Chapter 13

Volume 10 Liaozhai Zhiyi, Volume 11 — Author: Pu Songling Volume 12 → Feng the Carpenter When Governor Zhou Youde was renovating the old princely residence into a provincial office compound, workmen were gathered for the task. Among the carpenters was one Feng Minghuan, who was on night duty there. One night, just as he had gone to bed, he suddenly saw the patterned window half open, and the moonlight was as bright as day. Gazing into the distance, he spied a red chicken standing atop a low wall; as he fixed his eyes upon it, the chicken had already flown down to the ground. In a moment, a young woman revealed half her body and peered in at him. Feng suspected she was the paramour of one of his fellow workmen; he listened quietly, but all the others were already fast asleep. His heart fluttered with unease, yet he secretly hoped she had mistaken her way. After a short while, the woman indeed crossed through the window and came straight into his arms. Feng was overjoyed and said not a word. When their pleasure was done, the woman departed. From that night on, she came every night. At first she still kept herself hidden, but later she told him openly. The woman said, "I did not come to you by mistake; I come to you of my own accord." The two grew increasingly intimate day by day. When the construction was completed, Feng wished to return home, and the woman was already waiting for him in the open fields. The village where Feng lived was not very far from the prefectural city, so the woman followed him back. Once they entered his house, none of his family could see her, and only then did Feng realize she was not human. After several months, his vitality gradually waned, and his fear grew; he invited a Daoist priest to perform exorcisms, but in the end nothing proved effective. One night, the woman came in gorgeous attire and said to Feng, "All worldly bonds have their fixed number: what is destined to come cannot be pushed away, and what is destined to leave cannot be held back. Now I take my leave of you." And so she departed. Huang Ying Ma Zicai was a native of Shuntian. His family had been fond of chrysanthemums for generations, but none more so than Zicai. Whenever he heard of a fine variety, he would purchase it, undaunted by a thousand leagues. One day, a visitor from Jinling lodged at his house, saying that a cousin of his had one or two varieties not to be found in the north. Ma was greatly excited and immediately packed his bags, accompanying the visitor to Jinling. The visitor used every means to procure them for him, and obtained two seedlings, which Ma wrapped and treasured like precious gems. On his way back, he encountered a young man riding a donkey, following an oiled green carriage, with a graceful and dashing bearing. As they drew near, Ma engaged him in conversation. The young man said, "My surname is Tao," and his speech was refined and elegant. He asked Ma whence he came, and Ma told him truthfully. The young man said, "The seed is not without excellence; it all depends on cultivation and watering." He then discussed with Ma the methods of cultivating chrysanthemums. Ma was delighted and asked, "Where are you bound?" The youth replied, "My elder sister is weary of Jinling and wishes to find a dwelling north of the Yellow River." Ma said cheerfully, "Though I am poor, my thatched cottage can offer a place to lodge. If you do not mind its barrenness and simplicity, you need not go elsewhere." The youth stepped to the front of the carriage and consulted his sister. The lady inside pushed aside the curtain and spoke—she was a peerless beauty of about twenty. She said to her brother, "The house need not be lofty, but the courtyard should be spacious." Ma agreed on their behalf, and so they all returned together. To the south of Ma's house was a barren garden, with only three or four small rooms. Tao was pleased and took up residence there. Every day he came to the north compound to tend Ma's chrysanthemums. Those that had withered he pulled up and replanted, and none failed to revive. Yet Ma's household was poor, and Tao daily ate and drank with Ma; yet Ma observed that Tao's own household seemed not to light a cooking fire. Ma's wife, née Lü, was also fond of Tao's elder sister, and from time to time gave them measures of grain in aid. Tao's elder sister had the childhood name Huang Ying, and was skilled in conversation; she often visited Lü's quarters to sew and spin together. One day Tao said to Ma, "Your family is certainly not wealthy, and I daily burden my good friend with food and drink—how can this be a lasting arrangement? For the present plan, selling chrysanthemums would also suffice to make a living." Ma was by nature upright and incorruptible. Hearing Tao's words, he thought them contemptible and said, "I took you for a refined and lofty scholar, able to abide in poverty; but now you speak thus, turning the East Fence into a marketplace—that would disgrace the yellow flower." Tao laughed and said, "To earn one's own food is not greed; to deal in flowers is not vulgar. A man surely should not seek wealth by improper means, but neither is it necessary to strive for poverty." Ma said nothing, and Tao rose and left. From then on, Tao gathered up all the withered branches and inferior seedlings that Ma discarded and took them away. After that, he no longer came to Ma for meals or lodging; only when invited would he come. Before long, the chrysanthemums were about to bloom, and Ma heard a great clamor at Tao's gate, like a market. Wondering, he went over and peeked in, and saw townspeople buying flowers—some carrying them in carts, others on their shoulders, the road crowded with them. The flowers were all rare varieties, such as he had never seen. Disgusted at Tao's greed, Ma wished to break off relations with him; yet he resented Tao for secretly keeping fine stocks. So he knocked at his door, intending to upbraid him. Tao came out, took his hand, and drew him in. Ma saw that the half-mu of waste ground was all laid out in chrysanthemum beds; apart from a few rafters, there was no idle soil. Where flowers had been dug up, Tao had broken off other branches and inserted them as replacements; the buds still in the beds were all exquisite—and on closer inspection, they were all the very plants that Ma had previously discarded. Tao went inside, brought out wine and food, and set a feast beside the flower beds, saying, "I am poor and cannot keep the precept of purity; but these past days I have been fortunate to earn a little money, enough to get drunk on." After a while, a voice from the house called "Sanlang," and Tao answered and went in. Soon he brought out fine dishes, excellently prepared. Ma then asked, "Why has your elder sister not yet been betrothed?" Tao replied, "The time has not yet come." Ma asked, "When?" He answered, "In forty-three months." Ma pressed, "What does that mean?" But Tao only laughed and said nothing; they drank merrily until they parted. The next day, Ma went again, and the newly inserted branches had already grown a foot tall. Greatly amazed, he earnestly begged for the technique. Tao said, "This truly cannot be taught in words; besides, you do not use it to make a living—why would you need it?" A few days later, the bustle at his gate subsided somewhat, and Tao wrapped chrysanthemums in rush mats, loaded several carts, and departed. After a year, when spring was half over, he returned with rare southern flowers and set up a flower shop in the capital. Within ten days he sold them all, and then returned to cultivating chrysanthemums. Those who had bought flowers from him the previous year had kept the roots, but the next year all turned into inferior kinds, so they bought again from Tao. From this Tao grew daily richer: in one year he added rooms, in two years he built grand halls. He did all the building as he pleased, without consulting the master of the property. Gradually, the old flower beds were all turned into corridors and houses. He also bought a plot of land outside the wall, surrounded it with a rampart, and planted it entirely with chrysanthemums. In autumn, he loaded up the flowers and left; by the end of spring he had not returned. Meanwhile, Ma's wife died of illness. Ma's affections turned to Huang Ying, and he secretly sent someone to hint at it. Huang Ying smiled faintly, as if agreeing, but said she would wait solely for Tao's return. After more than a year, Tao still did not come. Huang Ying directed the servants in cultivating chrysanthemums, just as Tao had done. With the money she earned, she engaged in trade, bought twenty qing of fertile fields outside the village, and her mansion grew ever more magnificent. Suddenly a visitor came from Eastern Guangdong, bringing a letter from Tao. Ma opened it, and it instructed his sister to marry Ma. Checking the date on which the letter was sent, it was exactly the day of Ma's wife's death; recalling the drinking in the garden, it was precisely forty-three months—he was greatly astonished. He showed the letter to Huang Ying and asked, "Where shall I send the betrothal gifts?" Huang Ying declined to accept any presents. Moreover, since Ma's old dwelling was mean, she wanted him to move to the southern mansion and live as if he were a son-in-law in her family. Ma would not agree; he chose an auspicious day and performed the formal wedding rites in person. After Huang Ying married Ma, she opened a door in the partition wall to connect to the southern mansion, and every day she went over to supervise the servants. Ma felt ashamed that his wife was rich, and constantly urged Huang Ying to keep separate accounts—north and south—to prevent confusion. But whenever the household needed anything, Huang Ying would take it from the southern mansion. Within half a year, everything in the house was from Tao's household. Ma immediately sent servants to return each item, one by one, and forbade them to fetch any more. Before ten days had passed, the things were mixed again. This happened several times, and Ma grew weary of the trouble. Huang Ying laughed and said, "Is not Master Chen Zhongzi overtaxing himself?" Ma felt ashamed and ceased to scrutinize, leaving everything to Huang Ying. She hired craftsmen and gathered materials, and extensive building began; Ma could not stop it. After several months, the buildings and towers joined together, and the two mansions were merged into one, with no boundary between them. However, in accordance with Ma's instructions, Huang Ying closed the gates and no longer dealt in chrysanthemums, yet their style of living exceeded that of hereditary noble houses. Ma felt uneasy and said, "For thirty years I have maintained my pure integrity, and now you have entangled me. Now, going about in this world, I merely eat by relying on a woman's apron strings—truly I have not a shred of manly spirit. All men pray for wealth; I only pray for poverty!" Huang Ying said, "I am not greedy or sordid; but unless I accumulate a little prosperity, generations to come will say that Yuanming had a lowly and impoverished constitution, incapable of rising for a hundred ages—so I merely sought to clear that slander for my own Pengze. Yet it is hard for the poor to wish for wealth; but for the rich to seek poverty is also quite easy. The gold at your bedside—spend it as you will; I will not begrudge it." Ma said, "To spend another's gold is also most shameful." Huang Ying said, "If you do not wish for wealth, neither can I bear poverty. Very well, let us divide our dwelling: let the pure remain pure, and the turbid remain turbid—what harm is there?" So she built a thatched hut in the garden and chose a pretty maidservant to attend on Ma there. Ma was content with it. But after a few days, he missed Huang Ying sorely. He summoned her, but she would not come; unable to help himself, he went back to her. Every other night he would go, and this became routine. Huang Ying laughed and said, "To eat in the East and sleep in the West—surely a man of integrity would not do so." Ma also laughed at himself and had no answer; so they resumed living together as before. It happened that Ma went to Jinling on business, and the season coincided with the chrysanthemum autumn. Early one morning he passed by a flower shop, and seeing the many pots arrayed inside, their blooms surpassing all he had seen, his heart was stirred, and he suspected they were of Tao's making. Shortly, the master came out—it was indeed Tao. Overjoyed, he poured out all that had passed, and stayed the night there. He urged Tao to return home. Tao said, "Jinling is my native place; I am about to marry here. I have accumulated a little money; please convey it to my elder sister. I will come for a short while at year's end." Ma would not listen, but pleaded all the more urgently. He also said, "Fortunately your household is now well supplied; you can sit back and enjoy it, and need not trade again." He stayed in the shop, had his servant set the prices instead, lowered the cost, and sold everything within a few days. He pressed Tao to pack and hired a boat to go north. Upon entering the house, they found that Huang Ying had already prepared a room, with bed, mat, and bedding all laid out, as if she had known her brother would return. After Tao returned, he unpacked, directed the servants, and set about building pavilions and gardens on a grand scale; he spent his days only playing chess and drinking with Ma, and received no other guests. When Ma chose a bride for him, Tao declined, saying he did not wish it. His sister sent two maids to attend to his bedchamber. After three or four years, he had a daughter. Tao had always been a great drinker, and had never been seen drunk. There was a friend named Zeng, whose capacity was likewise matchless. He happened to visit Ma, and Ma had him compete in drinking with Tao. The two drank with great abandon, delighted with each other, regretting they had not met sooner. From the hour of the Dragon (7–9 am) until the fourth watch, they reckoned they had each emptied a hundred jars. Zeng collapsed, dead drunk, and slept soundly among the seats. Tao rose to return to his bed, but as he stepped out the door and trod upon the chrysanthemum bed, his jade mountain toppled; casting his clothes aside, he immediately transformed into a chrysanthemum on the spot, as tall as a man, with more than ten blossoms, all larger than a fist. Ma was terrified beyond measure and told Huang Ying. Ying hurried over, pulled it up and placed it on the ground, saying, "How could you be so drunk as this!" She covered it with clothes, urged Ma to leave with her, and admonished him not to look. When it was light, they went, and there was Tao lying by the edge of the bed. Ma then realized that the siblings were chrysanthemum spirits, and loved and respected them all the more. But since Tao had revealed his true nature, he drank even more unrestrainedly, constantly sending notes to invite Zeng, and became bosom friends with him. It happened to be the Flower Festival, when Zeng came to visit, having two servants carry a jar of white liquor steeped with medicinal herbs, and agreed to finish it together. The jar was about to be drained, yet the two were still not very drunk. Ma secretly added more with a pitcher, and the two finished that as well. Zeng was already exhausted from drunkenness, and the servants carried him away on their backs. Tao lay down on the ground and again transformed into a chrysanthemum. Ma, now accustomed to this, was not startled; he pulled it up in the same way and kept watch by its side to observe the changes. After a long while, the leaves grew more and more withered. Greatly alarmed, he finally told Huang Ying. Ying, hearing this, exclaimed in horror, "You have killed my younger brother!" She rushed to look at it, and the roots and stem were already withered. Grieving to the utmost, she pinched off its stalk, buried it in a pot, carried it into her chamber, and watered it daily. Ma was remorseful and grieved beyond measure, and bitterly resented Zeng. After several days, he heard that Zeng had already died of drunkenness. The flower in the pot gradually sprouted, and by the ninth month it bloomed, with short stems and pink blossoms; smelling it, there was an aroma of wine. She named it "Drunken Tao," and watering it with wine made it flourish. Later, the daughter grew up and married into a noble family. Huang Ying lived to old age, and there was nothing else unusual about her. The Historian of the Strange says: "The man of green hills and white clouds thus died of drunkenness. The whole world pities him, but it is not necessarily that he himself did not consider it a pleasure. Plant this variety in the courtyard, and it is like seeing a good friend, like facing a beautiful woman—one must certainly seek it out." The Bookworm Pengcheng Lang Yuzhu; his ancestors had held office as prefects. They were incorrupt in office, and with their salary they did not engage in production, accumulating books that filled their house. By the time of Yuzhu, he was even more infatuated: his family was desperately poor, and there was nothing they did not sell, but of his father's collected books, he could not bear to part with a single scroll. While his father was alive, he had written the "Exhortation to Study" and pasted it by his seat; Lang recited it daily, and also covered it with plain gauze for fear it would wear away. He did not do this for the sake of seeking office, but truly believed that there really was grain and gold within books. He studied day and night, without regard to heat or cold. At over twenty years of age, he did not seek a match, hoping that a beautiful woman would come of her own accord from among the pages. When meeting relatives and guests, he did not know how to exchange pleasantries; after a few words, he would burst into loud recitation, and the visitors would retreat and leave. Whenever the educational commissioner came for examinations, he was always placed first, but he bitterly failed to obtain a degree. One day, while he was reading, suddenly a great wind blew the scroll away. He rushed after it, and as he trod, his foot sank into the ground; on probing, there was decaying grass in the hole; on digging, it turned out to be an ancient granary of millet, rotted and turned to manure. Though inedible, it made him even more convinced that the saying of "a thousand bushels" was not false, and he studied with greater effort. One day, he climbed a high shelf and among the disorderly scrolls found a golden carriage of about a foot in diameter; he was overjoyed, taking it as proof of the "golden house." He showed it to people, but it was only gilded, not real gold. Secretly he resented that the ancients had deceived him. Not long after, a former colleague of his father, who was an intendant in that circuit, was fond of Buddhism. Someone advised Lang to offer the carriage as a shrine for a Buddha image. The intendant was greatly pleased and gave him three hundred taels of gold and two horses. Lang was delighted, believing that both the golden house and the carriage and horses had come true, and so he became even more assiduous. But by then he was already thirty years old. Someone advised him to marry, and he said, " 'Within books there is a face like jade' — why should I worry about not having a beautiful wife?" He read for another two or three years, but still no effect; everyone mocked him. At that time, there was a popular rumor that the Heavenly Weaving Maid had secretly fled. Someone teased Lang: "The Heavenly Grandson has eloped — it must be for your sake." Lang knew it was a joke and did not argue. One evening, he was reading the eighth volume of the History of the Han, about halfway through, when he saw a beauty cut from gauze tucked within the pages. Startled, he said: "The 'face like jade' in books — could this be its fulfillment?" His heart was dejected and lost. But on closer inspection, the beauty's eyebrows and eyes were as if alive; on her back there were faint tiny characters: "Weaving Maid." He was greatly amazed. He placed it daily on his scroll, gazing at it over and over, to the point of forgetting food and sleep. One day, as he was staring, the beauty suddenly bent her waist and rose, sitting on the scroll and smiling. Lang was astounded and prostrated himself beneath the table in obeisance. When he arose, she was already a foot tall. Even more alarmed, he kowtowed again. She descended from the desk, graceful and slender, exactly a peerless beauty. He bowed and asked: "What god are you?" The beauty laughed and said: "I am Miss Yan, my style is Ruyu; you have long known me well. Since you have daily cast your gaze upon me, if I did not come, I fear that after a thousand years no one would still be a steadfast believer in the ancients." Lang was delighted and so dwelt with her intimately. Yet in their pillow and mat intimacy, though they were deeply affectionate, he did not know how to act as a man. Whenever he read, he would have the girl sit by his side. The girl warned him not to read, but he would not listen. The girl said: "The reason you cannot achieve high advancement is merely because of reading. Just look at the spring and autumn lists of successful candidates — how many are readers like you? If you do not listen, I shall go away." Lang temporarily complied. After a short while, he forgot her instruction and began chanting again. In a moment, he looked for the girl and she was nowhere to be seen. He lost his wits, called out and prayed, but there was no trace. Suddenly he remembered the place where the girl had hidden; he took the History of the Han and searched it carefully, until he reached the old place, and indeed found her there. He called but she did not move; he prostrated himself and pleaded mournfully. Only then did she descend and say: "If you do not listen again, I shall cut you off forever!" So she had him prepare a chessboard and gambling implements, and every day she played and roamed with him. But Lang's mind was not really on it. When he saw that the girl was not there, he would secretly take a scroll and browse. Fearing that the girl would notice, he stealthily took the eighth volume of the History of the Han and mixed it among other things to mislead her. One day, while he was reading with great absorption, the girl came, and he was completely unaware; suddenly he caught sight of her, hurriedly closed the scroll, but the girl had already vanished. Greatly frightened, he searched everywhere among the volumes, but could find her nowhere; eventually, he found her again in the eighth volume of the History of the Han, at the exact leaf number without error. He then bowed again and swore that he would not read anymore. The girl then descended and played chess with him, saying: "If in three days you are not skilled, I shall leave again." After three days, he suddenly won a game by two stones over the girl. The girl was pleased and taught him the zither, setting a limit of five days to master one melody. Lang busied his hands and fixed his eyes, with no leisure for other things; after a long time, he could follow the finger movements to the rhythm, and unconsciously his spirits stirred. The girl then daily drank and played games with him, and Lang became happy and forgot about reading. The girl also let him go out and make friends, and from this his reputation for gallantry and elegance suddenly spread. The girl said: "You may now go out and try your fortune." One night, Lang said to the girl: "Whenever a man and woman live together, they bear children; now I have lived with you for a long time, why is this not so?" The girl laughed and said: "You read every day; I always said it was of no use. Now even the chapter on husband and wife you have not yet understood — the pillow and mat have their own effort." Lang asked in surprise: "What effort?" The girl laughed and did not speak. After a little while, she secretly drew him to her. Lang was extremely happy and said: "I never imagined that the joy of husband and wife has something inexpressible." From then on, he told everyone he met, and no one could keep from covering their mouths. The girl learned of this and reproved him. Lang said: "Only those who bore through walls and leap over fences cannot tell others; the joy of natural human relations is something everyone has — why hide it?" After eight or nine months, the girl indeed bore a son, and they hired a nurse to care for him. One day, she said to Lang: "I have been with you for two years and have already borne a child; I can now take my leave. If I stay too long, I fear I shall bring disaster upon you, and regret will come too late." When Lang heard this, he wept and prostrated himself, unable to rise, saying: "Do you not think of the crying infant?" The girl was also grieved; after a long while she said: "If you insist on my staying, you must scatter all the books on the shelves." Lang said: "These are your native place, and my very life — how can you say such a thing!" The girl did not press him, but said: "I know it is fated; I cannot but warn you beforehand." Previously, some relatives had caught sight of the girl, and all were astounded, but they had not heard of any family into which she had been married, so they questioned him together. Lang could not tell lies, but only kept silent. People became more suspicious; the rumor spread everywhere and reached the county magistrate, Lord Shi. Shi was a man from Fujian, a young jinshi. He was stirred by the fame and secretly wished to see her beauty, so he summoned Lang and the girl. When the girl learned of this, she fled and vanished without a trace. The magistrate was enraged, arrested Lang, stripped him of his scholar's status, and put him in shackles and fetters, pressing him to tell where the girl had gone. Lang was near death but said nothing. He had the servant girl put in irons, and she was barely able to describe something of the matter. The magistrate believed it to be sorcery and ordered a personal visit to his house. He saw that the house was filled with books, too many to search completely, so he burned them; the smoke in the courtyard gathered and did not disperse, dark as a haze. After Lang was released, he went afar to seek the books of his father's acquaintances, and so was able to restore his status and retake the examinations. That autumn he passed the provincial examinations, and the next year he became a jinshi. But his hatred was etched into his very marrow. He set up a tablet for Yan Ruyu and prayed morning and evening: "If you have spirit, you should bless me so that I may hold office in Fujian." Later, indeed, he was sent as an imperial inspector to Fujian. After three months, he investigated Shi's misdeeds and confiscated his property. At that time, a cousin of his was a judicial commissioner, and he forced him to accept a concubine, pretending that he was buying a maidservant to lodge in his office. After the case was concluded, Lang that very day submitted a self-accusation, took the concubine and returned home. The Historian of the Strange comments: "The things of this world, when accumulated, invite envy; when loved, give rise to demons: the girl's enchantment was the demon of books. The affair approaches the bizarre, and it is not unreasonable to deal with it; but the tyranny of the First Emperor of Qin — was it not too cruel! His selfish intent all the more deserved the retribution of enmity. Alas! Why wonder at it!" The Great Sage Equal to Heaven Xu Sheng, a man of Yan Province, followed his elder brother Cheng, who traded in Fujian, but their goods had not yet been stored up. Fellow travelers said that the Great Sage was manifestly efficacious and they were about to pray at his shrine. Sheng did not know what god the Great Sage was, and went with his brother. When they arrived, the halls and pavilions stretched in succession, of the utmost magnificence. Entering the main hall, they looked up and saw a god with a monkey's head and a human body — it was indeed the Great Sage Equal to Heaven, Sun Wukong. The travelers were solemn and respectful, none daring to show any carelessness. Sheng, however, was always upright and unyielding, and secretly laughed at the vulgarity of the world. While the others burned incense and kowtowed in prayer, Sheng slipped away. When they returned, his brother reproached him for his disrespect. Sheng said: "Sun Wukong is but an allegory of the old man Qiu — why be so sincerely convinced? If he truly has divine power, spears, swords, thunder and lightning — I will bear them myself!" When the innkeeper heard them call the Great Sage's name, he waved his hands and changed color, as if afraid the Great Sage would hear. Seeing this, Sheng argued all the more loudly; the listeners all covered their ears and fled. At night, Sheng’s illness worsened, and a great headache assailed him. Someone urged him to go to the temple and apologize, but Sheng would not listen. Before long, his headache abated somewhat, but then pain struck his thigh; through the night a huge ulcer grew there, until his entire leg was swollen and he could neither sleep nor eat. His elder brother prayed on his behalf, but to no avail. Someone said: “When the god sends chastisement, one must pray in person.” Sheng remained unconvinced. After a month or more, the sore gradually closed, but then another ulcer appeared, and the pain was twice as bitter. A doctor came and cut away the rotten flesh with a knife; blood spilled out, filling a bowl. Fearing that others would exaggerate his words, Sheng endured it without a groan. After another month or more, he began to recover. But then his elder brother fell gravely ill. Sheng said: “What do you make of this! He who honors the god fares no better. This proves that my illness was not caused by Wukong.” When his brother heard this, he grew even more resentful, saying that the god had transferred its wrath to him because his younger brother would not pray on his behalf. Sheng said: “Brothers are like hands and feet. The other day, when my own limbs were festering, I would not pray; now would I abandon my principle merely because of an affliction in a brother’s limbs?” He only called physicians and prepared medicines for him, and would not offer prayers. After the medicine was administered, his brother died suddenly. Sheng’s grief was knotted in his heart. He bought a coffin and encoffined his brother, then went to the temple, pointed at the god, and rebuked him, saying: “When my brother fell ill, you said that you had transferred your wrath to him, making it impossible for me to clear myself. If you truly have divine power, you should make the dead return to life. If that happens, I will face north and call myself your disciple, and dare not utter another word of dissent. If not, I shall apply to you the same method by which you dealt with the Three Pure Ones, and turn it back upon yourself, so as to dispel my brother’s confusion beneath the earth.” That night, he dreamed that someone summoned him away. He entered the Great Sage’s shrine, looked up, and saw the Great Sage wearing an angry expression. The Sage reproached him, saying: “Because of your insolence, I pierced your calf and thigh with the Bodhisattva’s knife; yet you still would not repent, and muttered resentful words. You should have been sent to the Pulling-Out-the-Tongue Hell, but in consideration of your stubborn integrity, I have pardoned you for the time being. Your brother’s illness—you yourself caused his life to be cut short by an incompetent physician. What blame does that lay on others? Now, if I do not exert a little of my power, I will only give the reckless more ground for talk.” He then ordered a blue-clad attendant to go and petition the King of Hell on his behalf. The attendant said: “In three days, the register of the dead will already have been reported to the Heavenly Court; it may be difficult to do anything.” The Sage took a square writing tablet, took up his brush, and wrote something—what it was, no one knew—and had the attendant take it and go. Only after a long while did he return. He came back together with the brother, and both knelt in the hall. The Sage asked: “Why so late?” The attendant replied: “The King of Hell did not dare to decide on his own authority; he took Your Holiness’s writ and consulted the Dipper Station above, hence the delay.” Sheng hurried forward and bowed, thanking the god for his grace. The Sage said: “You may quickly leave with your brother. If you can turn to goodness, it will bring you blessings.” The brothers, half in grief and half in joy, returned home together. Sheng woke and found it strange. He rose at once, opened the coffin and looked inside—his brother had indeed revived. He helped him out, and the brother was deeply grateful for the Great Sage’s power. From then on, Sheng sincerely believed and worshipped him, with even greater devotion than common custom demanded. But by then, half of the brothers’ capital had been spent during their illnesses, and his brother was not yet fully recovered. They sat facing each other in prolonged worry. One day, while wandering in the outskirts, Sheng suddenly met a man in brown clothing, who looked at him and said: “Why are you so troubled?” Sheng, who had been suffering with no one to tell, recounted his ordeals in full. The brown-clothed man said: “There is a fine place. If you go there for a while and look around, it will lift your spirits.” Sheng asked: “Where?” The man only said: “Not far.” Sheng followed him. After they had gone a little over half a li beyond the city wall, the brown-clothed man said: “I have a little trick—we can be there in an instant.” He then told Sheng to clasp his arms around his waist. The man nodded slightly, and Sheng felt clouds rising beneath his feet as they soared upward, he knew not how many hundred yojanas. Sheng was terrified and kept his eyes shut, not daring to open them even slightly. After a moment, the man said: “We have arrived.” Suddenly Sheng beheld a world of crystal and glass, radiant with strange colors. He asked in surprise: “Where is this?” The man replied: “The Heavenly Palace.” They walked on at leisure, ascending higher and higher. In the distance, he saw an old man. The brown-clothed man said happily: “To have met this old gentleman just now is your good fortune!” He raised his hands in greeting. The old man invited them to his dwelling, where he brewed tea and served his guests. He set out only two cups, not including Sheng. The brown-clothed man said: “This is my disciple. He has traveled a thousand li on business, and has come respectfully to your immortal office, begging for a small gift.” The old man ordered an attendant to bring out a tray of white stones, shaped like sparrow’s eggs and clear as ice, and told Sheng to help himself. Sheng thought he could take them home and use them as drinking tokens, so he took six. The brown-clothed man thought this was too modest, and took another six on his behalf, handed them to Sheng, and wrapped them together. He told him to put them in his waist pouch, then clasped his hands and said: “That is enough.” They took their leave of the old man, and the brown-clothed man again had Sheng cling to him as they descended. In an instant, they reached the ground. Sheng bowed his head to the ground and begged to know the immortal’s name. The man laughed and said: “That which you just rode is what is called the Somersault Cloud.” Sheng suddenly understood—it was the Great Sage. He again begged for protection and blessing. The man said: “The Wealth Star you just met has bestowed a twelvefold profit—what more do you seek?” Sheng bowed again, and when he looked up, the man had vanished. After returning home, he joyfully told his brother. They untied the pouch and looked inside—the stones had melted into the pouch itself. Later, he transported goods and returned, reaping many times the profit. From then on, whenever he went to Fujian, he would always pray to the Great Sage. The prayers of others were not always answered, but every request Sheng made was granted. The Strange Historian comments: “In former times, a scholar passed by a temple, painted a pipa on the wall, and left. When he returned, its spiritual power had become greatly renowned, and incense offerings continued in abundance. Matters under heaven need not always have a real person behind them; when people invest them with spirit, they become spiritual indeed. Why is this? Where the hearts of the people gather, something may take lodging there. As for a man of Sheng’s upright and unyielding nature, he surely deserved the protection of the gods. But was it truly a case of an embroidered needle hidden in the ear, with hairs that could transform, and a somersault beneath the feet that could ascend to the azure heavens? That he was ultimately deluded by such notions also shows that his insight was not clear.” The Frog God Between the Yangtze and Han rivers, the common folk worship the Frog Spirit with the utmost devotion. In its shrine there were frogs by the hundreds of thousands, some as large as baskets. Should anyone offend the spirit's wrath, strange omens would appear in that household: frogs would crawl over the tables and couches, or even scale the slippery walls without falling, in all manner of ways—such a house was doomed to misfortune. The people would then be terrified, slaughtering livestock and offering prayers of expiation; if the spirit was pleased, all would be well. In Chu there was a man named Xue Kunsheng, clever from childhood and handsome of countenance. When he was six or seven, an old woman in blue came to his house, claiming to be an emissary of the spirit. She sat and conveyed the spirit's will: the spirit wished to give his daughter in marriage to Kunsheng. Old Xue was simple and unpolished by nature, and had no wish for this; he declined on the grounds that his son was still young. Though he thus refused, he also dared not propose marriage to any other family. After several years, Kunsheng grew older, and he sent betrothal gifts to the Jiang family. The spirit informed Jiang: "Xue Kunsheng is my son-in-law—how dare you approach my forbidden morsel!" Jiang was terrified and returned the gifts. Old Xue, worried, offered pure livestock in prayer, saying: "I dare not match my son with a spirit." When the prayer was finished, he saw that in the wine and dishes great maggots had floated up, writhing and stirring. He poured them out, apologized, and returned home. His heart grew even more fearful, but he let the matter rest for the time. One day, as Kunsheng was on the road, a messenger came to greet him and convey the spirit's command, urgently inviting him to come. Having no choice, he went along. They entered a vermilion gate, where the pavilions and towers were splendid. An old man sat in the hall, looking to be seventy or eighty. Kunsheng prostrated himself in obeisance; the old man ordered him to be pulled up and gave him a seat beside the table. Soon, maids and old women gathered to look at him, crowding all around. The old man glanced about and said, "They say that Master Xue has arrived." Several maids hurried away. After a while, an old woman led out a young lady, sixteen or seventeen, peerlessly beautiful. The old man pointed and said, "This is my youngest daughter, Shiniang. She considers that you and she would make a fine match; but your honored father rejects her because of her different kind. This is a matter of a hundred years; parents only manage half of it—the rest lies with you." Kunsheng gazed fixedly at Shiniang, his heart drawn to her, but he remained silent. The old woman said, "I knew well that your intentions were good. Please return home first, and we shall send Shiniang to you shortly." Kunsheng said, "Agreed," and hurried back to tell his father. Old Xue was flustered and at a loss, so he coached his son with words to decline in return, but Kunsheng would not go. Just as he was scolding him, a carriage was already at the gate, with a throng of blue-clad attendants, and Shiniang entered. She came to the main hall to pay respects to her new parents; both father- and mother-in-law were delighted. That very night they performed the nuptial cup, and their union was harmonious as lutes and zithers. From then on, the spirit-father and spirit-mother would often descend upon their home. When their clothing appeared red, it signified joy; when white, wealth—these omens always manifested, and so the family prospered day by day. Since the marriage to the spirit, the gates, halls, fences, and privies were all full of frogs, and no one dared to curse or trample them. Only Kunsheng, headstrong in his youth, would kill them when pleased, and trample them to death when angry, with little care. Though Shiniang was gentle and deferential, she was quick to anger and greatly disapproved of Kunsheng's actions; yet Kunsheng did not restrain himself for her sake. Shiniang's words stung Kunsheng. Kunsheng angrily said, "Do you think your father and mother can bring calamity upon people? What sort of man fears a frog!" Shiniang greatly tabooed the word "frog"; hearing this, she was furious and said, "Since I entered your gate, I have added to your family's grain in the fields and increased your profits in trade—not a little. Now old and young alike are well-fed and warm, yet you are like an owl growing wings, wanting to peck out its mother's eyes!" Kunsheng grew even more indignant and said, "I was just resenting that the increase is foul and unfit to pass on to descendants. Better we part early." And he drove Shiniang out. When the old parents heard of this, Shiniang had already left. They berated Kunsheng and made him go after her quickly to bring her back. But Kunsheng, in high fury, would not yield. By nightfall, both father and mother fell ill, with dizziness and loss of appetite. Old Xue, terrified, bore a thorn branch to the shrine and offered heartfelt pleas. After three days, the illness healed. Shiniang also returned of her own accord, and husband and wife were as loving as before. Shiniang would daily sit in full adornment, never plying needlework; Kunsheng's clothes and shoes were all left to his mother. One day his mother said in anger, "Now that my son is married, I am still burdened! In other families, the daughter-in-law serves the mother-in-law; in ours, the mother-in-law serves the daughter-in-law!" Shiniang happened to overhear this and, in a huff, came to the hall and said, "A daughter-in-law attends at meals and enquires at night—how does she serve her mother-in-law? What I lack is only that I cannot stint on wages and make a drudge of myself." The mother was speechless, and withdrew in shame and tears. Kunsheng came in, saw his mother's tear-stained face, and upon learning the reason, angrily reproached Shiniang. Shiniang argued back stubbornly and would not yield. Kunsheng said, "If a wife cannot bring joy to her parents, better not to have one! Even if I provoke the old frog's anger, at worst I die a violent death!" And he drove Shiniang out again. Shiniang, also enraged, went out the door and left. The next day, the dwelling caught fire, spreading to several rooms; tables, couches, and beds were all reduced to ashes. Kunsheng, furious, went to the shrine and reproached the spirit, saying: "You raised a daughter who cannot serve her parents-in-law, with no family discipline at all, yet you shield her faults! A spirit should be perfectly just—is there any spirit that teaches people to fear their wives? Moreover, the quarrels between us were all my doing and had nothing to do with my parents. If you would apply the knife, the saw, the axe, or the halberd to my person, do so; if not, I will also burn your dwelling as repayment." Having spoken, he carried faggots below the hall and was about to light them. The neighbors gathered and pleaded with him, and only then did he desist in anger and return home. His parents, hearing of this, were terrified and lost color. That night, the spirit appeared in a dream to a nearby village, instructing them to build a house for his son-in-law. At dawn, they brought materials and gathered workmen, all building for Kunsheng; he could not decline them. Each day hundreds of men filed along the road; in a few days, the residence was entirely new, with beds, curtains, and utensils all complete. No sooner was the work finished than Shiniang arrived, entered the hall, and apologized in gentle words. Turning to Kunsheng, she smiled, and the whole family turned from resentment to joy. From then on, Shiniang became even more gentle. Two years passed without a cross word. Shiniang loathed snakes above all. Kunsheng playfully put a small snake in a box and tricked her into opening it. Shiniang changed color and cursed him. Kunsheng also turned from laughter to anger and answered her harshly. Shiniang said, "This time I will not wait for you to drive me out—let us part from this day." And she went out the door. Old Xue was greatly frightened, beat Kunsheng, and apologized to the spirit. Fortunately, no disaster befell them, but thereafter all was silent. After more than a year, Kunsheng missed Shiniang and greatly repented. He secretly went to the shrine to implore Shiniang, but there was no response. Before long, he heard that the spirit had betrothed Shiniang to the Yuan family, and his heart was filled with disappointment. He therefore sought marriage with another clan; but having examined several families, none had a girl like Shiniang, and so he missed her all the more. He went to inquire of the Yuan family, only to find that they had already whitewashed their walls and swept their court, awaiting the bridal carriage. Filled with shame and vexation he could not contain, he gave up food and fell ill. His parents were anxious and did not know what to do. Suddenly, in his stupor, someone stroked him and said, "A great man who repeatedly wants to break off—and now puts on this appearance!" Opening his eyes, he saw Shiniang. Overjoyed, he leapt up and said, "Why have you come?" Shiniang said, "With the treatment you give a frivolous man, I should have obeyed my father's command and remarried and left. The Yuan family's betrothal gifts had long been received, but after a thousand thoughts I could not bear it. The auspicious day was fixed for this very evening; my father had no face to return the gifts, so I took them myself and put them aside. Just as I left, my father ran after me and said, 'Foolish girl! If you do not listen to my words and later suffer abuse from the Xue family, even if you die, do not return!'" Kunsheng, moved by her devotion, wept. The whole family rejoiced and rushed to tell the old parents. When his mother heard, she did not wait to be called but ran into their chamber and held Shiniang's hands, sobbing. From then on, Kunsheng became more mature and ceased his cruel jokes, and their affection grew ever deeper. Shiniang said, "I always thought that you were frivolous and might not stay with me to the end, so I dared not leave any issue in this world. Now that you have no other, I shall bear a child." Before long, the spirit-father and spirit-mother, in red robes, descended upon their home. The next day, Shiniang went into labor and gave birth to twin boys. From then on, they visited freely. Whenever the villagers offended the spirit's wrath, they would first seek out Kunsheng; then he would have the women dress in full finery and enter the inner chambers to pay homage to Shiniang. If Shiniang smiled, the calamity was lifted. The descendants of the Xue clan multiplied greatly; people called them "Xue-Wa-zi's family." Those nearby dared not speak the name aloud; only those from afar called it so. The Frog God often entrusts words to shamans. The shaman can perceive the god's displeasure and joy: if he tells the faithful, "He is pleased," then the god arrives; if "He is angry," then women and children sit in worried sighs, and some even abandon meals. Is this merely a vulgar custom? Or is the god truly numinous, not entirely false? There was a wealthy merchant named Zhou, of a stingy nature. It happened that the local people collected money to repair the Guansheng Ci; both rich and poor contributed their share; only Zhou would not part with a single hair. After a long time, the work was not completed, and the leaders had no plan. Just then, the people were holding a sacrifice to the Frog God, when the shaman suddenly said: "General Zhou Cang has ordered me, the minor god, to oversee the fundraising affairs. Bring the register here." The people followed. The shaman said: "Those who have already donated will not be forced again; those who have not donated, according to their means, write down their own pledges." The people all respectfully listened, and each registered. The shaman looked and said: "Is Zhou here?" Zhou was just mingling behind, fearing that the god would know; upon hearing this, he changed color, and hesitantly stepped forward. The shaman pointed to the register and said: "Pledge one hundred gold." Zhou became more embarrassed. The shaman angrily said: "Even for a lust debt you paid two hundred, how much more for a good deed!" For Zhou had secretly had relations with a woman, was caught red-handed by her husband, and redeemed himself with two hundred gold; thus he exposed it. Zhou became more ashamed and afraid, and having no alternative, pledged as ordered. After returning home, he told his wife. His wife said: "This is just the shaman's fraud." The shaman repeatedly demanded, but in the end he did not give. One day, while he was taking a daytime nap, suddenly he heard outside the door a sound like an ox panting. He looked and saw a huge frog; the door of the room barely accommodated its body; it walked with difficulty and slowness, squeezing through the two leaves of the door to enter. After entering, it turned around and lay down, resting its chin on the threshold; the whole family was terrified. Zhou said: "It must be demanding the fundraising gold." He burned incense and prayed, vowing to first pay thirty, and the rest to be delivered in order; the frog did not move. He offered fifty; its body suddenly shrank to about a foot. He added another twenty; it shrank further to the size of a bushel. He offered the full amount; it shrank to the size of a fist, calmly went out, and entered a crack in the wall and left. Zhou hurriedly sent fifty gold to the construction supervision office; everyone found it strange, but Zhou did not tell the reason. After several days, the shaman again said: "Zhou owes fifty gold; why not press for it?" Zhou heard this and was afraid, so he sent another ten gold, intending to settle it with this. One day, while husband and wife were eating, the frog came again, in the same manner, with angry eyes. After a while, it climbed onto their bed; the bed shook as if about to topple; it placed its mouth on the pillow and slept, its belly bulging like a recumbent ox, filling the four corners. Zhou was frightened, and immediately paid the full hundred. But upon inspection, it still did not move at all. In half a day, small frogs gradually gathered; the next day more and more; they burrowed into granaries and climbed onto couches, reaching everywhere; those larger than bowls climbed onto the stove to sip flies, and rotted in the pots, making the food filthy and inedible. By the third day, the courtyard was crawling with them, leaving no empty space. The whole family was terrified and did not know what to do. Having no alternative, they consulted the shaman. The shaman said: "This must be because the amount is insufficient." So he prayed to it, adding twenty gold; then its head lifted; adding more, one leg rose; until the full hundred gold, all four legs rose, it got off the bed and went out the door, lumbering a few steps, then turned back and lay down inside the door. Zhou was afraid and asked the shaman. The shaman guessed its intention, wanting Zhou to immediately open his purse. Zhou had no choice but to pay the full amount to the shaman; then the frog went, and after a few steps, its body suddenly shrank, mingling with the many frogs, indistinguishable, and gradually they all scattered. After the shrine was completed, there was a consecration ceremony and sacrifice, and more was needed. The shaman suddenly pointed to the leaders and said: "So-and-so should contribute such-and-such amount." There were fifteen people in total, leaving only two aside. The crowd prayed: "We and so-and-so have already donated together." The shaman said: "I do not base the amount on wealth or poverty, but on the amounts you have embezzled. Such money cannot be used to enrich yourselves; I fear there will be sudden disasters and unforeseen calamities. Considering that you leaders have worked diligently, I will eliminate it for you. Except for so-and-so who are incorrupt and upright and have done nothing improper, even my own shaman, I will not show partiality; I will make him contribute first as an example to all." Then he rushed into his house and ransacked boxes and trunks. His wife asked him, but he did not answer; he rolled up all his savings and came out. He told the crowd: "I secretly embezzled eight taels of silver; now I will empty my purse." They weighed it together with the crowd, and it came to over six taels; he had someone note the deficit. The crowd was astonished and dared not argue; all paid in full as required. After this, the shaman was completely unaware of what he had done; when someone told him, he was greatly ashamed and pawned his clothes to make up the amount. Only two people fell short of their amounts; after the matter was over, one fell ill for over a month, and the other suffered from boils; the cost of medicine exceeded what they owed, and people considered it retribution for embezzlement. The Historian of the Strange says: "The old frog oversees fundraising; there is no one who cannot be brought to do good. Is it not far superior to the methods of piercing with nails and dragging with ropes? Moreover, it exposes the theft of those in charge and dissolves their calamities; thus its display of fierceness is precisely its practice of compassion." Ren Xiu Ren Jianzhi, a native of Yutai, made his living trading felt rugs. He exhausted his capital to go to Shaanxi. On the way, he met a man who introduced himself as Shen Zhuting, from Sucheng. Their conversation was congenial, and they swore to be brothers, travelling and staying together. Arriving in Shaanxi, Ren fell ill and could not rise; Shen attended him well. After more than ten days, his illness grew critical. He said to Shen: "My family has no fixed property; the food and clothing of eight mouths all depend on one man braving wind and frost. Now, unfortunately, I am to die in a foreign land. You, my brother, are as my own limbs—two thousand li away, who else is there? In my purse are more than two hundred in silver; half of it you may take for yourself, to prepare a modest coffin and funeral, and the remainder can assist your travelling expenses. The other half send to my wife and children, so that they may have my coffin conveyed home. If you are willing to carry my remains back to my native place, then do not worry about the cost of the journey." He then propped himself on his pillow to write a letter, which he gave to Shen, and died that evening. Shen bought a thin coffin for five or six silver pieces and performed the funeral. The innkeeper urged him to remove the bier; Shen made excuses about seeking a temple or monastery, but instead fled and never returned. It was over a year before Ren's family received definite news. Ren's son, Xiu, then seventeen, was studying with a tutor; from then he gave up his studies and wished to go seek his father's coffin. His mother, pitying his youth, he wept piteously as if to die, so she pawned goods and prepared provisions, and sent him with an old servant; only after half a year did he return. After the interment, the family was as poor as washed. Fortunately, Xiu was clever; after mourning, he entered the Yutai prefectural school. But he was frivolous and fond of gambling; his mother sternly admonished him, yet he never reformed. One day, when the Educational Commissioner came for the examination, he placed fourth class. His mother, grieved and angry, wept and would not eat; Xiu, ashamed and fearful, swore to his mother to reform. Then he shut himself up for over a year, and by superior grades obtained a stipend. His mother urged him to set up a teaching studio, but people, recalling his former dissipation and lack of restraint, all scorned him. A maternal uncle, Zhang, who was trading in the capital, urged him to go to the capital, offering to take him along without consuming his funds. Xiu was pleased and followed him. Arriving at Linqing, they moored outside the pass. At that time salt vessels were gathered, masts like a forest. After lying down, he heard the sounds of water and voices, clamouring and keeping him from sleep. After the night watch grew still, suddenly he heard the crisp rattle of dice from a neighbouring boat, entering his ears and stirring his heart; unconsciously his old itch returned. He listened; all the guests were deeply asleep. In his purse he had a thousand cash ready; he thought of crossing over to gamble for a while. He rose stealthily and undid his purse, but hesitated, grasping the money; then recalling his mother's precepts, he tied it up again. After lying down, his mind was agitated and he could not sleep; he rose again, undid it again: thus three times. His excitement burst forth, unbearable; he took the money and went straight over. On the neighbouring boat, he saw two men playing against each other, with large and handsome stakes. He placed his money on the table and asked to join. The two were pleased and rolled with him. Xiu won heavily. One guest’s money was exhausted, so he pawned a large sum with the boat master, gradually staking over ten strings as a single bet. While they were deep in play, another man boarded the boat, stared for a long time, then emptied his purse of a hundred silver pieces, pawning them with the master, and entered the game. Zhang woke in the middle of the night and, finding Xiu not on the boat, heard the dice and understood; he went to the neighbouring boat to try to dissuade him. Upon arriving, he saw Xiu’s winnings piled like a mountain beside him, so he said nothing, took several thousand cash and returned. He roused all the guests to rise, and going back and forth carrying, there still remained over ten thousand. Soon, the three guests had all lost, and all the money on the boat was gone. The guests wanted to stake silver, but Xiu was already satisfied with his winnings, so he pretended that he would only gamble for cash to make it difficult. Zhang was at his side and urged him to return. The three guests grew agitated. The boat master, coveting the house percentage, borrowed over a hundred thousand cash from other boats. The guests, having money, gambled more wildly; before long, it all returned to Xiu. Dawn broke and the morning pass opened; together they carried their winnings back. The three guests also departed. The master looked at the over two hundred silver pieces he had taken as pawn—they were all ashes of tinfoil. He was greatly startled, sought out Xiu’s boat, told him the matter, and wanted compensation from Xiu. When he asked his name and native place and learned he was Jianzhi’s son, he shrank back, ashamed and sweating, and withdrew. Making inquiries among the boatmen, he learned that the master was none other than Shen Zhuting. When Xiu had gone to Shaanxi, he had vaguely heard that name; now the ghost had already requited it, so he did not pursue the old grievance. He then combined his capital with Zhang’s to trade northward, and by year’s end made double or more profit. He then followed precedent and entered the Imperial Academy. He further lent money at interest, and within ten years, his wealth dominated the region. Evening Glow On the fifth day of the fifth month, in the Wu and Yue regions, there was a sport of racing dragon boats: they hollowed out wood to make dragons, painted scales and armor, and decorated them with gold and azure; above were carved ridges and vermilion railings; the sails and banners were all of brocade and embroidery; at the stern of the boat was a dragon tail, more than ten feet high; with a cloth rope leading to a wooden plank hanging down, on which sat a child, tumbling and rolling about, performing all sorts of clever tricks. Below them was the river water, perilous and threatening to fall. Therefore, when they procured such a child, they first bribed his parents with gold, trained him in advance, and if he fell into the water and died, they were not to regret it. In the Wu region, they carried beautiful courtesans instead, which was somewhat different. In Zhenjiang there was a child named A Duan of the Jiang family, just seven years old. Agile and extraordinarily clever, none could surpass him, and his reputation and price rose higher and higher; at sixteen he was still employed. At the foot of Jinshan Mountain, he fell into the water and died. Old Madam Jiang had only this son, and could only lament in grief. A Duan himself did not know he was dead. Two people guided him away, and he saw that within the water there was another heaven and earth; looking back, the flowing waves surrounded him on all sides, standing firm like walls of jade. Soon he entered a palace and saw a man wearing a helmet seated there. The two said, "This is the Lord of Dragon-Whelp Palace." They then made him bow and prostrate himself. The Lord of Dragon-Whelp Palace had a genial expression and said, "A Duan's skill can enter the Willow Branch Section." Thereupon they led him to a place, a vast hall surrounded on four sides. He went up to the eastern corridor, where there were various youths, who came out and exchanged courtesies with him; they were all about thirteen or fourteen years old. Then an old woman came, whom the crowd called Aunt Jie. She made him sit and perform his skills. After he finished, she taught him the Dance of the Flying Thunder of Qiantang and the Music of the Harmonious Wind of Dongting. He heard only the clamor of drums and gongs, resounding through all the courtyards. Soon all the courtyards fell silent. Aunt Jie feared that A Duan could not immediately master it, so she alone fussed over and directed him; but A Duan, after only one pass, understood it thoroughly. Aunt Jie was delighted and said, "With this boy, I yield not even to Wanxia!" The next day, the Lord of Dragon-Whelp Palace reviewed the sections, and all the sections assembled. First he reviewed the Yaksha Section, whose members wore ghostly faces and fish-skin garments, sounding great bronze gongs about four feet around; drums large enough for four men to encircle with their arms, their sound like mighty thunder, and their shouts and cries so loud that nothing else could be heard. When they danced, great waves surged fiercely, flowing across the empty sky, and from time to time a speck of starlight fell and vanished upon touching the ground. The Lord of Dragon-Whelp Palace hastily stopped them and ordered the Milk Oriole Section to come forward. They were all beautiful maidens of about sixteen, playing softly on flutes and zithers; at once a gentle breeze arose, the sound of the waves all ceased, and the water gradually congealed like a world of crystal, transparent above and below. When the review was finished, they all withdrew and stood below the western steps. Next he reviewed the Swallow Section, all of whom had their hair in hanging tresses. Among them was a young girl, about fourteen or fifteen years old, who shook her sleeves and tilted her chignon, performing the Scattering Flowers Dance; she fluttered lightly and rose, and from her collar, sleeves, stockings, and shoes, five-colored flowers emerged, scattering down with the wind and drifting all over the courtyard. When the dance ended, she descended with her section to the western steps. A Duan watched her from the side and admired her greatly. He asked those in his own section, and learned that she was Wanxia. Before long, the Willow Branch Section was summoned. The Lord of Dragon-Whelp Palace specially tested A Duan. A Duan performed the former dance, his joy and anger following the music, his stoops and rises keeping perfect time. The Lord praised his cleverness and understanding, and bestowed upon him a five-patterned jacket and trousers, a golden hair-binding with fish-whisker tassels, inlaid with a night-luminescent pearl. A Duan received his gifts with thanks, then also went to the western steps, each keeping to his own rank. A Duan fixed his gaze on Wanxia from among the crowd, and Wanxia also gazed back at him from afar. After a moment, A Duan hesitantly left his section and went north; Wanxia also gradually left her section and went south; they were but a few paces apart, but the rules were strict and they dared not disturb their sections, so they could only gaze at each other, their spirits racing. After reviewing the Butterfly Section, boys and girls all danced in pairs, their heights, ages, and the yellow or white of their garments all matched. When all the sections had been reviewed, they filed out in order. The Willow Branch Section came after the Swallow Section. A Duan quickly moved to the front of his section, while Wanxia had already lingered behind. Turning back and seeing A Duan, she deliberately dropped a coral hairpin, which A Duan quickly tucked into his sleeve. After returning, he sank into brooding and fell ill, abandoning sleep and meals. Aunt Jie repeatedly brought him delicacies, visiting three or four times a day, caressing him with great solicitude, but his illness did not improve at all. Aunt Jie was worried and at her wits' end, saying, "The birthday celebration of the Lord of Wu River is already near—what are we to do!" At dusk, a young boy came, sat on the couch and spoke with him, saying of himself, "I belong to the Butterfly Section." Casually he asked, "Is your illness because of Wanxia?" A Duan started and asked, "How do you know?" The boy laughed and said, "Wanxia is the same as you." A Duan rose miserably and sat up, then asked for a plan. The boy asked, "Can you still walk?" He replied, "With effort I can still manage." The boy took his arm and led him out, opening a door to the south; turning west, he opened another pair of doors. They saw several dozen acres of lotus flowers, all growing on level ground; the leaves were as large as mats, the flowers as large as canopies, and fallen petals piled more than a foot deep around the stems. The boy led him inside and said, "Sit here for a while." Then he left. After a short time, a beautiful woman pushed aside the lotus flowers and entered—it was Wanxia. They were overjoyed at the meeting, each spoke of their longing, and briefly told of their lives. They then used a stone to press down the lotus canopy, making it tilt, which served well as a screen; they also spread lotus petals evenly as a mat, and happily embraced and lay together. After making a pact for future meetings, using sunset as their appointed time, they parted. A Duan returned, and his illness soon recovered as well. From then on, the two met once each day among the lotus fields. After several days, they followed the Lord of Dragon-Whelp Palace to offer birthday congratulations to the Lord of Wu River. After the congratulations were completed, all the sections returned, but only Wanxia and one person from the Milk Oriole Section were detained in the palace to teach dancing. For several months there was no further word, and A Duan was forlorn and despondent. Only Aunt Jie traveled back and forth to the Wu River mansion; A Duan pretended that Wanxia was his younger cousin and begged her to take him along, hoping to see her once. He stayed several days at the Wu River gate, but the palace prohibitions were stern, and Wanxia was bitterly unable to come out, so he returned disconsolate. After more than a month, his obsessive longing drove him to despair. One day, Aunt Jie entered and said with sorrowful commiseration, "What a pity! Wanxia has thrown herself into the river!" A Duan was greatly shocked, and tears flowed beyond his control. He then tore off his cap and ripped his clothes, hid his gold and pearls, and went out, intending to follow her in death. But he saw that the river water stood like a wall; he thrust his head against it with all his might but could not enter. He thought of returning, but feared being questioned about his cap and clothes, and that his offense would be aggravated. In his desperation and confusion, sweat streamed down to his heels. Suddenly he saw a great tree at the foot of the wall; he climbed up like a monkey, gradually reaching the very tip; then he leaped down with all his might, and fortunately was not drenched, but in fact floated upon the water. Unexpectedly, he dimly beheld the human world, and so drifted away, swimming. After some time, he reached the shore and sat a while by the riverbank, then suddenly thought of his old mother, and so took a boat and departed. When he reached his village, he looked around at the houses and dwellings, and suddenly felt as if separated by a lifetime. Hesitating, he arrived at his home, when suddenly he heard a woman's voice from within the window saying, "Your son has come." The voice was very much like Wanxia's. Soon, she came out with his mother, and it was indeed Wanxia. At that moment, the two were more joyful than sorrowful; while the old mother displayed every emotion—grief, doubt, surprise, and delight—all at once. At first, when Wanxia was at Wu River, she felt a stirring in her belly. The laws of the Dragon Palace were stern, and she feared that at any moment she might give birth and be subjected to flogging; moreover, she could not see A Duan even once, so she only wished to die, and secretly threw herself into the river. Her body floated up and drifted among the waves, when a passenger boat rescued her and asked her place of residence. Wanxia had formerly been a famous courtesan of Wu, and having drowned without her body being recovered, she thought to herself that she could not return to the brothel, so she said, "The Jiang family of Zhenjiang is my husband's home." The passenger thereupon hired a small boat for her and sent her to that household. Old Madam Jiang doubted there was some mistake, but the girl said there was no mistake, and told the old woman the whole story in detail. The old woman, finding her elegant and captivating, was quite fond of her; but she worried that she was too young and surely unwilling to remain a widow for life. Yet the girl was filial and prudent; and seeing that the family was poor, she took off her precious ornaments and sold them for several tens of thousands. The old woman, perceiving that her intentions were without guile, was well pleased. However, having no son, she feared that when the time of childbirth came, the relatives and neighbors would not believe her, and so she consulted the girl. The girl said, "Mother need only have a true grandson; why seek others' knowledge?" The old woman also became at ease with it. Just then A Duan arrived, and the girl could not contain her joy. The old woman also wondered whether her son was not truly dead; secretly she opened the child's grave, and the skeleton was still there. She then questioned A Duan about this. A Duan only then suddenly understood; but fearing that Wanxia would detest him for not being human, he urged his mother not to speak of it further. The mother agreed. She then told the villagers that the corpse obtained that day was not her son's. Yet she remained anxious that he might not be able to father a child. Before long, she indeed gave birth to a son, and when she held him, he was no different from an ordinary child, so she was delighted. After a long time, Wanxia gradually became aware that A Duan was not human, and said, "Why did you not tell me earlier? For any ghost, if he wears the Dragon Palace's garments for forty-nine days, his soul and spirit become firm and solid, and he is no different from a living person. If one could obtain the Dragon Horn Glue from the palace, it could rejoin bones and generate flesh and skin—it is a pity we did not procure it earlier." A Duan sold his pearl, and a foreign merchant offered a million for it, from which the family became greatly wealthy. When his mother's birthday came, the husband and wife danced and sang as they raised their cups in toast, and word of this reached the princely mansion. The prince wished to forcibly take Wanxia. A Duan, in fear, went before the prince and stated of himself, "Both husband and wife are ghosts." When they were examined and found to have no shadow, he believed it, and thus did not take her away. He only sent palace attendants to another courtyard to learn their skills. The woman used turtle urine to disfigure her face, and then she saw him. She taught him for three months, but in the end he could not exhaust her skills, and she left. Bai Qiulian In Zhili there lived a young man named Mu, whose childhood name was Chán Gōng. He was the son of the merchant Mu Xiǎohuán. He was clever and loved to read. When he was sixteen, his father, thinking that a literary career was too impractical, made him give up his studies and take up commerce, so he followed his father to Chu. Whenever there was nothing to do on the boat, he would recite poetry. When they reached Wuchang, his father lodged him in an inn to watch over their accumulated goods. While his father was out, the young man took up a book and chanted poems in a rhythmic, sonorous voice. He often saw shadows flickering in the window, as if someone were eavesdropping, but he thought nothing of it. One evening, his father went to a banquet and did not return for a long time. The young man recited more and more intensely. Someone paced outside the window, clearly visible in the moonlight. Surprised, he suddenly went out to look, and saw a girl of fifteen or sixteen, a beauty who could topple a city. Seeing him, she hastily fled. After another two or three days, they loaded their goods and headed north, mooring at dusk by the lake shore. His father happened to be out when an old woman entered and said, "Young sir, you have killed my daughter!" Startled, he asked why. She replied, "My surname is Bai. I have a daughter named Qiū Liàn, who is somewhat literate. She says that in the prefectural city she heard your refined chanting, and has been pining for you ever since, to the point of losing sleep and appetite. She wishes to be wedded to you, and you must not refuse." The young man truly admired the girl, but he feared his father's anger, so he told the old woman the truth. The old woman did not believe him and pressed for a firm promise. He would not agree. The old woman said angrily, "In this world, there are suitors who seek a marriage alliance and cannot obtain it. Now I, an old woman, have come to propose on my own, yet you refuse me—could there be greater shame? Do not think of crossing north again!" Then she left. After a short while, his father returned. The young man told him in gentle words, secretly hoping he would consent. But his father, considering the distance and also thinking lightly of a girl's romantic inclinations, just laughed it off. The place where they had moored was deep enough to cover the oars; that night, sandbars suddenly rose up, and the boat was stuck and could not move. Every year on the lake, some passenger boats were bound to be detained by such sandbars, and they would have to remain until the next year when the spring melt raised the waters. Since other goods had not arrived, the cargo on the boat would sell for a hundred times its original value. For this reason, the father was not overly worried or alarmed. He merely calculated that when he came south again next year, he would still need to raise more capital, so he left his son behind and returned home himself. The young man was secretly pleased, and regretted not having asked the old woman where she lived. As dusk fell, the old woman came with a maid, supporting the girl, and spread out her clothes to lay her on the couch. She said to the young man, "She is so ill—do not rest on your high pillow as if nothing were the matter!" And she left. At first the young man was startled; he moved the lamp to look at the girl, and saw her sickly yet charming, her limpid eyes flowing with expression. When he spoke a few words to her, she smiled sweetly. He pressed her to say something, and she said, "'For you I have grown haggard, yet I am ashamed before you'—that may be chanted for me." Wild with joy, he wanted to draw near her, but pitied her frailness. He reached out and took her hand, playing gently. She could not help but respond with happy laughter and then said, "If you, sir, will chant for me three times Wang Jian's poem 'Luo yi ye ye,' my illness will be cured." He followed her words. After only two recitations, she gathered her clothes and sat up, saying, "I am well!" When he recited again, she joined in with tender quivers. His spirits soared, so he put out the lamp and they lay together. Before dawn, she rose and said, "My old mother is about to come." Soon after, the old woman indeed arrived. Seeing her daughter sitting happily in full dress, she could not help but feel relieved and pleased. She invited the girl to leave, but the girl lowered her head and would not speak. The old woman then left on her own, saying, "If you are happy to sport with the young gentleman, you may bear the consequences yourself." Only then did the young man press her about her dwelling. She said, "I have only been a chance acquaintance with you, sir; marriage is still uncertain—why should you need to know my family?" Yet the two loved each other deeply and swore solemn oaths. One night, the girl rose early to trim the lamp and suddenly opened a book, then wept with glistening tears. The young man quickly rose and asked her why. She said, "My father-in-law is about to arrive. As for our affair, I just divined by opening the book at random and came upon Li Yi's 'Song of the Southern Shore,' whose words and meaning are inauspicious." The young man comforted her, saying, "The first line says, 'Married to a merchant of Qutang'—that is already very fortunate; how could it be inauspicious?" Then she felt somewhat happier. She rose to take leave, saying, "For the moment let us part; at daybreak, a thousand eyes will be upon us." He held her arm and sobbed, asking, "If our good match succeeds, where may I send word to you?" She replied, "I often send people to spy for news—whether it succeeds or not, I shall know." He was about to go down to the boat to see her off, but she firmly declined and left. Not long after, Mu indeed arrived. The young man gradually revealed his feelings. His father suspected he had been entertaining a courtesan, and angrily scolded him. But after carefully inspecting the goods on the boat and finding no loss, the reprimands ceased. One evening, when his father was away from the boat, the girl suddenly arrived. They clung to each other, not knowing what to decide. She said, "Success and failure are fated; for now let us enjoy the present. I shall stay with you for two months, and then we can discuss what to do." At parting, she made the sound of chanting their agreed signal. From then on, whenever his father went out, he would chant aloud, and the girl would appear on her own. When the fourth month drew to a close, the market prices were unfavorable. All the merchants were at a loss, so they collected money and prayed at the lake god's temple. After the Dragon Boat Festival, great rains came and the boats could finally pass. After returning home, the young man sank into thought and fell ill. Mu was worried and called both shamans and doctors. The young man privately told his mother, "My illness cannot be cured by medicine or prayers—only if Qiū Liàn comes will I recover." At first his father was angry; but as time passed and the young man grew more emaciated, he became frightened. He hired a carriage and took his son back to Chu, mooring at the same place as before. He inquired among the local people, but none knew of an old woman Bai. Just then an old woman appeared, steering a boat by the lake shore, and she identified herself. Mu boarded her boat and caught a glimpse of Qiū Liàn, and was secretly pleased; but when he questioned her about her family and origins, it turned out she was but a vagrant boat-dweller. He then told her the truth about his son's illness, hoping the girl would come aboard to alleviate his deep affliction. The old woman, since no formal engagement had been made, would not consent. The girl showed half her face and watched intently, listening to their exchange, tears welling in her eyes. The old woman, seeing her daughter's expression and moved by Mu's earnest pleas, at last agreed. That night, when Mu went out, the girl indeed came. She knelt by the couch and wept, saying, "Last year it was my condition; now it has come to you! This misery—you must know it for yourself. Yet you are so weak and wasted—how can you recover at once? Let me chant for you." The young man was delighted. She chanted Wang Jian's former poem. He said, "That is your heart's concern; how could it cure two people? But hearing your voice, my spirit is already refreshed. Try chanting for me 'A thousand willow branches all bend to the west.'" She complied. He praised, "How refreshing! In the past you chanted the ci-poem 'Lotus Seed Gatherer': 'Lotus fragrance spreads across ten acres of pond.' I have not forgotten it; please hum it slowly for me." She complied again. As soon as she finished, he sprang up and said, "How could I ever have been ill!" They embraced fondly, and his deep sickness vanished as if by magic. Then he asked, "What did my father say to the old woman? Will the match be agreed?" The girl had already discerned his father's intent, and answered directly, "It will not be agreed." Then she left. When his father came and saw his son already up and about, he was overjoyed and only comforted and encouraged him. He said, "The girl is indeed fine. But from childhood she has steered a boat and sung rowing songs—not only is she lowly, she is also not chaste." The young man said nothing. After his father went out, the girl returned, and the young man told her his father's words. She said, "I have seen clearly: in all worldly affairs, the more anxious you are, the further you are pushed; the more you pursue, the more you are repelled. We must let his mind turn of itself, so that he comes seeking us instead." He asked her plan. She said, "Merchants' hearts are set on profit. I have a way to know prices. Just now I saw the goods on your boat—none will yield much profit. Tell your father for me: if he stocks such-and-such goods, the profit will be tripled; such-and-such, tenfold. When you return home and my words prove true, then I will be a good wife for him. When you come again, you will be eighteen and I seventeen—our happy day is not far off. Why worry?" The young man told his father about the prices she had mentioned. His father did not quite believe her, but still used half of his remaining capital to follow her advice. When they returned home, the goods he had bought on his own lost heavily; but fortunately, by following the girl's advice on a small portion, he gained handsome profits, which roughly balanced out. Thus he came to revere Qiū Liàn's foresight. The young man praised her even more, saying that the girl herself had said she could make him rich. His father thereupon raised more capital and headed south again. When they reached the lake, for several days they did not see old woman Bai; after several more days, they finally saw her boat moored under a willow. He then presented betrothal gifts. The old woman accepted nothing, but merely chose an auspicious day to send her daughter over to the young man's boat. Mu hired another boat for his son's wedding. The girl then had Mu go further south, and she listed all the goods he should stock and gave the list to him. The old woman then invited her son-in-law to come and live with them on her boat. Mu returned after three months. By the time the goods arrived in Chu, their price had multiplied several times. When they were about to return home, the girl asked to carry some lake water with them. After returning, she would add a little to every meal, just as one would use vinegar or soy sauce. From then on, every time they went south, they would bring back several jars of it. After three or four years, she bore a son. One day, she wept and longed to return home. So Mu, together with his son and daughter-in-law, went back to Chu. When they reached the lake, they could not find where the old woman was. The girl knocked on the gunwale and called for her mother, utterly distraught. She urged the young man to search along the lake and ask for news. It happened that some fishermen who were catching sturgeon and sturgeon-like fish had caught a white dolphin. He drew near and looked closely: it was a huge creature, fully human in form, complete with breasts and genitalia. Astonished, he returned and told the girl. She was greatly alarmed, saying that she had long held a vow to release captive creatures, and urged him to ransom and set it free. He went to negotiate with the fisherman, who demanded an exorbitant price. The girl said, "I have been in your household, and have procured no less than tens of thousands in silver—why should you begrudge such a trifling sum? If you absolutely refuse, I shall throw myself into the lake and drown!" Frightened, he dared not tell his father, but secretly took gold and ransomed the creature. When he returned, the girl was nowhere to be seen. He searched but could not find her; only at nightfall did she appear. He asked, "Where did you go?" She said, "I went to my mother's place." He asked, "Where is your mother?" She blushed and said, "Now I must tell you the truth: what you just ransomed is my mother. Formerly, at Lake Dongting, the Dragon Lord ordered her to oversee travelers. Recently the palace wished to select consorts, and I was praised by slanderous tongues, so the Dragon Lord commanded my mother to produce me. My mother truthfully reported my circumstances. The Dragon Lord would not listen; he banished my mother to the southern shore, where she nearly starved to death, hence the earlier calamity. Though the immediate peril is now over, her punishment has not yet been lifted. If you love me, pray to the True Lord on her behalf and she may be absolved. If you find me repugnant as a creature of a different kind, then I shall return your son to you and depart. In the Dragon Palace, my upkeep will surely be a hundred times what it is in your household." Greatly alarmed, he worried that he might not be able to see the True Lord. She said, "Tomorrow, just after noon, the True Lord will come. When you see a lame Daoist, hurry and prostrate yourself before him, and if he enters the water, follow him. The True Lord delights in literary men, so he will surely take pity and grant your request." She then produced a square of fish-belly silk and said, "When he asks what you seek, present this and beg him to write the character '免' (exemption)." He did as she instructed and waited. Sure enough, a Daoist came hobbling along, and he threw himself down in obeisance. The Daoist hurried away, and he followed. The Daoist threw his staff onto the water and leaped onto it. He followed and climbed aboard—it was not a staff but a boat. He bowed again, and the Daoist asked, "What do you seek?" He produced the silk and begged for writing. The Daoist spread it out and said, "This is a white porpoise's fin—how did you come by it?" Unable to hide anything, he recounted the whole affair in detail. The Daoist laughed and said, "This creature is quite refined—how could the Old Dragon be so dissolute!" He then took out his brush and swiftly wrote the character "免" in a talismanic form, then turned the boat and bade him go down. He saw the Daoist step onto his staff and float away, disappearing in an instant. Returning to the boat, the girl was overjoyed, but urged him not to reveal this to his parents. Two or three years after their return, his father traveled south and did not return for several months. The lake water had dried up, and after waiting long in vain, she fell ill, gasping day and night. She instructed him, "If I die, do not bury me. At the hours of Mao (5–7 a.m.), Wu (11 a.m.–1 p.m.), and You (5–7 p.m.), recite Du Fu's poem 'Dreaming of Li Bai' once each time, and I shall not decay. When the water returns, pour it into a basin, close the door, slowly remove my clothes, hold me, and immerse me in it—I should revive." After gasping for several days, she quietly expired. Half a month later, his father arrived. He hastened to follow her instructions; after soaking her for about an hour, she gradually revived. From then on, she often thought of returning south. Later, when his father died, he obeyed her wish and moved to Chu. --- **The King** A certain governor of Hunan dispatched a prefectural officer to escort six hundred thousand taels of silver tribute to the capital. On the way they were caught in rain, and as dusk fell they fell behind schedule. Finding no lodging, they saw an ancient temple in the distance and went there to stay. At dawn, they looked at the silver they had been escorting—it had completely vanished. All were terrified and bewildered, with no one to blame. They returned and reported to the governor, who took it as a pretext and was about to have them punished. When he interrogated the escort party, their accounts were all consistent. The governor ordered them to go back to the original place and investigate the matter thoroughly. Arriving before the temple, they saw a blind man of strange appearance, with a placard reading: "Can know your heart's concerns." They asked him for divination. The blind man said, "You are the ones who lost the silver." The officer said, "Yes," and recounted their plight. The blind man then called for a sedan chair, saying, "Just follow me, and you will know for yourselves." So they did as he said, officials and escorts all following. The blind man said, "East." They went east. He said, "North." They went north. After five days, they entered deep mountains and suddenly saw a city wall, with throngs of inhabitants. Entering the city and walking for a while, the blind man said, "Stop." He got down from the chair, pointed south with his hand, and said, "See that tall gate facing west? Knock and ask for yourselves." With a bow, he departed. The officer followed his instructions, indeed saw the tall gate, and gradually entered. A man came out, dressed in the Han style of clothing, and gave no name. The officer explained his errand, and the man said, "Please stay a few days; I will take you to see the one in charge." He led him away, settled him in a separate quarters, and provided food and drink. In his spare time, he strolled about and reached the rear of the compound, where he saw a garden pavilion and entered. Old pines shaded the sun, and fine grass was like felt. After turning through several galleries and pavilions, he came to another tall kiosk. Ascending the steps and entering, he saw several human skins hanging on the walls, complete with all five facial features, reeking with a foul stench. His hair stood on end with terror, and he quickly retreated to his quarters. He resigned himself to leaving his skin in this alien land, with no hope of survival, and thought that whether he advanced or retreated, death awaited—so he let it be. The next day, the man in Han dress summoned him and said, "Today you may have your audience." The officer assented. The man mounted a fierce horse and rode swiftly, with the officer running after him on foot. Soon they reached a great gate, resembling the yamen of a governor-general, with black-clad retainers lined up left and right in a solemn and formidable array. The man dismounted and led him inside. Through another heavy gate, he saw a king wearing a pearl-studded crown and embroidered robe, seated facing south. The officer approached and prostrated himself in obeisance. The king asked, "Are you the tribute escort from Hunan?" The officer said yes. The king said, "The silver is all here. This trifling sum—your governor might as well have given it to me outright; it would not be amiss." The officer wept and pleaded, "The deadline has already passed; if I return, I will surely be executed. What evidence can I present in my defense?" The king said, "That is not difficult." He handed him a large letter and said, "Take this as your reply, and you will remain safe." He also sent a strongman to escort him. The officer trembled with fear and dared not argue; he received the letter and departed. The mountains and roads were entirely different from those he had traveled on arrival. Once they emerged from the mountains, the escort left him. After several days, he reached Changsha and respectfully reported to the governor. The governor dismissed it as even more preposterous, and in a rage would not let him explain; he ordered his attendants to bind him with ropes. The officer untied his bundle and produced the letter. Before the governor had finished reading it, his face turned ashen. He ordered the bonds removed and only said, "The silver is a minor matter—you may go out for now." He then urgently dispatched orders to subordinate officials to make up the shortfall and deliver the tribute. A few days later, the governor fell ill and soon died. Earlier, the governor had been sleeping with his beloved concubine; when he awoke, all her hair was gone. The entire yamen was alarmed and could not guess the cause. The letter in fact contained her hair. Outside was a written message: "You rose from county magistrate to the highest ministerial rank. Your bribery and greed are beyond counting. The previous sixty thousand taels of silver have already been received and stored in our treasury. You should open your own hoard of ill-gotten gains to make up the old quota. The escort officer is innocent and shall not be punished. We have taken your concubine's hair as a minor warning. If you again disobey these instructions, we will soon take your head. Her hair is returned herewith as proof." Only after the governor's death did his family make this letter known. Later, subordinates sent men to seek out that place, but found only layered cliffs and impassable ravines, with no path at all. The Historian of the Strange comments: "The red-thread and golden casket, used to warn the greedy—truly a satisfying marvel. Yet the immortals of Peach Blossom Spring do not engage in plunder; even if swordsmen gathered there, how could there be a city wall and official yamen? Alas! What god was that? If such a place were found, I fear the number of petitioners rushing there would never cease." --- **A Certain Jia** A certain Jia had an affair with his servant's wife, so he killed the servant and took her as his own, fathering two sons and a daughter. Nineteen years later, bandits broke through the city walls and looted everything. A young bandit, sword in hand, entered Jia's house. Jia looked at him and saw that he bore a striking resemblance to the dead servant. He sighed to himself, "I am finished now!" He offered all his possessions to buy his life. The young man paid him no heed, spoke not a word, but searched out people and killed them, slaughtering all twenty-seven members of Jia's household before leaving. Jia's head was not completely severed; after the bandits left, he revived slightly and could still speak. He died three days later. Alas! Retribution misses no one—how fearsome it is! --- **The Three Monsters of Quzhou** Zhang Wozhong, while serving in the army at Quzhou, said: "In Quzhou, when the night is still, no one dares walk alone. On the bell tower there is a ghost with a horn on its head and a hideous face; when it hears footsteps, it descends. People flee in terror, and the ghost departs as well. Yet those who see it invariably fall ill, and many die. Also, in a pond within the city, a white bolt of cloth appears at night, like a length of silk stretched across the ground. Any passerby who picks it up is dragged into the water. There is also a duck ghost; when night is quiet and the pond side is utterly empty, if one hears the sound of ducks, that person falls ill." --- **The Man Who Dismantled a House** He Jiongqing was a native of Pingyin. He first served as magistrate in Qinzhong. A oil seller had committed a minor offense, but his words were blunt and rash; He became angry and had him beaten to death with a staff. Later he rose to the post of Minister of Appointments, and his family became wealthy and prosperous. He built a mansion; on the day the main beam was raised, relatives and guests gathered with toasts to congratulate him. Suddenly he saw the oil seller enter, and inwardly he was alarmed and suspicious. Shortly afterward, a servant reported that his concubine had given birth to a son. He said somberly, "The building work is not yet finished, but the demolisher of the building has already arrived!" People thought he was joking, but they did not know that he had truly seen something. Later, when the son grew up, he was extremely unruly and squandered the family fortune. He hired himself out as a laborer, and whenever he got a few coppers, he would always buy sesame oil to eat. The Historian of the Strange remarks: "I have often seen wealthy and noble families with contiguous rows of mansions; after their death, when passing by again, the places are already ruins. This must be because a 'demolisher of the building' has been born into their household. When one is placed above others, how can one not take early heed!" Great Scorpion General Peng Hong of the Ming dynasty led troops to suppress bandits and entered Shu. He reached deep mountains, where there was a large Buddhist monastery, said to have had no monks for a hundred years. He inquired of the local people, who said: "There is a demon in the temple; whoever enters dies." Peng, fearing that bandits might be lying in ambush, led his soldiers to cut through the undergrowth and enter. In the front hall, a dark-colored eagle broke through the door and flew away; the middle hall had nothing unusual. Advancing further, they reached the Buddha pavilion; looking all around, there was nothing to be seen, but everyone who entered suffered unbearable headaches. Peng himself entered and experienced the same. After a short while, a great scorpion the size of a pipa crept down slowly from the ceiling planks. The whole army fled in terror, and Peng set the temple on fire. Chen Yunqi Zhen Yusheng was a native of Yiling in Chu, the son of a filial and incorrupt official. He was skilled in literature, handsome in appearance, and well-known at the age of twenty. When he was a child, a fortune-teller said, "Later he shall marry a female Daoist as his wife." His parents all laughed at this. But when they sought to arrange a marriage for him, whether with families of higher or lower station, they could not succeed. His mother, Madame Zang, originally lived in Huanggang. Yusheng took the opportunity to visit his grandmother there. He heard people of the time say, "Of the 'Four Clouds' of Huangzhou, the youngest need not be mentioned." For in the prefecture there was the Lüzu Nunnery, and the female Daoists in that nunnery were all beautiful, hence the saying. The nunnery was only a little over ten li from the Zang family village, so Yusheng secretly went there. He knocked at the gate, and indeed three or four female Daoists came out, modest and welcoming, their manners and bearing all refined. Among them, one was the youngest, peerless in the world, and his heart was drawn to her as his gaze fixed upon her. The girl rested her chin on her hand, but looked elsewhere. The other Daoists fetched cups and prepared tea. Yusheng took the chance to ask her surname and given name. She replied, "Yunqi, surname Chen." Yusheng jested, "How strange! Your servant happens to be surnamed Pan." Chen blushed red to her cheeks, lowered her head without speaking, rose, and left. After a short while, they brewed tea and brought out fine fruits. Each gave her name: one was Bai Yunshen, about thirty years old; one was Sheng Yunmian, around twenty; one was Liang Yundong, about twenty-four or twenty-five, yet she was the junior. But Yunqi did not come. Yusheng was greatly disappointed and asked about her. Bai said, "This maid is afraid of strangers." Yusheng then rose to take leave. Bai tried hard to detain him, but he would not stay and went out. Bai said, "If you wish to see Yunqi, you may come again tomorrow." Yusheng returned home, his longing most intense. The next day, he went again. All the Daoists were present, but only Yunqi was missing, so he did not venture to ask at once. The female Daoists prepared a meal and invited him to stay. Yusheng declined firmly, but they would not listen. Bai broke open cakes and handed him chopsticks, urging him repeatedly to eat. Then he asked, "Where is Yunqi?" They answered, "She will come by herself." After a long while, the sun was already late, and Yusheng wished to return. Bai seized his wrist and detained him, saying, "Wait a little; I will fetch the maid to come and see you." Yusheng then stopped. Shortly, they lit lamps and brought out wine; Yunmian also left. After several rounds of drinking, Yusheng pleaded that he was drunk. Bai said, "Drink three goblets, and then Yunqi will appear." Yusheng indeed drank that amount. Liang also used this to press him, and Yusheng finished them all, then turned his cup over and took his leave. Bai looked at Liang and said, "Our faces are thin; we cannot persuade him to drink. Go and drag that maid Chen here, and tell her that Pan Lang has been waiting for Miaochang for a long time." Liang went, but returned after a short while, reporting fully, "Yunqi did not come." Yusheng wished to leave, but the night was already deep, so he pretended to be drunk and lay on his back. The two women undressed him in turn and took turns in debauchery with him. He could not bear their harassment all night. At dawn, he left without sleeping, and for several days he dared not go again, yet his heart never forgot Yunqi, but he only occasionally reconnoitered nearby. One day, at dusk, Bai went out with a young man. Yusheng was delighted, not much fearing Liang, and hastened to knock at the gate. Sheng Yunmian came out to answer the door; upon asking, he learned that Liang had also gone elsewhere. He then asked about Yunqi. Sheng led him in, and they entered another courtyard, where she called out, "Yunqi! A guest has come." But they saw the door of the room close with a bang. Sheng laughed and said, "She has shut the door." Yusheng stood outside the window, as if about to speak, and Sheng then left. Yunqi said through the window, "Everyone uses me as bait to hook you. If you come often, your life will be in danger. I cannot forever keep the pure rules, nor dare I suddenly abandon all sense of shame. I wish to find one like Pan Lang to serve." Yusheng then pledged to grow old with her. Yunqi said, "My master raised me—that was no easy matter. If you truly love me, you should redeem me with twenty taels of silver. I will wait for you three years. If you hope for a tryst in the mulberry grove, that I cannot do." Yusheng agreed. Just as he was about to speak of himself, Sheng returned, and he followed her out, then parted and went home. His heart was heavy with disappointment, and he thought of finding some means to get close and see her lovely form once more. Just then, a servant came to report that his father was ill, so he returned by starlight. Before long, the filial and incorrupt official died. His mother's household discipline was most severe; he dared not let her know of his feelings, but only cut back on his expenses and saved daily. When someone proposed a match, he always declined on the grounds of mourning. His mother would not listen. Yusheng gently told her, "Formerly in Huanggang, Grandmother wished to betroth me to a Miss Chen, which was truly my heart's desire. Now that this great misfortune has come, news has been cut off, and I have long not gone to Huanggang to pay my respects. If I go there for a while, and if it does not work out, I will then follow your command." Madame Zang agreed. He then took his savings and set out. When he arrived at Huanggang and went to the nunnery, the courtyards were desolate, vastly different from before. He entered gradually, and there was only an old nun cooking by the stove, so he asked her. The nun said, "The old Daoist died the year before last, and the 'Four Clouds' scattered." He asked, "Where did they go?" She said, "Yunshen and Yundong followed some dissolute youths; I have heard that Yunqi lodges north of the prefecture; Yunmian's whereabouts are unknown." Hearing this, Yusheng sighed in sorrow. He ordered his carriage and went straight to the north of the prefecture. He inquired at every Daoist temple he encountered, but found no trace. Dejected and resentful, he returned home and falsely told his mother, "Uncle said that Elder Chen has gone to Yuezhou; when he returns, he will send a messenger." After half a year, Madame Zang went to visit her parents and asked her mother about the matter, but her mother was completely at a loss. Madame Zang was angry at her son for deceiving her; the old woman suspected that her nephew had colluded with his uncle but had not told her. Fortunately, her uncle was away, so there was no way to verify the falsehood. Madame Zang, because of a vow to make an offering, ascended Lotus Peak and lodged at its foot for a fast. After she had lain down, the innkeeper knocked at the door and brought a female Daoist to lodge in the same room. The Daoist introduced herself, "Chen Yunqi." Hearing that the lady was from Yiling, she moved her seat close to the couch and poured out her hardships, her words and bearing mournful. At the end, she said, "I have a cousin, Mr. Pan, who is from the same native place as you, madam. I beg you to charge your sons and nephews to pass on a message, only telling him that I am temporarily staying with my martial uncle Wang Daocheng at the Perching Crane Monastery, suffering hardship day and night, each day like a year. Let him come to visit me soon; I fear if this time passes, he may never know." Madame Zang pondered the name and surname but knew nothing of it. She only said, "Since he is in the Confucian school, the scholars must have heard of him." Before dawn, they parted early, and Yunqi earnestly repeated her plea. After Madame Zang returned home, she mentioned this to her son. Yusheng knelt down and said, "To tell you the truth, mother: the so-called Mr. Pan is none other than I." Madame Zang, now knowing the whole story, angrily said, "Unfilial son! Carrying on debauchery in temples and nunneries, taking a Daoist as a wife—how can you face your relatives and friends?" Yusheng hung his head and dared not utter a word. Later, Yusheng went to the prefecture for the examinations and secretly hired a boat to visit Wang Daocheng. When he arrived, Yunqi had gone out on a trip half a month earlier and had not returned. After coming back, he was depressed and fell ill. Just then, the old woman Zang died, and Madame Zang went to mourn. After the funeral, she lost her way and came to the Jing family. Upon inquiry, it turned out to be her cousin's sister. She was then invited in. She saw a young girl in the hall, about eighteen or nineteen, of graceful and charming appearance, the likes of which she had never seen. Madame Zang always wished for a fine daughter-in-law to keep her son from complaining, and her heart was stirred, so she inquired about her background. Her sister said, "This is a Miss Wang, the niece of the Jing family. Both her parents are dead, and she is temporarily staying here." She asked, "Who is her husband's family?" The sister said, "None." She took the girl's hand and spoke with her; her manner was tender and lovely. The mother was greatly pleased, stayed the night, and privately told her sister her thoughts. The sister said, "Very good. But this girl has high standards; otherwise, why has she been delayed until now? I will discuss it with her." Madame Zang invited the girl to share her bed; they laughed and talked most happily, and the girl willingly called her mother. Madame Zang was pleased and invited her to return to Jingzhou together; the girl was even more delighted. The next day, they took the same boat back. When they arrived, Yusheng was still sick in bed. His mother wished to comfort him in his lingering illness, so she sent a maid to secretly tell him, "Madame has brought a beauty for the young master." Yusheng did not believe it, but peeped through the window—she was even more stunning than Yunqi. He thought: the three-year pact had already passed, and she had gone wandering without returning, so her jade-like countenance must have already found a mate. To gain such a lovely one, his heart was quite comforted. Thus he beamed with joy, and his illness soon recovered. His mother then summoned the two to bow to each other. When Yusheng left, Madame Zang said to the girl, "Do you know my intention in bringing you back with me?" The girl smiled and said, "I know it. But my original intention in coming back with you, mother does not know. I was betrothed in my youth to a Pan of Yiling, but news has been cut off for long, and he must have found another good match. If so, then I will be your daughter-in-law; if not, then I will be your daughter forever, and there will be a day to repay you." Madame Zang said, "If there is already a betrothal, I will not force you. But previously at Wuzu Mountain, a female Daoist asked about a Pan; now again it is a Pan—I know for certain that among the prominent families of Yiling there is no such surname." The girl was startled and said, "Was it you, mother, who lodged at the foot of Lotus Peak? The one who asked about Pan—that was I." Mother suddenly understood, smiled and said, "If that is so, then Pan Sheng is indeed here." The girl asked, "Where?" The lady ordered a maid to guide her to ask Sheng. Sheng was startled and said, "Are you Yunqi?" The girl asked, "What of it?" Sheng told her the whole story, and only then did she realize that she had been teased with the name Pan. The girl, knowing it was Sheng, was too embarrassed to continue the conversation and hurried back to tell her mother. Her mother asked why she had "again taken the surname Wang." She answered, "I was originally surnamed Wang. The Daoist master took a liking to me and made me his daughter, so I took his surname." The mother was also pleased and chose an auspicious day to perform the wedding rites. Earlier, the girl and Yunmian had both relied on Wang Daocheng. Daocheng's dwelling was cramped, so Yunmian left for Hankou. The girl was delicate and spoiled, unable to endure hardship, and too ashamed to go out and practice the Daoist profession, which Daocheng rather disapproved of. It happened that the Jing family was going to Huanggang; the girl met them and wept, so she went with them, and they had her change into a female Daoist's attire, intending to arrange a marriage with a gentry family. For this reason, she concealed her former association with the Daoist registry. But whenever a match was proposed, she was unwilling; her uncle and aunt did not know her intentions and grew weary and vexed with her. On that day, she followed the lady home and found someone to entrust herself to, as if relieved of a heavy burden. After the wedding cup ceremony, each recounted what they had undergone, and in their joy they wept. The girl was filial and prudent, and the lady greatly cherished her; but she loved to play the zither and chess and knew nothing of managing household affairs, which rather worried the lady. After more than a month, the mother sent the two to the Jing family; they stayed several days and returned. While boating on the river, suddenly a boat passed by with a female Daoist in it. Drawing near, it was Yunmian. Yunmian was on good terms with the girl alone. The girl was delighted and invited her into the same boat, and they faced each other in sorrow. She asked, "Where are you going?" Yunmian said, "I have long missed you. I traveled far to the Perch-and-Crane Monastery, only to learn that you had followed your Jing uncle. So I was going to Huanggang to pay a visit. I never expected that you and your beloved had already found each other. Now I see you like immortals, while I remain a wanderer—who knows when my wandering will end!" And she sobbed. The girl devised a plan: have her change out of Daoist garb, pretend to be an elder sister, accompany the lady, and slowly seek a good match. Yunmian agreed. After they returned, the girl first told the lady, and then Yunmian entered. Her deportment was that of a great lady; in conversation she was worldly and experienced. The mother, being widowed and lonely, was delighted to have Yunmian and only feared she might leave. Yunmian rose early and labored in the mother's stead, not acting like a guest. The mother was even more pleased and secretly thought of taking the girl's elder sister as a daughter-in-law as well, to conceal the Daoist-nun name, but did not dare to speak of it. One day, forgetting that something had not been done, she asked urgently about it, and found that Yunmian had already prepared it long before. She then said to the girl, "The beauty in the painting cannot manage a household—what use is she? If my new daughter-in-law were like your elder sister, I would have no worries." Unbeknownst to her, the girl had long harbored this thought but only feared her mother-in-law's displeasure. Hearing her mother's words, she smiled and replied, "Since Mother loves her so, your daughter-in-law wishes to emulate the Ehuang and Nüying—what do you think?" The mother said nothing but smiled. The girl withdrew and told Sheng, "The old mother has given her consent." They then prepared another clean room and told Yunmian, "In the old days when we shared a pillow at the monastery, you said, 'If only I could find someone who knows how to love and cherish, we two should serve him together.' Do you still remember?" Yunmian could not help but let her eyes glisten and said, "What I called 'love and cherish' meant nothing else: day after day I toiled, and no one knew my joys and sorrows; these past few days, with a little effort, I have had the old mother's concern and sympathy—then the warmth and coldness in my heart are immediately different. If you do not give me the order to leave, and let me stay long beside the old mother, that would satisfy my wish, nor do I expect the former promise to be fulfilled." The girl told her mother. The mother had the sisters burn incense and each swear words of no regret, then had Sheng perform the marital rites with her. As they were about to retire, she told Sheng, "I am a twenty-three-year-old old maiden." Sheng still did not believe it. But when the crimson blood stained the mattress, he was amazed. Yunmian said, "The reason I was glad to find a good husband was not that I could not endure solitude; truly, as a woman of the inner chambers, to put on a bold face and receive guests like a brothel—that I could not bear. By this one time, my name is entered in your registry; I shall serve your old mother and act as your internal steward. As for the pleasures of the bedchamber, pray seek them elsewhere." After three days, she bundled her bedding and followed the mother, and could not be sent away. The girl went early to the mother's quarters and took her place on the bed; having no alternative, she went with Sheng. From then on, they alternated every two or three days, and it became the custom. The lady had always been good at chess, but since becoming a widow she had had no leisure for it. After gaining Yunmian, who managed everything in order, when there was nothing to do by day, she would play chess with the girl. They lit the lamp, steeped tea, and listened to the two women play the zither, not dispersing until night. She often said to others, "Even when my son's father was alive, I never had such pleasure." Yunmian managed the accounts and would report to the mother from the registers. The mother suspected and asked, "You children always say you were orphaned young—who taught you to write and play games?" The girl smiled and told the truth. The mother also laughed and said, "At first I did not wish to marry my son to a Daoist priestess, but now I have ended up with two." Suddenly remembering the divination of her childhood, she began to believe that fate could not be escaped. Sheng tried the examinations again but did not pass. The lady said, "Though our family is not wealthy, we have three hundred mu of thin fields; fortunately, with Yunmian keeping the accounts, we grow ever more prosperous. My son need only remain at my knee, leading your two wives to share joy with your old mother—I do not wish you to seek wealth and rank." Sheng obeyed. Later, Yunmian bore one son and one daughter; Yunqi bore one daughter and three sons. The mother lived past eighty and died; all the grandsons became licentiates. The eldest grandson, born of Yunmian, had already passed the provincial examination. --- The Scribe A certain游击 officer had many wives and concubines. He greatly tabooed his childhood name. He called "year" *sui*, "life" *ying*, "horse" *da lü*; he also tabooed "defeat" as "victory," and "peace" as "release." Even in correspondence he did not much avoid these, but if his household used them, he would rage. One day, a scribe attending to business inadvertently transgressed; he flew into a rage and struck him with an inkstone, killing him on the spot. Three days later, drunk and lying down, he saw the scribe enter holding a visiting card. He asked, "What is it?" The scribe said, "'Ma Zi'an' has come to call." Suddenly realizing it was a ghost, he jumped up and drew his sword to strike him. The scribe smiled, tossed the card onto the table, and vanished without a trace. He picked up the card and read: "The *sui* household's favored *ying da lü zi fang sheng*." The violent and absurd fellow was mocked by the ghost—most laughable! A monk at Niushou Mountain styled himself Iron Man, and also Iron Shit. He had forty poems, and all who saw them were convulsed with laughter. He carved two seals for himself: one read "Muddled Rogue," the other "Honest Ruffian." Wang Sizhi of Xiushui printed his poems under the title: *Forty Farts of Niushan*. The colophon read: "Let loose by the Muddled Rogue and Honest Ruffian." One need not read the poems; the title alone suffices to provoke a smile. --- The Centipede Under the threshold of Commissioner Zhu Sanjia's gate there was a centipede several feet long. Whenever wind and rain came, it would emerge and coil about the ground like white silk. The centipede resembles a millipede; it cannot be seen by day, but comes out at night. It gathers wherever it smells blood. Some say: the centipede has no eyes but is exceedingly greedy. --- The Instructor A certain instructor was very deaf, but was on good terms with a fox; when the fox whispered in his ear, he could hear. Whenever he saw a superior official, he brought the fox with him, and no one knew of his deafness. After five or six years, the fox took leave and went away. It warned him, saying, "You are like a puppet—if no one pulls the strings, all your five senses will fail. Rather than incur blame for deafness, it would be better to retire early." He was loath to give up his salary and could not follow its advice, so his replies were frequently wrong. The educational commissioner wished to dismiss him, but he begged influential persons to intercede for him. One day, while serving in the examination hall, after the roll call, the commissioner withdrew and sat at ease with the instructors. Each instructor felt in his boot for his register and presented it with a private recommendation. Then the commissioner smiled and asked, "Why has your school alone presented nothing?" The instructor was utterly perplexed. The one next to him nudged him with an elbow and made a gesture of putting his hand into his boot. Now the instructor had been entrusted by a relative to sell some counterfeit bedroom aids, which he always kept in his boot, hawking them wherever he went. Taking the commissioner's smile and words to mean he was asking for these items, he bowed and replied, "The eight-cash ones are the best, but your subordinate dare not present them." The whole company stifled their laughter. The commissioner ordered him out, and he was dismissed from office. The Historian remarks: "To be the only one in the plain with nothing to present—that is a pillar in midstream. If the commissioner asks for presentations, one ought indeed to offer him this. By this means he got off. What a grievance!" Brother Zhu's *Er Lu* records: "There was a Mingjing named Chi from Donglai, who served as a Sixing in Yishui. He was naturally deranged and foolish. Whenever his colleagues gathered, he would remain silent; but after sitting for a short while, he would unconsciously twitch all five features, laughing and crying at once, as if no one else were present. If he heard others laughing, he would stop immediately. He was miserly and frugal with himself, accumulating over a hundred taels of silver, which he buried in his study, not even letting his wife and children know. One day, sitting alone, his hands and feet suddenly moved of their own accord. After a moment, he said: 'Toiling in enmity, enduring cold and hunger, with such difficulty I saved this—now it is in the study. If someone were to know of it, what then?' He repeated this several times. A Mendou was beside him but noticed nothing unusual. The next day, Chi went out; the Mendou entered, dug it up, and took it away. After two or three days, Chi grew uneasy, opened the hiding place to check, and found it empty. He stamped his feet and beat his chest, sighing in regret as if he would die." Among the teaching officials, one could say there are a thousand forms and a hundred appearances. **Black Devils** General Li of Jiaozhou bought two black devils, black as lacquer. The skin of their feet was thick and coarse; blades were set on the ground to form a path, and they walked back and forth over them without any injury whatsoever. The General matched them with prostitutes; one bore a child who was white. His colleagues and servants teased him, saying it was not of his seed. The black devil also doubted, so he killed the child. When the bones were examined, they were all black, and only then did he regret it. The General often had the two devils dance opposite each other—their bearing was also worth watching. **Zhucheng** In Lake Dongting, water spirits often borrow boats. When they encounter an empty boat, the mooring rope suddenly comes undone by itself, and it drifts off on its own. One hears only music in the air as the boatmen crouch in a corner, eyes closed, listening, not daring to look up, letting it go where it will. When the excursion is over, it still returns to its original berth. There was a scholar named Liu, who had failed the examinations and was returning home. Drunk, he lay down on the boat. Suddenly, flute and drum music began. The boatmen shook Liu but could not wake him, and hurriedly hid under the stern awning. Soon someone dragged Liu. Liu was deeply drunk and fell to the deck with the pull, sleeping as before, so they left him alone. After a while, the music and drums grew loud and clamorous. Liu half-awoke and smelled rich fragrances of orchids and musk. Glancing sidelong, he saw the boat full of beautiful women. Knowing it was extraordinary, he kept his eyes as if closed. After a moment, someone called out "Zhucheng." Then a serving girl came and stood close by his cheek; she wore emerald socks and purple slippers, slender and fine as fingers. He fancied her and secretly bit her sock with his teeth. After a while, the girl moved, and he was dragged along and fell over. The one above asked what was the matter, and the cause was reported. The one above was angry and ordered immediate execution. Warriors then entered, seized him, and pulled him up. He saw a person facing south, wearing a hat like a king. As he was being dragged along, he said, "I have heard that the Lord of Dongting is surnamed Liu; I too am surnamed Liu. In former times the Lord of Dongting failed the examinations; now I too have failed. The Lord of Dongting met the Dragon Princess and became immortal; now I, drunk, teased a maid and am about to die—how great is the disparity of fortune and misfortune!" The King, hearing this, called him back and asked, "Are you a failed scholar?" Liu assented. He then gave him brush and paper and ordered him to compose a rhapsody on "Wind-blown Hair and Misty Temples." Liu was indeed a famous scholar of Xiangyang, but he was rather slow in composition; he held the brush for a long time. The one above chided him, saying, "How can a famous scholar act like this?" Liu set down the brush and explained, "In former times, the 'Rhapsody on the Three Capitals' took ten years to complete. From this one knows that writing values excellence, not speed." The King laughed and listened. From dawn to noon, the draft was finally finished. The King read it and was greatly pleased, saying, "A true famous scholar!" Thereupon he gave him wine. In a moment, rare delicacies arrived in profusion. While they were conversing, a clerk entered with a register and reported, "The roll of the drowned is completed." Asked, "How many persons?" He replied, "One hundred and twenty-eight." Asked, "Who have been dispatched?" The answer was, "Lieutenants Mao and Nan." Liu rose and took his leave. The King presented him with ten jin of gold and a crystal ruler, saying, "There is a small calamity on the lake; with this you may avoid it." Suddenly, feather-canopied horsemen appeared, standing in rows on the water. The King descended from the boat, mounted his carriage, and was no longer seen. After a long while, all was still. The boatmen then came out from under the awning, rowed northward across the lake, but the wind was contrary and they could not advance. Suddenly, an iron anchor floated up from the water. The boatmen cried in alarm, "General Mao has appeared!" All the merchants in the boats prostrated themselves. Not long after, a wooden pillar stood upright in the lake, quivering and shaking. They were even more terrified, saying, "General Nan has appeared again!" In a short time, great waves arose, darkening the sky and sun. Looking around, all the boats on the lake capsized at once. Liu held up the ruler and sat upright in the boat; though the billows were ten thousand fathoms high, they subsided as they reached the boat, and thus he was saved. After returning, he often told people of this marvel. He said that though he had not fully made out the face of the serving girl in the boat, the twin arches beneath her skirt were unmatched in the human world. Later, on business, he went to Wuchang. There was an old woman named Cui selling a girl, who would not sell her even for a thousand taels. She kept a crystal ruler and said that whomever could match it she would marry the girl to. Liu found this strange and went with the ruler in his bosom. The old woman received him joyfully and called her daughter out to meet him. She was about fifteen or sixteen, charming, graceful, and alluring beyond compare. After a brief bow, she turned and entered the curtained chamber. At first sight, Liu's soul was stirred, and he said, "I also keep an object—I wonder if it matches the one in your old ladyship's collection?" They each brought theirs out for comparison; in length they did not differ by the breadth of a hair. The old woman was delighted and asked for his lodging, bidding him to go at once and send a carriage, leaving the ruler as a pledge. Liu was unwilling to leave it. The old woman laughed and said, "Sir, you are too cautious! Would this old body slip away for the sake of a crystal ruler?" Liu had no choice but to leave it. He went out, hired a carriage, and hurried back—but the old woman's rooms were already empty. Greatly alarmed, he asked all the neighbors, but none knew anything. The sun was already westering; his spirit and looks were dejected, and he returned gloomy and despondent. On the way, he encountered a carriage passing by; suddenly the curtain was lifted and a voice said, "Brother Liu, why are you so late?" Looking, it was Old Woman Cui. Joyfully he asked, "Where are you going?" The old woman laughed and said, "You must surely have suspected this old body of trickery. After we parted, a convenient carriage happened by, and I thought that since you, sir, are also lodging away from home and would have difficulty making arrangements, I therefore sent the girl directly to your boat." Liu invited her to turn the carriage back, but the old woman absolutely would not. Liu, flustered and uncertain, hurried to the boat, and indeed the girl was there with one maid. When she saw Liu enter, she smiled in welcome. He saw the emerald socks and purple slippers—her attire was no different from that of the serving girl on the boat. Wondering at this, he paced about, staring fixedly. The girl laughed and said, "Staring so greedily—have you never seen such before?" Liu bent lower to look, and there on the back of the sock were the tooth marks, clearly visible. Startled, he said, "Are you Zhucheng?" The girl covered her mouth and smiled slightly. Liu made a deep bow and said, "If you are indeed a divine being, pray speak plainly at once, to dispel my doubts and vexations." The girl said, "To tell you truly: the one you met on the boat before was the Lord of Dongting. Admiring your great talent, he wished to present me to you; but because I was too beloved by the Princess, he returned to plan it. My coming here is at the Princess's command." Liu was overjoyed. He washed his hands, burned incense, faced the lake and bowed in worship, then returned home. Later, when he was to go to Wuchang, the girl asked to go with him, intending to visit her family. When they reached Dongting, the girl took out her hairpin and tossed it into the water. Suddenly a small boat appeared from the lake. The girl leaped aboard like a bird alighting, and in the twinkling of an eye vanished. Liu sat at the bow, gazing fixedly at the place where she had disappeared. From afar a great tower-ship approached; when it drew near, the window opened, and suddenly something like a colored bird flew across—it was Zhucheng arriving. Someone from the window tossed out many golden pearls and precious objects—all gifts from the Princess. From then on, she paid visits once or twice a year as a matter of course. Thus Liu's household became wealthy in jewels; whenever he produced some object, even great families could not identify it. It is traditionally said that Tang-dynasty Liu Yi met the Dragon Princess, and the Lord of Dongting took him as a son-in-law. Later he abdicated in favor of Liu Yi. Because Liu Yi's appearance was scholarly and could not overawe the water monsters, he was given a demon mask, to wear by day and remove by night. As time passed, he grew accustomed to it and forgot to remove it, until the mask fused with his face. Liu Yi looked in the mirror and was ashamed. Hence, when travelers cross the lake, if anyone points at something, they suspect it is pointing at them; if anyone covers their forehead with a hand, they suspect it is peeping at them; storms then arise and boats often capsize. Therefore, when first boarding a boat, the boatmen always warn them of this. Otherwise, one must set out sacrificial offerings to cross safely. Xu Zhenjun once came to the lake and was blocked by waves and could not proceed. Angry, he arrested Liu Yi and handed him over to the prefectural prison. The jailers, checking the prisoners, always found one extra person and could not fathom the reason. One night, Liu Yi appeared in a dream to the prefect, begging for rescue. The prefect declined, saying the ways of the living and the dead were separate. Liu Yi said, "The True Lord will arrive at the prefecture on a certain day; if you but plead for me, it will surely avail." In due course the True Lord did arrive, and the prefect interceded on his behalf, and Liu Yi was released. Thereafter, the prohibitions on the lake became somewhat more lenient. **Zhuqing** Yu Rong, a native of Hunan, his county and prefecture forgotten. His family was poor; having failed in the examinations, he was on his way home when his travel funds ran out. Ashamed to beg, and starving, he rested temporarily in the Temple of King Wu, where he bowed and prayed before the divine seat. Then he went out and lay down under the corridor, when suddenly a man led him away to see the King. The man knelt and said, “The Black-clad Troop still lacks one soldier; he may be assigned to fill the vacancy.” The King said, “Agreed.” Thereupon he was given a black garment. As soon as he put it on, he turned into a crow, spread his wings, and flew out. He saw a host of crow companions gathered; they went off together, alighting separately on the masts and rigging. Travelers on the boats vied to throw meat upward. The flock caught and ate it in midair. He followed their example, and in a short while his belly was full. He soared and perched on treetops, feeling quite pleased with himself. After two or three days, King Wu, pitying his lack of a mate, paired him with a female crow, calling her “Zhuqing.” They loved each other well. Whenever Yu went to take food, he was always tame and without wariness; Zhuqing repeatedly admonished him, but he could never heed her. One day, a troop of Manchu soldiers passed by and shot him in the chest with a pellet. Fortunately, Zhuqing carried him away in her beak, so he was not captured. The flock of crows, enraged, flapped their wings and stirred up waves; the waves surged and overturned all the boats. Zhuqing still fed Yu with bait. Yu was gravely wounded and died by the end of the day. Suddenly, as if waking from a dream, he found himself lying in the temple. Earlier, the local people had seen the dead man and did not know who he was; but feeling that his body was still warm, they had kept a constant watch over him. Now they questioned him and learned the cause, then collected money to send him home. Three years later, he passed by the same place again and paid his respects to King Wu. He set out food, called the crows down to feed together, and prayed, “If Zhuqing is here, she should alight.” After the meal, all flew away. Later, having passed the provincial examinations and returning home, he again visited the Temple of King Wu and offered a lesser sacrificial animal. After that, he prepared a great feast for his crow friends and prayed again. That night he lodged in a lakeside village. As he sat by the candle, suddenly something like a flying bird fluttered down before the table. Looking at it, it was a beautiful woman of about twenty, who smiled and said, “Have you been well since we parted?” Yu asked in surprise who she was. She said, “Do you not recognize Zhuqing?” Yu was overjoyed and asked where she had come from. She said, “I am now the Goddess of the Han River, and I seldom return to my old haunts. Previously, crow messengers twice conveyed your feelings, so I have come to meet you.” Yu was all the more delighted and moved; it was like a long-separated couple, with boundless joy and longing. He wished to take her south with him; she wished to take him west with her. Neither plan was settled. When he woke from sleep at first dawn, she had already risen. Opening his eyes, he saw in the high hall great candles blazing brightly—this was not a boat at all. Startled, he asked, “Where is this?” She laughed and said, “This is Hanyang. My home is your home; why go south?” As day broke, maids and old women gathered in numbers, and wine and meats were brought in. They set a low table on a broad couch, and the couple drank facing each other. Yu asked, “Where are my servants?” She replied, “In the boat.” Yu worried that the boatmen could not wait long. She said, “No matter; I will help you reward them.” So they talked and feasted day and night, joyfully forgetting to return. When the boatmen awoke from their dreams, they suddenly saw Hanyang and were utterly astonished. The servant sought his master but had no news. The boatmen wished to go elsewhere, but the mooring ropes would not come undone, so they stayed together by the boat. After more than two months, Yu suddenly remembered home and said to her, “If I stay here, my relatives are cut off. And although you and I are wedded in name, you have never acknowledged my family—what then?” She said, “Not to mention that I cannot go; even if I did, your household already has a wife—how would you place me? Better to leave me here and make this a separate residence for you.” Yu regretted the long distance, which would prevent him from coming often. She brought out the black garment and said, “Your old suit is still here. If you miss me, wear this and you can come; when you arrive, I will undo it for you.” Then she set out a great feast of delicacies as a farewell for him. He drank until drunk and fell asleep. When he awoke, he was in his boat; looking around, it was the same mooring place at Lake Dongting. The boatmen and his servant were all there, staring at each other in great surprise, asking where he had been. Yu felt dejected and startled. Beside his pillow was a bundle; when he opened it, he found new clothes, socks, and shoes given by the woman, and the black garment was folded inside. There was also an embroidered pouch tied at his waist; reaching in, he found it filled with gold coins. Thereupon he sailed south, reached shore, rewarded the boatmen handsomely, and departed. After returning home for several months, he was so tormented by longing for the Han River that he secretly took out the black garment and put it on. Wings grew from his sides, and with a whirring sound he soared into the sky. After about two hours, he had reached the Han River. Wheeling and looking down, he saw a cluster of buildings on a lonely islet, and so flew down. A maidservant had already seen him and called out, “The master has arrived!” Soon Zhuqing came out and ordered the servants to undo the fastenings; he felt his feathers shed away as if scraped off. She took his hand and led him into the hall, saying, “You have come just in time—I am about to give birth any day now.” Yu jestingly asked, “Will it be a live birth or an egg?” She said, “Now that I am a goddess, my bones and flesh have become firm; it should be different from before.” After a few days, she indeed gave birth, with a thick covering of membranes like a large egg. When it was broken open, it was a boy. Yu was delighted and named him “Hancan.” Three days later, the goddesses of the Han River all came to the hall, offering clothes, food, and precious things in congratulations. They were all lovely and exquisite, none over thirty years old. They all entered the room, approached the bed, and pressed their thumbs on the child’s nose, saying, “Increase his lifespan.” After they left, Yu asked, “Who were those who just came?” She said, “They are my peers. The last one, dressed in pale white, is the one known as ‘the one who unsheathed the girdle-gem at Han Gao’—that is she.” After several months, she sent him away by boat, using neither sails nor oars; it drifted along by itself. When they reached shore, a horse was already tethered by the roadside, so he returned home. From then on, he came and went without interruption. After several years, Hancan grew more and more handsome, and Yu cherished him. His wife, Lady He, was childless and constantly wished to see Hancan. Yu told the goddess of his wife’s feelings. She then prepared luggage and sent the boy back with his father, agreeing on three months. After they returned, Lady He loved him more than her own; after more than ten months, she could not bear to send him back. One day, he suddenly fell ill and died. Lady He mourned so bitterly that she wished to die. Yu then went to the Han River to tell the goddess. Upon entering the gate, he saw Hancan lying barefoot on the bed; delighted, he asked her about it. She said, “You long broke your promise. I missed my son, so I called him back.” Yu then explained how Lady He had loved the child. She said, “Wait until I give birth again, then I will send Hancan back.” After another year or more, she bore twins, a boy and a girl: the boy named “Hansheng,” the girl named “Yupei.” Yu then brought Hancan home. Still, he went three or four times a year, finding it inconvenient, so he moved his household to Hanyang. At age twelve, Hancan entered the prefectural school. The goddess, finding that there was no worthy girl in the mortal world, summoned him back and married him to a wife, then sent him home. The wife was named “Zhi Niang,” also the child of a goddess. Later, when Lady He died, Hansheng and the younger sister both came to wail and beat their breasts. After the burial, Hansheng stayed behind; Yu took Yupei and left, and they never returned thereafter. Duan Shi. Duan Ruihuan was a wealthy man of Daming. At forty he had no son. His wife Lian was most jealous; she wished to take a concubine but dared not. He secretly took a maid; Lian found out, beat the maid several hundred times, and sold her to the Luan family in Hejian. Duan grew older by the day, and his various nephews came morning and evening to beg loans; if one word did not answer their demands, they angrily raised their voices and showed their displeasure. Duan thought he could not supply their requests, and wished to adopt a nephew as heir, but the crowd of nephews obstructed him; even Lian's ferocity had no room to act, and she began greatly to repent. In anger she said: "My husband is past sixty—why should he not be able to beget a son!" Thereupon she bought two concubines, allowed her husband to enjoy them, and did not interfere. After more than a year, both concubines were with child, and the whole household rejoiced. Thus their spirits gradually eased. Whenever the nephews made forcible demands, she would rudely obstruct them with harsh words. Before long, one concubine bore a daughter, and the other bore a son who died in infancy. The husband and wife were disappointed. After another year or so, Duan was struck by wind-stroke and could not rise. The nephews grew even more unrestrained, vying to take away oxen, horses, and household goods. Lian scolded and reviled them, but they always retorted with insults. Having no recourse, she wept morning and evening. Duan's illness worsened, and soon he died. The nephews gathered before the coffin to discuss dividing the inheritance. Though Lian was pained to the core, she could not stop them. She only asked to keep one fertile estate to support the old and the young, but the nephews would not consent. Lian said: "If you leave not an inch of land, will you let an old woman and a wailing infant starve to death!" Day after day no decision was reached; she could only weep in anger and beat herself. Suddenly a visitor entered to offer condolences, went straight to the spirit-table, and prostrated himself in full grief. After the mourning, he seated himself by the straw mat. The crowd asked who he was. The visitor said: "The deceased is my father." The crowd was even more astonished. The visitor calmly explained himself. Earlier, the maid had married into the Luan family; after five or six months, she gave birth to a son named Huai, and Luan raised him equally with his other sons. At eighteen, Huai entered the prefectural school. Later, when Luan died, the elder brothers divided the property and did not count him among the Luan heirs. Huai asked his mother and only then learned the reason. He said: "Since we are of two surnames, each has its own ancestral temple—why should I stay here to inherit a hundred mu of another's land!" Then he mounted a horse and rode to the Duan household, but Duan had already died. His account was precise and verifiably credible. Lian, who had been weeping in anger, was overjoyed at the news and came straight out, saying: "Now I too have a son! All the oxen, horses, and goods you have taken by pretence, you may well send back of your own accord; otherwise, there will be a lawsuit!" The nephews exchanged glances, their faces drained of color, and gradually withdrew. Huai then brought his wife and came to live with them, sharing in mourning for his father. The various Duans, resentful, conspired together to drive Huai out. Huai learned of this and said: "The Luans do not regard me as a Luan, and the Duans do not regard me as a Duan—where then am I to go!" Angry, he wished to bring suit before the officials, but the various relatives and connections mediated, and the conspiracy subsided. But Lian, because of the oxen and horses, would not let the matter rest. Huai urged her to drop it. Lian said: "It is not for the oxen and horses that I do this; pent-up anger fills my chest. Your father died of chagrin. The reason I swallowed my voice and endured my tears was that I had no son. Now that I have a son, what is there to fear! You do not know the circumstances of the former events; let me myself bring them to trial." Huai repeatedly tried to stop her, but she would not listen, and drew up a plaint to present to the magistrate. The magistrate arrested the various Duans and examined the case. Lian's anger was justified and her words poignant; her testimony poured forth like a spring. The magistrate was moved, punished all the nephews, and ordered the recovered goods restored to their owner. After they returned home, those among her brothers' sons who had not joined the conspiracy were summoned; she took the recovered goods and distributed them all to them. Lian lived past seventy; when she was about to die, she called her daughter and her grandson's wife and said: "Remember this: if after thirty you have not borne a child, you should pawn your ornaments and jewelry and take a concubine for your husband. The state of being without a son is truly unbearable!" The Historian of the Strange remarks: "Though Lian was jealous, she was quick to turn about, and rightly Heaven granted her an heir to vent her spirit. Observing her vehement outburst—hah! she was a remarkable woman indeed!" Jiang Jia of Jinan; his wife Mao was barren and jealous. His elder brother's wife often advised and remonstrated, but she would not listen, saying: "Better to end the line than to let some mincing, eye-rolling creature vex me to death!" Approaching forty, she began to give much thought to succession. She wished to adopt her brother's son; the elder brother and his wife both consented, but purposely delayed. The boy would often come to the uncle's house, and the couple would feed him sweets and tidbits, asking: "Are you willing to come to our household?" The boy would also assent. The elder brother secretly instructed the boy: "If they ask you again, answer that you are unwilling. If they ask why you are unwilling, say: 'After you die, why worry that the fields and property will not be mine.'" One day, Jia went away on a long trading trip, and the boy came again. Mao asked again, and the boy answered with his father's words. Mao flew into a rage and said: "My own wife and children at home—so they have been calculating my fields and property all along! Their scheme is wrong!" She drove the boy out and immediately summoned a matchmaker to buy a concubine for her husband. When her husband returned, there was a maidservant for sale, but her price was high; even emptying their funds could not make up the full amount, and the deal seemed about to fall through. The elder brother, fearing that delay might bring a change of heart, secretly gave silver to the matchmaker, pretending it was borrowed through her to make the match succeed. Mao was overjoyed and bought the maidservant to bring home. Mao told the whole story to her husband; he was angry and cut off relations with his brother. After more than a year, the concubine bore a son. The husband and wife were overjoyed. Mao said: "The matchmaker does not know from whom she borrowed that money; for over a year she has not even mentioned it. This debt of gratitude must not be forgotten. Now that the son is born, should we not still repay the purchase price of the mother?" Jia then took silver and went to the matchmaker. The matchmaker laughed and said: "I should be thanking the master greatly. I am as poor as a washed rag—who would dare lend me a single coin?" She told him the whole truth. Jia was moved to understanding; he returned and told his wife, and they wept together in gratitude. They then prepared a feast and invited the elder brother and his wife; the couple both approached on their knees, brought out silver to repay the brother, but the brother would not accept, and they all parted in great cheer. Later, Jia had three sons. The Fox Woman Yi Qiu, a man of Jiujiang. One night a woman came to him and shared his bed. He knew in his heart she was a fox, but loved her beauty, and kept it secret from no one; his parents did not know of it either. After a long time, his body became emaciated. His parents pressed him with questions, and only then did he tell them the truth. His parents were deeply worried, and had others take turns sleeping with him, while also applying exorcistic charms, but ultimately could not prevent her. His father himself shared the same bed with him, and then the fox did not come; when the person was changed, she came again. Yi asked the fox. The fox said: "What are common charms and spells to me? But there is always moral order—how could I commit fornication with my father-in-law!" When the father heard this, he accompanied his son more closely than ever, and the fox finally ceased. Later, when rebel bandits ran rampant, all the villagers fled, and the family was separated. Yi fled into the Kunlun Mountains, looking about at the desolation all around. As the sun was setting, his heart was filled with fear. Suddenly he saw a young woman approaching; when she came near, he saw it was the fox girl. Amidst the chaos of separation, they were comforted to see each other. The girl said: "The sun is already westward; you may stop here for now. I will find a good spot and hastily make a shelter to keep out tigers and wolves." She then walked north a few paces, crouched in the thickets, and he did not know what she was doing. After a moment she returned, pulled him south, and after about ten paces, dragged him back again. Suddenly he saw a thousand great trees surrounding a tall pavilion, with copper walls and iron pillars, and the top resembling gold leaf; upon closer inspection, the walls reached only shoulder-height, and there were no doors or gates all around, but the walls were densely set with niches. The girl stepped over them with her feet, and Yi followed her. Once inside, he suspected that the golden house could not have been made by human hands, and asked where it came from. The girl laughed and said: "You may dwell here, and tomorrow I shall give it to you. Gold and iron, each in thousands of millions—enough to last half a lifetime in food and clothing." Then she took her leave. Yi begged her to stay, and so she remained. She said: "Having been disliked and cast off, I had resigned myself to eternal separation; now I cannot hold firm to my resolve again." When he awoke, the fox girl had already left at some unknown hour. At daybreak, he climbed over the wall and came out. Looking back at the place where he had lain, there was no pavilion or house at all—only four needles stuck inside a finger-ring, with a cosmetic box covering them; the great trees were merely brambles and old thorns. The Zhang Family's Wife Wherever large armies pass, the harm they do is worse than that of bandits: for bandits, men may still oppose them with hatred, but soldiers are what men dare not oppose. The only slight way they differ from bandits is that they do not lightly kill people. In the year Jiayin (1674), the Three Feudatories rebelled. Troops marching south were billeted in Gun prefecture, stripping it bare of fowl, dogs, dwellings, and outbuildings, while women were all violated. At that time there was incessant rain; the fields pooled into lakes, and the people had nowhere to hide, so they climbed the walls into thickets of sorghum. The soldiers knew this, stripped naked, mounted their horses, and entered the water to search for and violate them, with few escaping. Only the wife of a certain Zhang would not submit, but stayed openly in her home. There was a kitchen building; at night she and her husband dug a pit several feet deep, filled it with brushwood, covered it with a thin mat, and laid another mat on top, as if it were a place to sleep. She herself worked at the stove. When soldiers came, she went out to attend to them. Two Mongol soldiers forced themselves on her. The woman said, "How can such a thing be done in front of others?" One of them smiled, chattered something, and went out. The woman led the other into the room, pointed to the mat, and made him go first. The mat broke, and the soldier fell in. The woman then took another mat and covering and laid them over the pit, then purposely stood by the edge of the pit to lure the next one in. A short while later, the other one came in. Hearing cries from within the pit, not knowing where they came from, the woman smilingly beckoned him with her hand, saying, "Over here." The soldier stepped on the mat and fell in as well. The woman then threw more fuel in and set fire to it. The fire blazed fiercely, and the house burned down. The woman then called for help. After the fire was out, the charred corpses smelled of burnt flesh. People asked her about it. She said, "Two pigs were afraid of being harmed by the soldiers, so I put them in the pit." After this, she moved a few li away from the village, to a spot by the main road with no trees at all, took her needlework, and sat in the blazing sun. The village was far from the prefectural city; the soldiers all came on horseback, arriving several times an hour. They chattered and laughed in their barbarous tongue; though much of it was unintelligible, it was roughly teasing talk. But since it was not far from the road and there was nothing to shelter her, they would leave, and for several days she had no trouble. One day, a soldier came, utterly shameless, and tried to violate her right there in the scorching sun. The woman smiled and did not refuse much. Secretly she pricked his horse with a needle. The horse snorted and screamed, so the soldier tied the reins around his thigh, then embraced the woman. The woman produced a large awl and fiercely stabbed the horse's neck. The horse, in pain, bolted in terror. The reins were tied around his thigh so that he could not get free, and he dragged the soldier for dozens of li before his comrades finally caught hold of him. His head and body were nowhere to be found; on the reins, a thigh remained, intact. The Historian of the Strange says: "With ingenious stratagets, six times she escaped, never losing her chastity to fierce soldiers. Worthy indeed was this woman—wise, and able to remain chaste!" Yu Ziyou People along the seacoast tell this story: One day, a tall mountain suddenly rose out of the sea, and the locals were greatly terrified. A scholar was lodging on a fishing boat, drinking wine alone. Late at night, a young man arrived, wearing a scholar's cap and robe, and introduced himself as "Yu Ziyou." His words were elegant and refined. The scholar was pleased and drank happily with him. They drank until midnight, when the young man rose and took his leave. The scholar said, "Where is your home? The night is vast and dark—why put yourself to such trouble?" He replied, "I am not a native here. Since the Qingming festival is near, I am to follow the Great King to visit his grave. My family has gone ahead; the Great King has lingered a while to rest, and we depart at the hour of Chen tomorrow. I should return and prepare my baggage early." The scholar did not know who the Great King was. He escorted him to the prow, where the young man leaped into the water and swam away with a splashing sound—and only then did the scholar realize he was a fish spirit. The next day, he saw the mountain peak drifting and, in a moment, it had disappeared. Only then did he understand that the mountain was a great fish—the one referred to as the Great King. It is commonly said that before Qingming, great fish in the sea bring their children and grandchildren to pay respects at their graves—is this really true? In the early years of the Kangxi reign, a great fish was washed ashore by the tide in Lai prefecture. It bellowed and cried out for several days, its voice like an ox's. After it died, men carrying shoulder-poles came to cut its meat, a continuous line of them. The fish was over an acre in size, with fins and tail complete; only its eyeballs were missing. The eye sockets were as deep as wells, filled with water. Those cutting meat who accidentally fell into them drowned. Some say, "When the sea banishes a great fish, it removes its eyes, for the eyes are night-luminous pearls." Male Concubine A certain official in Yangzhou was buying a concubine. He looked at several families in succession, but none suited him. Only one old woman had a daughter for sale—the girl was fourteen or fifteen, with a lovely figure and fair features, and skilled in various arts. He was greatly pleased and bought her at a high price. That night, when he entered the covers, her skin was smooth as lard. Delighted, he felt her private parts—and found they were those of a man. He was horrified, and began to interrogate her. It turned out that he had bought a handsome boy, elaborately dressed and groomed, set up as a trap to deceive people. At dawn, he sent a servant to find the old woman, but she had already fled without a trace. His heart was full of chagrin, and he could not decide what to do. Just then a fellow examination graduate from Zhejiang came to visit, so he told him the whole story. The friend asked to see the boy, and as soon as he laid eyes on him he was delighted, and ransomed him from the official at the original price and took him away. The Historian of the Strange remarks: "If one meets a true connoisseur, one would not exchange such a one even for Nanwei [the famous beauty]. Why must that ignorant old woman go to the trouble of making a false pretense?" Wang Ke Shou Wang Ke Shou of Huangmei County in Huguang could remember three lives. In his first life he was a scholar, studying in a monastery. The monk had a mare that gave birth to a mule colt, and he took it away out of love. After he died, the King of Hell checked his records, and angered by his greed and violence, punished him by making him a mule to repay the monastery's monk. When he was born, the monk cherished and cared for him, and he had no opportunity to die. When he grew a little older, he often thought of throwing himself into a ravine, but he feared that failing the kindness of his raising would bring even greater punishment in the underworld, so he resigned himself to it. After several years, his retribution was fulfilled and he died of natural causes, and was born into a farmer's family. As soon as he came out of the womb he could speak, and his parents, finding this strange, killed him. Then he was born into the family of Scholar Wang. Scholar Wang was nearly fifty, and was overjoyed to have a son. Wang was born bright and intelligent; but remembering that in his previous life he had died for speaking too early, he dared not speak. By the age of three or four, everyone thought he was mute. One day, his father was composing an essay when a friend happened to call; he put down his brush and went out to receive the guest. Wang entered, saw what his father had written, and could not restrain his itch to write, so he finished it for him. When his father returned and saw it, he asked, "Who came?" The servants said, "No one." The father was greatly suspicious. The next day, he purposely set a topic on the desk, then went out again; after a short while he returned, walking softly and stealthily. There he saw his son bent over the desk, with several lines already written. Suddenly catching sight of his father, the boy could not help uttering a sound, and knelt begging for his life. His father was delighted, took his hand, and said, "Our family has only you. Since you can write essays, it is our household's good fortune—why should you hide it?" From then on he taught him to read all the more. In his youth he became a jinshi, and rose to the post of Grand Coordinator of Datong. Ox Calf A farmer from Central Chu was returning from market and stopped to rest by the roadside. A diviner came up from behind, stopped, and chatted with him. Suddenly he looked at the farmer and said, "Your complexion is inauspicious. Within three days you will lose money and suffer official punishment." The farmer said, "My official taxes are all paid, and in my life I have never understood quarrels—where would official punishment come from?" The diviner said, "I do not know either. But your complexion is as such—you must be careful!" The farmer did not really believe him, bowed, and went home. The next day, while he was pasturing his calf in the fields, a post-horse passed by. The calf saw it, mistook it for a tiger, and charged straight at it, killing the horse. The post-riders reported the farmer to the authorities, and the authorities gave him a light punishment and made him compensate for the horse. It is because water buffaloes, upon seeing tigers, always fight; for this reason, cattle dealers camping in the open always use their cattle for protection. When they see a horse coming from afar, they hurry to drive their cattle out of the way, fearing they might mistakenly attack it. Wang Da Li Xin was a gambler. One day, as he lay sleeping during the day, he suddenly saw his former gambling friends Wang Da and Feng Jiu come to invite him to play at the gaming tables. Li also forgot that they were ghosts, and gladly went with them. Once outside, Wang Da went to invite Zhou Ziming from the village, while Feng led Li ahead, entering the temple east of the village. After a short while, Zhou indeed arrived together with Wang. Feng brought out leaf-cards and proposed a game of "Liao Ling." Li said, "I have no gambling stake at hand, so I fear I shall disappoint your kind invitation—what to do?" Zhou also said the same. Wang said, "Yellow Eighth Master in Swallow Valley lends money on interest; let us go and borrow from him together, he surely will consent." So the four went off together. In a flash they arrived at a large village. In the village, mansions with linked walls lined the streets. Wang pointed to a gate and said, "This is Master Huang's house." An old servant came out, and Wang told him their intention. The servant went in to announce them. Soon he came out, bearing Master Huang's command, inviting Wang and Li to meet him. They entered and saw the young master, about eighteen or nineteen, with a genial smile and courteous manner. He then handed Li a string of large cash, saying, "I know you are honest and straightforward; I have no objection to lending to you. But Zhou Ziming—I cannot trust him." Wang pleaded on his behalf with much persuasion. The master required Li to countersign the loan as guarantor; Li refused. Wang urged him from the side, and Li finally agreed. He also gave a thousand cash to him and they left. He then handed it to Zhou, and also recounted the master's words to spur him to repay without fail. As they came out of the valley, they saw a woman approaching—it was the wife of Zhao in the village, who was habitually fond of wrangling and abusive language. Feng said, "There is no one here; we should give this shrew a little haunting." So he and Wang seized her and dragged her back into the valley. The woman shrieked loudly. Feng scooped up earth and stuffed her mouth. Zhou praised, "For such a woman, the only fit thing is to drive a peg into her yin!" Feng then gathered up her skirt and forcibly inserted a long stone into her; the woman seemed as if dead. The crowd then dispersed, re-entered the temple, and gambled together. From noon till midnight, Li won heavily, while Feng and Zhou lost all their money. Li therefore gave his winnings plus interest to Wang, to repay Master Huang on his behalf; Wang also distributed some to Zhou and Feng, and the game resumed. Before long, they heard a commotion of voices, and a man rushed in, saying, "The City God himself is coming to arrest gamblers—he is here now!" Everyone changed color. Li abandoned his money and fled over the wall. The rest looked after their stakes, but they were all bound. When they came out, they indeed saw a divine figure seated on a horse, with more than twenty gamblers tied behind the horse. Before dawn, they had already reached the county town; the gates opened and they entered. At the yamen, the City God sat facing south, summoned the prisoners, took out a register and called out names. After calling them, he ordered that their index fingers be chopped off with sharp axes, and then their eyes be painted one with ink and the other with vermilion, and they were paraded three times through the market. The escorts demanded bribes before removing the ink and vermilion; all the others bribed them. Only Zhou refused, pleading empty purse; the escort proposed to accompany him home and be rewarded afterward, but he still would not agree. The escort pointed at him and said, "You are truly an iron bean—no matter how you fry it, it will not pop!" Then they cupped their hands and left. Zhou left the city, wetted his sleeve with saliva, and wiped as he walked. When he reached the river and looked at his reflection, the ink and vermilion had not gone; he scooped water to wash, but they were fixed firmly and would not come off. He returned in regret and vexation. Earlier, Zhao's wife had gone to her mother's home for some reason and did not return by dusk. Her husband went to meet her. When he reached the valley mouth, he saw his wife lying by the roadside. Seeing her condition, he knew she had met ghosts; he removed the mud plug and carried her home. Gradually she revived and could speak, and only then did she realize there was something inside her yin; with much difficulty she drew it out. Then she recounted what she had suffered. Zhao was furious and immediately went to the county magistrate to sue Li and Zhou. The writ was issued; Li had just awakened, while Zhou was still in deep sleep, resembling death. The magistrate, taking it as a false accusation, flogged Zhao and put the woman in cangue; neither husband nor wife could justify themselves. The next day, Zhou woke up, and his eye sockets suddenly turned one red and one black; he shouted in pain at his fingers. When they looked, the sinews and bones were already severed, only the skin held them, and after a few days they fell off. The ink and vermilion on his eyes had sunk deep into the flesh. All who saw him could not help covering their mouths and laughing. One day, he saw Wang Da come to demand repayment. Zhou only shouted harshly that he had no money; Wang left in anger. When his family asked, they learned the reason. They all reasoned that gods and ghosts were merciless and urged him to repay. Zhou was stubborn and refused, saying, "Nowadays the officials and magistrates all favor those who default on debts; the principles of yin and yang should be no different—and besides, it is a gambling debt!" The next day, two ghosts came, saying that Master Huang had filed a complaint with the county and summoned him for interrogation; Li Xin also saw a clerk come to take him as a witness. The two died at the same time. When they met outside the village, Wang and Feng were both there. Li said to Zhou, "You still have those red and black eyes—do you dare to see the official?" Zhou again repeated his former words. Li knew his stinginess and said, "Since you are so dishonest, let me go see Master Huang to repay it for you." So they all went to the master's residence. Li went in and told the story, but the master would not agree, saying, "Who is the debtor, that you should repay on his behalf?" Li came out and told Zhou, then proposed to put up the money and pretend it was Zhou's payment. Zhou grew even more indignant and insulted the master. The ghosts then seized him and took him along. Before long, they arrived at the county town and entered to see the City God. The City God scolded, "You scoundrel! Your painted eyes are still there, and you still default on debts?" Zhou said, "Master Huang lent money at interest and enticed me to gamble, for which I was punished." The City God summoned the servant of the Huang household and angrily said, "Your master opened a gaming house and lured people to gamble—and still demands repayment?" The servant said, "When he lent the money, the master did not know it was for gambling. The master's house is in Swallow Valley, while the captured gamblers were at Guanyin Temple, more than ten li apart. The master has never run a gambling establishment." The City God turned to Zhou and said, "You took the money and stubbornly refused to repay, and yet you fabricate false charges! There is no limit to human wickedness—you are the worst!" He was about to flog him. Zhou further complained that the interest was too high. The City God said, "How much of the principal have you repaid?" He answered, "In truth, I have not yet repaid anything." The City God angrily said, "The principal is still owing, and you talk about interest?" He gave him thirty strokes and immediately ordered him to be escorted to repay the creditor. The two ghosts escorted him home, demanded bribes, and would not let him revive immediately; they bound him in the privy and made him manifest in a dream to his family. The family burned twenty strings of spirit paper ingots; when the fire died, they turned into two taels of gold and two thousand cash. Zhou then used the gold to repay the debt and the cash to bribe the escorts, who then released him to return. After he revived, the welts on his buttocks rose up, and pus and blood gushed out; it took several months to heal. Later, Zhao's wife no longer dared to curse; but Zhou, with his four fingers and red-and-black eyes, gambled as before. From this one may know that gamblers are not worthy of being called men! The Historian of the Strange comments: "The injustices of the world all arise from officials overcorrecting in their rectification. In former times, the wealthy took back good sons and daughters from ordinary families at double or treble interest, and no one dared to speak out; otherwise, as soon as a letter of complaint was sent, the officials would favor them with the three-foot law. Thus the local officials of old were mere servants of the powerful families. Later, when worthy men saw this abuse, they completely reversed it. There were those who, having gained the juren degree, used their heavy capital to become great merchants, clad in brocade and weary of rich food, raising pavilions in their homes and buying fine fertile fields—and yet they forgot where it all came from. When someone came to collect a debt, they would glare angrily. If brought before the official, the official would say, 'I am not a servant to anyone.' How is this different from the Lazy Crippled Monk, who had no time to wipe away the tears of common folk? I have often said that officials of old were sycophantic, and officials of today are perverse; sycophants are certainly deserving of death, but the perverse are also detestable. If one lends money at low interest, how could that only benefit the rich?" When Zhang Shinian served as magistrate of Zichuan, he most detested gambling. His punishment of painting the face and parading through the city was similar to the underworld's law; the penalty did not go so far as cutting off fingers, yet gambling ceased. For his method of governance was well versed in the art of detection. When official documents were piled up, whenever a person came to the hall, the magistrate would appear unhurried and ask in detail about his village, age, family, livelihood—everything. After asking, he would exhort him and let him go. Once a man had paid his taxes and presented his receipt, thinking himself free of trouble, he submitted the receipt and was about to leave. The magistrate stopped him. After careful questioning again, he said, "Why do you gamble?" The man strenuously denied ever knowing how to gamble. The magistrate laughed and said, "You still have gaming implements in your waist." A search was made, and indeed they were found. People thought him a god, but none knew by what art he did it. Le Zhong Le Zhong, a native of Xi'an. His father died early, and he was born posthumously. His mother was devout to Buddha and did not eat meat or drink alcohol. When Zhong grew up, he loved drinking and was a good eater, secretly slandering his mother in his heart; he would often offer her rich delicacies, but his mother scolded him. Later, his mother fell ill; on her deathbed, she craved meat. Zhong, in haste, could not get meat, so he cut a piece from his left thigh and offered it to her. Her illness slightly improved, but she regretted breaking her vow and refused to eat, then died. Zhong mourned even more deeply; with a sharp knife, he further cut his right thigh until the bone was visible. The family jointly rescued him, wrapped cloth and applied medicine, and he soon recovered. He thought of his mother's hard life and was also grieved by her foolishness, so he burned the Buddha statues he had worshipped, set up a tablet to honor his mother, and after getting drunk, he would always weep before it. At twenty he first married, but he was still a virgin. Three days after the wedding, he said to others: "The union of man and woman is the filthiest thing under heaven; I truly take no pleasure in it!" So he sent his wife away. His wife's father, Gu Wenyuan, begged relatives to seek her return, pleaded several times, but Zhong absolutely refused. After half a year, Gu remarried his daughter. Zhong lived as a widower for twenty years, becoming even more unrestrained: he drank with servants and actors; when villagers asked for something, he did not begrudge them; if someone said they had no wok to marry off their daughter, he would take the wok from his own stove and give it to them, then he himself would borrow a wok from a neighbor to cook. All the unscrupulous people knew his nature, and they all came daily to cheat him. Some, having no money for gambling, would sigh before him, saying the debt collectors were pressing hard and they would have to sell their son. Zhong would raise the exact amount of taxes and give them his whole purse; later, when the tax collector came to his door, he himself would pawn and borrow to manage. As a result, his family fortunes declined day by day. Earlier, when Zhong was wealthy, his cousins and clan members vied to serve him; whatever he took, they didn't mind; but when Zhong fell into poverty, visits and inquiries became very rare. Zhong was broad-minded and didn't take it to heart. On the anniversary of his mother's death, Zhong happened to be ill and could not go to the grave, so he wanted to send the younger generation to offer sacrifices; but they all declined with excuses. Zhong then poured a libation in his room, wailed before the tablet, and the grief of having no heir greatly troubled his heart. Thus his illness worsened. In his delirium, he felt someone stroking him; he slightly opened his eyes, and it was his mother. He asked in surprise: "Why have you come?" His mother said: "Because no one in the family went to the grave, I came to receive the offerings here, and also to see to your illness." He asked: "Where does mother usually dwell?" She said: "Nanhai." After stroking him, his whole body felt cool. He opened his eyes and looked around; there was no one; his illness was cured. After he got up, he thought of making a pilgrimage to Nanhai. It happened that in a neighboring village there was an incense society; he immediately sold ten mu of land, took the money, and asked to join them. The society members found him unclean and collectively rejected him. So he followed them and traveled together. On the way, he did not abstain from beef, wine, leeks, and garlic; the others disliked him even more, and taking advantage of his drunken sleep, they left without telling him. Zhong then traveled alone. Arriving in Fujian, he met a friend who invited him to drink; a famous courtesan named Qionghua was present. When they spoke of his journey to Nanhai, Qionghua expressed her wish to accompany him. Zhong was delighted, so he waited for her to pack, and they set off together; although they shared bed and board, there was nothing improper between them. When they arrived at Nanhai, the society members saw that he had brought a courtesan, and they mocked him even more, despising him and refusing to worship with him. Zhong and Qionghua understood their intention, so they let the others worship first, and then they worshipped. When the others worshipped, they regretted that there was no miraculous manifestation. When the two of them prostrated themselves, suddenly they saw lotuses covering the entire sea, with jeweled necklaces hanging from the flowers; Qionghua saw them as bodhisattvas, while Zhong saw his mother on every flower. So he urgently called out and ran toward his mother, leaping into the sea to follow her. The others saw the myriad lotus flowers all turn into rosy clouds, covering the sea like brocade. After a moment, the clouds settled and the waves cleared, everything vanished, yet Zhong still stood on the seashore. He himself did not understand how he had come out, and his clothes and shoes were not even wet. He faced the sea and wept loudly, his voice shaking the islands. Qionghua pulled him to comfort him, then sadly left the temple, and ordered a boat to cross northward. On the way, a wealthy family invited Qionghua away, and Zhong rested alone at an inn. There was a child of eight or nine, begging for food in the inn, but his appearance did not resemble a beggar. Upon careful questioning, it turned out he had been driven out by his stepmother. Zhong felt pity for him. The child clung to him, earnestly begging for rescue, so Zhong took him along and returned home. When asked his surname and given name, he said: "A Xin, surname Yong. My mother was née Gu. I once heard my mother say: 'I married into the Yong family for six months, then gave birth to me. I am originally of the Le surname.'" Zhong was greatly startled. He doubted that he, who had only been intimate once in his life, should not have a son. So he asked where the Le family lived. The child replied: "I don't know. But when my mother died, she gave me a sealed letter and told me not to lose it." Zhong urgently asked for the letter. He looked at it; it was the divorce letter from the Gu family from that year. He exclaimed in surprise: "Truly my son!" He checked the year and month and found them correct, and he felt comforted and fulfilled. However, his household finances grew increasingly strained; after two years, he had sold off most of his land, and eventually could not keep any servants. One day, when father and son were cooking for themselves, suddenly a beautiful woman entered; they looked and it was Qionghua. They asked in surprise: "Why have you come?" She smiled and said: "We have already played at being husband and wife, so why ask again? The reason I did not follow you earlier was only because I had an old mother; now she has died. I considered that if I do not attach myself to someone, I have no way to protect myself; but if I attach myself to someone, I have no way to remain chaste. The best way to have both is to follow you, so I have not feared the thousand li." Then she unpacked and helped the son cook. Zhong was very pleased. At night, father and son slept together as before, and they prepared another room for Qionghua. The son treated her as his mother, and Qionghua also took good care of the child. When relatives and friends heard of it, they all sent gifts to Zhong; both were happy to accept them. When guests came, Qionghua provided everything, and Zhong never asked where it came from. Qionghua gradually produced gold and pearls, redeemed their former properties, and widely acquired maids, servants, horses, and cattle, so they grew increasingly prosperous. Zhong often said to Qionghua: "When I am drunk, you should hide, do not let me see you." Qionghua smiled and agreed. One day, he got very drunk and urgently called for Qionghua. She came out in splendid attire. Zhong stared at her for a long time, then was overjoyed, dancing wildly, and said: "I have attained enlightenment!" He immediately sobered up. He felt the world was bright, and his dwelling place had all become jade palaces and towers; after a while, it ceased. From then on, he no longer drank in the market, but only drank with Qionghua daily. Qionghua was vegetarian and served him tea. One day, slightly tipsy, he told Qionghua to press his thigh; she saw that the cut scars on his thigh had transformed into two red lotus buds, rising faintly from the flesh. She found it strange. Zhong smiled and said: "After you see these flowers bloom, we, as a false husband and wife, will part after twenty years." Qionghua believed him. After they married off A Xin, Qionghua gradually handed over the household to the new daughter-in-law, and she and Zhong lived in a separate courtyard. The son and daughter-in-law paid respects every three days; they did not report matters unless they were difficult. They employed two maids: one to warm wine, and one to brew tea. One day, Qionghua went to the son's place; the son and daughter-in-law consulted with her for a long time, and they all went together to see the father. Entering the door, they saw the father sitting on the couch with bare feet. Hearing their voices, he opened his eyes and smiled, saying: "Mother and child, it's good that you've come!" Then he closed his eyes again. Qionghua was greatly alarmed and said: "What do you intend to do?" She looked at his thigh; the lotus flowers had bloomed fully. She tested his breath; he had already passed away. Hastily she pinched the flowers closed with both hands and prayed: "I followed you a thousand li, which was no easy matter. I have taught your son and instructed your daughter-in-law, and have also rendered some small service. If it is only a difference of two or three years, why not wait a little while?" After a moment, Zhong suddenly opened his eyes and smiled: "You have your own affairs; why must you drag another person along as companion? Since there is no other way, I will stay for you for the time being." Qionghua released her hands, and the flowers had closed again. So they talked and laughed as before. Over three more years, Qionghua, though nearly forty, still looked like a woman of about twenty. Suddenly she said to Zhong: "When ordinary people die, they are carried by the head and feet by others, which is very inelegant and unclean." So she ordered craftsmen to make two coffins. Xin was startled and asked about it. She replied: "That is not for you to know." When the work was finished, she bathed and made herself up, then told her son and daughter-in-law: "I am about to die." Xin wept and said: "For several years we have relied on Mother's management, and only then have we not suffered cold or hunger. Mother has not yet enjoyed any comfort, how can you suddenly leave your son?" She said: "Your father planted the blessings, and you reap them; the servants, oxen, and horses are all from those who cheated your father repaying their debts; I have no merit. I was originally a scattered-flower celestial maiden, who accidentally entertained a mortal thought, and was thus banished to the human world for over thirty years; now my term is fulfilled." Then she climbed into the coffin and entered it herself. When they called her again, her eyes were already closed. Xin wept and told his father, but his father had already stiffened at some unknown time, still dressed in proper attire. They wailed in grief, almost fainting. They put them into coffins and placed both in the hall; for several days they did not seal them, hoping they would return. Light emanated from the thigh area, illuminating the four walls. From Qionghua's coffin, fragrant mist gushed out, and even the neighboring houses could smell it. Once the coffins were sealed, the fragrance and light gradually diminished. After the funeral, the various younger members of the Le clan coveted their property, and conspired together to drive out Xin; they brought a lawsuit to the officials. The officials could not decide, and proposed to give half of the land and property to the Les. Xin was not convinced, so he submitted a written complaint to the prefectural office, but for a long time it was not decided. At first, Gu had married his daughter to Yong; after more than a year, Yong wandered and settled in Min, and news ceased. Gu, old and without a son, bitterly missed his daughter, so he went to his son-in-law's place, only to find that his daughter had died and his nephew had been expelled. He reported to the authorities. Yong was frightened and tried to bribe Gu, but Gu would not accept; he was determined to get his nephew. He searched everywhere but could not find him. One day, Gu happened to be on the road when he saw a decorated sedan chair passing by; he stepped aside to the left. A beautiful woman in the sedan called out, "Are you not Old Man Gu?" Gu assented. The woman said, "Your nephew is my son; he is now at the Le family's place. Do not continue the lawsuit. Your nephew is in danger just now; you should go quickly." Gu wanted to ask in detail, but the sedan had already gone far. Gu then accepted the bribe and went to Xi'an. When he arrived, the lawsuit was in full uproar. Gu presented himself to the officials, stating the day his daughter had returned home permanently, the day she remarried, and the year and month of the birth of her son, all clearly and in detail. All the Les were beaten and expelled, and the case was thus concluded. When he returned, he recounted that the day he saw the beautiful woman was the very day Qionghua had died. Xin moved Gu's household, gave him a house and presented a maidservant. When Gu was over sixty, he had a son, and Xin took care of him. The Historian of the Strange says: "Abstaining from meat and wine is the semblance of the Buddha. Innocent and naive is the true Buddha. Le Zhong, when facing the beautiful woman, regarded her directly as a fragrant and pure companion in the Way, and did not view her as a land of tenderness. He slept and lived with her for thirty years, as if affectionate, yet as if indifferent—this is the true face of the Bodhisattva. How could ordinary people fathom this?" Xiangyu At the Xiaqing Palace at the foot of Laoshan, there was a camellia over two zhang tall and several spans around, and a peony over one zhang tall, which when in bloom was as brilliant as brocade. A scholar named Huang Sheng from Jiaozhou took lodging there to read. One day, from his window he saw a young girl in white clothing hidden among the flowers. He wondered how she could be there in the temple, so he hurried out, but she had already vanished. After that he saw her repeatedly. So he concealed himself in a clump of trees to wait for her arrival. Before long, the girl came again with another in red clothes; looking at them from afar, they were both exceptionally beautiful. As they approached, the one in red drew back and said, "There is a stranger here!" Huang suddenly sprang out. The two girls fled in fright; their sleeves and skirts fluttered, and a fragrant breeze spread around. He chased them over a low wall, but they had vanished without a trace. His love and admiration grew even more intense, so he wrote a verse under the tree: "Endless is the bitterness of longing; full of feeling I face the short window. I fear she might return to Shazhali—where then can I find Wushuang?" He returned to his room and brooded. Suddenly the girl entered; he was overjoyed and welcomed her. She smiled and said, "You were so fierce like a robber, making me afraid; but I did not know you were a refined scholar—so it is no harm to meet." He asked briefly about her life. She said, "My childhood name is Xiangyu; I was registered in Pingkang Lane. I was confined here by a Taoist priest, which was not my wish." He asked, "What is the priest's name? I will wash away this stain for you." She said, "No need; he does not dare to force me either. I can use this to have secret meetings with a romantic scholar, which is also good." He asked, "Who is the one in red?" She said, "That is my sworn elder sister, named Jiangxue." Then they became intimate. When he woke, dawn had already reddened. She rose quickly and said, "I was so absorbed in pleasure that I forgot it was morning." She dressed and changed her shoes, and said, "I will reply to your poem; do not laugh: 'The good night passes all too soon; the morning sun already shines on the window. I wish to be like the swallows on the beam, where we dwell together as a pair.'" Huang held her wrist and said, "You are beautiful without and intelligent within, making one love you to the point of forgetting death. But a single day's separation is like a thousand miles apart. Come when you have a chance; do not wait for night." She agreed. From then on they met day and night without fail. He often asked her to invite Jiangxue, but she never came, and Huang resented it. Xiangyu said, "Sister Jiang's disposition is quite aloof; she is not like my infatuation. I will gradually manage her; do not be too hasty." One evening, Xiangyu entered with a sad expression and said, "If you cannot hold Long, do you still hope for Shu? Today we part forever." He asked, "Where are you going?" She wiped her tears with her sleeve and said, "There is a fixed destiny; it is hard to tell you. Your former excellent verses have now become prophecy: 'The fair one already belongs to Shazhali; today there is no ancient Yajia to rescue her'—you may chant that for me." He pressed her, but she would not speak; she only sobbed. She stayed awake all night and left at dawn. Huang was puzzled. The next day, a Mr. Lan from Jimo came on an excursion and saw the white peony; he admired it, dug it up, and carried it away. Huang then realized that Xiangyu was a flower spirit, and was filled with grief and regret. After a few days, he heard that the peony, having been moved to Lan's home, was withering daily. In great anger, he wrote fifty poems for the flower, and every day he went to the spot and wept. One day, as he was returning from mourning, he saw from afar a person in red weeping by the hole. He calmly approached, and the girl did not avoid him. So he took her sleeve, and they faced each other, weeping. After a while, he invited her into his room, and she followed him. She sighed and said, "Sisters since childhood—cut off in one day! Hearing of your grief, my sorrow increases all the more. If tears fall into the underworld, perhaps they may move her spirit to regenerate; but the dead one's spirit and vitality have already dispersed, so how can she suddenly join us in conversation?" Huang said, "I am unfortunate; I have harmed my beloved, and surely I have no fortune to enjoy two beauties. In the past I often troubled Xiangyu to convey my sincere feelings—why did you never come?" She said, "I thought that young scholars were for the most part fickle; I did not know you were truly a man of deep feeling. But my association with you is based on affection, not on lust. If you want intimacy day and night, that I cannot do." Having said that, she took leave. Huang said, "Xiangyu's long departure has made me lose appetite and sleep. I depend on you to stay a little and comfort my longing—why are you so resolute?" So she stayed, passed the night, and left. Several days passed without her return. Cold rain and a lonely window; he missed Xiangyu bitterly, tossing on his bed, tears congealing on his pillow. He pulled on his clothes and rose again, lit the lamp, and wrote another poem following the previous rhyme: "In the mountain courtyard, dusk rain; I lower the curtain and sit by the small window. I long for one I cannot see; in the middle of the night, tears fall in pairs." After composing it, he recited it to himself. Suddenly someone outside the window said, "The writer should have a response." He recognized Jiangxue's voice. He opened the door and let her in. She looked at the poem and continued after it: "Where is the one who held my sleeve? A solitary lamp shines on the evening window. Alone in an empty mountain, facing my shadow, I become a pair." Huang read it and wept, then complained about the rarity of her visits. She said, "I cannot be as passionate as Xiangyu, but I can slightly ease your loneliness." Huang wanted to be intimate with her. She said, "The joy of meeting need not be this." So whenever he felt particularly bored, she would come. When she came, they would feast and exchange verses, and sometimes she would leave without sleeping, and Huang let her be. He said to her, "Xiangyu is my beloved wife; Jiangxue is my good friend." He often wanted to ask: "Which tree in the courtyard are you? Please tell me early, so I can transplant you to my home, to avoid your being taken away like Xiangyu and causing a lifelong regret." She said, "It is hard to move from one's native soil; telling you would be useless. If even a wife cannot follow you to the end, how much less a friend?" Huang would not listen; he would take her arm and go out, and whenever they reached a peony, he would ask, "Is this you?" She would not answer, but covered her mouth and laughed. Soon Huang returned home for the New Year. In the second month, he suddenly dreamed that Jiangxue came with a sorrowful look and said, "I am in great danger! Go quickly—you can still see me; if you delay, it will be too late." He woke up, thought it strange, and urgently ordered a horse and servant, galloping to the mountain. It turned out that the Taoist priest was building a house, and a camellia was in the way of construction; the carpenter was about to wield his axe. Huang quickly stopped him. At night, Jiangxue came to thank him. Huang smiled and said, "You would not tell me the truth earlier—so you deserved this calamity! Now I know you; if you do not come, I will burn you with moxa." She said, "I knew you would be like this, which is why I dared not tell you before." After sitting for a while, Huang said, "Now that I have a good friend, I think even more of my beautiful wife. I have not wept for Xiangyu for a long time; will you come with me to weep?" The two went together and shed tears by the hole. After more than an hour, Jiangxue wiped her tears and stopped him. A few nights later, Huang was sitting quietly when Jiangxue came in smiling and said, "I bring you good news: the Flower God, moved by your deep affection, has allowed Xiangyu to return to the temple." Huang asked, "When?" She replied, "I do not know; it should be soon." At daybreak, when she got up, Huang said earnestly, "I came here for you; do not leave me lonely too long." She agreed with a smile. But she did not come for two nights. Huang went to embrace the tree, shook and caressed it, called repeatedly but got no response. So he returned, lit a lamp, and prepared a moxa roll to go burn the tree. Suddenly the girl entered, snatched the moxa and threw it away, saying, "You are making a wicked joke, causing me wounds; I will break with you!" Huang laughed and embraced her. They had not sat down when Xiangyu entered gracefully. Huang saw her, wept profusely, and quickly rose to hold her. Xiangyu took one hand to hold Jiangxue, and they faced each other, sobbing. When they sat down, Huang held her hand but felt it insubstantial, as if he were holding his own hand; he asked in surprise. Xiangyu said tearfully, "Before, I was the spirit of the flower, so I was solid; now I am the ghost of the flower, so I am ethereal. Though we meet now, do not take it as real; just regard it as a dream." Jiangxue said, "Sister, it is excellent that you have come; I have been pestered to death by this man of yours." Then she left. Xiangyu chatted and laughed as before; but when they leaned against each other, it seemed like a shadow embracing a shadow. Huang was downcast. Xiangyu also sighed in self-reproach. She said, "You should mix some bai lian powder with a little sulfur, and pour a cup of water as an offering to me every day. By this time next year, I will repay your kindness." Then she left. The next day, he went to look at the old spot, and saw a peony sprouting. He then tended it daily, and built a carved railing to protect it. Xiangyu came and was extremely grateful. Huang planned to transplant it to his home, but she would not allow it, saying, "My weak form cannot bear being harmed again. Moreover, each thing has its fixed place. I originally did not intend to be born in your home; to go against that would shorten my life. But if you cherish me, the day of union will come." Huang resented that Jiangxue did not come. Xiangyu said, "If you insist on forcing her to come, I can bring her." Then, taking the lamp, she led the scholar to the tree. She took a blade of grass, laid it across her palm as a measure, and used it to measure the tree's trunk from bottom to top. At four feet six inches, she pressed the spot and had the scholar scratch it evenly with both hands. Presently, Crimson Snow appeared from behind, laughing and scolding, "Little wench, have you come to aid the tyrant in his cruelties?" She pulled and tugged, and they all entered together. Fragrant Jade said, "Sister, do not be angry. For now, I must trouble you to keep the侍郎 company. In a year's time, I shall not disturb you any longer." From then on, this became the regular practice. The scholar watched the flower sprout; it grew increasingly plump and lush. By the end of spring, it was a full two feet tall. After returning home, he presented gold to the Taoist and instructed him to tend it morning and evening. In April of the following year, he arrived at the temple. There was a single flower bud, still closed, not yet open. As he lingered before it, the flower began to sway as if about to split open. In a moment, it bloomed, the flower as large as a platter, and within its heart sat a tiny beauty, no more than three or four fingers tall. In an instant, she fluttered down as if to descend—and it was Fragrant Jade. She smiled and said, "I have endured wind and rain waiting for you, my lord—why have you come so late?" Then they entered the chamber. Crimson Snow also arrived, laughing, "Day after day I played the wife in another's stead; now I am fortunate to retire and be your friend." So they conversed and drank together. At midnight, Crimson Snow departed. The two slept together, their intimacy as close as before. Later, the scholar's wife died, and he entered the mountains, never returning home. By then, the peony had grown as thick as an arm. The scholar would point to it and say, "One day my spirit shall lodge here, and it shall grow to your left." The two maidens laughed and said, "My lord, do not forget that." After more than ten years, he suddenly fell ill. His son came to him and wept before him. The scholar smiled and said, "This is my birth-day, not my death-day—why weep?" He said to the Taoist, "One day, beneath the peony, a red sprout shall burst forth vigorously, and when it puts forth five leaves, that shall be I." Then he spoke no more. His son bore him home in a carriage, and he died shortly after. The following year, a fat sprout indeed emerged, with leaves in that very number. The Taoist, finding it strange, watered it all the more. In three years, it grew several feet tall, as thick as a double handful, but it did not flower. The old Taoist died, and his disciple, not knowing to cherish it, cut it down. The white peony withered and died as well; before long, the hardy winter plant also died. The Historian of the Strange says: "When feeling reaches its utmost, even ghosts and spirits may be moved. Flowers follow in ghostly form, and men entrust their souls—is this not because their bond of feeling was deep? When one departs and two perish with him, even if it is not steadfast constancy, it is still dying for love. When men cannot be constant, it is only because their feeling is not sincere. Confucius read the lines about the cherry tree and said, 'He did not truly think'—how true that is!" --- **Three Immortals** A scholar traveling to Nanjing for the examinations passed through Suqian, where he encountered three xiucai. Their conversation was lofty and unrestrained, so he bought wine and entertained them cordially. They each gave their names: one was Jie Qiuheng, one Chang Fenglin, and one Ma Xichi. They drank freely and happily, and before they knew it, dusk had fallen. Jie said, "We have not yet performed the rites of hosts, yet suddenly we have partaken of your splendid feast—this is improper. Our humble thatched cottage is not far; we can offer you a place to stay." Chang and Ma both rose and took his sleeves, and called for servants to accompany them all the way. They came to a mountain north of the county town and suddenly saw a courtyard with a clear stream winding around its gate. Once inside, the buildings were clean and bright. They called for servants to light the lamps and also ordered that his attendants be settled. Ma said, "In former days we gathered with essays to meet friends; now the examination date is near, and we must not waste this fine night. Let us propose four topics, draw lots for them, and only when the essays are written shall we drink." All agreed. Each proposed a topic and wrote it on a slip placed on the table. Each picked one and set to work at his desk. Before the second watch was over, all had finished their drafts and passed them around for review. The scholar read the three pieces and was deeply impressed; he copied them down and tucked them into his bosom. The host then brought out fine wine and urged large cups, and before long they were all pleasantly drunk. The host then led the guests to a separate courtyard to sleep. The guest was too drunk to remove his shoes and lay down in his clothes. When he awoke, the sun was already high. He looked in all directions—there was no courtyard or building; he and his servants were lying in a mountain valley. Greatly alarmed, he saw beside him a cave with a trickling stream and was bewildered. He felt in his bosom and found the three essays still there. Upon inquiry among the locals, he learned it was the "Cave of the Three Immortals." In the cave dwelt a crab, a snake, and a toad, three creatures of great spiritual power, who would sometimes come out and were often seen. The scholar entered the examination hall, and the three topics were exactly those composed by the immortals; for this reason, he passed the provincial examination. --- **Ghost Runners** Two bailiffs of Licheng County, on orders from the magistrate Han Chengxuan, had gone on business to another prefecture and were returning at year's end. On the road they met two men, dressed in similar official livery, who walked along with them in conversation. The two men claimed to be county runners. The bailiffs said, "Among the fast bailiffs and constables of Jinan, we know eight or nine out of ten, yet we are entirely unacquainted with you two." The two men said, "To tell you truly: we are ghost runners of the City God. We are now delivering official documents to Mount Tai." The bailiffs asked, "What documents?" They replied, "A great calamity is coming to Jinan; the documents list the names and numbers of those to be killed." Startled, they asked the number. "Not precisely known," they said, "about a million." The bailiffs asked when, and they replied, "The first day of the new year." The two bailiffs looked at each other in alarm, calculating that by the time they reached the prefecture it would be New Year's Eve, and they feared falling into the disaster. Yet lingering would risk punishment for dereliction. The ghosts said, "The crime of missing the deadline is small; the calamity of entering the slaughter is great. You should flee elsewhere and not return for now." The bailiffs followed their advice. Not long after, the northern army arrived in force and slaughtered Jinan, carrying away a million corpses. The two men went into hiding and escaped. --- **Wang Shi** A commoner of Gaoyuan named Wang Shi carried salt for sale in Boxing. At night, he was caught by two men. Believing they were patrolmen of the local salt merchants, he abandoned his salt and tried to flee, but his feet would not carry him forward, and he was bound. He begged them for mercy. The two men said, "We are not men from the salt shops—we are ghost soldiers." Wang was terrified and begged to go home once to bid farewell to his wife and children. They would not permit it, saying, "Going with us does not mean you will die immediately—you are merely to be temporarily conscripted for labor." Wang asked, "What labor?" They said, "In the underworld, a new King Yama has taken office. He saw that the Nai River was silted flat and that the pits and latrines of the eighteen hells were all full, so he ordered three types of men to dredge the river: petty thieves, private coiners, and private salt-sellers. And one other group is to clean the latrines: the musicians." Wang followed them, entered the city walls, and came to an official yamen, where he saw Yama enthroned above, reviewing the registers. The ghost reported, "We have brought the private salt-seller Wang Shi." Yama looked at him and angrily declared: "Private salt-sellers are those who defraud the national tax above and undermine the people's livelihood below. But those whom violent officials and corrupt merchants in the world brand as private salt-sellers are all good and honest common folk. Poor men take their meager capital to seek a tiny profit—how can that be called private?" He ordered two ghosts to buy four dou of salt and, together with what Wang had been carrying, transport it to his home on his behalf. He kept Wang behind, gave him a caltrop-studded club, and ordered him to follow the ghosts in supervising the river works. The ghosts led Wang off to the banks of the Nai River, where he saw laborers in the river, linked one after another like ants. The river water was turbid and red, reeking unbearably. The dredgers were all bare-bodied, carrying baskets and spades, plunging in and out of the water. Rotten bones and decaying corpses filled their baskets and were carried out on their backs; in the deep places they submerged entirely to retrieve them. Those who slackened were struck on the back and legs with the clubs. The fellow supervisors gave him a fragrant cotton pill as large as a broad bean, telling him to keep it in his mouth, and then he could approach the bank. He saw the merchant from the Gaoyuan salt shop among the laborers, and Wang alone treated him harshly: in the river he beat his back; on shore he cudgeled his legs. The merchant was terrified and kept himself submerged in the water, whereupon Wang desisted. After three days and nights, half the river laborers had died, and the river works were completed. The two ghosts escorted him home, and he woke up as if from a stupor. Earlier, when Wang Shi had not returned with his salt, at dawn his wife opened the door and found two sacks of salt in the courtyard, but Wang had still not come for a long while. She sent people to search everywhere, and they found him dead on the road. They carried him home; he had a faint breath but did not recover. Only when he woke did he tell his story. The salt merchant had also died the previous day and now came back to life. Where the club had struck him, large boils had formed, his whole body festered and rotted, reeking unbearably. Wang deliberately went to see him. At the sight of Wang, the merchant still shrank his head under the coverlet, just as he had in the Nai River. After a year he recovered and never became a merchant again. The Historian of the Strange remarks: "In the matter of salt, what the court calls 'private' is that which does not follow the public interest; what the officials and merchants call 'private' is that which does not follow their own selfish interests. Of late, in Qi and Lu new regulations have been established: local merchants set up shops wherever they please, each confined to its own territory. Not only may the people of this district not go to that district to buy; even the people of this shop may not go to that shop. And within each shop, bait is secretly set to hook people from other districts: when selling to other districts, they lower the price; but when selling to locals, they double the price to drive it up. Moreover, they post patrols on the roads, so that no one within the district can escape their net. Should anyone within the district venture to come disguised as from another district, the law shows no mercy. Each shop hooks the others, and so the foolish people who cross shops and impersonate outsiders grow ever more numerous. Once caught by a patrol, first their shins and thighs are crippled with knives and cudgels, and only then are they sent to the officials; the officials then put them in cangues and fetters—this is called 'private salt.' Alas! What an injustice! Leaking tens of thousands in tax is not private, yet bearing a peck or a gallon of salt is made private; selling from this district to other districts is not private, yet buying from this very district within this very district is made private—injustice indeed! In the statutes, the 'Salt Laws' are most severe, yet they expressly do not prohibit the poor and distressed soldiers and civilians who carry salt on their backs in exchange for food; now, however, all others are not prohibited at all, and these poor and distressed soldiers and civilians alone are singled out for slaughter! Now these poor and distressed soldiers and civilians have starving wives and children crying out; above, they keep the law and do not steal; below, they know shame and do not incite rebellion. Having no other choice, they take up ten coppers to seek one in return. If every person in a district were like this, then even 'doors need not be barred at night'—are they not the good people of the realm? As for those shop merchants, they should not merely be made to dredge the River Naihe—they should be made to scrub the latrines of hell! Yet the officials, at the spring and autumn festivals, receiving a fleeting grease from them, then use the three-foot law to help them slaughter our good people. If one considers the plight of the poor, it would be better to become a bandit or a private coiner: the bandit robs people in broad daylight, and the officials act as if deaf; the coiner's furnace flames reach the sky, and the officials act as if blind; and even if in the hereafter they are made to dredge the river, they would still not suffer as do those who carry loads on their backs, who gain almost nothing and yet have the official punishment fall upon them instantly. Alas! Above, there is no compassionate and benevolent master, and instead the laws of the cunning merchants are heeded, changing daily and growing more devious by the day. How can it be that the stubborn people do not multiply by the day, while the good people die off by the day?" In every district, the shop merchants, by old custom, with a certain amount of stone of salt as capital, would present an annual tribute to the county, called "food-salt." And at the arrival of festivals, they would offer generous gifts. When merchants had business and called upon the officials, the officials would treat them with courtesy, seat them and speak with them, or even offer tea. When salt carriers were brought in, they would mete out severe punishment without delay. When Zhang Shinian was magistrate of Zichuan, a shop merchant came to see him. Following the old custom, he made a bow but did not kneel. The magistrate grew angry and said: "Your former magistrate accepted your bribes, and so had no choice but to honor you with ceremony; I buy my salt from the market and eat it—what sort of creature is a merchant, to dare offer a salute in the public hall!" He hitched up his robe and was about to flog him. The merchant kowtowed and apologized, and only then did he release him. Later, the shop caught two load-carriers; one escaped, and the other was arrested and brought before the magistrate. The magistrate asked: "There were two carriers—where has the other gone?" The carrier said: "He has escaped." The magistrate said: "Are your legs too diseased for you to run?" He said: "I can run." The magistrate said: "Since you were caught, you surely cannot run; if indeed you can, rise and try running, so I may test your ability." The man ran a few steps and was about to stop. The magistrate said: "Run—do not stop!" The man ran swiftly and ran straight out of the magistrate's gate and away. All who saw this laughed. The magistrate's deeds of loving the people were many; this is but one of his idle tales, yet the people of the district still delight in telling it. Da Nan Xi Chengliè, a scholar of Chengdu, had one wife and one concubine. The concubine was of the He family, and her infant name was Zhaorong. The wife died early, and he then married a second wife, of the Shen family, who was jealous and cruel. She maltreated He, and thereby also maltreated Xi; all day long she clamored and scolded, so that they could hardly live. Xi, enraged, fled. After he left, He bore a son, Danan. Xi did not return, and Shen excluded He from sharing the same kitchen, giving her grain by the day. As Danan grew older, the provisions were insufficient, so He spun and wove to supplement their meals. Danan saw the other boys in the school reciting and chanting, and he too wanted to study. His mother, thinking him too young, at first sent him just to listen. Danan was clever and learned twice as much as the other boys. The teacher marvelled at him and was willing not to ask for tuition. He then had him study with the teacher, giving a small recompense. After two or three years, he had mastered all the classics. One day he returned home and said to his mother, “Among the five or six boys in the school, all beg money from their fathers to buy cakes—why am I the only one without?” His mother said, “Wait until you are grown, and then I will tell you.” Danan said, “I am now seven or eight—when will I be grown?” His mother said, “When you go to school, you pass by the Guan Di temple; you should go in and worship, and pray that you may grow quickly.” Danan believed her, and every time he passed he would enter and worship. His mother knew this and asked, “What words do you pray?” He laughed and said, “I only pray that next year I will be made sixteen or seventeen.” His mother laughed at him. But Danan’s learning and his body grew together rapidly: by the age of ten he looked like a boy of thirteen or fourteen, and the essays he wrote were already well structured. One day he said to his mother, “Formerly you said that when I was grown, you would tell me my father’s whereabouts—now you may.” His mother said, “Not yet, not yet.” After another year, he was fully grown, and he questioned her ever more frequently; his mother then told him the whole story. Danan was overcome with grief and wished to go seek his father. His mother said, “You are too young; whether your father is alive or dead is unknown—how can you go so rashly?” Danan said nothing and left, but by noon he had not returned. They went to the school to ask the teacher, and he had not come back after morning meal. His mother was greatly alarmed and spent money to hire servants to search everywhere, but there was no trace. Danan, having left home, went along the road running, but in his bewilderment he knew not where to go. He happened upon a man who was going to Kuizhou; the man said his surname was Qian. Danan begged for food and followed him. Qian found his slowness burdensome, so he hired a mount for him, and his funds were exhausted. When they reached Kuizhou, they ate together; Qian secretly put poison in the food, and Danan fell unconscious. Qian carried him to a large monastery, pretending he was his own son, who had fallen ill and had no money, and sold him to the monks. The monks, seeing his fine appearance and unusual bearing, vied to buy him. Qian got the money and left. The monks gave him something to drink, and he gradually revived. The abbot, hearing of this, came to see him, was struck by his appearance, questioned him, and learned the whole story. He took great pity on him and gave him money to leave. There was a scholar Xiùcai of Luzhou, surnamed Jiang, who had failed the examination and was returning home; on the way he heard the story, admired his filial piety, and took him along. When they reached Luzhou, he lodged him in his house. After more than a month, he made inquiries everywhere. Someone said there was a merchant from Fujian with the surname Xi, so Danan took leave of Jiang and wished to go to Fujian. Jiang gave him clothes and shoes, and the villagers all contributed money to help him. On the road he met two cloth merchants who were going to Fuqing; they invited him to travel together. After several stages, the merchants spied the money in his bag, led him to an empty place, bound his hands and feet, and took it away, leaving him. Then an old man from Yongfu, named Chen, passed by that place, untied him, and carried him home in his carriage. Old man Chen was very wealthy; merchants from all roads often passed through his gate, and he charged the northern and southern merchants to inquire after Xi’s whereabouts. He kept Danan to study with his sons. Danan thus stayed in the Chen household and did not wander further. But the farther he was from home, the more the news was cut off. He Zhaorong lived alone for three or four years. Shen reduced her allowance and pressed her to remarry. He’s resolve did not waver. Shen forcibly sold her to a merchant from Chongqing, who carried her off by force. At night, He cut herself with a knife. The merchant dared not force her; he waited until the wound healed, then sold her again to a merchant in Yanting. At Yanting, she stabbed herself in the heart, so that the organs were visible. The merchant, greatly terrified, applied medicine; when the wound healed, she begged to become a nun. The merchant said, “I have a trading partner who is without a wife and wants someone to manage sewing and mending. That is no different from being a nun, and it will also somewhat repay my outlay.” He agreed. The merchant had her carried in a sedan to deliver her. When she entered the gate, the master came out hurriedly—it was Xi Sheng. For Xi had given up the scholar’s life and become a merchant; the merchant, knowing Xi had no wife, had given her to him. When they met, they were shocked and grieved, and each told of their hardships; then they learned that their son had gone to seek his father and had not returned. Xi then entrusted all the traveling merchants to search for Danan. And Zhaorong thus became his wife, though she had been a concubine. But having passed through such hardships, she was frequently ill and unable to work, so she urged Xi to take a concubine. Xi, mindful of his former disasters, did not comply. He said, “If I had been one to vie for the bedchamber, I would long ago have borne children to another man—how could I have come to this day with you? Moreover, what others have done to me is a hidden pain in my heart—how could I bring it upon myself?” Xi then instructed his traveling companions to buy him an older concubine of about thirty. After half a year, the companions indeed bought a concubine and brought her back. When she entered the gate, it was his wife Shen. All were astonished. Previously, Shen had lived alone for over a year. Her brother Bao urged her to remarry, and Shen followed his advice. Only the fields and property were obstructed by her nephews and could not be sold. She sold all her other possessions, amassed several hundred taels of silver, and took them to her brother’s house. There was a merchant from Baoning who heard she had a rich dowry; he bribed Bao with much money to deceive and marry her. But the merchant was old and impotent. Shen resented her brother, was restless in that house, and tried hanging and throwing herself into a well, causing such disturbance that she could not bear it. The merchant, angry, seized all her money and planned to sell her as a concubine. Those who heard of it all thought her too old. The merchant was about to go to Kuizhou, so he took her along. He met Xi in the same marketplace, and the match suited his purpose, so he sold her and left. When Shen saw Xi, she was ashamed and fearful, and did not speak a word. Xi asked the other merchants and learned roughly the story. He then said, “If you had met a vigorous man, then in Baoning you would not have had a chance to see me again—this too is fate. But today I am buying a concubine, not marrying a wife; you must first pay respects to Zhaorong and observe the rites of wife and concubine.” Shen felt humiliated. Xi said, “In former days when you were the wife, how was it?” He tried to dissuade him, but Xi would not relent; he took a staff and forced her. Shen had no choice but to bow to her. Yet in the end she disdained to serve her, only doing chores in a separate room. He was entirely tolerant and did not bother to check her diligence or idleness. Whenever Xi and Zhaorong talked over their meals, they would have her wait on them nearby; He would replace her with a maidservant and would not allow her to attend. It happened that Chen Gongsi, who had been magistrate of Yanting, received a complaint. Xi had a small dispute with a villager, and the villager, exposing that he had forced his wife to become a concubine, sued Xi. The magistrate refused to hear the case and dismissed him with a reprimand. Xi was pleased and was privately praising the magistrate’s virtue with He. When the night watch had just finished, a servant called and knocked at the door, reporting, “The county magistrate has come.” Xi was terrified and hurriedly looked for clothes and shoes, but the magistrate had already reached the bedroom door; he was still more frightened and did not know what to do. He looked closely, then hurried out and cried, “This is my son!” and wept. The magistrate then knelt on the ground, sobbing. For Danan had taken the surname of Old Man Chen and had become an official. Now, when the magistrate had come from the capital, he had made a detour to his old home, and there he learned that both his mothers had remarried; he was deeply grieved. The clansmen, knowing that Danan had become eminent, returned his fields and house. The magistrate left servants to supervise repairs, hoping that his father would return. Later he was appointed magistrate of Yanting, and he again wished to resign his post and seek his father, but Old Man Chen earnestly dissuaded him. At that time there was a diviner, so he had his fortune told. The diviner said, “The small dwells in the great, the younger becomes the elder; seek the male and obtain the female, seek one and obtain two: for an official it is auspicious.” The magistrate then took up his post. Because he could not find his parents, he abstained from meat and wine in office. On that day, he received the villager’s plaint, and seeing the name Xi, he suspected. He secretly sent his personal attendants to investigate carefully, and indeed it was his father. That night he went out in plain clothes. When he saw his mother, he even more believed in the diviner’s supernatural power. Before leaving, he instructed that it not be spread abroad; he gave two hundred taels of gold and told his father to prepare his belongings and return home. When his father reached home, the household had been entirely renovated, with many servants and horses—it was a great family indeed. When Shen saw that Danan was wealthy and powerful, she became even more restrained. Her brother Bao, indignant, brought a suit to the authorities, contending for his sister’s status as first wife. The official, investigating the facts, was angry and said, “Greedy for money, you urged her to remarry, and she has already changed husbands twice—how dare you still argue over the old distinction of wife and concubine!” He gave Bao a severe beating. From then on the hierarchy was even more fixed. And Shen called He “younger sister,” while He called Shen “elder sister.” In clothing and food, she never kept anything for herself. At first Shen feared revenge; now she was all the more ashamed and repentant. Xi also forgot his old grievances, and had everyone inside and outside call her “Grand Matron,” but the imperial patent did not extend to her. The Historian of the Strange says: “The inversion of living beings is unfathomable—how ingenious is the Creator! Xi Sheng could not stand on his own between wife and concubine; he was but a mediocre man. Had it not been for a filial son and a worthy mother, how could such a marvellous reunion have come about, allowing him to enjoy wealth and honour for his whole life?” Foreigners. In the autumn of the jisi year, a great ship drifted in from the open sea to the south of the Lingnan region. On board were eleven men, clad in bird feathers, brightly colored and splendid. They said: "We are men of the Kingdom of Luzon. We encountered a gale and our ship capsized; dozens of men died. Only we eleven clung to a great timber and drifted to a large island, where we were saved. For five years we caught birds and insects for food by day, and lay in stone caves by night, weaving feathers into sails. Then another ship drifted to us, without oars or sails—it too had been broken in the sea by the wind—so we boarded it to return. Again we were carried by a great wind to Macao." The governor submitted a memorial, and they were sent back to their country. Wei Gongzi Wei Gongzi was of a prominent family in Xianyang. He was dissolute and lustful, and there was no maidservant or concubine of fair looks with whom he did not have clandestine relations. Once he carried several thousand in silver, wishing to see all the famous courtesans of the realm; every place of prosperous elegance, he visited all. Those not particularly good he left after a night or two; those that pleased him, he would stay with for a hundred days. His uncle, also a noted official, had retired and returned home. Angered by his conduct, he engaged a distinguished tutor and set up a separate study, making him lock the door and read together with the other young masters of the clan. Gongzi would wait at night until the tutor was asleep, then climb over the wall and return home, coming back at dawn. He did this regularly. One night he lost his footing and broke his arm; only then did the tutor learn of it. He told the uncle, who applied the rod even more severely, so that he could not rise and only then gave him medicine. When he recovered, the uncle made an agreement with him: if he could recite twice as much as his cousins and write well, he would not be confined when going out; but if he stole away privately, he would be beaten as before. However, Gongzi was most intelligent and often surpassed the required pace in his studies. In a few years he passed the provincial examination. He wished to break the agreement himself, but his uncle restrained him. When he went to the capital, he was accompanied by an old servant, who was given a diary to record his words and actions. Thus for several years he had no misconduct. Later he became a presented scholar, and the uncle then slightly relaxed his restrictions. Whenever Gongzi was about to do something, he feared his uncle would hear of it, so whenever he entered the lanes of pleasure quarters, he always pretended his surname was Wei. One day, passing through Xi'an, he saw a young actor, Luo Huiqing, sixteen or seventeen, delicate and beautiful as a pretty girl, and took a liking to him. He stayed the night in dalliance and gave him lavish gifts. Hearing that his newly married wife was especially charming and exquisite, he hinted as much to Huiqing. Huiqing showed no reluctance, and that night indeed brought his wife along, and the three shared one bed. He stayed several days, and their affection reached the utmost. He planned to take them back with him. Asking about his family, Huiqing replied: "My mother died early; my father is still alive. I am not originally of the Luo surname. My mother served as a maidservant in the Wei household of Xianyang in her youth, and was sold to the Luo family; four months later she gave birth to me. If I could follow you, sir, I might also inquire after news of her." Gongzi asked in surprise for the mother's surname. He said: "Her surname is Lü." Gongzi was horrified, and sweat poured over his whole body, for that mother was none other than a maidservant of his own household. Gongzi was speechless. By then it was already dawn; he gave generous gifts and urged him to change his profession. He falsely claimed he was going elsewhere, and said he would send for him on his return, then took his leave. Later, when he was magistrate of Suzhou, there was a singing girl, Shen Weiniang, refined and lovely beyond compare; he was charmed and stayed with her in intimacy. Jokingly he asked: "Is your pet name taken from the line 'A spring breeze song of Du Weiniang'?" She replied: "No. My mother at seventeen was a famous courtesan. There was a young master from Xianyang, of the same surname as you, sir, who stayed three months and pledged marriage. After the young master left, she gave birth to me in the eighth month, and so named me Wei—that is truly my surname. When the young master parted, he gave a pair of golden mandarin ducks, which I still have. He went away and never sent word; my mother died of chagrin and grief. I was three years old when I was taken in by the old woman Shen, so I took her surname." On hearing this, Gongzi was so ashamed and remorseful that he could not contain himself. He was silent for a while, then suddenly conceived a plan. He rose, trimmed the lamp, called Weiniang to drink, and secretly placed poison in her cup. No sooner had Weiniang swallowed than she convulsed and moaned in agony. The crowd gathered to look, and she was already dead. He summoned the actors, handed over the corpse, and bribed them heavily. But Weiniang's intimates were all from powerful families; hearing of this, they were all indignant, and bribed and incited the actors to sue him before the higher authorities. Gongzi was frightened, and spent all his money to cover up the matter, but in the end he was dismissed from office for recklessness. He returned home at only thirty-eight, and greatly regretted his former ways. Yet his five or six wives and concubines all bore him no son. He wished to adopt a grandson of his uncle; but the uncle, considering the family had no inner virtue and fearing the child would catch his bad habits, though he consented to the adoption, said he would only hand over the heir after his own old age. Gongzi angrily wanted to summon Huiqing, but the household all thought it inadvisable, so he desisted. After several more years, he suddenly fell ill, and would often strike his breast, saying: "He who debauches maidservants and lodges with courtesans is not a man!" The uncle heard this and sighed: "He is probably about to die!" So he sent the son of his second son to Gongzi's house, to attend on him morning and evening. After a little over a month, he indeed died. The Historian's comment: "To ravish maidservants and secretly visit courtesans—the resulting evils are almost beyond asking. Yet to take one's own flesh and blood and call another man father—that too is already shameful. And then the spirits and gods further mocked and tormented him, luring him to taste his own filth. He still did not cut open his own heart or sever his own head, but merely sweated in dread and administered poison. Was he not a man in form but a beast in voice? Nevertheless, the children born to a dissolute young master, even if they dwell in the dusty quarters, all excel in their own sphere." Shi Qingxu Xing Yunfei, a native of Shuntian, loved stones. Whenever he saw a fine stone, he would not spare a high price for it. Once, while fishing in the river, something caught in his net; he dived down to retrieve it, and found a stone a foot in diameter, exquisitely perforated on all sides, with overlapping peaks and ridges like a miniature mountain. Overjoyed, as if he had obtained a rare treasure, he returned home, carved a sandalwood stand for it, and placed it on his desk. Whenever it was about to rain, mist would issue from every hole, and from a distance it looked as if stuffed with fresh cotton. A powerful and wealthy man came to his door asking to see it. After viewing it, he took it up, gave it to a sturdy servant, mounted his horse, and rode straight off. Xing had no recourse but to stamp his feet in grief and indignation. The servant carried the stone to the riverbank, rested his burden on a bridge, but suddenly lost his grip, and it fell into the river. The wealthy man, enraged, whipped the servant. He then offered gold and hired expert swimmers to search by every means, but they could not find it. So he posted a reward and left. From then on, people searching for the stone crowded the river daily, but none ever recovered it. Later, Xing went to the spot where the stone had fallen, and stood by the water, weeping. But he saw that the river water was clear, and the stone was indeed still in the water. Overjoyed, Xing stripped off his clothes, went into the water, embraced the stone, and brought it out. He carried it home, not daring to set it in his hall, but cleaned an inner chamber and enshrined it there. One day, an old man came to the gate and requested to see it. Xing made the excuse that the stone had been lost long ago. The old man laughed and said, "Is it not in your guest room?" Xing then invited him inside, to prove that he did not have it; but when they entered, the stone was indeed displayed on the table. Xing was stunned and speechless. The old man stroked the stone and said, "This is an old possession of my family; it has been lost for a long time. Now that it is here, may I ask you to return it to me?" Xing was greatly embarrassed and argued with him over the ownership of the stone. The old man smiled and said, "If it is your family’s object, what proof do you have?" Xing could not answer. The old man said, "I, on the other hand, know it well. It has ninety-two apertures in front and back; in the larger holes there are five characters: 'Offering of the Stone of the Pure Void Heaven.'" Xing examined it closely, and indeed there were tiny characters in the holes, as small as grains of millet; straining his eyes, he could just make them out. He also counted the apertures, and they were exactly as the old man had said. Xing had nothing to reply, but he simply refused to give it up. The old man laughed and said, "Whose thing is it, that you should presume to be its master?" He made a bow and left. Xing escorted him to the gate; when he returned, the stone was gone. Xing hurried after the old man, but the old man was walking slowly and had not gone far. He ran and caught his sleeve, pleading with him. The old man said, "Strange! A stone a foot across—how could I hold it in my hand or hide it in my sleeve?" Xing knew he was no ordinary man, so he forcibly dragged him back, knelt and begged him. The old man then said, "Is the stone indeed yours, or mine?" Xing answered, "It truly belongs to you, but I beg you to part with it for my sake." The old man said, "In that case, the stone is right here." When they entered the room, the stone was already in its original place. The old man said, "The treasures of the world should belong to those who cherish them. This stone can choose its own master; I am pleased with that. However, it was too eager to show itself—its emergence was premature, so its demonic calamity has not yet been removed. I was actually going to take it away and give it to you only after three years. But since you wish to keep it now, you must reduce your lifespan by three years, and then it will stay with you to the end. Are you willing?" Xing said, "I am willing." The old man then pressed two fingers into one aperture, and the stone became soft as mud, closing at his touch. He closed three apertures, then said, "The number of apertures on the stone equals your lifespan." He took his leave and wished to go. Xing tried hard to detain him, but the old man refused firmly. When Xing asked his name and surname, he would not say, and left. More than a year later, Xing went out on business. That night, thieves entered his house; nothing was lost except the stone, which was stolen. Xing returned and was so grieved that he wished to die. He searched and offered rewards, but found no trace. Several years later, he happened to enter the Baoguo Temple and saw a stone seller offering the very object. He was about to claim it, but the seller would not yield, so they took the stone to the authorities. The official asked, "What proof do you have?" The seller could state the number of apertures. When Xing asked about other details, the seller was at a loss. Xing then spoke of the five characters in the apertures and the marks of three fingers, and the case was decided in his favor. The official wanted to cane the seller; the seller said he had bought it in the market for twenty taels of silver, so he was released. Xing took the stone home, wrapped it in brocade, stored it in a box, and would take it out only after burning fine incense beforehand. There was a certain Minister who offered a hundred taels of gold for it. Xing said, "Even ten thousand taels would not make me part with it." The Minister was angry, and secretly used other matters to injure him. Xing was arrested and had to pawn his fields and property. The Minister sent someone to sound out his son. The son told Xing, but Xing said he would rather die with the stone. His wife secretly plotted with the son and presented the stone to the Minister’s house. When Xing was released from prison and learned of it, he cursed his wife and beat his son, and repeatedly tried to hang himself. His family discovered him and saved him, so he did not die. One night, he dreamed of a man who came and said, "I am Shi Qingxu." He warned Xing not to grieve: "I shall only be parted from you for a little over a year. On the twentieth day of the eighth month next year, at dawn, go to the Haidai Gate and redeem me with two strings of cash." Xing awoke overjoyed and carefully noted the date. Meanwhile, the stone at the Minister’s house no longer had the unusual property of emitting clouds; after a long time, it was not much valued. The next year, the Minister was stripped of his office for crimes and soon died. Xing arrived at the Haidai Gate on the appointed day, and found that the Minister’s household servants had secretly stolen the stone to sell; he bought it back with two strings of cash. Later, when Xing reached eighty-nine, he prepared his own burial goods and instructed his son that the stone must be buried with him. When he died, the son followed his final command and interred the stone in the tomb. After about half a year, robbers opened the tomb and stole the stone. The son learned of it but could not pursue them. Two or three days later, while on the road with a servant, he suddenly saw two men rushing along, panting and sweating, who looked up to the sky and prostrated themselves, crying, "Mr. Xing, do not press us! We two took the stone, but only to sell it for four taels of silver." They were then bound and brought to the authorities; upon interrogation they confessed at once. When asked about the stone, they said it had been sold to the Gong family. The stone was brought. The official admired it and wanted to keep it, ordering it to be stored in the treasury. When a clerk lifted the stone, it suddenly fell to the ground and shattered into more than ten pieces. Everyone turned pale. The official then put the two robbers in heavy chains and sentenced them to death. Xing’s son gathered the fragments and buried them again in the tomb. The Historian of the Strange remarks: "Outstanding things are the repositories of misfortune. To be willing to sacrifice one’s life for a stone is indeed most infatuated! Yet in the end, the stone accompanied the man from beginning to end—who can say that stones are without feeling? The old saying, 'A scholar dies for one who knows him,' is not excessive. If even a stone is like this, how much more so for a man!" Zeng Youyu Old Man Zeng was from a long-established family in Kunyang. When Old Man Zeng first died and had not yet been encoffined, tears like brine flowed from both eye sockets. He had six sons, but none could understand the reason. The second son, Ti, styled Youyu, was a famous scholar of the county. He took it as an ill omen and warned his brothers each to be on their guard, lest they bring grief to their late father. But more than half of the brothers laughed at him as pedantic. Earlier, the first wife had borne the eldest son, Cheng, who when seven or eight sui had been carried off with his mother by bandits. Then the old man took a second wife, who bore three sons: Xiao, Zhong, and Xin. A concubine bore three sons: Ti, Ren, and Yi. Xiao, looking down on Ti and the others as of low birth, despised them and would not associate with them, and so he allied himself with Zhong and Xin as a faction. Even when drinking with guests, if Ti and the others passed below the hall, he would treat them arrogantly without ceremony. Ren and Yi were both indignant and plotted with Youyu to take revenge. Youyu used every argument to soothe them and did not follow their plan. And since Ren and Yi were the youngest, they stopped at their elder brother's words. Xiao had a daughter who was married to a certain Zhou in the same county. She died of illness, and Xiao tried to rally Ti and the others to go and beat her mother-in-law, but Ti would not comply. Xiao was enraged and ordered Zhong and Xin to gather the worthless fellows of the clan to seize Zhou's wife, beat her countless times, scatter grain, destroy utensils, leaving not a single jar or basin. Zhou reported it to the magistrate. The magistrate was furious and had Xiao and the others arrested and imprisoned, intending to report them for degradation. Youyu, frightened, went to see the magistrate and gave himself up. Youyu's conduct was always valued by the magistrate, so thanks to him the brothers were not harshly dealt with. Youyu then went to Zhou's house and offered his back for flogging in apology. Zhou also thought highly of Youyu, and the lawsuit was dropped. When Xiao returned home, he remained ungrateful to Youyu. Not long after, Youyu's mother, Lady Zhang, died. Xiao and the others did not observe the mourning rites, but continued their feasts and drinking as before. Ren and Yi were even more incensed. Youyu said, "That is their discourtesy; what loss is it to us?" When it came to the burial, they held the cemetery gate and would not allow her to be interred in the same grave. Youyu therefore buried his mother in the side passage of the tomb. Soon after, Xiao's wife died. Youyu summoned Ren and Yi to go together to the funeral. The two said, "Even the 'year' mourning we do not discuss, so what has the 'season' mourning to do with us?" When he urged them again, they broke up in uproar and dispersed. Youyu then went alone and wept in lamentation with all his grief. Over the wall he heard Ren and Yi beating drums and blowing pipes. Xiao, enraged, gathered his younger brothers to go and beat them. Youyu took a staff and went ahead with them. When they entered their house, Ren sensed it and fled first. Yi was just climbing over the wall when Youyu struck him down from behind. Xiao and the others rained fists and staves on him without stopping. Youyu threw himself across to block them. Xiao, furious, reproached Youyu. Youyu said, "The one to be punished is he who was discourteous, but his crime certainly does not warrant death. I do not condone my younger brothers' wrongdoing, nor do I aid my elder brothers' violence. If your anger is not appeased, I will take his place." Thereupon Xiao turned his staff and beat Youyu; Zhong and Xin also helped to beat their elder brother. The noise shook the neighborhood, and the crowd gathered to mediate, whereupon they dispersed. Youyu then supported himself on his staff and went to his elder brother to beg forgiveness. Xiao drove him away and would not allow him to be in the mourning hall. Meanwhile Yi was severely wounded and could no longer eat or drink. Ren on his behalf drew up a plaint and sued the others in court, accusing them of not wearing mourning for their stepmother. The magistrate sent a summons for Xiao, Zhong, and Xin, and ordered Youyu to submit a statement. Youyu, because his face was injured, could not go to the yamen, but only wrote a petition stating the facts and earnestly begged that the matter be dropped; the magistrate accordingly quashed the case. Yi also recovered after a while. From this time the enmity deepened. Ren and Yi, being both young and weak, were often cuffed and caned. They complained to Youyu, saying, "Others all have brothers, we alone have none!" Youyu said, "Those two sentences are what I ought to say—how can you two younger brothers say them?" He then earnestly admonished them, but in the end they would not listen. Youyu then barred his door, took his wife and children, and lodged elsewhere, more than fifty li from home, hoping not to hear of them. While Youyu was at home, although he did not help his younger brothers, Xiao and the others still had some restraint. After he left, whenever the elder brothers were displeased about anything, they would at once shout abuse at their gate, cursing and insulting their mother's memory. Ren and Yi, knowing they could not resist, simply closed their doors and plotted to stab them at some opportunity, carrying daggers when they went out. One day, the eldest brother Cheng, who had been carried off by bandits, suddenly returned with his wife. The brothers, since the household had long been divided, gathered in council for three days, but could find nowhere to place him. Ren and Yi secretly rejoiced, invited him away, and supported him jointly. They went to tell Youyu. Youyu was delighted, returned, and together they gave out fields and a house for Cheng to live in. The elder brothers were angry at their currying favor and came to his door to insult and humiliate him. But Cheng, having long been among bandits, was accustomed to might and fierceness. In great anger he said, "When I returned, no one was willing to give me a single roof; luckily my third brothers thought of brotherhood, and now you blame them for it. Are you trying to drive me away?" He threw a stone at Xiao, who fell. Ren and Yi each brought out staves, seized Zhong and Xin, and beat them countless times. Cheng then sued them before the magistrate, and the magistrate sent someone to ask Youyu's advice. Youyu went to the magistrate, hung his head without speaking, and only shed tears. The magistrate asked him, and he said, "I only ask you to decide fairly." The magistrate then ruled that Xiao and the others should each give up part of their fields and property to Cheng, so that the seven shares would be equalized. From then on Ren and Yi doubled their love and respect for Cheng. When they spoke of the matter of burying their mother, they all wept together. Cheng said angrily, "Such inhumanity—they are truly beasts!" He then wished to open the grave and rebury her. Ren ran to tell Youyu, who hurried home to dissuade him. Cheng would not listen, fixed a day to open the tomb, and held a requiem service at the gravesite. Taking a knife, he cut a tree and said to his younger brothers, "Any one of you who does not follow in mourning garments—may he be like this tree!" All assented. Then the whole household wept at the mourning and carried out the burial with full rites. From then on the brothers lived in peace. But Cheng was of a violent temper, and frequently struck and slapped his younger brothers, especially Xiao. Only Youyu he respected. Even when in a towering rage, if Youyu arrived, a single word from him would calm it. Whatever Xiao did, Cheng would always take exception to it, so that not a day passed without Xiao coming to Youyu's place and secretly cursing and reviling him to Youyu. Youyu gently admonished him, but he never accepted it. Youyu, unable to bear the harassment, moved again to Sanbo, still farther from home, and so their news and traces became sparse. After another two years, all the younger brothers grew afraid of Cheng, and as time passed they became accustomed to it. Xiao was then forty-six sui. He had five sons: the eldest, Jiye; the third, Jide—born of the legal wife; the second, Jigong; the fourth, Jiji—born of concubines; and another by a maidservant, Jizu. All grew up. They imitated their father's old ways, each forming factions and daily contending with one another, so that Xiao himself could not check them. Only Jizu had no full brothers, and being the youngest, all his elder brothers could berate and abuse him. Jizu's maternal family lived near Sanbo. Once, when he went to visit his maternal relatives, he made a detour to call on his uncle. On entering the gate, he saw his uncle's two elder sons and one younger son reading and reciting in harmony and enjoyment, and he was so delighted that he stayed a long while without speaking of returning. His uncle urged him, but he pleaded to be allowed to lodge there. His uncle said, "Your parents do not know of this—how could I grudge you a bowl of rice and a cup of drink?" So he went back. After a few months, he and his wife went to congratulate his maternal grandmother on her birthday. He told his father, "I am not coming back this time." His father questioned him, and he then revealed the hidden difficulties. His father feared that there was an old grudge with the uncle and that it might be hard to stay long. Jizu said, "Father worries too much. My second uncle is a sage." So he left and took his wife to Sanbo. Youyu cleared a house for him to live in, ranked him among his sons by age, and had him take up a book and study with his eldest son, Jishan. Jizu was the most intelligent. After living in Sanbo for over a year, he entered the prefectural school of Yunnan. He and Jishan studied behind closed doors, and Jizu was the most diligent in recitation. Youyu loved him greatly. Since Jizu had settled in Sanbo, the brothers at home grew even more incompatible. One day, after a slight quarrel, Jiye cursed and insulted his stepmother. Jigong, enraged, stabbed and killed Jiye. The authorities arrested Jigong, put him in heavy cangue, and he died in prison a few days later. Jiye's wife, née Feng, still spent her days cursing instead of weeping. When Jigong's wife, née Liu, heard this, she said angrily, "If the men in your family die, must the men in mine live?" She took a knife and went in, stabbed Feng to death, then threw herself into a well and died. Feng's father, Dali, grieving for his daughter's cruel death, led his sons and younger kin, with weapons hidden under their clothes, and went to seize Xiao's wife, stripped her naked, and beat her on the road to humiliate her. Cheng, furious, said, "In my family the dead are as numerous as hemp—how can the Fengs do this again?" With a roar he rushed out. All the Zengs followed him, and the Fengs were all routed. Cheng first seized Dali and cut off both his ears. His sons came to his rescue, but Ji and Ji struck them across with iron staves, breaking both their thighs. The various Fengs were all wounded and scattered in confusion. Only Feng's son still lay by the roadside. Cheng tucked him under his arm, carried him to Feng village, and returned. Then he called Ji to go with him to the yamen to confess. The Fengs' plaint also arrived. Thereupon all the Zengs were arrested, except Zhong, who had fled. He went to Sanbo and paced outside the gate. Just then Youyu returned with one son and one nephew from the provincial examinations. Seeing Zhong, he started in surprise, "Brother, why have you come?" Zhong, without a word, first burst into tears and knelt long by the roadside. Youyu took his hand and pulled him inside. When he had learned the whole story, he was greatly alarmed and said, "What is to be done now? But the family has been so perverse that I have long foreseen a great calamity; otherwise, why would I have fled here? However, I have been away from home so long that I have no communication with the magistrate. If I go now prostrating myself, I will only invite humiliation." But if it turned out that the two Fengs, father and son, were not dead from their wounds, and among us three one chanced to win through, then perhaps this calamity might be somewhat abated." So he kept him there, sharing meals by day and sleeping beside him by night. Zhong was deeply moved and ashamed. After more than ten days, seeing how uncle and nephew were like father and son, and brothers like womb-mates, he wept bitterly and said, "Only now do I realize that before this I was not a man." Youyu was pleased at his repentance and remorse, and they faced each other with sorrowful compassion. Soon word came that Youyu and his son had both passed the provincial examinations, and Zu had also been named to the supplementary list. Great was their joy. They did not attend the Deer-Cry Banquet but first returned home to visit their ancestral graves. In the late Ming, the civil-service degrees were held in the highest esteem, and all the Fengs restrained themselves. Youyu then entrusted relatives and friends with gold and grain to supply their medicines, and the lawsuits ceased. The whole household wept in gratitude to Youyu and begged him to return home. Youyu then burned incense and swore oaths with his brothers, so that each might cleanse his heart and reform himself, and thereupon moved his family back. Zu followed his uncle and did not turn back to his own house. Xiao then said to Youyu, "I am unvirtuous and should not have a son capable of exalting the ancestral line; but you, my younger brother, are good at teaching, so let him be your son for the time being. Should he make any modest progress, you may return him to me." Youyu complied. After another three years, Zu indeed passed the provincial examination. Youyu had him move his family away, and the couple departed weeping bitterly. Within a few days, Zu's son, only three years old, ran away back to Youyu's house, hid in Jishan's chamber, and refused to return; whenever they caught him he would flee. Xiao then had Zu live apart, neighboring Youyu. Zu opened a door connecting to his uncle's house, and the morning and evening greetings between the two households were as one. By this time Cheng was growing old, and all family affairs were decided by Youyu. From then on the household was harmonious and peaceful, renowned for filial piety and fraternal love. The Historian remarks: "In all the world, only beasts know their mothers but not their fathers—why then do families of poetry and letters so often fall into this error! The conduct within the gates, as it seeps into descendants, goes straight to the marrow. The old saying goes: 'If the father steals, the son will surely rob'—such is the drift of its corrupting influence. Xiao, though unkind, suffered also a grievous retribution; yet in the end he could recognize his own lack of virtue and entrust his son to his brother—fitting that he should have a son who could agonize over and guard against misfortunes. But if we speak of retributive justice, that is still too far-fetched." Jiaping the Young Gentleman A certain young gentleman of Jiaping was handsome and elegant of bearing. At seventeen or eighteen, he went to the prefectural capital to take the preliminary examination for licentiates. By chance he passed by the door of the courtesan Xu's establishment, and seeing within a beautiful maiden of about sixteen, he fixed his eyes on her. The girl smiled and nodded; the gentleman drew near and spoke with her. She asked, "Where are you staying?" He told her fully. She asked, "Is there anyone else in your lodging?" He said, "No." She said, "I shall visit you this evening—do not let anyone know." The gentleman returned, and at dusk dismissed his servants. The girl indeed arrived, saying, "My pet-name is Wenji. And I say: I admire your elegant bearing, so I have come behind my madam's back. My humble wish is to offer you my lifelong devotion." The gentleman was delighted. From then on she came every two or three nights. One evening she came in the rain, and upon entering took off her wet clothes and hung them on the rack; then she took off her little boots and asked the gentleman to wipe off the mud. She then went to bed and covered herself with the quilt. The gentleman looked at her boots—they were of five-patterned new brocade, soaked through, and he pitied them. The girl said, "I would not presume to use such cheap things to trouble you; I only wanted you to know how foolishly devoted I am." Hearing the rain outside the window continue unceasingly, she recited: "The dreary wind and cold rain fill the river-town," and asked the gentleman to complete the verse. He excused himself, saying he did not understand poetry. The girl said, "For such a man as you, how can you not know literary refinement! You have dashed my refined spirits!" She then urged him to study, and he promised. Having come and gone so frequently, all the servants knew of it. The gentleman's brother-in-law, Mr. Song, also of an old official family, heard of it and secretly begged the gentleman for an introduction to see Wenji. The gentleman spoke of it, but the girl absolutely refused. Song hid himself in the servants' quarters, and when the girl came, he crouched by the window and peeped at her, nearly mad with infatuation. He abruptly burst through the door; the girl rose and leaped over the wall and fled. Song was so ardent in his longing that he sent gifts to the procuress Xu and named her, asking for her. Xu said, "There indeed was a Wenji, but she has been dead for a long time." Song, stunned, withdrew and told the gentleman, who then realized she was a ghost. That night, he told the girl what Song had said. She said, "It is true. But you desire a beautiful woman, and I desire a handsome man. Each has obtained what he wished—what more is needed? Why debate human and ghost?" The gentleman thought she was right. After the examinations he returned home, and the girl followed him. Others could not see her; only the gentleman saw her. At home, she lodged in his study. The gentleman slept alone and did not return to his parents' quarters, which made his father and mother suspicious. When the girl went home to visit, he secretly told his mother, who was greatly alarmed and warned him to break it off, but he would not listen. His parents were deeply worried and tried every means to drive her away, but could not. One day, the gentleman had a note to a servant, placed on the table, in which there were many errors: "pepper" was miswritten as "bean," "ginger" as "river," and "hateful" as "wave-like." When the girl saw it, she wrote after it: "What is 'wave-like'? 'Flower-beans grow in the river.' With such a husband, better to be a courtesan!" She then said to the gentleman, "At first I thought you were a scion of a cultivated family, and so I offered myself despite my shame. I did not expect such a hollow shell! Judging a man by his looks—would that not make one a laughingstock of the world?" Having said this, she vanished. Though the gentleman felt shame and regret, he still did not understand what she had written, so he folded the note and showed it to his servants. Those who heard of it passed it around as a joke. The Historian remarks: "Wenji was a lovely girl! But for a graceful young gentleman, why be so demanding of what lies within? To the point that she regrets being less than a courtesan—then even wives and concubines would weep with shame. Yet though they tried every means to expel her, she would not go; but upon seeing that note she departed in high dudgeon—so is 'flower-beans grow in the river' any different from Du Fu's 'Zizhang's skull'?" The "Ear-Record" says: "A roadside seller of congee put up a placard: 'Offering 'respect' to form karmic ties'—another laughable mistake." There was a son of a once-noble family, now poor, who posted at his gate: "Antique 'licentious' ware for sale." Miswriting "kiln" as "licentious," it read: "Those wanting Xuan-licentious or Ding-licentious, large and small sizes available; come inside to see the goods and name your price." The descendants of the Cui and Lu clans are many such—why single out "flower-beans grow in the river"?