yet the following year they nested again in the same place. When the chicks were nearly grown, they left straightaway and returned only after three days. Entering the nest with hoarse cries, they fed their young as before. The snake again coiled its way upward. No sooner had it neared the nest than the two cranes, startled, flew up with frantic cries, straight into the blue void. Soon there came a rushing wind, and in an instant the sky and earth seemed to darken. All were terrified, and looking up they saw a great bird whose wings blotted out the sun, hurtling down from above with the suddenness of wind and rain. It struck the snake with its talons, and the snake's head fell instantly; it also shattered several feet of the eaves before spreading its wings and flying off. The cranes followed behind, as if to see it off. The nest being destroyed, both chicks fell—one survived, the other perished. A monk took the living one and placed it in the bell tower. After a short while, the cranes returned and fed it as before, and when its wings were grown it departed. The Historian of the Strange says: "They returned the next year, for they did not anticipate that disaster would strike again; after three years they did not move the nest, which shows their resolve for vengeance was already fixed. Their absence of three days—surely they went to weep at the court of Qin, as it were. That great bird must have been a sword-immortal of the feathered race—arriving like a whirlwind and striking in one blow—how could even the Master of Empty Hands surpass this?" In Jinan, a soldier of the camp saw a crane pass by and shot it. It fell as the bowstring sang, with a fish in its beak meant to feed its young. Someone advised him to remove the arrow and release it, but the soldier would not listen. After a short while, it flew off with the arrow still in it. Thereafter it came and went about the city walls, and for over two years the arrow remained in place as before. One day the soldier sat beneath the gate of the camp when the crane passed overhead, and the arrow fell to the ground. The soldier picked it up and said, "So the arrow is still intact, is it?" His ear happened to itch, and he used the arrow to scratch it. Suddenly a great wind slammed the gate, which shut with a crash, driving the arrow through his ear and into his brain, killing him. --- The Wild Geese A fowler in Tianjin caught a female wild goose. Its mate followed him all the way home, crying mournfully and circling in the air until dusk before departing. The next day, the fowler went out early, and the male was already there, flying and calling as it followed him; then it settled at his feet. The fowler was about to catch it as well, when he saw it stretch out its neck, bobbing its head up and down, and spit out half a gold ingot. The fowler understood its intent and said, "So this is to ransom your wife." He released the female. The two geese lingered, as if with both sorrow and joy, and then flew off together. The fowler weighed the gold and found it to be just over two taels six qian. Alas, what do birds know, yet they can be so devoted! Nothing is sadder than separation in life—is it not the same for creatures? --- The Elephants In Guangdong there was a hunter who carried his bow into the mountains. He chanced to lie down to rest and fell asleep without noticing, when an elephant came and seized him with its trunk, carrying him off. He expected to be done harm. Before long, it set him down beneath a tree, bowed its head and gave a single trumpet call, whereupon a host of elephants came crowding about, circling in all directions, as if seeking something. The lead elephant lay down beneath the tree, looking up at the tree and then down at the man, as if wanting him to climb. The hunter understood, and stepping onto the elephant's back, climbed up. Even when he reached the treetop, he still did not know what their intention was. After a while, a *suan ni* arrived, and all the elephants prostrated themselves. The *suan ni* selected the fattest one and meant to attack and devour it. The elephants trembled in fear, none daring to flee, but all looked up at the tree as if begging for pity and deliverance. The hunter understood, and taking aim at the *suan ni*, loosed an arrow—the beast fell dead at once. The elephants gazed skyward, as if bowing and dancing in thanks. The hunter then came down. The elephant again lay prone and tugged at his clothes with its trunk, as if wanting him to ride. The hunter mounted its back, and the elephant set off. When they reached a certain place, it dug a hole in the ground with its foot, revealing countless ivory tusks. The hunter dismounted, bound them together, and placed them on the elephant's back. The elephant then carried him out of the mountains and returned. --- The Headless Corpse A woodcutter went to market and was walking home with his carrying pole over his shoulder, when he suddenly felt a heavy weight at the end of the pole. Turning back, he saw a headless corpse hanging from it. Terrified, he dropped the pole and struck wildly at it, whereupon it vanished. He fled in panic until he reached a village. It was already dusk, and several people were holding torches to the ground, as if searching for something. He approached and asked what was the matter; they said that as they had been sitting together, a head suddenly fell from the sky, its hair all disheveled, and then vanished in an instant. The woodcutter also told what he had seen, and when pieced together, they formed a single person—but they could not fathom where they had come from. Later, someone was carrying a basket when he suddenly saw a human head inside it. People asked in astonishment, and he himself was greatly alarmed, dumping it out on the ground, where it twisted about and disappeared. --- The Purple-flower Monk Ding of Zhucheng was the grandson of Duke Yehe. A young man of literary renown, he fell gravely ill and died, but revived the next night, saying, "I have awakened to the Way." At that time there was a monk skilled in meditation, so Ding sent for him and had him expound the *Śūraṅgama Sūtra* at his bedside. At every section the young man heard, he declared it all wrong, and said, "If my illness were cured, realizing the Way would not be difficult. Only so-and-so can heal my ailment—you should invite him with utmost sincerity." Now in that district there was a certain scholar who was skilled in medicine but did not practice it as a profession; only after three invitations did he arrive. He wrote out a prescription and administered the medicine, and the illness was cured. After he had returned home, a woman entered from outside and said, "I am a handmaiden from the household of Minister Dong. The Purple-flower Monk has a long-standing grievance against me, and now that he has obtained his revenge, do you mean to revive him again? If you go back, calamity will befall you." Having spoken, she vanished. The scholar, afraid, declined Ding's summons. Ding's illness recurred, and he insisted on the scholar's coming, so the scholar told him the truth. Ding sighed and said, "The wrong was born in a former life—death is my due." He soon died. Later, inquiries were made among various people, and indeed there had once been a Purple-flower Monk, a revered monk, whom the wife of Minister Dong of Qingzhou had once supported in her household; but no one knew how the grievance between them had originated. --- Zhou Kechang The Tribute Student of Huai River, Zhou Tianyi, was fifty years old and had only one son, named Kechang, whom he loved dearly. When the boy reached thirteen or fourteen, his looks grew even more handsome; yet he had no taste for study, and would often play truant from school, joining the village children in games, often not returning for the whole day. Zhou let him be. One day, when dusk came and he had not come home, they began to look for him, but found no trace at all. The husband and wife wailed and were nearly driven to despair. After more than a year, Kechang suddenly came back on his own. He said: "A Daoist led me astray, but fortunately did me no harm. When he went out elsewhere, I seized the chance to escape and return." Zhou was overjoyed and did not press him with questions. When he set him to his books again, his comprehension was twice as keen as before. After a year, his literary skill advanced greatly; and when he took the prefectural examinations, he gained fame. Prominent families vied to marry him, but Kechang was quite unwilling. A daughter of the Presented Scholar Zhao had looks, and Zhou forced him to marry her. After she entered the household, the couple joked and laughed together happily; yet Kechang always slept alone, as if he had no intimacy with her. After a year, he passed the autumn examinations and succeeded. Zhou was all the more relieved. But as he grew older, he daily hoped for a grandson, and therefore often hinted indirectly to Kechang. Kechang remained as if unmoved and did not understand. His mother could not bear it and chattered to him morning and evening. Kechang's expression changed, and he went out, saying: "I have long wished to depart; the only reason I did not leave immediately was the feeling of parental affection. In truth, I cannot explore the bedchamber to fulfill your hopes. Let me go again—then the one who satisfies your wishes will come back." His mother rushed after him and pulled him, but he collapsed, and his clothes and cap lay like an empty shell. Greatly alarmed, they suspected that Kechang had died, and that this must have been his ghost. They could only sigh in sorrow. The next day, Kechang suddenly arrived with servants and horses, and the whole household was terrified. When they drew near and questioned him, he also said: "A villain kidnapped me and sold me to a wealthy merchant's family; the merchant had no son, so he adopted me as his own. After getting me, he suddenly begot a son. I missed home, so he sent me back." When they asked about his studies, he was as dull and slow as before. They then knew that this was the real Kechang; the one who had entered the prefectural school and won the provincial examination was a ghost's impostor. But they privately rejoiced that the affair had not been exposed, and let him continue to bear the title of Filial and Incorrupt. When he entered the bridal chamber, his wife was very familiar with him; but Kechang looked shy and abashed, like a newlywed. Just after a full year, a son was born. The Historian of the Strange comments: "The old saying goes that mediocrity blesses a man—there must be some trace of mediocrity in his nose, mouth, brows, and eyes before fortune follows him. He whose brilliance is dazzling is abandoned by ghosts. Where mediocrity resides, the register of laureates can be gained without entering the examination hall, and beautiful women can be won without going to meet the bride in person—much less when one has even a slight advantage and adds to it by scheming and peeping!" Chang'e Taiyuan Zong Zimei, following his father in study and travel, was a sojourner in Guangling. His father had a long-standing acquaintance with the Old Woman Lin beneath the Red Bridge. One day, as father and son were passing the Red Bridge, they met her, and she earnestly invited them to her home to brew tea and converse. A maiden was at her side, of exceptional beauty. The old man profusely praised her. The old woman looked at Zong and said, "The eldest young master is as gentle as a maiden, and has the visage of good fortune. If you do not disdain her, I would gladly offer her to sweep and dust—how about that?" The old man smilingly urged his son to leave his seat and pay respects to the old woman, saying, "A single word is worth a thousand pieces of gold!" Earlier, the old woman had lived alone when the maiden suddenly arrived on her own, recounting her loneliness and bitterness. When asked for her childhood name, she gave it as Chang'e. The old woman cherished her and kept her, in truth intending to hoard her like rare merchandise as an investment. At the time, Zong was fourteen years old. He glanced sideways at the maiden and felt a secret joy, supposing the old man would surely arrange a match for him; yet when the old man returned, he acted as if he had forgotten. His heart burned with impatience, and in secret he confided in his mother. Hearing of it, the old man laughed and said, "I was merely jesting with that greedy old crone. Who knows how many pieces of yellow gold she will demand to sell her? How can this be spoken of lightly!" Over a year later, the old man and the old woman both passed away. Zong Zimei could not put Chang'e out of his heart; when his mourning was about to expire, he entrusted someone to convey his intentions to Old Woman Lin. At first, the old woman denied it. Zong was furious and said, "In all my life I have never lightly lowered my head, yet why does the old woman regard me as not worth a single cash? If you break our former pact, you must return her to me!" The old woman then said, "If I once made a jesting agreement with your late father, that may well have been. But there were no settled words, and so it was entirely forgotten. Since you speak thus now, am I to keep and marry her to the Heavenly King? I must dress her up day after day, truly hoping to exchange her for a thousand pieces of gold; now I ask for half—would that do?" Zong judged within himself that it would be difficult to manage, and so he let the matter drop. As it happened, a widowed crone rented a home as their western neighbor, having a daughter who had reached womanhood whose childhood name was Diandang. Catching a glimpse of her, her refined beauty was not a whit inferior to Chang'e's. He grew fond and admiring of her, steadily advancing through gifts and offerings; as time passed and they grew gradually familiar, they often conveyed their affections with their glances, wishing to speak with nothing coming between them. One night, she scaled the wall to beg for fire. Zong joyfully pulled her to him, and they thereupon shared in the joys of intimacy. They promised to marry, though she excused herself by saying her elder brother had gone out peddling and had not yet returned. From then on, he seized opportunities to come and go, their tracks and traces closely guarded. One day, as he happened to pass the Red Bridge, he saw that Chang'e chanced to be inside her doorway, and hurried quickly past her. Chang'e looked up and saw him, beckoning to him with her hand; Zong halted his steps; the maiden beckoned again, and he thereupon went inside. The maiden reproached Zong for breaking his oath. Zong recounted the reason why. She then went into her inner chambers, retrieved an ingot of yellow gold, and handed it to him. Zong refused to accept it, declining with these words: "I had resolved to sever ties with you forever, having formed another engagement elsewhere. To accept gold and yet plot on your behalf would be to betray another; to accept gold and not plot on your behalf would be to betray you: I truly dare not harbor any betrayal." After a long while, the maiden said, "The engagement you have made—this concubine knows quite a bit about it. That affair will surely come to naught; even if it succeeds, this concubine will not resent your fickleness. Go quickly, the old woman will be here soon." In his flurry and without a will of his own, Zong accepted it and returned home. The following night, he told Diandang. Diandang deeply approved of his words, yet urged Zong to give his undivided heart to Chang'e. Zong made no reply; wishing to win her over, Zong then grew pleased. He forthwith dispatched a matchmaker to deliver the gold to Old Woman Lin; the old woman raised no objection, and Chang'e was brought home to Zong. Once inside the threshold, he recounted everything Diandang had said. Chang'e smiled faintly and feigned encouragement. Zong was overjoyed and eagerly wished to confide it all to Diandang, but Diandang's traces had long since vanished. Knowing it was on her own account, Chang'e temporarily returned to her family home to visit her relatives, thus granting him a space of time, and instructed Zong to steal her pouch. Presently, Diandang indeed arrived, and they discussed what to plot, simply telling him not to be hasty. When she loosened her collar for playful intimacies, a purple silk pouch was at her ribs, and he prepared to pluck it off at once. Diandang changed color, stood up, and said, "You are of one mind with another, yet of two minds with this concubine! Fickle-hearted fellow! I ask that we sever ties from this day forth." Zong bent his will to coax and appease her, but she would not listen and departed straight away. One day, passing her doorway to investigate, another Wu merchant had already rented and lived within it; Diandang and her son and mother had moved away long ago, their shadows and tracks extinguished with nothing left to ask about. Ever since Zong married Chang'e, his household had grown wildly wealthy, with linked pavilions and long corridors extending across the streets and pathways. Chang'e was skilled at witty banter; when she happened to see a scroll of paintings of beauties, Zong said, "I have always considered that as an individual, there is none like you under heaven; it is only that I have never laid eyes upon Feiyan and Yang Fei." The maiden smiled and said, "If you wish to behold them, how is even this difficult?" Thereupon she took the scroll and carefully scrutinized it once, then hurried into her chamber to adjust her makeup before the mirror, imitating Feiyan dancing in the wind and learning Yang Fei under the influence of wine. Long or short, plump or slender, she altered herself to suit the moment; her romantic charm and bearing were a faithful match to the scroll. Just as she was striking a pose, a maidservant arrived from outside, no longer able to recognize her and asking in astonishment who her companion was; only after staring closely did she suddenly smile in realization. Zong happily declared, "I have obtained a single beauty, and yet all the beauties of the ages reside within my bedchamber!" One night, as they were sleeping soundly, several men pried open the door and entered, the light of their torches casting a glare against the walls. The maiden sprang up in a fright and cried out, "Bandits have entered!" Zong, newly awakened, was on the point of crying out. One man pressed a sharp blade to his neck, and out of fear he dared not draw a breath. Another man scooped Chang'e up onto his back, and they departed amid a great uproar. Only then did Zong begin to wail, and the household servants gathered completely; yet among the rare treasures and playthings in the room, not a single one was missing. Zong grieved bitterly, panic-stricken and at a complete loss for a plan, stripped of all will to live. He reported the matter to the officials to pursue and capture them, but there was utterly no news. As time slipped by over three or four years, depressed and listless, he took the pretext of traveling to the capital for the examinations. He resided there for half a year, consulting divinations and making inquiries, leaving no stratagem untried. When he happened to pass Yao Lane, he encountered a woman with a begrimed face and tattered garments, wandering about aimlessly like a beggar. He halted his steps to observe her, and it was Diandang. He cried out in shock, "How is it that you have grown so emaciated to this state?" She replied, "Following our parting, I traveled south. My aged mother passed away, and I was seized by wicked men and sold to a military camp, where the beatings, humiliations, cold, and starvation were more than can be borne." Tears fell from Zong's eyes, and he asked, "Can you be redeemed?" She said, "It is difficult. The expenses required are too numerous; I am powerless to do it." Zong said, "I will speak the truth to you: in recent years I have been called quite well-off; it is only a pity that my traveling funds here are limited, but I will not dare decline to liquidate my baggage and horses. If what is required is not overly extravagant, I shall return home to raise and manage it." The woman arranged to go out of the west city the next day to meet beneath a clump of willows, instructing him to go alone and not bring anyone with him. Zong said, "Agreed." The following day, he went early, and the woman was already there, her garments bright and fresh, vastly different from her previous state. When he asked her in astonishment, she smiled and laughed, "I was merely testing your heart. Fortunately, your sentiment toward the worn-gown still remains. Please come to my humble abode, and we surely shall find a proper way to repay you." Walking a few paces northward, they immediately reached her home, whereupon she brought out food and wine, and they conversed and feasted together. Zong proposed that they return together. The woman said, "I am burdened by worldly ties and cannot follow. As for Chang'e's whereabouts, I have indeed heard quite a bit." Zong eagerly asked where she might be. The woman said, "Her movements are hazy and elusive; neither do I understand them deeply. There is an old Buddhist nun in the Western Hills who is blind in one eye—if you ask her, you will naturally know." Thereupon he stayed and lodged at her home. At daybreak, she showed him the path. When Zong arrived at the place, there was an ancient temple whose surrounding walls were entirely collapsed; amidst a cluster of bamboo stood half a room of a thatched hut, where an old nun was patching her rags. Seeing a guest arrive, she paid him no heed at all. Zong made a bow, and only then did the nun raise her head to ask his purpose. He reported his surname and clan, and straightway stated what he sought. The nun said, "An eighty-year-old blind woman, severed and cut off from the world—where would I know of a beautiful woman's whereabouts?" Zong importuned her earnestly. She then said, "I truly do not know. Two or three of my relatives are coming tomorrow evening to visit; perhaps some of the young women among them know of her—one cannot be sure. You may come tomorrow evening." Zong then went out. The next day he arrived once more, but the nun had gone out elsewhere, and the ruined door was bolted shut. After waiting for a long time, the water-clock had already hastened the night watches and the bright moon hung high; wandering back and forth with no plan, he distantly saw two or three young ladies entering from outside, and Chang'e was among them. Overjoyed to the extreme, Zong leaped up and eagerly seized her sleeve. Chang'e said, "Rash fellow! You have frightened this concubine to death! It is hateful that Diandang wagged her tongue, thus teaching mortal passions to entangle a person." Zong pulled her down to sit, grasped her hands with tender affection, and recounted all the hardships he had passed through, until he involuntarily felt a poignant sorrow. The maiden said, "I will tell you the truth: this concubine is in reality the Chang'e who was banished, and having drifted amidst the mortal realm, my allotted time has already expired; staging it as a bandit kidnapping was simply a way to sever your hopes. The nun is also one who keeps guard at the Queen Mother's manor; when this concubine was first banished, I received her care and succor, and therefore I frequently pay her a visit in my leisure time. If you release this concubine, I shall act on your behalf to convey word to Diandang." Zong would not listen, lowering his head and shedding tears. The maiden glanced into the distance and said, "My sisters are coming." Just as Zong looked all around, Chang'e had already vanished. Zong cried out aloud, weeping bitterly and wishing he no longer lived, and thereupon untied his sash to hang himself. In a daze, he felt his soul leave its housing, desolate and without a place to rest. Presently he saw Chang'e come, seize him, and pull him up so that his feet left the ground; entering the temple, she took the corpse hanging from the tree and shoved and squeezed it back into him, calling out, "Foolish fellow, foolish fellow! Chang'e is right here." Suddenly it was as though waking from a dream. Growing somewhat calm, the maiden angrily said, "That vile slave Diandang! She harmed me and came close to killing the young master; I cannot forgive her!" He went down the mountain, hired a sedan, and returned home. After instructing his household to prepare his luggage, he turned back and went out of the western city to visit Diandang to thank her. When he arrived, the house and buildings were entirely changed; he stared in astonishment and sighed, then returned. He secretly rejoiced that Chang'e had not learned of it. Upon entering the gate, Chang'e greeted him with a smile and said, "Did you see Diandang?" Zong was stunned and could not answer. She said, "You have turned your back on Chang'e—how could you have seen Diandang? Please sit and wait for her; she will come of herself." Before long, Diandang indeed arrived, flustered, and prostrated herself under the couch. Chang'e pressed her fingers together and flicked at her, saying, "You little imp, you have entrapped people not a little!" Diandang kowtowed, only begging for a reprieve from death. Chang'e said, "You push people into a pit, yet you wish to escape beyond heaven? The eleventh young lady of Guanghan is soon to be married; she needs a hundred embroidered pillows and a hundred pairs of shoes. You may come with me and work together on them." Diandang respectfully replied, "I only ask that the work be divided, and I will deliver them on time." The lady did not permit it, and said to Zong, "If you speak a soft word for her, I will release her." Diandang looked at Zong; Zong smiled and said nothing, and Diandang glared at him angrily. Then she begged to return and tell her family; she was allowed, and so she left. Zong asked about her background, and learned that she was a fox from the Western Hills. He bought a sedan and waited for her. The next day, she indeed came, and so they all returned together. However, after Chang'e came back, she always maintained a grave demeanor and did not lightly joke or laugh. Zong pressed her to play and frolic, but she only secretly taught Diandang to do it for her. Diandang was extremely clever and skilled at seductive charms. Chang'e preferred to sleep alone and often declined his company at night. One night, after the third watch, they still heard ceaseless giggling and chattering from Diandang's room. He sent a maid to eavesdrop. The maid returned and did not report, but only asked the lady to go herself. Peeping through the window, she saw Diandang elaborately made up to look like herself, with Zong embracing her and calling her "Chang'e." The lady smiled mockingly and withdrew. Not long after, Diandang suddenly felt a violent pain in her heart; she hastily threw on her clothes, dragged Zong to Chang'e's quarters, and prostrated herself as soon as she entered the door. Chang'e said, "Am I a healer or a sorcerer who can curse or exorcise? You wished to imitate Xi Shi by clasping your heart." Diandang knocked her head, only saying she knew her offense. The lady said, "You are cured." Then she rose and went away laughing. Diandang privately said to Zong, "I can make the mistress learn to be Guanyin." Zong did not believe it, and so they jestingly made a wager. Whenever Chang'e sat cross-legged, her eyes seemed half-closed as if drowsy. Diandang quietly took a jade vase with a willow branch and placed it on the table; then she let down her hair, put her palms together, and stood at her side, her cherry lips half parted, her white teeth slightly showing, without blinking for an instant. Zong laughed at her. Chang'e opened her eyes and asked what it was. Diandang said, "I am learning to be the Dragon Maiden attending on Guanyin." Chang'e laughed and scolded her, and punished her by making her learn the boy's bow. Diandang tied up her hair and then bowed in obeisance from all four directions; she prostrated on the ground and turned over, displaying all sorts of postures, bending left and right, so that her socks could rub against her ears. Chang'e was amused and sat kicking at her. Diandang raised her head, took the phoenix-shaped toe of her shoe in her mouth, and lightly grazed it with her teeth. While Chang'e was still laughing, she suddenly felt a thread of seductive feeling rise from her toes all the way to her heart; her thoughts became lascivious and her mind stirred, as if she could not control herself. She quickly gathered her spirit and scolded, "You fox slave, you deserve death! Do you seduce people without choosing whom?" Diandang was frightened, released her mouth, and threw herself to the ground. Chang'e again sternly reproached her; the others did not understand. Chang'e said to Zong, "Diandang's fox nature has not changed; just now she almost fooled me. If I had not deep roots from past lives, how easy it would have been to fall!" From then on, whenever she saw Diandang, she always treated her with strict severity. Diandang, ashamed and fearful, said to Zong, "I love every limb and part of the mistress without exception; when love reaches its extreme, I cannot help but be excessively seductive. To say I have disloyal intentions—I not only dare not, but also cannot bear it." Zong then told this to Chang'e, and Chang'e treated her as before. However, because the frolicking had no restraint, she repeatedly admonished Zong, but he would not listen; consequently, all the maids and serving women vied with one another in playful teasing. One day, two of them supported a maid and pretended she was Yang Guifei. The two exchanged glances, tricked the maid into relaxing her bones to imitate a drunken languor, and suddenly let go their hands; the maid crashed violently onto the steps, with a sound like a wall collapsing. The crowd was just bursting into loud laughter when they drew near to comfort her—but the "imperial consort" had already perished at Mawei. Everyone was terrified and quickly reported to the master. Chang'e exclaimed in alarm, "Disaster has come! What did I say?" She went to examine her and found she could not be saved. She sent someone to inform her father. The father, a certain Jia, had always been dissolute; he came shouting and rushed in, carried the corpse into the main hall, and railed endlessly with all sorts of abuse. Zong shut the door in fear and did not know what to do. Chang'e came out herself and rebuked him, saying, "Even if the master abused a maid to death, the law has no provision for compensation; and since she died suddenly by accident, how do you know she will not revive?" Jia clamored, "Her limbs are already cold—how can there be any hope of life?" Chang'e said, "Do not shout. Even if she does not live, there is always the magistrate." She then entered the hall and felt the corpse, and the maid revived, rising as soon as she was touched. Chang'e turned around and said angrily, "The maid fortunately did not die—how dare you, you villainous slave, behave so outrageously! You may be bound with a grass rope and sent to the yamen!" Jia had no words to say; he knelt at length and begged for mercy. Chang'e said, "Since you know your fault, I will for now refrain from investigating and punishing. But a scoundrel like you is fickle and unreliable; keeping your daughter will ultimately bring trouble. You should take her away at once. The original purchase price—so many strings of cash—you must quickly raise and bring them here." She sent someone to escort him out and had him engage two or three village elders to endorse the deed with their signatures at the end. After that, she called the maid forward and made Jia ask her himself: "Are you all right?" She replied, "I am all right." Then she handed her over to him to take away. Thereafter, she summoned all the maids, reproached them one by one, and had them all caned. She also called Diandang and imposed strict prohibitions on her. She said to Zong, "Now I know that for one who is above others, not even a smile or a frown may be taken lightly. The beginning of jesting started with me, and the abuses have become unstoppable. All that is sorrowful belongs to yin; all that is joyful belongs to yang. When yang reaches its extreme, yin is born—this is the fixed law of cycles. The disaster with the maid was the gods and spirits forewarning us through gradual signs. If we remain befuddled and do not awaken, then ruin will overtake us." Zong listened respectfully. Diandang wept and begged to be delivered. Chang'e then pinched her ear; after a moment she released her hand, and Diandang looked dazed for a while, then suddenly as if waking from a dream, she threw herself to the ground and leaped about as if she wanted to dance. From then on, the inner chambers were orderly and quiet, and no one dared to make a racket. When the maid returned to her home, she died suddenly without illness. Jia could not pay the ransom, so he begged the village elders to intercede for mercy, and she agreed. Moreover, out of regard for her service, she gave him a coffin, and he departed. Zong had often worried about having no children. Suddenly, from Chang'e's abdomen came the sound of a child crying; then she took a knife, cut open her left side, and brought out a boy. Not long after, she conceived again, and cut open her right side to bring out a girl. The boy closely resembled his father, and the girl closely resembled her mother; both were betrothed to families of high standing. The Historian of the Strange remarks: "When yang reaches its extreme, yin is born—truly a profound saying! Yet having an immortal in one's house, fortunate enough to enjoy the utmost pleasure, to dispel calamities, to prolong life, and not to suffer death—such a realm of bliss, one might well grow old in it; and yet the immortal is still anxious about it? The cycle of Heaven's movements—the principle indeed should be so; but as for those in this world who are perpetually in distress and never prosper, how can one explain that? In former times, a Song man who sought immortality but failed often said, 'If I could be an immortal for a single day, I would die without regret.' I can no longer laugh at him." Ju Leyue Ju Leyue was a man from Qingzhou. When his wife died, he abandoned his home and went away. Several years later, he returned wearing a Daoist robe and carrying a rush cushion. After staying one night, he wished to leave; his relatives and clansmen forcibly kept his clothes and staff. Ju pretended to take a stroll to the outskirts of the village, and all the clothes and utensils in the room floated out slowly and followed him away. Chu Sheng Chen of Shuntian, a xiaolian, when he was sixteen or seventeen, used to follow a schoolmaster and study in a Buddhist temple, where there were many fellow students. Among them was a certain student named Chu, who claimed to be from Shandong. He studied assiduously and inquired closely, hardly taking any rest; moreover, he lodged in the studio and was never seen to return home. Chen became very close to him and therefore questioned him. Chu replied: "My family is poor, and it is not easy to raise the tuition fee. Even if I cannot cherish every inch of daylight, if I add the midnight hours, then my two days can equal three days for others." Chen was moved by his words and wanted to bring his own couch to share the same bed. Chu stopped him, saying: "Not yet, not yet! I observe that our teacher's learning is not worthy of being my master. At Fucheng Gate there is a Mr. Lü, who though advanced in years, is worthy to be a teacher. Please let us move together to study with him." — Now in the capital, those who set up schools generally charged by the month; at the end of the month, when the tuition was paid, they were free to stay or leave. So the two students went together to call on Lü. Lü was a learned scholar of Yue, who, having fallen on hard times and unable to return home, taught young children—though it was not really his aspiration. He was very pleased to get the two students; and Chu was exceptionally intelligent, understanding everything at a glance, so he especially valued him. The two were close and intimate, sharing the same desk by day and the same bed by night. When the month ended, Chu suddenly asked for leave to go home, and for more than ten days he did not return. They all wondered about it. One day, Chen went to Tianning Temple on some business and encountered Chu in the corridor, splitting hemp stalks and quenching sulfur to make fire-making tools. When Chu saw Chen, he looked embarrassed and uneasy. Chen asked: "Why have you suddenly given up your studies?" Chu took his hand and asked for a private word, saying sadly: "I am too poor to provide for the teacher; I must peddle for half a month to be able to study for one month." Chen sighed for a long time, then said: "Just go back to your studies; I will do my utmost." He ordered his servant to collect Chu's implements and together they returned to the school. He warned Chen not to reveal it, but to tell the teacher some other excuse. Chen's father was a shopkeeper who had amassed wealth by hoarding goods, and Chen often stole his father's money to give to the teacher on Chu's behalf. When his father reproached him for the missing money, Chen told him the truth. His father thought him foolish and made him give up his studies. Chu was deeply ashamed and took leave of the teacher, wanting to go. Lü, learning the reason, reproved him, saying: "Since you are poor, why did you not tell me earlier?" Then he returned all the money to Chen's father, and kept Chu to study as before, sharing meals with him as if he were his own son. Although Chen did not attend the school, he often invited Chu to drink at the taverns. Chu always declined to avoid suspicion; but Chen pressed him more and more insistently, often weeping, and Chu could not bear to break off, so they continued to associate without reserve. After more than two years, Chen's father died, and Chen again sought to be taught. Lü, moved by his sincerity, accepted him; but having been out of study for so long, he was far behind Chu. After half a year, Lü's eldest son came from Yue, begging for food as he sought his father. The disciples collected money to help with his travel expenses; Chu only shed tears in attachment. When Lü was about to leave, he instructed Chen to take Chu as his teacher. Chen obeyed, and lodged Chu in his home. Not long after, Chen entered the county school and took the "leftover talent" examination. Chen worried that he could not finish the essay, so Chu offered to take his place. On the appointed day, Chu came with another man, whom he said was his cousin Liu Tianruo, and instructed Chen to go with him for a while. Just as Chen was going out, Chu suddenly pulled him from behind, so that he was about to fall, but Liu quickly took his arm and led him away. After a tour of the sights, they went together to Liu's home to stay. There were no women in the household, so they lodged the guest in the inner rooms. After a few days, it suddenly became Mid-Autumn. Liu said: "Today there are many visitors in the Imperial Relative Li's garden; we should go there to relieve our boredom, and then I will see you home." He had servants carry tea kettles and wine vessels and they set out. But they found the waterside pavilions and plum blossom kiosks so crowded and noisy that they could not enter. Passing the water gate, they saw beneath an old willow a painted pleasure boat lying athwart, and they boarded together. After several rounds of wine, they felt the quiet was oppressive. Liu turned to a servant and said: "There is a new singing girl near Plum Blossom Pavilion—I wonder if she is at home?" The servant went and soon returned with the girl, who was none other than the courtesan Li Eyun. Li was a famous courtesan in the capital, skilled in poetry and good at singing; Chen had once drunk at her establishment with friends, so he knew her. When they met, they exchanged a few polite remarks. The girl looked melancholy and worried. Liu bade her sing, and she sang the "Song of Haoli." Chen was displeased and said: "Even if we hosts and guests do not please you, why should you sing a dirge to living people?" The girl rose to apologize, forced a smile, and then sang a amorous song. Chen was pleased, and grasping her wrist said: "In the past I read your 'Washing the Gauze' several times, but now I have forgotten it entirely." The girl recited: "With tearful eyes I face the mirror stand, / Lift the curtain and suddenly see my sister-in-law come, / I lower my head and turn aside to look at my embroidered shoes. / Forcing my green brows to open in a smiling face, / Frequently I use my red sleeves to wipe my fragrant cheeks, / Careful, still afraid that others might guess." Chen repeated it several times. Soon they moored the boat and passed a long gallery, where they saw many verses inscribed on the wall; Chen immediately took a brush and copied the words on it. Dusk was falling, and Liu said: "Those in the examination hall will soon come out." So he saw Chen home. As soon as they entered the gate, Liu took his leave. Chen saw that the room was dark and empty; after a moment, Chu entered the door. But on close inspection, it was not Chu. While he was still wondering, the visitor suddenly came close and fell down. The servants said: "The young master is exhausted!" They all helped to pull him up. Then Chen realized that the one who had fallen was none other than himself. When he rose, he saw Chu beside him, and he was dazed as if in a dream. He dismissed the attendants and questioned him closely. Chu said: "I tell you, do not be alarmed: I am truly a ghost. I should have been reborn long ago, but I have lingered here because I could not forget your great friendship; therefore I attached myself to your body to write for you. Now that the three sessions are over, this wish is fulfilled." Chen again begged to go to the spring examinations. Chu said: "Your ancestors had meagre blessings; your bones are of a stingy sort, not worthy of an honorary title." Chen asked: "Where will you go?" Chu replied: "Mr. Lü and I have a father-son bond; I constantly worry about him and cannot set it aside. My cousin is a registrar in the underworld; I have asked him to plead with the Lord of the Underworld, and perhaps there will be some word." So he took his leave and went. Chen found it strange. At dawn, he visited Li the courtesan to ask about the boating excursion; but he found that she had died several days before. He then went to the Imperial Relative's garden and saw that the inscribed verses were still there, but the pale ink was faint, as if about to fade. Only then did he realize that the inscriber was a spirit, and the composer was a ghost. That evening, Chu came joyfully and said: "My plan has fortunately succeeded; I respectfully take my leave of you." He then stretched out both palms and had Chen write the character "Chu" on them as a memento. Chen was about to set out wine for a farewell feast, but Chu shook his head and said: "There is no need. If you do not forget our old friendship, after the results are posted, do not fear the distance and difficulty of the journey." Chen wept and saw him off. He saw a man waiting at the gate; while Chu was still lingering affectionately, the man pressed his hand on Chu's head, which flattened at his touch, scooped him up into a bag, and carried him away on his back. After a few days, Chen indeed passed the examination. So he prepared his baggage and went to Yue. Lü's wife had been barren for decades; at over fifty, she suddenly gave birth to a son, whose two hands were clenched tightly and could not be opened. When Chen arrived, he asked to see the child, and then said that in his palms there should be a mark—the character "Chu." Lü did not fully believe it. But when the child saw Chen, his ten fingers opened of themselves, and upon inspection, it was indeed so. Startled, they asked the reason, and he told them everything. They all marveled together. Chen gave them generous gifts and then returned. Later, Lü, as a tribute student, came to the capital for the palace examination and lodged with Chen; by then the child was thirteen years old and had already entered the county school. The Historian remarks: "Old Lü taught his disciples, but did not know to teach his own son. Alas! One does good to others, and good fortune descends upon oneself—how close is that! As for Chu, before he could repay his teacher with his person, he first repaid his friend with his spirit—his ambition and his conduct could pierce sun and moon. Is it merely because he was a ghost that we find him extraordinary?" Bandit Households During the Shunzhi reign, in the region of Teng and Yi, seven out of ten men were bandits, and the officials dared not arrest them. Later they were pacified and accepted into submission, and the district magistrate distinguished them as "bandit households." Whenever they had a dispute with commoners, he would deliberately favor them, for fear that they would rebel again. Later, litigants often falsely claimed to be bandit households, while their opponents strenuously attacked their pretence. Whenever both parties presented their cases, right and wrong were set aside without judgment, and first they would argue back and forth over the truth or falsehood of the bandit status, troubling the authorities to consult the registers. It happened that the official residence had many foxes, and the magistrate's daughter was bewitched by one. He invited a magician, who cast a spell and caught the fox in a bottle, about to burn it with fire. The fox inside the bottle shouted loudly: "I am a bandit household!" Everyone who heard it could not suppress their laughter. The Historian remarks: "Nowadays there are those who rob people with torches in broad daylight, yet the officials do not regard them as bandits but as adulterers; and those who climb over walls to commit lewd acts often do not confess to adultery but confess to banditry—the state of the world has changed once again. Suppose that today in an official residence there were a fox, it would certainly shout 'I am a bandit' without a doubt." In Zhangqiu, the grain tax for water transport, the corvée labor, and the surcharge for melting-loss on tax collections often cost the common people several times as much as they did for the gentry and scholars; therefore, those who owned land vied to have their land registered under the latter’s names. Although this did no harm to the state revenue, it actually diminished the officials’ private purses. The county magistrate Zhong submitted a memorial requesting that the abuses be rectified and received approval. At first he ordered self‑confession; but afterward, unscrupulous commoners used this to blackmail their superiors, and properties that had been sold off decades earlier were all fraudulently claimed as entrustments or fictitiously registered, so that they sued the original sellers. The magistrate consistently sided with the plaintiffs, and thus many honest but weak people lost their holdings. There was a certain student Li who was sued by a certain Jia, and both went to the tribunal for examination. Jia addressed him as “Xiucai”; Li shouted back vehemently, refusing to accept the title of Xiucai. The clamor did not cease. The magistrate asked those beside him, and all pointed out that he was indeed a Xiucai. The magistrate asked: “Why do you not admit it?” Li said: “Let the title of Xiucai be put up on the high shelf; after the land dispute is settled, it will not be too late to take it up again.” Alas! Under the name of “thief,” men strive to usurp it; under the name of “Xiucai,” they strive to decline it—what a reversal! Someone submitted an anonymous complaint, which read: “The plaintiff, Yuan Rang, for the matter of defying the law and seizing property: Being old and unable to perform corvée service, I have fifty mu of land near the city wall. In the first year of Duke Yin, I provisionally registered it under the name of the evil gentryman Yan Yuan. Now that the government decrees are strict, it is proper that I should confess. But unexpectedly, he has kept it for a long time without returning it and has forcibly taken it as his own. I went to reason with him, but his master led a gang of seventy‑two evildoers and with poisoned cudgels struck me repeatedly, injuring my shins and legs. They also locked me in a mean alley, giving me daily only a basket of rice and a gourd of water, keeping me prisoner and nearly starving me to death. The witnesses from Hu Xiang are available. I humbly beg that his cap and rank be stripped and that a strict investigation be made, so that the blood‑earned property may be restored to its owner. This is my complaint.” This may well be placed alongside Liu Zhi’s suit against Bo Yi and Shu Qi. A Certain Yi West of the town there lived a certain Yi, who had formerly been a gentleman on the beam—a thief. His wife was deeply afraid of this and repeatedly urged him to desist; thereupon Yi underwent a complete change of heart. After two or three years, however, poverty became so unbearable that he thought of doing once more what Feng Fu had done, and only then would he stop. So, pretending to go into trade, he went to a good fortune‑teller and asked which direction would be favorable. The diviner cast the lots and said: “The southeast is auspicious; it benefits the petty man, not the gentleman.” The omen coincided with his own secret wish, and he rejoiced inwardly. He then traveled southward, reaching the region of Suzhou and Songjiang, and for several months he roamed the villages and towns. By chance he entered a temple and saw a few stones piled in a corner of the wall; knowing that this signified something unusual, he also threw a stone among them. He then went straight behind the shrine and lay down. As night fell, people gathered in the temple and talked, apparently more than a dozen in number. Suddenly one of them counted the stones and was surprised to find more than usual; so they searched together behind the shrine, found Yi, and asked: “Was it you who threw the stone?” Yi said yes. They questioned him about his native place and name, and Yi gave false answers. They then gave him weapons and led him away with them. They came to a large mansion, produced soft ladders, and vied to climb over the wall. Because Yi had come from afar and was unfamiliar with the roads, they made him crouch outside the wall to handle the passing of goods and guard the sacks. After a short while, a bundle was thrown down; after another while, a chest was lowered. Yi lifted the chest and knew it contained objects; so he broke it open, felt inside with his hands, and took all the heavy items, placing them into one sack. He shouldered it and ran off, taking the direct road home. From this he built towers and halls, bought fine fields, and purchased a rank for his son by contributing grain. The county magistrate had a plaque hung over his gate reading “The Good Man.” Later, when a major case was exposed, all the bandits were captured; only Yi had no name on the rolls, so no one could trace him, and he escaped. Long after the affair had subsided, Yi would sometimes recount it himself when drunk. There was a certain great bandit in Cao who, having gained a large fortune, returned home and lay down to sleep without a care. Two or three petty thieves climbed over the wall, seized him, and demanded gold. He would not give it; they applied the cudgel and scorching fire until they had taken all he had, then departed. The bandit said to others: “I never knew that the torture of the branding‑iron could be so painful!” Thereupon he deeply hated thieves, enlisted as a mounted constable, and captured nearly all the bandits in the county. When he caught the former thieves, he applied to them exactly what they had applied to him. Huo Nü Zhu Daxing was a native of Zhangde. His family was wealthy, but he was exceedingly stingy. Except for his children's marriages, he had no guests at his table and no meat in his kitchen. Yet he was frivolous and fond of lechery; wherever there was beauty, he would spare no expense. Every night he would climb over the wall to neighboring villages and sleep with wanton women. One night, he encountered a young woman walking alone. Knowing she was a fugitive, he forced her to come with him and brought her back home. When he lit a candle to look at her, she was extraordinarily beautiful. She said her surname was Huo. When he pressed her with detailed questions, she said displeased, "Since you have already taken me in, why must you interrogate me further? If you fear I might burden you, it is better that I leave early." Zhu did not dare to ask further and kept her to share his bed. However, the woman could not tolerate coarse fare, and she disliked even meat stews; she would only be satisfied with bird's nest soup or soup made of chicken hearts and fish maw. Zhu had no choice but to exert himself to provide for her. She was also prone to illness, requiring a bowl of ginseng soup daily. At first Zhu refused, but she moaned and seemed at death's door; so he reluctantly gave it to her, and her ailment vanished as if it had never been. This became routine. The woman must wear silk and brocade, and after a few days she would tire of the old garments. After more than a month like this, the expense was incalculable, and Zhu gradually could not supply her. She sobbed and refused to eat, asking to leave. Zhu, afraid, again humored her and submitted to her whims. Whenever she felt bored and depressed, she would have him summon actors to perform every ten days or so; during the performances, Zhu would set a stool outside the curtain and sit there holding a child to watch. Yet the woman showed no sign of pleasure, and often scolded him; Zhu did not argue much. After two years, his household gradually declined. He spoke gently to her, asking her to reduce expenses somewhat; she agreed, and all expenditures were cut by half. After a long time, this still was not enough, and she became content with minced meat; gradually she even accepted food that was not delicacies. Zhu secretly rejoiced. Suddenly, one night, she opened the back door and fled. Zhu was despondent as if he had lost something; he searched everywhere and learned that she was in the He family of a neighboring village. He was from a great lineage, a scion of an old official family, wild and extravagant, fond of guests, with lights burning till dawn. Suddenly a beautiful woman entered his inner chambers at midnight. When questioned, she turned out to be Zhu's escaped concubine. He had always held Zhu in contempt, and now, charmed by her beauty, he took her in. After a few days of intimate relations, he became even more infatuated, indulging her most extravagant desires, serving her just as Zhu had done. When Zhu learned of this, he went to demand her back, but He paid him no heed. Zhu brought a lawsuit to the magistrate. The magistrate, finding her name and origin unclear, disregarded it. Zhu sold his property to bribe officials and finally had the case accepted. The woman said to He, "When I was in Zhu's household, I was never properly betrothed with betrothal gifts—why fear him?" He was pleased and prepared to contest the case. But a guest, Mr. Gu, advised him, saying, "Harboring a fugitive already violates the law; moreover, this woman's daily expenses are limitless—even a family worth a thousand gold cannot sustain her for long." He suddenly saw the truth, dropped the lawsuit, and returned the woman to Zhu. After a day or two, the woman fled again. There was a certain Mr. Huang, a poor scholar without a wife. She knocked at his door and entered, telling him where she came from. Huang, seeing this sudden beautiful woman arrive, was frightened and did not know what to do. Huang was always law-abiding and firmly declined her. But she would not leave. In their exchanges, she was charming and irresistibly alluring. Huang's heart was moved, and he kept her; yet he worried that she could not endure poverty. She rose early, personally undertook the household's hard labor, and worked more diligently than his former wife would have. Huang was refined and unrestrained, skilled in amorous arts, and regretted only that they had met so late. He only feared that word might leak out and their happiness would not last long. Meanwhile Zhu, after his lawsuit, grew even poorer; and, considering that the woman would never be content, he ceased to pursue the matter. The woman lived with Huang for several years, and they were deeply devoted. One day, she suddenly wished to visit her family and asked Huang to escort her. Huang said, "You always said you had no home—why is this so contradictory?" She replied, "I spoke carelessly before. I am from Zhenjiang. In the past I followed a rogue, wandered the rivers and lakes, and so came to this place. My family is rather well-off; if you take all your capital and go with me, you will certainly not be at a loss." Huang followed her advice, hired a carriage, and they set off together. When they reached the border of Yangzhou, they moored their boat by the riverbank. The woman happened to lean by the window, and a merchant's son passed by in a large boat. Struck by her beauty, he turned his boat around and followed them, though Huang was unaware. Suddenly the woman said, "Your family is extremely poor. I now have a way to cure poverty—will you follow it?" Huang asked what it was. She said, "I have been with you for several years without bearing you a child—that is also an unresolved matter. Though I am plain-looking, I am not yet old. If someone can offer a thousand gold pieces for me, I would sell myself to him, and then with that money you can obtain a wife and property. What do you think of this plan?" Huang turned pale, not knowing what to make of it. She laughed and said, "Do not be anxious. There are many beauties in the world—who would spend a thousand gold for me? I only say it jokingly to test whether there is any taker. Whether to sell or not is still up to you." Huang would not agree. But she herself spoke to the boatman's wife, who looked at Huang; Huang gave a vague assent. The boatman's wife went and soon returned, saying, "The merchant's son on the neighboring boat is willing to offer eight hundred." Huang deliberately shook his head to make difficulties. Soon she came again and said he agreed to the full price, and asked that they come over to the other boat to exchange the payment. Huang smiled faintly. The woman said, "Tell him to wait a moment; I shall instruct Huang to let me go." Then she said to Huang, "All these days I have served you with a body worth a thousand gold—do you finally realize it now?" Huang asked, "How shall I dismiss him?" She replied, "Go at once and sign the deed; whether I go or not is ultimately up to me." Huang refused. She urged him, and Huang, helpless, went over. The money was paid immediately. Huang ordered it to be sealed and marked, saying, "So because of poverty, it has come to this—to part so abruptly. If my wife absolutely will not go, I will return the gold intact to you." Just as the gold was being moved to his boat, the woman, accompanied by the boatman's wife, had already boarded the merchant's boat from the stern. She looked back and waved farewell, without any grief or attachment. Huang was utterly stupefied, his throat choked, unable to speak. Soon the merchant's boat cast off and sped away like an arrow. Huang wailed loudly and wanted to pursue it, but the boatman would not comply and set sail southward. In an instant they reached Zhenjiang, where the cargo was unloaded ashore. The boatman quickly untied his boat and left. Huang sat morosely by his baggage, not knowing where to go, gazing at the endless river, feeling as if a myriad arrows had pierced his body. As he was wiping his tears, he suddenly heard a sweet voice calling, "Huang!" He looked around in astonishment, and there was the woman already ahead on the road. Overjoyed, he shouldered his luggage and followed her. He asked, "How did you get here so soon?" She laughed and said, "Had I delayed a few moments longer, you would have begun to have doubts." Huang then suspected that she was not an ordinary person and pressed her for the truth. She laughed and said, "All my life, towards the stingy I have been their ruin, and towards the wicked I have been their deceiver. If I had truly planned this with you, you would never have agreed—where could we have obtained a thousand gold? Now your purse is full, and the pearl has returned to its owner; you should be content. Why press me with endless questions?" She then hired porters to carry the bags, and together they went on. They entered within the water gate, where a house faced south; she went straight in. In a moment, old men, old women, young men, and women all came out to greet them, all saying, "Huang has come!" Huang entered and paid respects to his new father- and mother-in-law. There were two young men who bowed and sat with him in conversation; they were her brothers, Dalao and Sanlao. At the feast, the dishes were few, but four jade platters filled the square table. Chicken, crab, goose, and fish were all cut into pieces. The young men served wine in large bowls and spoke boldly and freely. Afterwards they led him to a separate courtyard, where the couple could stay together. The bedding was smooth and soft, and the bed used cured leather instead of palm-fiber rope. Every day maids and old women brought three meals; sometimes the woman would stay inside the whole day without leaving. Huang, living alone, felt bored and distressed, and repeatedly spoke of returning, but she firmly stopped him. One day, she said to Huang, "Now I have made a plan for you: let us buy a woman, for the sake of having offspring. But buying a concubine would be too expensive; instead, I will pretend to be your elder sister, and let my father arrange a marriage with a respectable family—it will not be hard to obtain a good woman." Huang disagreed, but she would not listen. There was a daughter of a certain Mr. Zhang, a tribute scholar, who was recently widowed; the betrothal price was fixed at a hundred strings of cash. The woman insisted on having her married to Huang. The new wife's pet name was Amei; she was quite lovely and charming. The woman called her "sister-in-law"; Huang felt uneasy and awkward, but the woman remained perfectly composed. Another day, she said to Huang, "I am going with my elder sister to Nanhai to visit an aunt; we shall return in a little over a month. Please live peacefully with your wife." Then she left. The couple lived alone in their courtyard; food and drink were supplied on time and were very lavish. Yet ever since they had entered the house, no one had ever come to their room again. Every morning, Amei would go to pay respects to her mother-in-law, but after a word or two she would withdraw. When the sisters-in-law were nearby, they only exchanged a smile. If they lingered for a long time, they were not cordial; and when Huang saw his father-in-law, it was the same. Occasionally he would encounter the brothers conversing together, but as soon as Huang arrived, they all fell silent. Huang was puzzled and frustrated, with no one to confide in. Amei noticed this and asked, "Since you are a brother-in-law to the young masters, why has it been a month and they still treat you like a stranger?" Huang was taken aback and could not answer; stammering, he said, "I have been away for ten years and only just returned." Amei further questioned him about his parents-in-law's family background and the whereabouts of the sisters-in-law. Huang was greatly embarrassed and could no longer conceal anything; his inmost thoughts were entirely exposed. The woman wept, saying, "My family, though poor, would never make me a lowly concubine. No wonder your sisters-in-law despise me and will not count me among their number!" Huang, in terror and confusion, could think of no plan, and could only kneel for a long time, awaiting her decision. Mei wiped her tears and helped him up, then asked him what he proposed to do. Huang said, "How would I dare to scheme otherwise? My only plan is to go away alone, leaving you here." The woman said, "To be married and then return to my parents—how could that be bearable in sentiment? She, though she came first, was a private arrangement; I, though I came later, am a public one. Better to wait for her return and ask her, since she has devised this plot, how she intends to place me." Several months passed, and the woman did not return. One night, hearing noisy drinking in a guest house, Huang secretly went to spy on it, and saw two guests sitting at the head, both in military garb: one wore a leopard-skin turban, awe-inspiring as a heavenly god; the one on the east side had a tiger-head hide made into a helmet, with the tiger's mouth gripping his forehead, and the nose and ears all fully formed. Startled, he returned and told Amei, but they could not fathom who the Huo father and son were. The couple, in fear and suspicion, planned to rent lodgings elsewhere, but also feared arousing their suspicions. Huang said, "To tell you the truth: even if the man from the South Seas returns, the evidence is already settled, and I cannot remain in this household. Now I wish to take you away, but I fear your honored father may have other objections. Better for us to part temporarily; within two years I shall come again. If you can wait, wait; if you wish to marry another, that is your own decision." Amei wished to inform her parents and follow him, but Huang would not allow it. Amei wept, and demanded a solemn oath; then they parted, and she returned home. Huang went in to take leave of his father- and mother-in-law. At that time all the brothers were out; the father-in-law tried to detain him until their return, but Huang would not listen and departed. Boarding the boat, he was forlorn, his spirit and form lost. When he reached Guazhou, he suddenly looked back and saw a single sail flying toward him like the wind; as it drew near, he saw a man seated at the prow, hand on his sword—it was Huo Dalang. From afar he called, "You wish to hurry back, but why did you not consult us again? Leaving your wife behind—who can wait for you for two or three years?" As he spoke, the boat had drawn close. Amei came out from that boat; Dalang lifted her aboard Huang's boat, then leaped back and went straight away. Earlier, when Amei had returned home and was tearfully telling her parents her story, suddenly Dalang arrived with a sedan chair at the gate, pressing his sword and threatening, forcing the girl to go with him like the wind. The whole family was terrified and dared not hinder or question him. The girl told Huang all this; Huang did not understand his intentions, but was overjoyed to have her back, so he set sail and departed. When they reached home, he produced funds to start a business, and they became fairly wealthy. Amei often thought anxiously of her parents and wished Huang to go and visit them; but she also feared that if the Huo girl came, there would again be discord between the first and second wife. Before long, Old Man Zhang came to visit, and seeing that the house was neat and well-kept, he felt greatly comforted. He said to his daughter, "After you left, I went to the Huo household to inquire, but found the gate locked, and the master himself knew nothing of it; for half a year there was no news. Your mother wept day and night, saying that you had been cheated away by villains and did not know where you had wandered. Now you are safe, are you not?" Huang told him the whole truth, and they guessed that the Huos were spirits. Later, Amei bore a son, named Xianci. When he was over ten, his mother sent him to Zhenjiang; on the way, at the border of Yangzhou, he rested at an inn, and his attendants had all gone out. A woman came, led the boy into another room, lowered the curtain, took him on her knee, and smiling asked his name. The boy told her. She asked, "What is the meaning of the name?" He replied, "I do not know." The woman said, "Go home and ask your father—he will know." Then she dressed his hair in a topknot, took a flower from her own hair and pinned it on him; she took a gold bracelet and put it on his wrist. She also placed gold inside his sleeve, saying, "Take this and buy books to read." The boy asked who she was. She said, "Do you not know that you have another mother? Go home and tell your father: Zhu Daxing has died without a coffin—he should be helped; do not forget." The old servant returned to the inn and found the young master missing; he searched until he reached the other room and heard voices; peeping in, he saw the former mistress. From outside the curtain he gave a slight cough, about to ask a question. The woman pushed the boy onto the bed, and in a flash she had vanished. When they asked the innkeeper, none knew anything. A few days later, when he returned from Zhenjiang, the boy told Huang and showed the gifts. Huang sighed with emotion. When he inquired about Zhu, he found that he had died only three days before, his body exposed and unburied, so he gave generous aid. The Historian of the Strange comments: "Was that woman an immortal? She changed masters three times—that is not chastity. Yet for the miser she broke his stinginess; for the lecher she hastened his dissipation—she was not without purpose. But if she broke them, there was no need to pity them. For the bones of the greedy, the lewd, and the base, what regret is there for the ditch?" Si Wen Lang [END OF TRANSLATION] Pingyang Wang Pingzi, going to the northern capital for the examinations, lodged at the Huguo Temple. In the temple there was already one Yuhang Sheng staying, and Wang, living next door, sent in his visiting card. Sheng did not reply to it. Meeting him morning and evening, he was often rude. Wang, angered by his wild perversity, broke off all intercourse. One day, a young man was wandering in the temple, in white clothes and a skirted cap, looking strikingly tall. Drawing near and engaging him in conversation, his words were witty and fine. Wang felt fondness and respect for him. On asking his native place, he said, "My surname is Song, from Dengzhou." Wang then had his servant set out a seat, and they sat face to face, laughing and talking. Just then Yuhang Sheng passed by, and they both rose to give him the seat. Sheng took the upper seat without any modesty. Suddenly he asked Song, "Are you also one of the examinees?" Song replied, "No. I am of mediocre talent, and have long had no ambition to soar." Sheng asked again, "From which province?" Song told him. Sheng said, "If you do not even seek advancement, that shows your discernment. But north of the mountains—east and west alike—there is not a single man who understands letters." Song said, "Northerners are indeed mostly without understanding, but those without understanding are not necessarily this young gentleman; southerners are indeed mostly with understanding, but those with understanding are not necessarily you." Having said this, he clapped his hands; Wang echoed him, and thus the whole hall burst into laughter. Sheng, ashamed and enraged, raised his brows, rolled up his sleeves, and boomed, "Dare you let me set a theme here and now, and match our literary skills?" Song looked away and smiled, "What is there to fear?" He then went to his lodgings, brought out a classic, and handed it to Wang. Wang casually flipped it open and pointed, saying, "'The boy of the Que party carries messages.'" Sheng rose and asked for brush and paper. Song pulled him back and said, "An oral composition will do. I have already formed the po: 'In the place where guests and visitors come and go, one sees a man who knows nothing.'" Wang held his belly and laughed heartily. Sheng angrily said, "Utterly unable to write, and only indulging in insults—how can you be considered a man?" Wang exerted himself to mediate, and asked that a finer theme be given. He flipped again and said, "'There were three men of benevolence in Yin.'" Song immediately responded, "These three men had different ways, but their goal was one. What is that one? It is benevolence. The gentleman simply practices benevolence—why must it be the same?" Sheng then would not compose, and rose, saying, "This man has a little talent." And he left. Wang for this reason esteemed Song all the more. He invited him to his room, and they talked intimately for a long time; he brought out all his own essays and submitted them to Song for judgement. Song read with extreme speed, and in less than an hour had finished a hundred pieces. He said, "You are also deeply immersed in this art; however, when you take up the brush, you have no thought of certain success, yet you still have the heart to hope for a lucky chance—and that alone puts you in the inferior grade." Thereupon he took the ones he had read and explained each in detail. Wang was greatly delighted and treated him as a teacher. He had the cook make dumplings with cane sugar. Song ate them and found them sweet, saying, "In all my life I have never known this flavor; I must trouble you to make them again another day." From then on they became very congenial. Song would come every three or five days, and Wang would invariably prepare the dumplings for him. Yuhang Sheng would occasionally meet him, and though he did not talk much, his arrogant and disdainful air was much reduced. One day, he showed his examination essays to Song. Song saw that the circle-marks and commendations from his friends were already thick; he glanced over them once, pushed them aside on the desk, and said not a word. Sheng suspected he had not read them, and asked again. He replied that he had finished reading. Sheng then suspected he did not understand. Song said, "What is so hard to understand? They are simply not good!" Sheng said, "With one glance at the red and yellow marks, how can you know they are not good?" Song then recited his essay, as if he had long known it by heart, and as he recited he criticized. Sheng shuffled uneasily, sweating, and left without a word. After a while, Song left; Sheng entered and urgently asked Wang for his essays. Wang refused. Sheng forcibly searched and found them; seeing many circles and marks, he laughed, "This is just like the dumplings!" Wang was naturally simple and tongue-tied, and could only look abashed. The next day, Song came and Wang told him all. Song angrily said, "I said 'the southerners would not rebel again'—how dare this rustic boor act so! I must surely repay him!" Wang earnestly warned him against frivolous behavior, and Song expressed deep appreciation. After the examinations, Wang showed his essays to Song, who praised them considerably. By chance, as they were walking through the palace halls, they saw a blind monk sitting in the corridor, with medicines laid out for sale as a physician. Song exclaimed in surprise, "This is an extraordinary man! He knows literature better than anyone—we must not fail to consult him." He then had Wang return to the lodgings to fetch his essays. Meeting Yuhang Sheng on the way, he brought him along as well. Wang called the monk "Master" and paid his respects. The monk, thinking he was consulting a physician, asked about his symptoms. Wang explained that they came for instruction. The monk laughed, "Who has been so talkative? How can one without eyes discuss literature?" Wang asked him to use his ears instead of eyes. The monk said, "Three essays of over two thousand words—who can endure listening to all that? Better to burn them, and I will judge them with my nose." Wang agreed. Whenever one essay was burned, the monk sniffed and nodded, saying, "You at first follow the great masters—though not yet reaching their true likeness, you are close. I have received this with my spleen." Wang asked, "Will it pass?" He said, "It can pass." Yuhang Sheng, not fully convinced, first burned a trial piece by an ancient great master. The monk sniffed again and said, "Excellent! This one I have received with my heart—unless it were Gui or Hu, who else could produce this?" Sheng was greatly startled, and only then burned his own piece. The monk said, "I have just received one composition; I have not seen the whole leopard—why suddenly change to another person?" Sheng made an excuse, "That was a friend's piece, only that one; this one is mine." The monk sniffed the remaining ashes, coughed and retched several times, and said, "Do not throw any more on! It sticks and will not go down; I can only force it into my diaphragm. If you burn more, it will make me sick." Sheng withdrew in shame. A few days later the list was posted; Sheng actually passed, while Wang failed. Sheng and Wang went together to tell the monk. The monk sighed, "I am blind in my eyes, but not in my nose; those within the curtain are blind even in their noses." Shortly Yuhang Sheng arrived, in high spirits and elated, saying, "Blind monk, have you also been eating someone's dumplings? How is it now?" The monk said, "What I discussed was literature; I do not presume to discuss your fate with you. You, sir, should seek out the essays of the examining officials, take one piece from each, and burn them—then I shall know which one is your teacher." Sheng and Wang together searched and found only eight or nine men. Sheng said, "If I am mistaken, what shall be the forfeit?" The monk said angrily, "Pluck out my blind eyes!" Sheng burned them; for each piece, the monk said it was not the right one. When they came to the sixth piece, he suddenly retched toward the wall, and broke wind with a thunderous sound. Everyone burst out laughing. The monk wiped his eyes, turned to Sheng, and said, "This is truly your teacher! At first, without knowing, I sniffed it suddenly—it pricked my nose, stuck in my stomach, and my bladder could not contain it; it came straight out from below!" Sheng flew into a rage and left, saying, "We shall see tomorrow—do not regret it! Do not regret it!" After two or three days he still did not come; when they looked, he had already moved away—and then they knew he was that very disciple. Song comforted Wang, saying, "For all of us who study, we should not resent others, but should master ourselves: if we do not resent others, our virtue becomes the greater; if we can master ourselves, our learning advances. Your present failure is indeed due to unfavorable fate; but judging fairly, your essays were not yet at the summit. If you sharpen yourself thereby, there will be those in the world who are not blind." Wang stood in solemn respect. He also heard that the provincial examination would be held again the next year, so he did not return home but stayed on to receive instruction. Song said, "In the capital firewood is costly and rice is precious; do not worry about funds. Behind the lodgings there is a buried hoard of silver; you may dig it up and use it." He then showed him the place. Wang declined, saying, "In the past Dou and Fan were poor yet could remain uncorrupted; now I am fortunately able to support myself—how dare I stain myself?" One day Wang was drunk and sleeping, when his servant and the cook secretly dug it up. Wang suddenly awoke and heard sounds from behind the house; peeping out, he saw a heap of gold on the ground. When the fact was revealed, they both cowered in fear. Just as he was reproaching them, he noticed there were gold goblets with many inscriptions; on close inspection, they all bore the given names and taboo of his grandfather. (It turned out that Wang's grandfather had once been a minister in the Southern Ministry, and had come to the capital and lodged here, where he suddenly fell ill and died; the gold was what he had left behind.) Wang then rejoiced, and counted the gold at over eight hundred taels. The next day he told Song, and showed him the goblets, wanting to share them equally; but Song firmly declined, and so he stopped. He took a hundred taels to give to the blind monk, but the monk had already left. After several months, he studied even more diligently. When the examination came, Song said, "If you do not succeed this time, then it is truly fate!" Soon Wang was disqualified for violating the rules. Wang said nothing; Song wept bitterly, unable to stop. Wang instead comforted him. Song said, "I am detested by the Creator, and have been thwarted all my life; now I have also involved my good friend. Is it not fate? Is it not fate!" Wang said, "All things have their number. As for you, sir, you have no ambition for advancement—that is not fate." Song wiped his tears and said, "I have long wished to speak, but feared to startle you. I am not a living man—I am a wandering, drifting soul." He had been famed for talent since youth but failed to gain success in the examination halls. Feigning madness, he went to the capital, hoping to find one who understood him and would transmit his writings to posterity. In the year Jia Shen, he met with calamity, drifting about year after year. Fortunately, he found a true friend who knew and loved him, and thus exerted every effort to polish his works—the unfulfilled wish of his life was indeed to find a worthy companion to share his joy. Now that the written word is under such a scourge, who can remain unmoved?" Wang was also moved to tears. He asked, "Why have you been so long delayed?" The reply: "Last year the Heavenly Emperor ordered the Holy Sage and King Yan to audit the ghosts of the calamity—those of the higher rank were assigned to various offices, the rest were to be turned on the Wheel of Reincarnation. My humble name has been recorded, but before taking up the post I wished to see one moment of your soaring success. Now I must take my leave." Wang asked, "What office are you to be examined for?" He said, "In the Zitong Prefecture there is a vacancy for the Director of Literary Affairs, temporarily filled by a deaf boy, which is why the literary fortunes have been topsy-turvy. Should I by good fortune obtain this rank, I shall see that the Sacred Teachings flourish again." The next day he came cheerfully and said, "My wish is granted! The Holy Sage ordered me to compose a treatise on 'Nature and the Way'; he read it with delight and said I could govern letters. But King Yan's registrar, on account of my 'slanders,' wished to reject me. The Holy Sage argued on my behalf, and so I obtained the post. I prostrated myself in thanks. Then he called me near his desk and admonished: 'Now, out of pity for talent, I have promoted you to a pure and important office; you should cleanse your heart and serve diligently, and not repeat your former faults.' From this one may see that the underworld values virtue even more than literary skill. You must still be lacking in self-cultivation—only accumulate good deeds without slackening." Wang said, "If that is so, where lies the virtue of that Yuhang scholar?" He replied, "That I do not know. But the underworld's rewards and punishments are never off by a hair. Even the blind monk we saw the other day was a ghost—a famous scholar of a former dynasty, punished with blindness for having wasted too many written papers in his lifetime. He wished to heal people's ailments to atone for his past sins, hence he wandered the markets in that guise." Wang ordered wine brought. Song said, "No need; for all the year's hospitality, let this moment suffice—just prepare some boiled dumplings for me once more." Wang was so grief-stricken he could not eat. He let Song eat alone; in a moment he had finished three large bowls. Patting his belly he said, "This meal will keep me full for three days, as a token of your kindness. All the food I have eaten here lies behind the house, already turned into fungi. Keep them as medicine—they will increase your children's intelligence." Wang asked about their next meeting. He said, "Since I now hold official duties, I must avoid suspicion." Wang asked again, "If I offer a libation at the Zitong shrine, will it reach you?" He replied, "That is of no use. The Ninth Heaven is very far; only by purifying yourself and acting rightly will the earthly registrar report it, and then I shall certainly know." With that he took his leave and vanished. Wang looked behind the house and indeed found purple fungi growing; he picked and stored them. Beside them the earth was freshly mounded, and there the dumplings lay intact. Wang returned home and redoubled his self-discipline. One night he dreamed that Song came with a canopied carriage and said, "You once, in a petty rage, mistakenly killed a maidservant, which cut off your official emolument; but now your steadfast conduct has offset that. Yet your fate is too thin to support an official career." That year he passed the provincial examination; the next year he passed the spring metropolitan examination. He then declined to take office. He had two sons; one was extremely dull, but after being fed the fungi he became very bright. Later, on business in Jinling, he met Yuhang Sheng at an inn, and they talked at length of old times; Yuhang Sheng was deeply humbled, but his temples were already grey. The Historian remarks: "Yuhang Sheng openly boasted of himself; his writings might not have been wholly without merit, but his arrogant and deceitful bearing made it impossible to bear him for a moment. Heaven and men had long grown weary of him, hence even ghosts and spirits made sport of him. If he could have increased his virtue, then the examiners' 'piercing nose and stinging heart' would have been easy to encounter—why should his fate have been so meager?" **Ugly Fox** Mu Sheng, a man of Changsha, was poor and in winter had no padded clothes. One evening as he sat alone, a woman entered, dressed in dazzling finery but with a dark and ugly face. She smiled and said, "Are you not cold?" Startled, he asked who she was. She said, "I am a fox immortal. I pity your lonely plight and wish to share your cold bed for a while." Mu feared she was a fox and detested her ugliness, so he cried out loudly. The woman placed a silver ingot on the table and said, "If you are kind to me, I will give you this." Mu was pleased and yielded. The bed had no mattress, so she used her robe as a substitute. At dawn she rose and said, "With what I gave you, quickly buy soft silk for bedding; the rest you can use for padded clothes and food—that should suffice. If we remain good to each other, you need not worry about poverty." Then she left. Mu told his wife, who was also pleased, and they bought the silk and sewed it. That night the woman came, saw the new bedding, and said happily, "Your good wife has labored!" She left silver in recompense. From then on she came every night without fail. Each time she left, she always left something. After a year, the house was neat and clean, all inside and out were dressed in embroidered finery, and they had become quite wealthy. The woman's gifts gradually diminished, and Mu grew weary of her. He invited a sorcerer, who drew talismans on the door. When the woman came, she bit them off and threw them away, then entered and pointed at Mu, saying, "Ingratitude and faithlessness—you have carried it to the extreme! But what can this do to me? If you despise me, I will leave on my own. But since our affection is severed, what you have received from me must be repaid!" Angrily she departed. Mu, frightened, told the sorcerer. The sorcerer set up an altar, but before it was ready, he suddenly fell to the ground, his face covered in blood; when examined, one ear had been cut off. The crowd fled in terror; the sorcerer also fled with his hand over his ear. Inside the house stones were hurled like basins, and doors, windows, pots and pans were all smashed. Mu hid under the bed, cowering and sweating. Soon he saw the woman enter carrying something—cat-headed and dog-tailed—which she placed before the bed and urged: "Hehe! Bite this faithless man's feet." The creature immediately gnawed at his shoes, its teeth sharper than knives. Mu was terrified and tried to curl up, but his limbs would not move. The creature bit his fingers, crunching audibly. In agony, Mu begged piteously. The woman said, "Bring out all the gold and pearls you have, without concealment." Mu assented. The woman said, "Hoho!" and the creature stopped. Mu could not rise, but told her where they were. The woman went and searched for herself; besides jewelry and clothes, she found only over two hundred taels of silver. She found it too little and again said, "Hehe!" The creature bit again. Mu wailed and begged for mercy. The woman gave him ten days to pay six hundred taels of silver. Mu agreed, and the woman left with the creature. After a long while, the family gradually gathered and pulled Mu out from under the bed—his feet were dripping blood and he had lost two fingers. They looked around the room: all valuables were gone, only the old ragged quilt from former days remained. They covered Mu with it and let him lie down. Fearing she would return in ten days, he sold maids and clothes to make up the amount. On the appointed day, the woman indeed came; he paid her at once, and she left without a word. From then on she never came again. Mu's foot wound took half a year of medicine to heal, but the family was as poor as before. The fox then married into a nearby village family named Yu. Yu was a farmer, not wealthy; but within three years, by purchasing a rank through grain contribution, he built grand mansions, and the fine clothes he wore were half of Mu's former possessions. Mu saw this but dared not ask. Once, while walking in the fields, he met the woman on the road and knelt by the wayside. She said nothing, but wrapped five or six taels of silver in a white kerchief and tossed it to him from afar, then turned and went straight on. Later Yu died young, but the woman still visited his house from time to time, and each time gold and silk would disappear. Yu's son, seeing her arrive, bowed to her and said from a distance, "Father is gone, and we children are as your own—even if you do not care for us, how can you bear to see us in poverty?" The woman left and never came again. The Historian remarks: "When a baleful creature comes, to kill it would be valiant; but having received its favors, even a ghost cannot be betrayed. To rise in wealth and then turn against one's benefactor would be condemned by the worthy and heroic. If a person is not in one's heart, even ten thousand bushels cannot move one. Seeing how Mu's eyes lit up at the sight of silver, was he not one who, for the sake of profit, would sacrifice body and honor without regret? Alas for the greedy man—in the end he suffered mutilation!" **Lü Wubing** The Sun gentleman of Luoyang, named Qi, married the daughter of Prefect Jiang, and they were deeply devoted to each other. At twenty she died young; he was inconsolable. He left home and resided in a mountain villa. It happened to be rainy; he lay napping in the daytime, with no one in the room. Suddenly he saw under the curtain of the inner chamber a woman's feet showing; he wondered and asked about it. A young woman lifted the curtain and entered, about eighteen or nineteen, dressed plainly but cleanly, somewhat swarthy and pockmarked, resembling a poor family's daughter. Thinking she must be a villager renting a house, he scolded, "If you need anything, you should tell the servants. How dare you enter so casually!" The woman smiled and said, "I am not a villager. My ancestral home is Shandong; my surname is Lü. My father was a literary scholar. My childhood name is Wubing. I came with my father as a wanderer, and early lost my parents' care. Admiring the gentleman, a scion of a distinguished family and a renowned scholar, I wish to be your learned handmaid, like Kangcheng's." Sun laughed and said, "Your intention is excellent. But the servants are living mixed together here; it is truly inconvenient. Allow me to return home, and then I will send a palanquin to engage you." The woman faltered, saying, "I consider myself humble and inferior. How dare I hope to be your equal? I would merely serve before your desk, and I should not be so inept as to hold the scrolls upside down." Sun said, "Even taking a maid requires an auspicious day." He then pointed to the shelf and told her to take the fourth volume of the almanac—this was to test her. The woman turned the pages and found it. She first perused it herself, then presented it to him, smiling, "Today, Hekui is not in the chamber." Sun's resolve stirred a little; he kept her concealed in the room. The woman, at leisure with nothing to do, dusted the table, arranged the books, burned incense, and wiped the bronze vessel; the room became bright and clean, and Sun was pleased with her. At dusk, he sent the servants to sleep elsewhere. The woman, with downcast brows and attentive eyes, was diligent and thorough. Only when he told her to retire did she take the candle and leave. In the middle of the night, he woke up and found someone lying by the head of the bed; reaching out his hand, he knew it was the woman. He seized and shook her. The woman started up and stood by the bed. Sun said, "Why don't you sleep elsewhere? Is the head of the bed a place for you to lie?" The woman said, "I am easily frightened." Sun pitied her and had her place a pillow inside the bed. Suddenly he smelled her breath, as pure as lotus stamen, and found it strange; he called her to share the pillow, and could not help being stirred; gradually they shared the quilt, and he was greatly delighted. Thinking concealment was not a good plan, and fearing gossip if they returned together, Sun had a maternal aunt who lived a little over ten doors away. He planned to have her escape to that house and then bring her over later. The woman agreed and said, "Auntie, I know her well. There is no need to send word ahead; please let me go at once." Sun saw her off; she climbed over the wall and left. Sun's maternal aunt was a widowed old woman. At dawn she opened the door, and the woman slipped in. The aunt questioned her. She replied, "Your nephew sent me to inquire after you, Auntie. The gentleman wishes to return home, but the road is long and he lacks a mount; he leaves me to stay here temporarily." The aunt believed her, and so she stayed. Sun returned, and falsely said that his aunt had a maid whom she wished to give him; he sent someone to carry her back, and she attended him whether sitting or reclining. As time went on, he doted on her more and more and took her as a concubine. When matchmakers from prominent families proposed marriages, he refused them all, as if he had resolved to have her as his only one. The woman knew this and earnestly urged him to marry a proper wife; so he married a woman from the Xu family, but he still doted on Wubing. Xu was very virtuous, never contending for his nighttime company; Wubing served Xu with even greater respect; thus the wife and concubine were harmonious. Xu bore a son named A Jian; Wubing loved to hold him as if he were her own. When the boy had just turned three, he would leave his wet nurse and sleep with Wubing; when Xu called him, he would not go. Before long, Xu died of illness. At her deathbed, she told Sun, "Wubing loves the child the most; you may make her his mother; and you may even make her your proper wife." After the burial, Sun was about to fulfill her words. He told the clan and relatives; they all said it was inadvisable; the woman also firmly declined, so he stopped. In the same town there was the daughter of the Minister of Personnel Wang, newly widowed, who came to propose marriage. Sun was unwilling to marry, but Wang asked again. The matchmaker praised her beauty, and the clan, respecting her power, all urged him. Sun was swayed and married her. She was indeed beautiful, but extremely arrogant. She often found fault with clothes and utensils and would destroy them. Sun, due to his love and respect for her family, could not bear to go against her. After a few months in the household, she monopolized his favor, and whenever Wubing came before her, whether laughing or crying, it was a fault. She often took out her anger on her husband and frequently quarreled and fought with him. Sun was vexed and distressed by this, and therefore often slept alone. The wife was angry again. Sun could not bear it, and using some pretext, went to the capital, fleeing his wife's tyranny. The wife blamed Wubing for his distant journey. Wubing was subservient and held her breath, attending to her moods; but the wife was still displeased. At night, she made her stand watch and sleep under the bed; the boy ran and stayed with her. Whenever she was called to serve, the boy would cry. The wife scolded him in disgust. Wubing hastily called the wet nurse to take him, but he would not go; when forced, he cried even louder. The wife angrily rose and beat him severely countless times, until he finally went with the wet nurse. The boy consequently fell ill with palpitations and would not eat. The wife forbade Wubing from seeing him. The boy cried all day. The wife scolded the nurse and made her put him on the ground. The boy was exhausted and hoarse, crying and asking for a drink; the wife warned them not to give it. Night fell; Wubing, seeing that the wife was not there, secretly gave the boy water. When the boy saw her, he abandoned the water, grasped her lapel, and wailed without stopping. The wife heard this and stormed out ferociously. The boy, hearing her voice, stopped crying, gave a start, and expired. Wubing wept bitterly. The wife angrily said, "Vile slave, what an ugly display! Are you trying to threaten me with the child's death? Let alone a brat of the Sun household; even if I killed the heir of the Prince's mansion, I, the daughter of the Minister of Personnel Wang, could bear the consequences!" Wubing suppressed her sobs and tears, and begged to prepare burial things. The wife would not allow it, and immediately ordered him thrown away. After the wife left, she secretly felt the boy; his limbs were still warm. She whispered to the nurse, "Take him away quickly, wait briefly in the wilds; I will follow. If he is dead, we will throw him away together; if alive, we will raise him together." The nurse said, "Yes." Wubing went into the room, took out her hairpins and earrings, and went out to catch up. They looked at the boy together; he had revived. The two were delighted, and planned to hurry to the villa and rely on the aunt. The nurse worried that Wubing's delicate steps would slow them, but Wubing hurried ahead and waited for her, as fast as the wind; only by running with all her might could the nurse keep up. Around the second watch, the boy's condition became critical, and they could no longer proceed. So they turned into a village and reached an old farmer's house, leaning against the door to wait for dawn. They knocked and borrowed a room, exchanged the hairpins and earrings for money, summoned both shaman and doctor, but the illness ultimately did not abate. The woman, covering her tears, said, "Nurse, take good care of the boy; I will go find his father." The nurse was just astonished at her absurdity, but the woman had already vanished. She was horrified and perplexed beyond measure. On that day, Sun was in the capital, resting on his bed, when the woman quietly entered. Sun started up in surprise and said, "I just lay down, have I already entered a dream?" The woman grasped his hand, choking with sobs, stamping her feet and unable to make a sound. For a very long time, she finally cried out and said, "I have endured a thousand hardships and ten thousand pains, and fled with the boy to Yang—" Before she could finish the sentence, she burst into loud wailing, fell to the ground, and vanished. Sun was utterly horrified, still suspecting it was a dream. He called his attendants to look together; her clothes and shoes were plainly there. He was greatly amazed and could not understand. He immediately packed his things and galloped home like a shooting star. When he heard that his son was dead and his concubine had fled, he beat his breast in great grief. His words turned against his wife; she retorted sharply. Sun, enraged, drew a bare blade; the maids and nurses blocked and tried to save her, so he could not get close, and threw it from afar. The flat of the blade struck her forehead, breaking the skin and drawing blood; she let down her hair, howled, and ran out to report to her family. Sun caught her and brought her back, beat her countless times with a staff until her clothes were in tatters, and her wounds were so painful she could not turn over. Sun ordered her carried into a room to be nursed, intending to wait until she recovered and then cast her out. The wife's brothers heard of it, became angry, and led many horsemen to his gate; Sun also gathered strong servants armed to resist. The two sides shouted abuse at each other; only after a whole day did they disperse. Wang was not satisfied and sued him. Sun defended himself and entered the city, presenting himself for trial, and stated his wife's wicked conduct. The magistrate could not overcome his case, so he sent him to the Director of Studies for punishment to please Wang. Director of Studies Mr. Zhu, from a distinguished family, was upright and incorruptible. After investigating the truth, he angrily said, "Do the officials above take me for a contemptible instructor who extorts unjust money and licks people's sores and hemorrhoids? This sycophantic behavior, I cannot do!" He ultimately did not accept the order, and Sun returned openly. Wang could do nothing about it, so he hinted to his friends to mediate, wanting Sun to go to his house in person to apologize. Sun refused; after ten rounds of back-and-forth, it could not be settled. The wife's wound gradually healed. He wanted to cast her out, but feared the Wang family would not accept her, so he let things drift and made the best of it. With his concubine gone and his son dead, he grieved day and night. He thought of finding the wet nurse to ask about the situation. Recalling Wubing's words "fled to Yang", and since there was a Yangjia Village nearby, he suspected she was there; he went to ask, but no one knew. Someone said that fifty li away there was Yanggu; he sent a rider to inquire, and indeed found them. The boy gradually recovered; they were all delighted to see each other, and he brought them back in the carriage. The boy, catching sight of his father, burst into loud crying; Sun also shed tears. The wife, hearing that the boy was still alive, rushed out in a rage, intending to scold and curse. The boy was just crying; opening his eyes, he saw the wife, started in fright and threw himself into his father's arms, as if seeking to hide. He held him and looked at him; his breath had stopped. They called him urgently; after some time, he revived. Sun angrily said, "I do not know how cruelly she abused him, to bring my son to such a state!" Then he wrote a divorce document and sent his wife back. Wang indeed did not accept her, and again had her carried back to Sun. Sun had no choice but to have father and son live in separate courtyards, and did not allow the wife to have contact. The wet nurse then fully related the circumstances of her not being ill, and Sun then realized she was a ghost. Moved by her righteousness, he buried her clothes and shoes, and inscribed a tombstone with "Tomb of the Ghost Wife Lü Wubing." Before long, the wife gave birth to a son, but she killed him by twisting his hands around his neck. Sun became even angrier and again expelled the wife; Wang again had her carried back. Sun then filed a complaint with the higher authorities, but all, because of the Heavenly Official, left it unattended. Later the Heavenly Official died, and Sun continued his complaint without cease, so they ruled that she should be returned to her natal family permanently. Sun thereafter did not remarry, but took a concubine. After the wife returned, her reputation for shrewishness became very notorious; after three or four years, no one came to ask for her hand. The wife suddenly repented, but it was too late to recover. An old servant of Sun's family happened to go to her house. The wife treated her well and wept before her; guessing her feelings, it seemed she missed her former husband. The old servant returned and told Sun, but Sun laughed it off. After another year or so, the wife's mother also died, and she was orphaned with no one to rely on; her sisters-in-law were quite厭惡 and jealous of her. The wife became more destitute, daily weeping. A poor scholar lost his spouse, and his elder brother discussed giving her a generous dowry and marrying her off, but she refused. She often secretly entrusted messengers to convey her feelings to Sun, weeping to tell him of her repentance, but Sun did not listen. One day, the wife took a maid, stole a donkey, rode it, and dashed to Sun's home. Sun was just coming out from inside; she greeted him and knelt at the steps, weeping uncontrollably. Sun wanted to send her away. She pulled his clothes and knelt again. Sun firmly declined, saying, "If we are to reunite, only if we can live without any discord will it be all right; but if any trouble arises, your brothers are like tigers and wolves, and if I again seek a divorce, how could I obtain it?" The wife said, "I have come here secretly; there is absolutely no reason to return. If you keep me, I stay; otherwise, I will die! Moreover, I have been with you since I was twenty-one, and was cast out at twenty-three; even if I have ten parts of evil, is there not one part of affection?" Then she took off a bracelet from her wrist, bound it with both feet, and covered it with her sleeve, saying, "At that time we made vows before incense—do you not remember?" Sun's eyes became moist with tears, and he ordered someone to support her into the room; but he still suspected that the Wang family was deceiving him, and wanted to have a word from her brothers as proof. The wife said, "I came out secretly; how could I have the face to ask my brothers? If you do not believe me, I have a death tool hidden here; I will cut off my finger to prove myself." Then she took a sharp knife from her waist, and by the bed stretched out her left hand and cut off one finger; blood gushed out like a fountain. Sun was greatly shocked and quickly bandaged it. The wife's expression changed with pain, but she did not groan. She smiled and said, "I have today awakened from my yellow millet dream; I only borrow this small room to prepare for leaving home—why do you suspect me?" Sun then had his son and concubine live in another place, while he himself went back and forth between the two. He also daily sought good medicine to heal the finger wound; after a month or so it recovered. The wife from then on did not eat meat or drink wine, but only closed her door and recited Buddha. After living there for a long time, she saw that the household affairs were in disorder, and said to Sun, "When I came here, I originally intended not to interfere in other matters; but now I see such expenditures, I fear that your descendants may starve. Since there is no alternative, I will shamelessly manage things once more." Then she gathered the maids and old women, and daily demanded that they spin and weave. The household members, since she had come of her own accord, treated her with contempt and secretly mocked her; the wife seemed not to hear. Then she supervised their work; those who were lazy were whipped without mercy, and the crowd began to fear her. She also set up a curtain and supervised the accountant servants, managing everything with meticulous detail. Sun was greatly pleased, and had his son and concubine pay respects to her every morning. A Jian was already nine years old; the wife treated him with special warmth and care; when he went to school in the morning, she often kept sweet treats for him upon his return; the child gradually became fond of her. One day, the child threw a stone at a sparrow, and the wife happened to pass by; it struck her head and she fell, and for a while she was unconscious. Sun was furious and beat the child. The wife revived and strenuously stopped him. She said happily, "In the past I mistreated the child, and I often felt uneasy; now I am fortunate to have eliminated one sin." Sun became even more fond of her, but the wife often refused him and made him stay with the concubine. After several years, she gave birth several times but all died in infancy; she said, "This is retribution for my former killing of a child." After A Jian married, she entrusted external matters to the son and internal matters to the daughter-in-law. One day she said, "I will die on such and such a day." Sun did not believe it. The wife herself prepared burial things; on that day, she changed clothes and entered the coffin and died. Her countenance was as if alive, and a strange fragrance filled the room; after the coffin was closed, the fragrance gradually faded. The Historian of the Strange said: "What the heart loves is not originally about beauty or ugliness. Mao Qiang and Xi Shi—how do we know that they were not made beautiful by those who loved them? However, if she had not encountered a shrewish and jealous person, her virtue would not have been revealed, and one would almost join those who laugh at the scab-eaters. As for the person behind the screen, her fundamental nature was originally deep, so she suddenly awakened and immediately attained Bodhi; whereas those in the hell realms are all those who have wealth and honor but have not undergone hardships." The Money Diviner Xia Shang, a man of Hejian. His father, Dongling, was wealthy and extravagant, wasting excessively. Whenever he ate stuffed buns, he would always cast aside the edges, leaving them scattered all over the ground. People, because he was fat and heavy, called him "The Taiwei Who Casts Away the Edges." In his later years, the family became extremely poor, without enough food for the day; his two arms grew thin, and the loose skin hung like pouches, so people also called him "The Monk Who Recruits Villagers"—referring to his hanging bags. On his deathbed he said to Shang: "All my life I have recklessly wasted Heaven's gifts, incurring Heaven's anger, and so I have come to die of cold and hunger. You must cherish fortune and strive in action to cover your father's transgressions." Shang scrupulously followed his dying command, being honest and simple without duplicity, tilling the soil himself for his livelihood. All the villagers loved and respected him. A certain wealthy old man, pitying his poverty, lent him capital and had him learn to trade as a peddler, but he always lost his principal. Ashamed that he could not repay, he asked to work as a hired laborer. The old man would not agree. Shang, uneasy and distressed, sold off all his fields and houses and went to repay the old man. When the old man learned the full circumstances, he pitied him all the more, and forcibly redeemed his former properties; moreover, he lent him a larger sum of money to engage in trade. Shang declined, saying: "I cannot even repay a dozen taels of silver—how can I incur debts for a donkey or horse in the next life?" The old man then summoned another merchant to accompany him. After several months he returned, barely avoiding loss; the old man did not take the interest and sent him out again. After more than a year, the borrowed capital had grown to a full cartload. On his return, when he reached the river, he encountered a typhoon; the boat nearly capsized, and half of the goods were lost. Reckoning what he had left, it was roughly enough to repay the principal. So he said to the merchant: "When Heaven destines one to poverty, who can save him? This all has been my burden on you!" He then checked the account books, handed them over to the merchant, and withdrew himself. The old man again urged him strongly, but he would not agree, and tilled the soil as before. Often he sighed to himself: "In this life, everyone has a few years of enjoyment—why have I fallen to such destitution?" At that time there came a foreign sorceress who divined by coins and knew all of a person's fortunes. He went respectfully to call on her. The sorceress was an old crone. Her dwelling was neat and clean; inside was set a divine altar, and incense smoke constantly permeated the air. After Shang made his obeisances, she asked for the money. Shang gave her a hundred coins; she placed them all into a wooden tube, knelt holding it beneath the altar, and shook it with a sound like drawing a lot. Then she rose, poured the coins into her hand, and arranged them one by one on the table. Her method was: the side with the inscription was considered inauspicious, the blank side auspicious; up to fifty-eight throws all came up inscribed, and after that all were blank. Then she asked: "What is your cyclical age?" He answered: "Twenty-eight years." The crone shook her head and said: "Too early! What you are now following is your forefathers' fortune, not your own. At fifty-eight, you will enter your own fortune, and only then will there be no more hindrances." He asked: "What is 'forefathers' fortune'?" She said: "If forefathers have good deeds and their blessings are not exhausted, then descendants enjoy them; if forefathers have ill deeds and their misfortunes are not exhausted, then descendants also suffer them." Shang counted on his fingers and said: "Another thirty years—by then I shall be aged and decrepit, nearing the grave." The sorceress said: "Before fifty-eight, there will be five years of returning moisture, when you may slightly manage affairs; but that will only suffice to escape cold and hunger. In the year you turn fifty-eight, a great sum of money will come of itself, without need of strenuous seeking. You have no excessive conduct in this life, and in the next life you will enjoy it without end." He took leave of the sorceress and returned, half believing and half doubting. Nevertheless, he remained content in poverty and kept to himself, not daring to seek improperly. Later, when he reached fifty-three, he paid attention to verify it. At that time, just when spring plowing began, he fell ill with malaria and could not till. After he recovered, there was a great drought, and the early crops all withered. Only near autumn did rain come; he had no other seeds, so the several mu of fields were all planted with grain. Then again drought set in, and the buckwheat and beans half died, but only the grain was unharmed; afterwards rain came and it sprouted vigorously, yielding double the usual amount. The next spring there was a great famine, and he was able to avoid starvation. Shang thereby believed the sorceress. He borrowed capital from the old man and engaged in small-scale lending at interest, always making small profits. Some urged him to become a great merchant, but Shang would not agree. When he reached fifty-seven, he happened to repair a wall, and digging in the ground found an iron cauldron; when he lifted it, a white vapor like fluff emerged, and he feared to open it. After a while, the vapor dissipated, and the pot was full of white silver. The husband and wife together carried it; weighing it, it came to one thousand three hundred and twenty-five taels. They privately remarked that the sorceress's art was slightly off. The wife of a neighbor came into the Shang household, caught sight of it, and returned to tell her husband. The husband, envious, secretly reported it to the county magistrate. The magistrate was most avaricious; he arrested Shang and demanded the silver. The wife wanted to hide half of it. Shang said: "It is not rightfully gained; keeping it will bring disaster." He offered all of it. The magistrate got the silver, but fearing he might have concealed some, he further demanded the storage vessel, filled it with the silver, and when it was full, released Shang. Before long, the magistrate was transferred to be Assistant Prefect of Nanchang. After a year, Shang, traveling on business, went to Nanchang, and found the magistrate already dead. His wife and children were about to return home and were selling off bulky goods; there were several baskets of tung oil, which Shang bought at a low price and brought back. When he arrived home, some of the vessels were leaking; as he poured the oil into other containers, inside he found two ingots of white silver; he searched all of them and found the same. When he weighed it, it exactly matched the amount of the previously excavated silver. Shang thereby suddenly became rich, and all the more he aided the poor and needy, generously and without stint. His wife urged him to accumulate for descendants. Shang said: "This is precisely how I leave things to descendants." The neighbor, reduced to extreme poverty even to begging, wished to ask for help but felt ashamed at heart. Shang, hearing of it, told him: "What happened in the past was simply that my time and fortune had not yet come, so the spirits used your hand to defeat me—how could I blame you?" Thereupon he generously gave him relief. The neighbor wept with gratitude. Later Shang lived to eighty, and his descendants carried on the inheritance, flourishing for many generations without decline. The Historian of the Strange remarks: "Excess and waste carried too far—even kings and nobles cannot escape its consequences, how much less common folk! To waste Heaven's gifts in life, and die without food in the mouth or coins for the grave—how pitiable! Fortunately, when a bird dies its cry is mournful; the son was able to rectify his father's faults. After seventy years of poverty and decline, he at last revived the family fortunes. Otherwise, the father's sins would have burdened the son, and the son would have burdened the grandsons, until they passed down from beggar to beggar without end. What sort of old crone was this, that she could proclaim Heaven's secrets? Alas! Strange indeed!" Yao An Yao An, a man of Lintao, was handsome in appearance. In the same village there was a Mr. Gong, whose daughter, named Lü'e, was beautiful and well-read, and she would not marry without choosing carefully. Her mother said to people: "Only one whose family standing and bearing match Yao An's shall I betroth her to." Yao An heard this, tricked his wife into looking into a well, pushed her in, and then married Lü'e. He was very affectionate with her. Yet because she was so beautiful, he grew suspicious: he kept the door closed and stayed by her side; whenever she moved, he followed. When she wished to visit her parents, he would support her with both elbows, covering her as she went out, and when she entered the palanquin he would seal and mark it, then gallop after it; if she stayed overnight, he would urge her to return together. The lady could not be pleased and said angrily: "If I had trysts in the mulberry groves, could such petty measures stop me?" Yao An, for some other reason, went out, but locked her in her room. She grew even more disgusted; when he left, she purposely placed another key outside the door to arouse his suspicion. Yao An saw it and flew into a rage, asking where it came from. She replied indignantly: "I don't know!" Yao An grew more suspicious and kept even closer watch. One day, returning from outside, he listened secretly for a long time, then opened the lock and the door, fearing any sound, and slipped in quietly. He saw a man in a marten-skin cap lying on the bed. Enraged, he seized a knife and rushed in, cutting him down with all his might. On closer look, it was his wife, napping during the day because she feared the cold, with the marten cap covering her face. Greatly shocked, he stamped his foot in remorse. Old Mr. Gong angrily brought a suit to the authorities. The magistrate arrested Yao An, stripped him of his rank, and tortured him severely. Yao An spent his fortune to bribe all levels, both above and below, and thereby escaped with his life. From then on his spirit was confused, as if he had lost something. Once, while sitting alone, he saw his wife with a bearded man, behaving lewdly on the couch. Repulsed, he took a knife and went at them, but they vanished; when he sat back down, he saw them again. In a rage he struck the couch with the knife, splitting the mats and bedding. Fuming, he held the knife, approached the couch, and waited; he saw his wife standing before him, looking at him and smiling. He immediately slashed at her, cutting off her head; but after he sat down, she remained in the same place, still smiling as before. At night, when the lamp was extinguished, he heard sounds of lust and debauchery, unspeakably obscene. Day after day it continued, until he could bear it no longer; so he sold his fields and house and planned to move to another place. That night, thieves bored through the wall, entered, and stole his gold. From then on he was so poor he had not even a place to stand, and died of rage and grief. The villagers buried him in a crude coffin. The Historian of the Strange remarks: "To love the new and kill the old—how cruel! People only know that the new ghost becomes a vengeful spirit, but do not realize that the old ghost has already seized his soul. Alas! To cut off the toes to fit the shoes—how could he not perish?" Caiwei Weng At the Ming dynastic transition, armed conflicts erupted like a swarm of bees. Liu Zhisheng of Yuling, having gathered tens of thousands of followers, was about to cross south. Suddenly a fat man came to the stockade gate, with his clothes open and his belly exposed, requesting to see the army commander. Liu invited him in and spoke with him, and was greatly pleased with him. He asked his surname and given name; he styled himself Caiwei Weng. Liu kept him to participate in camp counsels and presented him with a blade. The old man said: "I myself have sharp weapons; I have no need for spears or halberds." Liu asked where the weapons were. The old man then pulled up his clothes and bared his belly. His navel was large enough to hold a chicken egg. He held his breath and puffed it out. Suddenly, the skin plugging his navel burst out with a hiss, and a sword hilt protruded. He grasped it and drew it out; the white blade was like frost. Liu was greatly startled and asked: "Is that all?" He laughed and pointed to his belly, saying: "This is an arsenal; what is there that it does not have?" Liu ordered him to produce a bow and arrows. Again as before, he brought out a carved bow; with a slight holding of his breath, an arrow flew out and fell, and they came forth without end. After a while, he stuck the sword back into his navel, and then all disappeared from view. Liu regarded him as divine, and shared his sleeping quarters with him, treating him with great respect and ceremony. At that time, although the camp's orders were strict, yet this motley crowd would sometimes go out to plunder. The old man said: "In warfare, discipline is prized; now you command tens of thousands of men, yet you cannot overawe their hearts—this is the path to defeat and ruin." Liu approved of this, and thereupon inspected and supervised the troops; those who seized women or property were beheaded and displayed to the masses. The army became somewhat disciplined, but it could not be entirely stopped. The old man would from time to time ride out and roam among the ranks, and the fierce generals and arrogant soldiers in the army would have their heads suddenly fall to the ground, no one knew for what reason. Thereupon they all suspected the old man. Earlier, when he had advanced the policy of strict discipline, the soldiers already feared and hated him; by this time they resented and blamed him even more. The various unit leaders slandered him to Liu, saying: "Caiwei Weng practices sorcery. Since ancient times, famous generals have only been known for their wisdom, not for their arts. Those like Fuyun and Bai Que ultimately met their doom. Now innocent officers and soldiers often lose their heads for no reason; the men's hearts are in turmoil and fear. For you, General, to stay with him is also a dangerous course; it would be better to deal with him." Liu followed their advice, and plotted to wait until he was asleep and then kill him. They sent someone to spy on the old man; he was lying on his back with his belly bare, his breathing like thunder. The crowd was overjoyed. They surrounded the hut with soldiers, and two men entered with knives and cut off his head. But when they lifted the knives, the head had already reattached itself, and his breathing was as before; they were greatly alarmed. They again chopped at his belly. His belly split open but there was no blood; inside, spears and halberds stood thickly clustered, all with their points exposed. The crowd was even more terrified and dared not approach. From a distance they poked at him with lances, but iron crossbows were discharged in great numbers, shooting several men. The crowd scattered in fright and reported to Liu. Liu hurriedly went to him, but he had already vanished. Cui Meng Cui Meng, styled Wumeng, was a scion of an established family in Jianchang. By nature he was firm and resolute; in childhood, whenever the other boys in the school slighted him in the least, he would wield his fists and strike them. His teacher repeatedly warned him, but he did not mend his ways—both his given name and his style had been bestowed by his teacher. By the time he was sixteen or seventeen, his strength and martial prowess were unmatched. He could also take a long pole and leap onto the high roofs. He delighted in redressing injustices, and for this the villagers all respected him; those who came to lodge complaints and state their cases filled his steps and crowded his halls. Cui suppressed the strong and aided the weak, never avoiding enmity or suspicion; if anyone crossed him in the least, stone cudgels came down together, and the person’s limbs were left mangled. Whenever he was in a great rage, no one dared remonstrate—except that he was filial to his mother; when she arrived, he would desist. His mother scolded him severely, and Cui would meekly obey, but once he went out the door he would forget it all. Next door there was a ferocious woman who daily abused her mother-in-law. The old lady was starving to death; her son secretly gave her food. When the woman learned of this, she cursed and reviled him in every possible way, and the sound carried to all four courtyards. Cui flew into a rage, climbed over the wall, and cut off her nose, ears, lips, and tongue, killing her on the spot. When his mother heard of it, she was greatly alarmed; she summoned the neighbour’s son, comforted him most solicitously, and gave him a young maidservant as a wife, and so the matter was settled. His mother wept in anger and would not eat. Cui, terrified, knelt and begged to receive the rod, and told her that he repented. His mother wept and paid him no heed. Cui’s wife Zhou also knelt beside him. Only then did his mother beat him, and she also pricked his arm with a needle, making a cross-shaped pattern, which she painted with cinnabar so that it would not fade. Cui accepted all of this, and only then did his mother eat. His mother was fond of feeding monks and Daoists, often giving them their fill. Just then a Daoist was at the gate, and Cui passed by him. The Daoist looked at him and said, “Young master, you have much fierce and cruel energy; I fear it will be hard for you to keep a good end. In a household that accumulates virtue, such things should not be.” Cui, having recently received his mother’s admonition, heard this and, growing respectful, said, “I too know this; but whenever I see injustice, I cannot help myself. If I strive to change, might I be spared?” The Daoist laughed and said, “Do not ask for the moment whether you can be spared or not; first ask yourself whether you can change or not. You must only painfully curb yourself; if there is even a ten-thousandth chance, I will tell you a means to escape death.” Cui had never in his life believed in exorcisms and spells; he smiled and said nothing. The Daoist said, “I know well that you do not believe. But what I say is not like the words of shamans; if you practice it, it is also a great virtue—even if it does not work, it will do no harm.” Cui asked for instruction, and the Daoist said, “That young man just outside the gate—you should form a close bond with him. Even if he commits a capital crime, he can still save you.” He called Cui out and pointed him out. It was a son of the Zhao family, named Sengge. Zhao was a native of Nanchang; because of a bad year and famine, he had sojourned in Jianchang. From then on Cui formed a deep friendship with him, invited Zhao to lodge in his house, and provided generous support. Sengge was twelve years old; he came into the hall and bowed to Cui’s mother, and they pledged themselves as brothers. After a year, when spring ploughing came, Zhao took his family away, and news of them ceased. From the time of the neighbour woman’s death, Cui’s mother admonished him even more sternly; when anyone came to lodge complaints, she would reject them outright. One day, Cui’s maternal uncle died, and he accompanied his mother to the funeral. On the road they encountered several men who had bound a young man and were cursing and abusing him, urging him on with blows. Spectators blocked the road, and the carriage could not proceed. Cui asked what was happening. Those who knew Cui crowded around and told him. Earlier, there was a certain scion of a powerful family, A, who was tyrannical throughout the countryside. He coveted the wife of one Li Shen, and wanted to seize her, but had no pretext. So he ordered his servants to lure Li into gambling, lent him money at high interest, and made him sign a contract pledging his wife as security; when the money was used up, he lent more. In a single night Li owed several thousand; after half a year, principal and interest came to more than thirty thousand strings. Li could not repay, so A forcibly took his wife with many men. Li wept at A’s gate. A, enraged, had him tied to a tree, beaten, flogged, and stabbed, and forced him to sign a “pledge of no regret.” When Cui heard this, his rage swelled like a mountain; he whipped his horse forward, intending to use force. His mother lifted the carriage curtain and called out, “Hey! Do you want to do that again?” Cui then stopped. After the funeral, he returned home, did not speak and did not eat, sat rigidly staring straight ahead, as if angry at something. His wife questioned him, but he did not answer. At night he lay down fully dressed on the bed, tossing and turning until dawn; the next night he did the same. Suddenly he opened the door and went out, then immediately came back and lay down again. This happened three or four times; his wife dared not ask, only held her breath and listened. After a long while he returned, closed the door, and fell into a deep sleep. That night, someone killed A in his bed, slitting open his belly and spilling his entrails; Li Shen’s wife also lay naked as a corpse under the bed. The authorities suspected Li, arrested and interrogated him. He was cruelly tortured, his ankle bones showing through, but he made no confession. After more than a year, unable to bear the punishment, he falsely confessed and was sentenced to beheading. It chanced that Cui’s mother died. After the funeral, he told his wife, “The one who killed A was truly I. Only because I had my aged mother did I dare not reveal it. Now that this great matter is finished, how can I let the crime of one person bring disaster to another? I shall go to the authorities and die.” His wife, startled, tried to hold him back, but he tore his sleeve and left, surrendering himself at the yamen. The official was astounded, put him in chains and sent him to prison, and released Li. Li would not accept this, insisting on confessing himself. The official could not decide, and incarcerated both of them. Li’s relatives all reproached him. Li said, “What the young master did was what I wished to do but could not. He did it in my stead—can I bear to sit by and watch him die? Now let it be said that the young master never did it.” He stubbornly refused to change his story and contended with Cui. After a long time, the whole yamen knew the truth, and they forcibly released Li, holding Cui responsible for the crime. He was about to be executed. Just then, a judicial commissioner, Zhao, a vice minister of the Board of Punishments, arrived to review the prisoners. When he came to Cui’s name, he dismissed the attendants and summoned him. Cui entered, looked up at the man in the hall—it was Sengge. He told the truth with grief and joy. Zhao paced back and forth for a long time, then still ordered him back to prison, instructing the jailers to treat him well. Soon after, because of his voluntary surrender, his sentence was commuted; he was banished to the army in Yunnan, and Li Shen went with him as his servant. Before a year had passed, he was pardoned and returned—all due to Zhao’s efforts. After his return, Li never left him, managing his livelihood on his behalf. Cui offered him money, but he would not accept. He also took an interest in the arts of pole-vaulting and combat. Cui treated him generously, bought him a wife and gave him land. From then on, Cui strove to change his former ways; whenever he stroked the scar on his arm, he would shed tears. Therefore, when affairs arose among the neighbours and villagers, Li would often act on his own authority to mediate, without reporting to him. There was a certain Supervisor Wang, whose family was hugely wealthy; rogues and scoundrels from all quarters frequented his gate. Many of the well-to-do in the county were robbed and plundered; if anyone crossed him, he would send bandits to kill them on the road. His son was also lewd and violent. Wang had a widowed aunt-in-law; both father and son committed incest with her. His wife, Lady Qiu, repeatedly tried to stop him, so Wang had her strangled. Lady Qiu’s brothers brought the matter to the officials, but Wang bribed them, and the accusers were charged with calumny. The brothers, unable to vent their grievance, came to Cui to plead their case. Li sent them away. After a few days, a guest arrived, and there happened to be no servant; Cui told Li to brew tea. Li silently went out, and said to others, “I am merely a friend of Cui Meng; I accompanied him in exile ten thousand li—can that be considered insufficient? Yet I have received no regular provisions, and I am treated like a menial servant—I am not content!” So he left in anger. Someone told Cui. Cui was surprised at his change of heart, but did not find it particularly strange. Li suddenly brought a lawsuit against Cui, claiming that he had not been paid his hire for three years. Cui was greatly astonished and personally confronted him in court; Li angrily argued with him. The official did not favour Li and had him driven off. A few days later, Li suddenly entered the Wang household at night, killed Wang, his son, his aunt-in-law, and his wife, and pasted a paper on the wall with his own name written on it. When they pursued him, he had fled without a trace. The Wang family suspected Cui had instigated it, but the official did not believe it. Cui then understood that Li’s earlier lawsuit had been to avoid the implication of murder for himself. A warrant was sent to nearby prefectures and counties, and the pursuit was urgent. But just then the rebels under Li Zicheng rose in revolt, and the matter was dropped. When the Ming dynasty fell and the Qing arose, Li brought his family back and was again on good terms with Cui as before. At that time, local bandits gathered in bands. Wang had a nephew named Deren, who assembled the scoundrels his uncle had recruited, occupied the mountains as a bandit, and burned and pillaged villages. One night, they came in full force, under the pretext of revenge. Cui happened to be away from home. Li broke open the door only after they arrived, and climbed over the wall to hide in the darkness. The bandits searched but could not find Cui or Li; they seized Cui’s wife, plundered goods and property, and left. Li returned; only one servant remained. Furious beyond measure, he cut a rope into dozens of sections, gave the short pieces to the servant, and kept the long ones himself. He instructed the servant to climb over the bandits’ lair, reach the middle of the mountain, set fire to the rope pieces, scatter them among the thorns, and then return without looking back. The servant departed accordingly. Li observed that the bandits all wore red sashes around their waists and red silk on their hats, so he imitated their garb. There was an old mare that had just given birth to a foal; the bandits had left it outside the gate. Li tied the foal, mounted the mare, put a gag in his mouth, and rode out, arriving straight at the bandits’ den. The bandits occupied a large village. Li tied his horse outside the village, climbed over the wall, and entered. He saw the bandits in turmoil, their weapons still in hand. Li secretly asked among the bandits and learned that Cui’s wife was at the place of one Wang (the nephew?). Soon he heard an order passed for everyone to rest, and a great clamour of assent arose. Suddenly someone reported fire on East Mountain; all the bandits looked toward it—at first only one or two points, then many like stars. Li, panting, urgently shouted that East Mountain was under attack. Wang was greatly alarmed, packed his gear, and led his men out. Taking advantage of the moment, Shen slipped out to his right, turned back, and entered the inner compound. He saw two bandits guarding the tent and deceived them, saying, "General Wang has left his saber behind." The two bandits vied to look for it. Shen struck from behind, felling one; the other turned his head, and Shen cut him down as well. He then carried Cui's wife over the wall and fled. Unfastening the horse, he handed her the reins and said, "Madam, you do not know the way—just give the horse its head." The horse, missing its foal, galloped off, and Shen followed. When they emerged from a narrow pass, Shen lit fires on ropes and hung them all about, then returned. The next day, when Cui came back, he regarded it as a great disgrace, his spirit and form in turmoil, and wished to ride out alone to quell the bandits. Shen advised against it. Gathering the villagers to plan together, all were cowed and afraid, none daring to respond. After repeated exhortations, he obtained just over twenty who dared to go, but they were again troubled by having no weapons. It happened that they captured two spies at the home of a clansman of Deren. Cui wanted to kill them, but Shen would not permit it; he ordered the twenty men each to take a white cudgel and array themselves in front, then cut off the spies' ears and released them. The crowd complained, saying, "With troops like these, we fear the bandits learning of us, yet you show them our weakness. If they come with their whole force, the entire village will be lost!" Shen said, "I precisely want them to come." He seized and executed those who had concealed the bandits' agents. He sent men out in all directions to borrow bows, arrows, and muskets, and also went to the county to borrow two great cannons. At dusk, he led the strong men to the pass, placed the cannons at the vital point, and had two men conceal themselves with fire, instructing them to fire only when they saw the bandits. He also went to the east mouth of the valley and had trees felled and placed on the cliffs. After that, he and Cui each led a dozen or so men and lay in ambush on opposite banks. When the first watch was nearly spent, they heard horses neighing in the distance; the bandits indeed came in great force, in an unbroken string. They waited until all had entered the valley, then pushed down the trees, cutting off their retreat. Soon the cannons fired, and the clamor and shrieks shook the mountains and valleys. The bandits suddenly fell back, trampling one another; at the east mouth they could not get out and massed together without an inch of open ground. From both banks, muskets and arrows attacked them from both sides, like wind and rain, and those with severed heads and broken legs lay piled in the ditches. More than twenty were left, who knelt at length and begged for their lives. Shen then sent men to bind them and escort them back. Pressing the victory, they went straight to the bandits' lair. Those guarding the lair fled at the news, and they searched out the supplies and returned. Cui was overjoyed and asked about the plan for the fires. Shen said: "I set fires to the east for fear they would give chase to the west; the short fuses were to make the fires burn out quickly, lest scouts discover there was no one there; afterwards I set them at the valley mouth, which is so narrow that one man can hold it—even if they pursued, seeing the fires they would surely be afraid. These were all desperate gambles taken in the moment." They took bandits and questioned them, and indeed they had pursued into the valley and, seeing the fires, retreated in fright. More than twenty bandits had their noses cut off and feet amputated, then were released. From this, their fearsome reputation spread far and wide, and those fleeing unrest from near and far came to them like a market, so that they gained a local militia of over three hundred men. No strong bandits from anywhere dared to molest them, and the region relied on them for safety. The Historian says: "The swift ox is sure to break the cart—does this not describe Cui! His spirit and will were impassioned, indeed with few equals. Yet to wish that under heaven there be no unjust affair—was that not a wish that exceeded the bounds of reason? Li Shen, a mere commoner, was able to bring matters to completion. He flew in like one climbing a pole, cutting down beasts of prey in the inner chamber; he cut off the road and attacked from both flanks, sweeping the lesser demons from the narrow valley. Had he been given a five-yard banner and ordered to serve his country, where would he not have faced south and ruled as king!" Poetry Judgment In Qingzhou prefecture, the commoner Fan Xiaoshan made his living selling brushes and had gone away on business and not yet returned. In the fourth month, his wife, née He, while living alone, was killed by a bandit one night. That night there was a light rain, and in the mud was left a fan with a poem on it—it was one that Wang Sheng had presented to Wu Feiqing. Who Sheng was, no one knew; Wu was a wealthy commoner of Yidu, from the same village as Fan, and because he had always been rather dissolute in his conduct, the villagers all believed him guilty. The prefecture and county arrested and interrogated him; he stubbornly refused to confess, but was cruelly tortured and falsely convicted. The case was sent back and forth for review, passing through more than ten officials, none of whom raised any objection. Wu himself was certain he would die and instructed his wife to exhaust all their possessions to relieve the poor and lonely. To any who came to his gate and recited the Buddha's name a thousand times, he gave a padded trousers; for ten thousand, a padded jacket. Thus beggars thronged like a market, and the sound of Buddha's name was heard for over ten li. His family thereupon suddenly grew poor, and he had daily to sell off fields and property to supply his expenses. He secretly bribed the jailers to procure poison. That night he dreamed that a spirit told him, "Do not die; before it was 'outside inauspicious,' now it is 'inside auspicious.'" He slept again, and heard it once more, and so he did not carry out his plan. Before long, Mr. Zhou Yuanliang, as Circuit Intendant, was reviewing the prisoners in that circuit. When he came to Wu, he seemed lost in thought. He asked, "In Wu's killing of a man, what conclusive evidence is there?" Fan answered with the fan. Mr. Zhou examined the fan closely and asked, "Who is Wang Sheng?" Fan said he did not know. He then read through the judicial records carefully, then immediately ordered Wu's fetters removed and had him moved from the death cells to the common jail. Fan protested vehemently. Zhou angrily said, "Do you wish to kill an innocent man and be done with it, or do you wish to find the true culprit and be satisfied?" The crowd suspected that Mr. Zhou was partial to Wu, but none dared speak. Mr. Zhou marked a vermilion summons and immediately arrested the proprietor of a certain shop in the southern suburb. The proprietor was terrified and had no idea why. When he arrived, Zhou asked, "The poem by Li Xiu of Dongguan on your shop wall—when was it inscribed?" He replied, "Last year when the Education Commissioner came, there were two or three scholars from Rizhao who got drunk and left it as a memento—I do not know from which village they came." Zhou then sent officers to Rizhao to arrest Li Xiu. After several days, Li Xiu arrived. Zhou angrily said, "Since you are a scholar, how could you plot murder?" Li Xiu kowtowed in astonishment and said, "I have done no such thing!" Zhou threw down the fan and made him look at it himself, saying, "This is clearly your composition—why do you falsely attribute it to Wang Sheng?" Li Xiu examined it and said, "The poem is indeed mine, but the calligraphy is certainly not mine." Zhou said, "If he knows your poem, he must be your friend. Who wrote it?" Li Xiu said, "The handwriting resembles that of Wang Zuo of Yizhou." Zhou then sent officers to arrest Wang Zuo. When Wang Zuo arrived, Zhou interrogated him in the same manner as Li Xiu. Wang Zuo testified, "This was written by Zhang Cheng, an iron merchant of Yidu, who asked me to write it, saying that Sheng was his older cousin." Mr. Zhou said, "The thief is right here." He arrested Zhang Cheng, and upon interrogation, Zhang confessed. Previously, Zhang Cheng had seen that He was beautiful and wanted to seduce her, but feared he would not succeed. He thought that if he pretended to be Wu, everyone would trust him, so he forged a fan in Wu's name and went to her. If successful, he would admit it; if not, he would shift the blame to Wu—but in fact, he never intended to kill. He climbed over the wall and forced himself upon the woman. Because she lived alone, she often kept a knife for self-defense. When she awoke, she seized Zhang Cheng by the clothes and rose with knife in hand. Zhang Cheng was frightened and snatched the knife from her. She pulled with all her might, preventing him from escaping, and screamed. Zhang Cheng grew more desperate and killed her, then left the fan and fled. A three-year injustice was cleared in a single morning, and everyone praised the divine discernment. Only then did Wu realize that "inside auspicious" meant the character Zhou. Yet still no one could explain the reason. Later a local gentleman took the opportunity to ask Mr. Zhou. He laughed and said, "This is very easy to know. If you examine the judicial records carefully, He was killed in the first ten days of the fourth month; that night it was rainy and the weather still cold—a fan was hardly an essential thing. Who, in a moment of haste, would carry such an encumbrance? It is clear that it was planted to incriminate another. Previously, while taking shelter from the rain in the southern suburb, I saw a wall poem whose phrasing resembled that on the fan, so I hazarded a guess at Li Xiu, and thereby obtained the true thief." Those who heard this sighed in admiration. The Historian says: "In all matters under heaven, when one has penetrated deeply, even the nonexistent may be turned to use. Verse and prose are the ornaments of the state, yet this gentleman used them to judge the scholars of the realm, and was called a Sun Yang. Was that not because he had penetrated deeply? Yet who would have thought that the art of judging men could be transferred to the breaking of cases? The Book of Changes says: 'To know the incipient is spiritual.' This gentleman possessed that." Deer Grass In the mountains beyond the passes there are many deer. The locals wear deer heads, lie hidden in the grass, and roll leaves to make sounds, whereupon the deer gather in droves. However, the males are few and the females many. A male mates with all the females—a thousand or a hundred, he must cover them all, and after he has covered them all, he dies. The females sniff him and know he is dead, then scatter into the valleys, fetch a strange grass, and place it beside his mouth to fumigate him; in a moment he revives. Then they quickly sound gongs and fire guns, and the herd of deer scatters in fright. One may take this grass, for it can restore the dead. Small Coffin In Tianjin there was a boatman who one night dreamed that a person instructed him, saying: "Tomorrow there will be one who brings a bamboo chest to hire your boat; demand a thousand in silver from him; if not, do not ferry him across." The boatman awoke and did not believe it. He had just fallen asleep again when he dreamed once more, and the person wrote the three characters ", 𠫍, " on the wall, instructing him: "If he quibbles over the price, you should immediately write these to show him." The boatman found it strange, but he did not recognize the characters nor understand their meaning. The next day he kept watch over the travelers. As the sun moved westward, sure enough a man came driving a mule with a chest, asking for a boat. The boatman demanded the price as in his dream. The man laughed at him. They went back and forth for some time, when the boatman took his hand and with his finger wrote the former characters. The man was greatly startled and vanished on the spot. Searching his load, there were over ten thousand small coffins, each only about a finger in length, and each stored a single drop of blood. The boatman circulated the three characters far and wide, but no one knew them. Not long after, when the rebellious schemes of Wu Sangui were exposed, his partisans were all executed, and the corpses laid out nearly matched the number of coffins. This was told by Xu Baishan. Xing Ziyi In Teng there was a certain Yang, who had joined the White Lotus sect and acquired their heterodox arts. After Xu Hongru was executed, Yang fortunately escaped, and so he traveled about with his arts. His family possessed fields, gardens, halls and towers, and was quite well-off. When he came to the home of a certain gentleman in Sishang, he performed illusions as entertainment, and the women came out to watch. Yang cast a sidelong glance at the gentleman's daughter, found her beautiful, and on returning plotted to abduct her. His second wife Zhu was also charming; he dressed her in fine adornments, made her pretend to be a celestial immortal, and gave her a wooden bird, teaching her how to work it. Then he pushed her from the top of the tower. Zhu felt her body light as a leaf, floating and drifting as she traveled through the clouds. Before long she reached a place; the clouds stopped and would advance no further, so she knew she had arrived. That night the moon was bright and clear; looking down, she could see everything distinctly. She took out the wooden bird and tossed it. The bird flapped its wings and flew off, going straight to the young lady's chamber. When the young lady saw a colored bird flying in, she called her maid to catch it; but the bird had already rushed out through the curtain. The young lady pursued it; the bird fell to the ground and made a flapping sound with its wings. As she drew near, it darted under her skirt, and after turning about, it lifted the young lady up and flew off, soaring straight into the heavens. The maid cried out loudly. Zhu spoke from within the clouds, saying: "People of the lower world, do not be frightened; I am Chang'e of the Moon Palace. This girl is the ninth daughter of the Queen Mother of the West, who happened to be exiled to the mortal world. The Queen Mother thinks of her constantly, and has temporarily summoned her for a reunion; she will be sent back shortly." Then she joined sleeves with her and they traveled together. Just as they reached the border of Sishui, it happened that someone was setting off firecrackers, which obliquely struck the bird's wing; the bird, startled, fell, pulling Zhu down with it. They landed in the home of a scholar. The scholar, Xing Ziyi, was extremely poor but upright and stubborn by nature. A neighboring woman had once come to him at night, but he refused to receive her. The woman went away nursing a grudge, and slandered him to her husband, falsely accusing Xing of making advances. The husband was a scoundrel, and came morning and evening to curse and insult him. Xing therefore sold his property and moved to another village. There was a physiognomist named Gu who excelled at judging people's fortunes and longevity. Xing went to his door and asked him. Gu looked at him and laughed, saying: "Your prosperity will be a thousand bushels; why do you dress in rags and show yourself to others? Do you think I am blind?" Xing scoffed at this. Gu examined him closely and said: "It is so. Even though that is the case, the gold mountain is not far off." Xing again scoffed. Gu said: "Not only will you suddenly become rich, you will also gain a beautiful wife." Xing still refused to believe him. Gu pushed him out, saying: "Go, go; after it comes true, then come and ask for your thanks." That night, as he sat alone under the moon, suddenly two women descended from heaven; when he looked at them, both were beauties. He took them for demons and questioned them; at first they would not speak. Xing was about to call the villagers, when Zhu, frightened, finally told him the truth, begging him not to divulge it, and saying she was willing to follow him for good. Xing reflected that a daughter of a respectable family was not to be treated like the wife of a sorcerer, so he sent someone to inform her family. Her parents, since the day their daughter had flown up, had wept in alarm and confusion; suddenly receiving the letter, they were overjoyed beyond expectation, and immediately ordered horses and carriages to race there. They gave Xing a hundred in gold and took their daughter home. Xing, having gained a beautiful wife, was worrying about his empty walls, but the gold brought him much comfort. He went to thank Gu. Gu again examined him and said: "Not yet, not yet. The time of good fortune has already turned; a hundred in gold is hardly worth mentioning!" And he refused to accept thanks. Earlier, the gentleman, upon returning home, had petitioned the authorities to arrest Yang. Yang had fled beforehand, and his whereabouts were unknown, so his property was confiscated and a warrant was issued to pursue Zhu. Zhu, terrified, took Xing's hand and wept. Xing was also at a loss, so he bribed the bearer of the warrant, hired a carriage and horses, and took Zhu to the gentleman's home, pleading pitifully for her release. The gentleman, moved by his righteousness, exerted himself to arrange matters, and succeeded in redeeming her; he kept the couple in a guest house, and they were as close as good relatives. The gentleman's daughter had been betrothed from childhood to the Liu family; Liu was a high official, and upon hearing that the girl had stayed overnight at Xing's home, he considered it a disgrace, returned the marriage contract, and broke off the engagement. The gentleman was about to betroth her to another family, when the girl told her parents, swearing that she would follow Xing. Xing was overjoyed at this; Zhu was also pleased, and willingly offered to take the lower position. The gentleman worried that Xing had no home; at that time Yang's former residence was being sold by the authorities, so he bought it on Xing's behalf. The couple then returned home. Taking out the former gold, they roughly prepared furnishings and bought servants and maids; within ten days the expenditure was exhausted. They only hoped that when the young lady came, they would again receive her financial assistance. One evening, Zhu said to Xing: "The scoundrel Yang once buried a thousand in gold beneath the tower; only I knew of it. I have just looked at that spot; the bricks and stones are still as before—perhaps the hoard is still intact." They went and dug it up together, and sure enough found the gold. They then believed in the supernatural skill of Gu and rewarded him handsomely. Later, when the young lady was married, her trousseau was lavish and abundant; within a few years, they became the wealthiest family in the prefecture. The Historian comments: "The White Lotus was destroyed, yet Yang alone did not die, and indeed prospered further; one might almost suspect that Heaven's net was wide and yet had holes. But who would have known that Heaven preserved him precisely for Xing's sake? If not for this, even if Xing had turned from adversity to prosperity, how could he have so quickly built towers and amassed such great wealth? Because he did not covet one beauty, Heaven rewarded him with two. Alas! The Maker is silent, yet His intent may be understood." Li Sheng Li Sheng of Shanghe was fond of the Dao. A little over a li outside his village there was a Buddhist monastery, where he built a small hall of three bays and sat in meditation within. Wandering monks and Daoists, coming and going to lodge there, would always engage him in conversation, and he would supply their needs without stint. One day, during a heavy snow and bitter cold, an old monk carrying a bundle came to borrow a sleeping place; his words were profound and subtle. After two nights he was about to leave, but Li earnestly detained him, and he stayed several more days. It happened that Li had to go home for some other matter; the monk urged him to return early, meaning to bid him farewell. Li went at cockcrow, but knocking at the gate brought no response. He climbed over the wall and entered; seeing a flickering lamp within the room, he suspected something was afoot and peered in secretly. The monk was packing his things; a skinny donkey was tethered to the lampstand. Looking closely, it did not resemble a real donkey, but rather a funerary object; yet its ears and tail twitched from time to time, and its breath came in gasps. Soon the packing was done; he opened the door and led it out. Li secretly followed him. Outside the gate there was a large pond; the monk tied the donkey to a tree by the pond, stripped and went into the water, and after washing his whole body thoroughly, he put on his clothes, led the donkey in, and washed it as well. Then he loaded it, mounted, and rode off with great speed. Only then did Li call out to him. The monk merely made a distant bow in thanks, but his words could not be heard, and he was already far away. Wang Meiwu said: Li was his friend. He had once been to his house and saw a plaque in the hall reading "Hall of Awaiting Death"; he was indeed a man of enlightenment. Lu Yaguan Lord Zhao, a native of Wuling in Huguang, had held the office of Court Gentleman and retired to his hometown. A young man waited upon his gate, seeking employment as a scribe. Zhao summoned him in and saw that he was handsome and elegant. Upon asking his name, he said he was called Lu Yaguan. He asked for no wages. Zhao took him on, and he proved more intelligent than any ordinary servant. In all correspondence, whether notes or memorials, he would compose replies at will, and none were not exquisitely done. When his master played chess with guests, Lu would glance sideways at the board, and with a pointer or two, always secured victory. Zhao favored him all the more. The other retainers and servants, seeing how he had caught their master's eye, teasingly demanded that he host a feast. Yaguan agreed. They asked, "How many of us are there?" It happened that all the estate stewards had arrived, about thirty-odd men, and they all told him the number to make it difficult for him. Yaguan said, "This is very easy. But with so many guests, I cannot prepare it all at once in haste—we can do it at a tavern." So he invited all his companions to a shop along the street. They all took their seats. Just as the wine was being served, one man who had grasped a flagon rose and said, "Gentlemen, do not drink yet. Let me ask: who today is playing host? He should first put up money as surety, and only then may we freely indulge in drink and food. Otherwise, if the bill comes to several thousand and everyone scatters in a hubbub, from whom shall we recover it?" All eyes turned to Yaguan. Yaguan laughed and said, "You don't suppose I have no money, do you? I certainly do have money." Then he rose, took a lump of wet dough from a basin the size of a fist, broke it into small pieces and placed them on the table; as soon as he tossed them, they turned into mice, scurrying and swarming all over the table. Yaguan caught one at random and tore it open—with a squeak, its belly split and out came a small gold piece. He caught another, and it was the same. In a moment all the mice were gone, and bits of gold lay piled before them. Then he told the company, "Is this not enough to pay for the drink?" They were astonished and proceeded to drink their fill. When they had finished, the bill came to just over three taels. They weighed the gold, and it exactly matched the sum. Each of them wanted to take a piece home in his pocket, and they told their master of the strange affair. The master ordered them to produce the gold, but when they searched for it, it had vanished. They went back to question the tavern keeper, and found that the payment had all turned into caltrop thorns. They returned and reported this to Zhao, who interrogated Yaguan. Yaguan said, "My companions pressed me for wine and food, and my purse was empty. In my youth I learned a little trick, so I tried it out." The others again demanded that he make good the cost. Yaguan said, "I am not one to cheat people out of food and drink. In a certain village, among the wheat straw, if you winnow it once more, you can get two dan of wheat, more than enough to cover the wine bill." So he persuaded one man to go with him. The steward of that village was about to go home, so he went along with them. When they arrived, there were already several hu of clean wheat piled in the threshing ground. From this, they all found Yaguan even more remarkable. One day, Zhao went to a friend's banquet. In the hall there was a pot of orchids in glorious bloom, and he was taken with them. Even after returning home he continued to praise them. Yaguan said, "If you truly love these orchids, there is no difficulty in obtaining them." Zhao still did not believe him. At dawn the next day, when he went to his study, he suddenly smelled a rich and pervasive fragrance—there was a pot of orchids, with exactly the same number of leaves and blossoms as those he had seen. He suspected theft and questioned him. Yaguan said, "My family keeps no fewer than a thousand of these. Why would I need to steal?" Zhao did not believe him. Just then that friend arrived, and seeing the orchids, exclaimed in surprise, "How remarkably like the ones in my house!" Zhao said, "I just bought them, and do not know where they came from. But when you left home, did you see your orchids still there?" The friend said, "I did not actually go into my study, so I truly cannot say whether they were there or not. But how did they get here?" Zhao looked at Yaguan. Yaguan said, "This is not hard to distinguish: your household pot is cracked and has been mended; this pot has no such repair." Upon examination, they were convinced. That night he said to his master, "I told you before that my family has many flowers and plants. Now I invite you to lower your honored steps and view them by moonlight. But none of the others may come—only A-Duck will do." (Duck was the Gentleman's page.) So they followed his request. When Zhao went out, there were already four men bearing a sedan chair, waiting by the roadside. Zhao rode in it, and it sped faster than a galloping horse. In a short while they entered the mountains, where they were met by an extraordinary fragrance that seeped into the bones. They came to a grotto mansion, where the buildings were resplendent, utterly different from the human world; everywhere were arranged flowers and rocks, with fine pots and lovely plants, glittering and diffusing fragrance. Even among the orchids alone there were several dozen pots, all thriving. After viewing them, they returned by the same conveyance as before. Yaguan served Zhao for over ten years. Later, Zhao died of no apparent illness, whereupon Yaguan and A-Duck both departed, and no one knew where they went. --- **Jiang Taishi** Jiang Chao, Grand Historiographer, recalled that in a former life he had been a monk on Mount Emei. He often dreamed of going to the pond in front of his old monastery to wash his feet. He was deeply devoted to Buddhist scriptures and single-mindedly followed the Tiantai school. Though he had early attained a position in the Hanlin Academy, he constantly harbored thoughts of renouncing the world. He took leave and returned south of the Yangtze, but when he reached Qin You, he did not wish to go home. His son wept and tried to dissuade him, but he would not listen. He then entered Shu and took up residence at Jinsha Temple in Chengdu. After a time, he went on to Emei and dwelt at Fuhu Temple, where he fell ill and passed away. He left behind a gatha of his own composition: *"Free and at ease, the apes and cranes come near of their own accord;* *This old monk, without cause, fell into the dust of karma.* *Vainly he sought to flee the heat in a cauldron of boiling broth—* *How could he turn his body in the great sea?* *Fame and office are but things in a puppet show;* *Wife and children are people among skeletons.* *Only toward sovereign and parents have I failed to repay my debt—* *Life after life, I ever pray to the Able One."* --- **Shao Shimei** Shao Shimei, a presented scholar, was a native of Jining. When first appointed professor of Dengzhou, two elderly licentiates presented their visiting cards. On seeing their names, he felt a great familiarity; after pondering for a long while, he suddenly recalled his former existence. He asked the attendant, "Does that gentleman live in such-and-such a village?" and went on to describe their appearance, each detail matching. Soon the two scholars entered, and he clasped their hands and spoke to them with deep feeling, as joyful as if they had known each other all their lives. During the conversation, he asked after Gao Donghai. The two scholars said, "He died in prison more than twenty years ago. Now one son still survives. He was but a humble commoner in this village—how do you come to know of him?" Shao smiled and said, "He was an old relative of mine." Now, earlier, Gao Donghai had always been a ne'er-do-well, yet by nature he was bold and open-handed, careless of money and fond of righteousness. When someone who owed rent was selling his daughter, Gao emptied his purse to ransom her. He had a secret affair with an old woman, and the woman was implicated in a case of concealed theft. The authorities pursued her urgently, and she fled and took refuge in Gao's home. When the officials learned of this, they arrested Gao and subjected him to every torture, but he never confessed, and eventually died in prison. The day of his death was Shao's birthday. Later, Shao went to that village and relieved the needs of Gao's wife and children, and far and near everyone knew of this strange matter. This was related by Junior Minister Gao, who was a contemporary of Gao Gongzi Jiliang. --- **Gu Sheng** Gu Sheng of Jiangnan, sojourning in Jixia, suddenly developed a violent swelling of the eyes. He moaned day and night, but no medicine could cure him. After more than ten days, the pain abated somewhat. Then whenever he closed his eyes, he would see a great mansion, consisting of four or five courtyards, with all gates wide open; in the deepest part people came and went, but he could only make them out indistinctly from afar. One day, as he was intently gazing at it, he suddenly felt himself entering the mansion. He passed through three gates, but saw no trace of anyone. There was a southern and a northern hall, the floors covered with red felt. Peeping in slightly, he saw the whole room filled with infants—sitting, lying, crawling on their knees—countless in number. While he was startled and puzzled, a person came out from behind the house, and upon seeing him said, "The young prince said that a distant guest was at the gate, and indeed it is so." Then he invited him in. Gu dared not enter, but the man pressed him, and so he entered. He asked, "What place is this?" The man replied, "This is the residence of the ninth prince's heir. The heir has just recovered from an ague, and today relatives and guests are celebrating; sir, you are fortunate." Before he finished speaking, someone came running, urging them to hurry along. Soon they arrived at a place with carved pavilions and red railings; a hall faced north, with nine bays in all. Ascending the steps, they found the guests already seated in full number. He saw a young man sitting facing north, and knowing him to be the prince, he prostrated himself below the hall. Everyone in the hall rose. The prince drew Gu to sit facing east. When the wine had been passed around, drums and music suddenly burst forth, and various singing girls came up to perform "Hua Feng Zhu." But only three acts had passed when the innkeeper and his servant called him in to lunch, repeatedly calling out to him by the bedside. His ears heard it very clearly, and fearing that the prince would know, he pretended to go out to change his clothes. Looking up, he saw that the sun was already westering; then he saw his servant standing before the bed, and only then did he realize that he had never left the inn. He wished to return quickly, so he sent his servant to close the door and go away. No sooner had he closed his eyes than he saw the palace buildings still there, and he hurried back along the former path. Passing by the place with the infants, there were no infants at all; instead, several dozen old women with dishevelled hair and hunched backs sat or lay there. Catching sight of Gu, they burst out in harsh voices, "Whose good-for-nothing is this, coming here to spy!" Gu, alarmed and frightened, dared not defend himself, and quickly hurried to the rear courtyard, ascended the hall, and took his seat. He saw that the prince had gained more than a foot of whiskers under his chin. Seeing Gu, he smiled and asked, "Where did you go? The play has already passed the seventh act." And he showed him a huge goblet as a penalty. After a while the music ended, and they presented another playbill. Gu chose "Guzu Takes a Wife." The singing girl then served wine in a coconut shell, which could hold about five quarts. Gu left his seat and declined, saying, "Your subject has an eye ailment and dares not become overly drunk." The prince said, "Since you have an eye problem, there is a court physician here; I will have him examine you." A guest on the eastern side immediately rose and came over, using two fingers to part his eyelids, and with a jade hairpin applied a white ointment like fat, instructing him to close his eyes and sleep for a while. The prince ordered an attendant to lead him into an inner chamber and let him lie down. After lying for a short time, he felt the bed curtains fragrant and soft, and thus fell into a deep sleep. Before long, he suddenly heard the clang and clash of gongs, and woke with a start. He thought the performance was not yet over; but when he opened his eyes, he saw that it was the inn's dog licking a greasy pan. Yet his eye disease had vanished as if lost. When he closed his eyes again, he saw nothing at all. Chen Xijiu. Chen Xijiu was a man of Pi. His father, Ziyan, was a renowned scholar in the district. The wealthy Zhou family, admiring his reputation, contracted a marriage alliance with him. Xijiu failed repeatedly in the examinations, his family fortunes declined, and he went to study in Qin, with no news for several years. Zhou secretly regretted the match. He married his younger daughter to the successful candidate Wang as his second wife; Wang’s betrothal gifts were lavish, his servants and horses splendid. This made him detest Xijiu’s poverty all the more, and he firmly resolved to break the engagement. He asked his daughter, but she refused. Angered, he sent her back to Xijiu in shabby clothes. Day after day no fire was lit for cooking, yet Zhou showed no concern. One day he sent an old serving woman with food for the daughter. On entering the gate, she said to Xijiu’s mother, “My master sent me to see whether the young miss is starving to death.” The daughter, fearing her mother-in-law would be shamed, forced a smile and tried to change the subject. She then brought out the dishes and refreshments from the hamper and set them before her mother-in-law. The old woman stopped her, saying, “No need for that! Ever since the young miss entered this household, has she ever exchanged so much as a cup of warm or cold water? Things from our house—I daresay the old lady has no face to eat them.” The mother was greatly enraged, her face and voice both changed. The old woman would not yield, and hurled foul insults. Amid the uproar, Xijiu came in from outside; learning what had happened, he flew into a rage, seized her by the hair, slapped her face, and drove her out of the gate. The next day, Zhou came to fetch his daughter, but she refused to return. The day after he came again with more people, all clamoring loudly as if ready to pick a fight. The mother urged the daughter to go. In tears, the daughter bowed to her mother-in-law and left in the carriage. After several days, he sent someone again to demand a writ of divorce. The mother compelled Xijiu to give it. They only hoped that Ziyan would return, so that some other arrangement could be made. Someone from the Zhou household who had come from Xi’an reported that Ziyan was already dead. Chen’s mother, grief-stricken and furious, fell ill and died. Amid his sorrow and hardship, Xijiu still hoped his wife would return; but as time passed and nothing came, his grief and anger deepened. He sold his few acres of thin land to pay for the funeral. After the burial, he begged his way to Qin to seek his father’s bones. Arriving in Xi’an, he inquired everywhere among the residents. Some said that several years earlier a scholar had died at an inn and was buried in the eastern suburb, but now the grave mound had disappeared. Xijiu had no plan but to beg in the marketplaces by day and lodge in wild temples by night, hoping that someone might know. One evening, passing through a mass burial ground, several men blocked his way and demanded payment for meals. Xijiu said, “I am a stranger, begging within the city walls; where am I lacking money to pay for anyone’s meals?” They were all angered, seized him, threw him to the ground, and stuffed his mouth with the ragged wadding from a beggar’s quilt. His strength failed and his voice faded, and he gradually grew critical. Suddenly they all cried out in alarm, “Where has that official come from?” They let go and fell silent. Soon a carriage arrived and someone asked, “Who is lying there?” Several men helped Xijiu to the side of the carriage. The person inside said, “That is my son. How dare those vile ghosts act thus! Bind them all and let none escape.” Xijiu felt someone remove the stuffing from his mouth; after a little while, he looked carefully and recognized that it was truly his father. He wept bitterly, crying, “My son has suffered greatly in seeking your bones. Are you still alive in this world?” His father said, “I am no living man; I am the Chief Controller of Mount Taihang. I have come for your sake as well.” Xijiu wept even more sorrowfully. His father comforted him. Xijiu tearfully related the divorce by his wife’s family. His father said, “Do not worry; your new wife is now at your mother’s place. Your mother misses you greatly; you may go there for a while.” So they rode together in the carriage, speeding like wind and rain. After a time they arrived at an official residence; they descended and passed through multiple gates, and there was his mother. Xijiu was overcome with anguish, but his father stopped him. Xijiu choked back his tears and obeyed. He saw his wife beside his mother and asked her, “Is my wife here—is she also in the underworld?” His mother said, “No; your father had her brought here. When you are ready to return home, she will be sent back.” Xijiu said, “My son would rather stay and serve you both; he does not wish to return.” His mother said, “You have endured hardship and traveled far to seek your father’s bones. If you do not return, what was your original purpose? Besides, your filial deeds have been reported to the Heavenly Emperor, who has bestowed upon you ten thousand catties of gold. Your married happiness is still long ahead—how can you speak of not returning?” Xijiu wept and bowed his head. His father urged him repeatedly to go, and Xijiu cried out in despair. His father said angrily, “Will you not go?” Xijiu was frightened, stopped his weeping, and then asked where his father was buried. His father took his arm and said, “As you go, I will tell you: a hundred paces from that burial ground, there is a pair of white elms, one large and one small.” He pulled him along urgently, and Xijiu had no time even to bid his mother farewell. Outside the gate a stout servant held a horse ready. Once Xijiu was mounted, his father instructed him, “At the place where you spend the night, there is a small sum of traveling money. Quickly prepare your baggage and return home. Demand your wife from your father-in-law; if you do not get her, do not rest.” Xijiu assented and set off. The horse flew at tremendous speed; at cockcrow he reached Xi’an. The servant helped him down and was about to accept his thanks to his parents, but both man and horse had vanished. He went to his former lodging, leaned against the wall, and dozed, waiting for dawn. Beneath his leg there was a lump of stone that hurt him; come daylight, he looked and it was silver. He bought a coffin and hired a carriage, found the twin elms, and recovered his father’s bones, then returned home. After the interment, his house was bare of all but walls. Fortunately, his neighbors, pitying his filial devotion, fed him together. He planned to go and demand his wife, but judged that he could not manage by force, so he went with his older cousin Shijiu. When they reached the gate, the doorman refused them entry. Shijiu had always been a rogue and spoke coarsely and obscenely. Zhou sent someone to persuade Xijiu to go back, promising to send the daughter at once. Xijiu then withdrew. At first, when the daughter had returned home, Zhou abused both Xijiu and his mother before her. The daughter said nothing but wept facing the wall. When Chen’s mother died, they did not let her know. When the divorce writ arrived, he threw it at her and said, “The Chen family has divorced you!” She said, “I have never been shrewish or rebellious—why should I be divorced?” She wanted to return and confront the facts, but she was confined. Later, when Xijiu went to Xi’an, Zhou spread a false report of his death to quell her hopes. Once this news spread, a certain Assistant Secretary Du came to propose a marriage, and Zhou unexpectedly consented. When the day for the wedding drew near, the daughter learned of it, wept, refused food, covered her face with the quilt, and her breath grew as thin as a thread. Zhou was at a loss, when suddenly he heard that Xijiu had arrived and had spoken rudely. Expecting his daughter would surely die, he had her carried back to Xijiu, intending to vent his spite by waiting for her death. When Xijiu returned, the bearers had already arrived; fearing that Xijiu would see her illness and refuse to receive her, they dumped her at the gate as soon as they entered and left. The neighbors worried on his behalf and planned to carry her back, but Xijiu would not listen. He lifted her onto the bed, but her breath had already ceased. Then he was greatly frightened. In his panic, Zhou’s son led several men with weapons into the house, smashing doors and windows. Xijiu fled and hid, but they searched for him bitterly. The villagers were all indignant; Shijiu rallied over ten men and risked themselves in the crisis. Zhou’s sons and brothers were all injured and fled like rats. Zhou grew angrier still and sued at the yamen, arresting Xijiu, Shijiu, and the others. Xijiu was about to go, entrusting the female corpse to a neighbor woman, when suddenly he heard a breath from the bed. Drawing near, he saw her eyes slightly stirring; soon she could turn over. Overjoyed, he went to the official court and stated his case. The magistrate was angry that Zhou’s suit was false. Zhou, afraid, bribed him heavily and was thus let off. Xijiu returned, and the husband and wife met, their grief and joy mingled. Earlier, the daughter had refused food and lay faintly breathing, having sworn to die. Suddenly someone lifted her up and said, “I am of the Chen family. Come quickly with me, and husband and wife may meet; otherwise, it will be too late!” Unconsciously she had already left the door; two people supported her into a palanquin, and in an instant they arrived at an official residence, where she saw her father-in-law and mother-in-law. She asked, “What place is this?” Her mother-in-law said, “Do not ask; later we will send you home.” One day she saw Xijiu arrive and was very happy. But he left immediately after meeting her, which she found strange. The father was often absent, sometimes for days, for unknown reasons. Last night he suddenly returned and said, “I was at Mount Wuyi and delayed two days; it was hard on Bao’er. Send the child home quickly.” So they sent the daughter back with horses and carriage. Suddenly she saw her own front gate, and awoke as from a dream. The wife and Xijiu recounted these events to each other, both amazed and delighted. From then on they lived together, but day and night they could not provide for themselves. Xijiu set up a small school for village children and also studied hard on his own. He often murmured to himself, “My father said Heaven would bestow gold, but now the four walls are empty—how can teaching mere children bring advancement?” One day, returning from his school, he met two men who asked him, “Are you Chen Xijiu?” He said, “Yes.” They immediately brought out iron chains and bound him. Xijiu could not understand why. Soon the villagers gathered and questioned them, and then learned that he had been implicated by a bandit from the prefecture. The villagers, pitying his wrong, collected money to bribe the constables, so that he suffered no hardship on the way. Arriving at the prefecture and seeing the prefect, he recounted his family history in detail. The prefect, startled, said, “This is the son of a famous scholar, refined and gentle—how could he be a thief?” He ordered his fetters removed and had the bandit severely interrogated; the bandit then confessed that Zhou had bribed him to do so. Xijiu also related the reasons for the reversal between father-in-law and son-in-law. The prefect grew even angrier and immediately issued a warrant for arrest. Then he invited Xijiu to his office and talked about old family friendship. It turned out that the prefect was the son of the former Pi magistrate Lord Han, who was the disciple of Xijiu's father. He gave a hundred taels of silver for lamp-and-fire expenses; and also gave two mules for riding, so that he could often go to the prefectural city to have his essays examined. He also praised Xijiu's filial piety to all the superior officials, from the governor-general downwards, all gave gifts. Xijiu rode the mules home, and the couple were greatly comforted. One day, his wife's mother came weeping, and when she saw her daughter, she prostrated herself on the ground and would not rise. The daughter asked in alarm, and only then learned that Zhou had been put in shackles and was in prison. The daughter wept bitterly and blamed herself, only wishing to die. Xijiu, having no alternative, went to the prefectural city to intercede for him. The prefect ordered him to redeem himself by paying a fine of one hundred shi of grain, and issued a written approval granting it to the filial son Chen Xijiu. When Zhou was released, he took out grain from the granary, mixed it with chaff and husks, and had it carted over. Xijiu said to his wife, "Your father has measured a gentleman with a petty man's heart. How did he know I would certainly accept it, and so fussily mix in chaff and husks?" And he smilingly declined it. Although Xijiu's household had some means, the walls were low and dilapidated. One night, a band of robbers entered. The servant woke up and shouted loudly, but they only stole the two mules and left. Over half a year later, Xijiu was reading at night when he heard a pounding on the door; he asked but there was silence. He called his servant to get up and look, and as soon as the door was opened, the two mules leaped in — they were the ones that had been lost before. They dashed straight to the stable, panting and sweating. He lit a candle and looked; each carried a leather bag; on opening them, they were full of silver ingots. He was greatly astonished and did not know where they had come from. Later he heard that that night a great robber had robbed Zhou, and when they came out with full loads, it happened that the defending soldiers were pursuing closely, so they abandoned their bundled goods and fled. The mules recognized their old master and ran straight home. After Zhou returned from prison, his injuries from torture were still severe, and then he suffered this robbery, so he fell seriously ill and died. The daughter dreamed at night that her father came in fetters and said, "For all I have done in my life, regret is too late. Now I am suffering punishment in the underworld; no one but your father-in-law can deliver me. For my sake, ask your husband to deliver a letter." She woke up sobbing. When questioned, she told everything. Xijiu had long wanted to visit Mount Taihang, so he set out that very day. When he arrived, he prepared sacrificial animals and poured out libations, then slept in the open at that place, hoping to see something. All night there was nothing unusual, so he returned. After Zhou died, his wife and son grew even poorer, and depended on the second son-in-law. That Wang, a xiaolian, passed the examination and was appointed county magistrate, but was dismissed for corruption, and the whole family moved to Shenyang, leaving them with nowhere to turn. Xijiu from time to time looked after them. The Historian of the Strange says: "Goodness has no greater than filial piety; spirits and gods respond to it, and that is only right in principle. If one is a man of virtue who esteems virtue, even if he remains poor all his life, one would still take him; why talk about whether he will surely prosper afterwards? But some people entrust their tender daughters to white-haired old men, and boastfully say: 'So-and-so high official is my son-in-law.' Alas! The tender and cooing ones remain as before, yet the golden-turtle son-in-law returns with posthumous honors — that is already wretched enough; how much more when a young wife follows the army?"