Chapter 4

Volume One Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio, Volume Two, Author: Pu Songling Volume Three → Jin Shicheng Jin Shicheng was a man of Changshan. He had always been proper in conduct. Suddenly he left home and became a head monk. He acted like a madman, eating filth as if it were delicacies. When dog or sheep excrement lay before him, he would kneel and eat it. He called himself a Buddha. Foolish commoners and women, astonished by his behavior, took him as their master by the thousands. When Jin ordered them to eat excrement, none dared disobey. He built halls and pavilions at immense cost, and everyone gladly contributed. The county magistrate, Lord Nan, detested his strangeness, had him arrested and caned, and ordered him to repair the Confucian temple. His disciples rushed to tell each other: "The Buddha is in trouble!" They vied in raising funds to rescue him. The temple was completed within a month, and the gathering of money was even swifter than a harsh official's summons for taxes. The Historian of the Strange said: "I have heard that people, following his name, call the Daoist Jin 'Jin Shicheng becomes Buddha.' To reach the point of eating filth is the extreme. Caning did not disgrace him; punishing him actually helped. How well Lord Magistrate Nan disposed of the matter! Yet that the school shrine should fall into ruin and require the intervention of an妖daoist is also a shame for the scholar-officials." Dong Sheng Dong Sheng, courtesy name Xiasi, lived in the western outskirts of Qingzhou. One winter evening at dusk, he spread his bedding on the couch and burned charcoal in the brazier. He was about to light the lamp when a friend invited him to a drinking party, so he locked the door and left. At his friend's place, there was a physician skilled in the Great Plain Pulse, who felt the pulses of all the guests in turn. Finally he looked at Wang Jiusi and Dong and said: "I have examined many people, but I have never seen pulses as strange as yours, gentlemen: noble pulses yet with signs of lowliness, long-life pulses yet with omens of shortness. This is beyond my humble knowledge to understand. Yet in truth, Master Dong's condition is the more serious." They all asked in alarm. He said: "I have reached the limit of my art here and dare not guess blindly. I would ask you both to take care of yourselves." At first the two were greatly startled, but then they took his words as vague and paid them no heed. At midnight, Dong returned and saw his study door ajar. He was greatly puzzled. In his drunkenness he recalled that he must have been in a hurry when leaving and forgotten to lock it. Entering the room, before he had time to light a fire, he first put his hand into the quilt to feel whether it was warm. As soon as his hand went in, he touched the sleek skin of a person lying there. He was greatly startled and withdrew his hand. He quickly lit a lamp and saw that it was a beautiful girl, with a youthful face and tender years, no different from a goddess. Wild with joy, he jestingly explored below—and found a hairy tail. Greatly frightened, he tried to flee, but the girl had already woken, reached out and seized his arm, asking: "Where are you going?" Dong became even more terrified, trembling as he begged: "I beg the immortal to take pity and forgive me!" The girl laughed and said: "What have you seen that makes you afraid of me?" Dong said: "I do not fear your head, but I fear your tail." The girl laughed again: "You are mistaken. Where is there a tail?" She drew Dong's hand and forced him to feel again—and indeed the flesh of her thighs was like suet, and her buttocks were smooth and bare. She laughed and said: "Well? In your drunken stupor, you saw who knows what, and so slander a person like this." Dong was already fond of her beauty, and now he was all the more bewitched, blaming himself for his earlier mistake. Yet he wondered at her coming without apparent cause. The girl said: "Do you not remember the yellow-haired girl of the eastern neighbor? It has been ten years since she moved away. At that time I was not yet of age, and you were still a child." Dong suddenly realized: "Are you A-Suo of the Zhou family?" The girl said: "Yes." Dong said: "Now that you mention it, I seem to recall. Ten years unseen, and you have grown so slender! But how did you come here so suddenly?" The girl said: "I was married to a foolish youth for four or five years. My father-in-law and mother-in-law both died one after the other, and unfortunately I was left a widow. I am alone, with no one to depend on. I remembered that among those I knew in childhood, only you remained, so I came to see you. By the time I entered the gate it was dusk, and your drinking companion had just called you away, so I hid and waited for your return. I waited so long that my feet grew cold and my skin prickled, so I borrowed your quilt to warm myself. I beg you not to suspect me." Dong was delighted, and they undressed and lay together, his heart quite content. After more than a month, he gradually grew thin and gaunt. His family asked in surprise, but he always said he did not know why. After a long time, his face grew increasingly haggard, and then he became frightened. He went again to the skillful pulse-doctor for an examination. The doctor said: "This is an妖pulse. The death omen I saw the other day has come true; the illness cannot be cured." Dong wept bitterly and would not leave. The doctor, having no choice, needled his hands and moxaed his navel, and gave him medicine, instructing: "If you encounter anything, make every effort to break with it." Dong was also fearful. When he returned home, the girl smiled and greeted him. He said angrily: "Do not pester me further; I am about to die!" and walked away without looking back. The girl was deeply embarrassed and also angered, saying: "Do you still want to live?" That night, Dong took his medicine and slept alone. He had barely closed his eyes when he dreamed that he was having sex with the girl. When he woke, he had already had an emission. He grew even more afraid and moved his bed into the inner room, where his wife and children kept watch with lamps. But he dreamed the same as before. He peeped and found that the girl had vanished from where she had been. After several days, Dong vomited more than a dou of blood and died. Wang Jiusi was in his study when he saw a girl come in. Delighted by her beauty, he had secret relations with her. When he asked where she came from, she said: "I am the neighbor of Xiasi. He and I were formerly close, but unexpectedly he was bewitched by a fox and died. The妖qi of such creatures is fearsome; scholars should be cautious and guard against them." Wang admired her all the more, and so they enjoyed each other's company. After several days, he became confused and emaciated from illness. Suddenly he dreamed of Dong, who said: "She who is with you is a fox. She has killed me, and now she wants to kill my friend as well. I have already lodged a complaint with the underworld to vent this hidden grievance. On the night of the seventh day, burn incense outside your room—do not forget!" Wang woke and found it strange. He said to the girl: "I am very ill; I fear I may be cast into a ditch. Some advise me not to share a bed." The girl said: "If fate grants you a long life, sharing a bed will also let you live; if not, even without sharing a bed you will die." She sat with him and joked and teased. Wang could not control himself and again had relations with her. Soon after he regretted it, but could not break away. When evening came, he stuck incense on his door. The girl came, pulled it down, and threw it away. That night he again dreamed of Dong, who reproached him for disobeying his instruction. The next night, he secretly told his family to burn incense after he had gone to sleep. The girl, lying on the bed, suddenly started and said: "You have burned incense again?" Wang said he did not know. The girl rose quickly, found the incense, and broke it off again. Coming back in, she said: "Who taught you to do this?" Wang said: "Perhaps my wife, worried about my illness, has trusted some sorcerer and performed a ward." The girl paced uneasily. The family, secretly watching, saw the incense put out and lit it again. The girl suddenly sighed and said: "Your fortune is indeed deep. I mistakenly harmed Xiasi and then came to you—truly my fault. I will go with him to the underworld to face judgment. If you do not forget our former love, do not damage my body." She hesitated, got down from the bed, and fell to the floor dead. When they lit a lamp, it was a fox. Still fearing it might revive, they quickly called the household, stripped off its skin, and hung it up. Wang was gravely ill when he saw the fox come and say: "I have pleaded my case before the magistrate of the law; the magistrate ruled that Master Dong, moved by beauty, died as he deserved. But he blamed me for improperly bewitching people, took away my golden elixir, and ordered me to return to life. Where is my body?" Wang said: "The household did not know; they have already stripped it." The fox said mournfully: "I have killed many people, so it is not too late for me to die; yet how cruel you are!" and went away resentfully. Wang's illness was nearly fatal; after half a year he recovered. Gnawing Stones In the household of the venerable Mr. Wang Qinwen of Xincheng, there was a groom named Wang, who as a youth had gone to Mount Lao to study the Dao. After a long time, he stopped eating cooked food. He ate only pine nuts and white stones, and his whole body grew hair. After several years, he thought of his aging mother and returned home, gradually resuming cooked food, but he still ate stones as before. When he looked at them in sunlight, he could tell whether a stone was sweet, bitter, sour, or salty, as if eating taro. After his mother died, he went back into the mountains, and now another seventeen or eighteen years have passed. Temple Ghost Wang Qihou, a scholar of Xincheng, was a great-grandson of the provincial governor Wang Xiangkun, styled Zhongyu. He saw a woman enter his room; she was plump, dark, and plain. She smiled and came near his couch, her manner very licentious. Wang rejected her, but she would not leave. From then on, he saw her whenever he sat or lay down. But his resolve was firm and he never wavered. The woman, angered, slapped his cheek with a sound, but it did not hurt much. The woman took her belt and hung it from the beam, then pulled him to hang together with her. Wang unconsciously threw himself under the beam and stretched out his neck as if to hang himself. People saw that his feet did not touch the ground, that he stood rigidly in midair, yet he could not actually die. After this he went mad. Suddenly he would say: "She is going to throw me into the river." Then he would race toward the river, and they had to drag him back to stop him. Such episodes occurred a hundred ways, several times daily; spells and medicine were useless. One day, he suddenly saw a warrior enter with chains and angrily rebuked: "How dare you molest an honest man!" He then bound the woman's neck and led her out through the window lattice. As soon as she reached outside the window, the woman was no longer in human form—her eyes flashed lightning, and her mouth was blood-red as a basin. Wang recalled that among the clay demons in the gate of the City God Temple, there were four, and this one was exactly like one of them. His illness then vanished as if it had never been. Lu Pan Lingyang Zhu Erdan, style Xiaoming. By nature he was bold and unrestrained, yet he had always been dull; though he studied diligently, he had not yet made a name for himself. One day, the members of a literary society were drinking together. Someone jested with him, saying: “You have a reputation for boldness—could you go to the Hall of the Ten Kings at dead of night and carry back the Standing Judge from the left corridor? If so, we shall all pool our money to host a feast.” For in Lingyang there was a Hall of the Ten Kings, where the gods and ghosts were all carved from wood and painted to look like living beings. In the eastern side-chamber stood a Standing Judge, with a green face and a red beard, his appearance ferocious beyond measure. At night, one could sometimes hear the sounds of interrogation and torture from the two corridors. Those who entered felt their hairs stand on end. Therefore the crowd used this to challenge Zhu. Zhu laughed, rose, and went straight off. Before long, there came a great shout from outside the gate: “I have invited the Venerable Master with the Beard to come!” The company all rose. Shortly thereafter he carried in the Judge on his back, set him upon the table, raised a goblet, and poured out three libations in offering. When the others saw this, they shrank back uneasily in their seats and begged him to carry it away again. Zhu then poured more wine on the ground and prayed: “Your disciple is rash and unlettered—the Great Master surely will not take offense. My humble home is not far; if you are so inclined, pray come and seek a drink together, and do not stand on ceremony.” Then he carried it back. The next day, the company indeed invited him to a drinking party. At dusk he returned half drunk, but his spirits were not yet spent; he lit a lamp and drank alone. Suddenly someone lifted the curtain and entered. He looked up—it was the Judge himself. Zhu rose and said: “I fear I am about to die! The other night I was presumptuous and offensive—have you now come to add the axe and the executioner’s block?” The Judge parted his thick beard and smiled, saying: “Not at all. Last night I was honored by your noble invitation; tonight I happen to have leisure, so I have come to keep the appointment of a man of discernment.” Zhu was overjoyed, took him by the sleeve and urged him to sit, then rose himself to wash the cups and warm the wine. The Judge said: “The weather is mild—we may drink it cold.” Zhu obeyed, placing the flask on the table, then hurried to tell his household to prepare dishes and fruits. His wife, greatly alarmed, warned him not to go out. Zhu paid no heed, and at once waited for the preparations to be completed before bringing them out. They exchanged cups and toasted each other in turn; then he asked his surname. He said: “My surname is Lu; I have no given name.” When Zhu talked with him about ancient classics, he answered as readily as an echo. He asked: “Do you understand the art of examination essays?” He replied: “I can distinguish good from bad fairly well. The reading and recitation in the underworld are much the same as in the living world.” Lu drank heavily, downing ten goblets at a go. Zhu, who had been drinking all day, could not help but topple over like a mountain, and fell asleep drunk across the table. When he woke, the dying candle gave a dim yellow light; the ghostly guest had already gone. From then on, he came once every two or three days, and their affection grew ever closer; sometimes they even lay foot to foot in bed. Zhu showed him his draft essays; Lu would mark them in red and consistently pronounced them poor. One night, Zhu got drunk and went to bed first, while Lu continued drinking alone. Suddenly, in his drunken dreams, Zhu felt a slight pain in his belly; when he awoke and looked, Lu was sitting upright before the bed, having opened his chest and taken out his intestines and stomach, which he was arranging strand by strand. Zhu exclaimed in astonishment: “We have never had any enmity—why do you kill me?” Lu laughed and said: “Fear not; I am merely exchanging your heart for a wiser one.” Calmly he replaced the entrails and sewed them up again, finally binding a cloth foot-wrapper around Zhu’s waist. When the work was done, he looked at the couch and saw no trace of blood. Zhu felt only a slight numbness about his abdomen. He saw Lu place a lump of flesh on the table and asked about it. Lu said: “That is your former heart. Your writing was not fluent, because I knew your passages were blocked. Just now in the underworld, among a thousand hearts, I picked out a fine one and exchanged it for yours; I keep this one to make up the tally.” Then he rose, shut the door, and left. At daybreak, Zhu untied the wrappings and looked—the wound had already closed, with only a red line of stitching remaining. From that time his literary thoughts made great progress; whatever he read once, he never forgot. A few days later, he again showed an essay to Lu. Lu said: “It is passable now. But your fortune is thin; you cannot attain great eminence—only the provincial and metropolitan degrees.” Zhu asked: “When?” He replied: “You will surely be the top candidate this year.” Before long, he placed first in the prefectural examination, and in the autumn provincial examinations he indeed became the Classics Graduate. His former society mates, who had often ridiculed him, now saw his examination papers and stared at each other in astonishment; upon close inquiry they learned of the strangeness. They all begged Zhu to act as their introducer, wishing to befriend Lu. Lu consented. They prepared a great feast and waited for him. At the beginning of the night, Lu arrived, his red beard vivid and his eyes blazing like lightning. The crowd turned pale with dismay, their teeth chattering; gradually they withdrew. Zhu then took Lu back to his home to drink. When they were both tipsy, Zhu said: “For cleansing my bowels and replacing my stomach, I have already received great favor. There is still one more matter I would like to trouble you with—may I?” Lu bade him speak. Zhu said: “If hearts and bowels can be exchanged, I suppose faces could also be changed. My humble wife, my first and wedded partner, has a figure that is not unseemly, but her face is not very handsome. I would still like to trouble you with your knife and axe—what do you think?” Lu laughed and said: “Agreed; allow me to find an opportunity.” After several days, he came knocking at the gate at midnight. Zhu hurriedly rose and let him in. By lamplight, he saw that Lu carried something wrapped in his robe. When asked, Lu said: “The matter you entrusted me with before—I have been hard put to find a suitable subject. Just now I obtained a beautiful woman’s head, and I respectfully report that your command is fulfilled.” Zhu pulled aside the wrapping and saw that the neck was still warm with blood. Lu immediately urged him to go in quickly and not startle the fowls or dogs. Zhu worried that the doors were bolted for the night; but when Lu reached them, he pushed the doors with one hand, and they opened from the outside inward. He led the way to the bedchamber, where they saw the lady sleeping on her side. Lu handed the head to Zhu to hold; then from his boot he drew a white blade like a dagger, pressed it against the lady’s neck, and cut through as if slicing something soft—the head came off and fell beside the pillow. He quickly took the beautiful head from Zhu’s arms, fitted it onto the neck, examined it carefully to see that it was properly aligned, and then pressed it down. After that, he moved the pillow to prop up the shoulder, ordered Zhu to bury the old head in a secluded spot, and left. When Zhu’s wife awoke, she felt a slight numbness at her neck, and her cheeks and jaw felt wrong; rubbing them, she got flakes of blood, which greatly frightened her. She called a maid to bring water for washing; the maid, seeing her face covered in gore, was shocked senseless. When she washed it, the basin water turned entirely red. When she raised her head, her features were completely changed, and she was even more horrified. The lady took a mirror and looked at herself, utterly unable to explain it. Zhu came in and told her the whole story; then he examined her repeatedly—she had long brows that swept her temples, dimples that rose beside her cheekbones—she was a figure from a painting. She opened her collar and examined it: there was a red line all around, and the flesh above and below was clearly different in color. Now, it happened that an Assistant Censor Wu had a very beautiful daughter who, after being betrothed twice, had lost both fiancés before marriage, so at nineteen she was still unwed. On the Lantern Festival she went to the Hall of the Ten Kings; the crowd of sightseers was very large, and among them a scoundrel, struck by her beauty, secretly traced her residence. That night he came by ladder, bored a hole into her bedchamber, killed a maidservant under the bed, and forced the girl to yield to him; she resisted with all her strength and screamed, whereupon the villain, enraged, killed her as well. Lady Wu faintly heard the noise and called a maid to look; when the maid saw the corpse, she was terrified. The whole household arose; they laid the corpse in the hall and placed the head beside the neck, and the entire family wailed and lamented through the night. At dawn they lifted the coverlet, but the body was there while the head was missing. They questioned the maidservants thoroughly, accusing them of negligent guarding that had allowed dogs to devour it. The Censor reported the matter to the prefect. The prefect set strict time limits to capture the villain, but after three months the criminal was not found. Gradually rumors of the strange head-exchange in Zhu’s household reached Master Wu. Wu was suspicious, so he sent an old matron to investigate the family. When the matron entered and saw the lady, she fled in terror and reported it to Wu. Wu examined his daughter’s corpse, which was still intact, and was so astonished and perplexed that he could not decide what to do. Suspecting that Zhu had used sorcery to kill his daughter, he went to interrogate Zhu. Zhu said: “My wife dreamed that her head was exchanged; I truly do not know the reason why. To claim that I killed her would be a gross injustice.” Wu did not believe him and sued him. His household was arrested and examined, and their testimony matched Zhu’s words exactly. The prefect could not reach a verdict. Zhu returned home and sought a plan from Lu. Lu said: “It is not difficult—I shall make his daughter speak for herself.” That night Wu dreamed that his daughter said: “Your daughter was murdered by Yang Danian of Su Creek; it has nothing to do with the Provincial Graduate Zhu. He did not covet his wife’s beauty—Judge Lu took my head and exchanged it with hers. Thus my body is dead but my head lives on. I beg you not to bear enmity against him.” When he awoke and told his wife, her dream was identical. So he reported it to the authorities. Upon investigation, there was indeed a Yang Danian; he was arrested, put in irons, and confessed to his crime. Wu then called on Zhu and asked to see his wife; from then on they became father-in-law and son-in-law. He took Zhu’s wife’s old head and buried it together with his daughter’s corpse. Zhu San entered the examination halls three times, but each time was dismissed for violating the rules of the venue. Thereupon he lost all heart for official advancement, and so thirty years passed. One evening, Lu told him, "Your lifespan will not last much longer." When asked for the date, he replied, "On the day of the King." "Can you save me?" "Only Heaven decrees; how can man act privately? Besides, from the viewpoint of the enlightened, life and death are one—why must life be joy and death be sorrow?" Zhu took this as correct. He then prepared his burial clothes, shrouds, coffin, and outer casket; once all was done, he dressed in his finest and passed away. The next day, as his wife was weeping while leaning on the coffin, Zhu suddenly drifted in from outside, gradually approaching. His wife was terrified. Zhu said, "I am indeed a ghost, but no different from when I was alive. My only concern is for you, a widow with an orphan child—hence my lingering attachment." His wife wailed bitterly, tears streaming down to her chest; Zhu tenderly comforted her. His wife said, "In ancient times there was talk of returning from the dead. Since you have a spirit, why not be reborn?" Zhu said, "Heaven's mandate cannot be defied." She asked, "What duties do you perform in the underworld?" He replied, "Judge Lu recommended me to supervise case records, and I have been given an official post—there is no great hardship." His wife wished to speak further, but Zhu said, "Lord Lu has come with me; you may prepare wine and food." He hurried out. His wife followed his instructions and made the preparations. She heard laughter and drinking within the room, with loud, spirited voices, just as in his lifetime. At midnight she peeped in, but they had vanished without a trace. From then on, he came once every three or four days, sometimes staying the night in tender intimacy, and managing household affairs as opportunity allowed. His son Wei was then five years old; whenever he came, he would pick the boy up and hold him. When the boy reached seven or eight, he taught him to read by lamplight. The son was also intelligent—at nine he could write essays, and at fifteen he entered the district school, so that he never knew he was without a father. From that time his visits grew rarer, coming only once in a while. One evening he came again and said to his wife, "Today I bid you farewell forever." She asked, "Where are you going?" He said, "I have received the Emperor's command to serve as Minister of Mount Taihua; I shall depart on a long journey, and the duties are many and the distance great, so I cannot come again." Mother and son clung to him and wept. He said, "Do not do so! The child is already grown, and the family means can still sustain you—how can there be a phoenix-and-mate that never parts for a hundred years?" He then turned to his son and said, "Be a good man; do not neglect your father's legacy. We shall meet again after ten years." He went straight out the door, and after that he never came again. Later, when Wei was twenty-five, he passed the metropolitan examination and became an official in the Court of State Ceremonial. He was sent on a mission to offer sacrifices to the Western Marchmount, and on the way passed through Huayin. Suddenly there came a retinue with feather-canopies, racing forward and colliding with his own procession. Startled, he looked closely at the man in the carriage—it was his father. He dismounted and knelt weeping by the roadside. His father stopped the carriage and said, "Your official reputation is good—my eyes are closed in peace." Wei prostrated himself and would not rise. His father urged the carriage forward; it sped away like fire without looking back. After going several paces, he turned back, took off his girdle-knife, and sent a man to present it. From afar he said, "Wear this and you shall be honored." Wei wished to follow after, but he saw the carriage, horses, and attendants drift away like the wind—and in an instant they were gone. He grieved and regretted for a long while. He drew the knife and looked at it; its workmanship was extremely fine, and on it was engraved a single line: "Be bold in heart yet subtle in mind; be wise in strategy yet square in conduct." Wei later rose to the post of Minister of War. He had five sons: Chen, Qian, Mi, Hun, and Shen. One night he dreamed that his father said, "The girdle-knife should be given to Hun." He followed this advice. Hun served as Chief Censor and gained a reputation for good governance. The Historian of the Strange comments: "To cut the crane's leg and extend the duck's—such artifice is vain; to transplant flowers and graft branches—the originator is remarkable; how much more so when one applies chisel and adze to the liver and bowels, and plies needle and awl to the neck! Lord Lu may be said to have ugly skin enclosing fair bone. From the end of the Ming to the present is not many years—does Lord Lu of Lingyang still exist? Does his spirit still hold power? To serve as his groom—that is my glad aspiration." **Yingning** Wang Zifu, a native of Luodian in Ju, lost his father early. He was exceptionally bright; at fourteen he entered the prefectural school. His mother loved him most and ordinarily would not let him roam the countryside. He had been betrothed to a Miss Xiao, but she died before marriage, so he had not yet found a mate. It happened that on the Lantern Festival, a cousin of his maternal uncle's family, Wu Sheng, invited him to go sightseeing together. Just as they reached the edge of the village, a servant from his uncle's house came to summon Wu away. Wang saw a throng of sightseeing women, and in high spirits wandered alone. There was a young lady with a maidservant, holding a sprig of plum blossom—her beauty was unsurpassed, and her smile was radiant. Wang stared fixedly, forgetting all restraint. After the lady had passed several paces, she said to her maid, "That young fellow's eyes are blazing like a thief's!" She dropped the flower on the ground, laughed and chatted as she went away. Wang picked up the flower, dejected; his soul seemed lost, and he returned home disconsolate. He hid the flower under his pillow, laid his head down, and slept. He would not speak nor eat. His mother was worried. Prayers and exorcisms only made things worse, and his flesh and skin wasted rapidly. A physician was called to examine him; he prescribed diaphoretics, but Wang remained dazed and confused. His mother stroked him and asked the cause, but he remained silent. Just then Wu Sheng came, and she instructed him to question Wang in private. Wu went to the bedside; when Wang saw him, he wept a little. Wu sat by the bed and comforted him, gradually pressing for details. Wang told him everything and begged him to devise a plan. Wu laughed and said, "Your intention is also rather foolish! This wish is not hard to fulfill—I shall seek her out for you. A girl walking alone in the wilds cannot be from a noble house. If she is not yet betrothed, then the matter is certainly feasible; if not, we can resort to heavy bribes, and the plan will surely succeed. Only let your illness be cured, and the rest is in my hands." Hearing this, Wang could not help breaking into a smile. Wu went out and told the mother, then set about searching for the girl's neighborhood and residence. But after searching far and near, he found no trace. The mother grew very worried, at a loss for what to do. However, after Wu left, Wang's expression brightened, and he ate a little. A few days later, Wu came again. Wang asked about his plan. Wu deceived him, saying, "I have found her. Who do you think it is? She is my aunt's daughter—that is, your cousin on the maternal side—and she is still awaiting betrothal. Though there is the impropriety of marriage between close relatives, if we frankly tell them, there will certainly be no objection." Wang's face lit up with joy, and he asked, "Where does she live?" Wu lied, "In the mountains to the southwest, about thirty li from here." Wang exhorted him repeatedly, and Wu readily took the responsibility upon himself and left. From then on, Sheng gradually regained his appetite and day by day recovered. He probed under his pillow; though the flower was withered, it had not yet fallen apart. He contemplated it in his hands, as if seeing her person. Wondering why Wu did not come, he sent a note inviting him. Wu made excuses and refused to come. Sheng was angered and vexed, gloomy and unhappy. His mother, fearing he would fall ill again, urgently arranged a marriage for him. Whenever she broached the subject, he would shake his head and refuse, only looking daily for Wu. Wu still gave no word, and Sheng grew even more resentful. Then he reflected that thirty li was not far—why must he rely on others? He tucked the plum blossom in his sleeve and, in a fit of pique, set off alone, without his family knowing. Solitary and trudging, with no one to ask the way, he simply headed south toward the mountains. After some thirty-odd li, the chaotic peaks clustered together; the verdant air refreshed his skin, yet there was no one about—only a narrow trail for birds. Gazing far into the valley, among thick flowers and tangled trees, he vaguely made out a tiny village. Descending the mountain and entering the hamlet, he saw only a few houses, all thatched cottages, yet they had an air of refined elegance. The one facing north had silken willows before its gate; inside the wall, peach and apricot trees were especially thick, interspersed with tall bamboos; wild birds chattered among them. Taking it for a garden pavilion, he did not dare enter abruptly. Turning back, he saw that opposite the gate there was a large smooth white stone, so he sat down on it to rest a while. Suddenly he heard a girl within the wall calling out "Xiao Rong" in a delicate, slender voice. He was standing and listening when a young lady came from east to west, holding a sprig of apricot blossom, lowering her head to pin it in her hair. Lifting her gaze, she saw Sheng and stopped pinning; smiling, she twirled the flower and went in. Looking closely, he recognized her as the one he had met on the road at the Lantern Festival. His heart leaped with joy. But he thought of no way to gain entry; he wished to call her his aunt, yet he had never had any dealings with that household, and feared a mistake. There was no one inside the gate to ask. He wandered and lingered, from dawn till sunset, gazing intently and forgetting hunger and thirst. Now and then he saw the girl peeping out with half her face, as if surprised he had not left. Suddenly an old woman leaning on a staff came out, looked at Sheng, and said, "Where are you from, young sir? I hear you have been here since the hour of Chen and remain till now. What is your purpose? Are you not hungry?" Sheng quickly rose and bowed, replying, "I came to see a relative." The old woman was hard of hearing and did not catch it. He repeated louder. She then asked, "What is the surname of your distinguished relatives?" Sheng could not answer. The old woman laughed and said, "How strange! You do not even know the name—what relative can you seek? I see you, young sir, are merely a bookish fool. Better come with me; I will give you some coarse food to eat, and I have a short couch where you may sleep. Tomorrow, when you return, find out the surname, and then come back to visit—it will not be too late." Sheng was indeed hungry and wanted to eat, and moreover he would thus be nearer the fair maiden, so he was greatly pleased. He followed the old woman inside. Inside the gate, he saw a path paved with white stones, with red flowers lining both sides, petals falling in patches upon the steps. Turning westward through a winding way, they opened another gate; within the courtyard were bean trellises and flower frames everywhere. She ushered the guest into the room, where whitewashed walls shone like mirrors; branches of crabapple blossoms outside the window reached into the chamber; cushions, mats, tables and couches were all spotlessly clean. As soon as he sat down, someone peeped faintly from outside the window. The old woman called, "Xiao Rong! Quickly prepare the millet." Outside, a maidservant answered with a loud voice. While they sat, she asked about his lineage. The old woman said, "Your maternal grandfather—surely his surname is Wu?" "Yes," he said. The old woman exclaimed in surprise, "Then you are my nephew! Your mother is my younger sister. In recent years, because our family was poor and we had no grown man, letters have been cut off. My nephew has grown so big, yet we have never met." Sheng said, "I came precisely to see my aunt; in my haste I forgot the surname." The old woman said, "My surname is Qin, and I have borne no children; the only daughter left to me is also by a concubine. Her mother remarried and left her to me to bring up. She is not dull, but she has had little discipline, and in her playfulness she does not know restraint. In a little while, she shall come to pay her respects." Not long after, the maidservant laid out the meal, with young chickens no bigger than a fist. The old woman urged him to eat; when he was done, the maid came to clear away. The old woman said, "Call Miss Ning to come." The maid answered and went. After a long while, they heard faint laughter outside the door. The old woman called again, "Yingning, your elder cousin is here." Outside, tittering and giggling continued without end. The maid pushed her in; she still kept her hand over her mouth, unable to stop laughing. The old woman glared and said, "With a guest present, all this cackling and chattering—what kind of sight is that?" The girl stood, stifling her laughter, and Sheng bowed to her. The old woman said, "This is Wang Lang, your aunt's son. We are family and yet we did not know each other—laughable indeed." Sheng asked, "How old is my little cousin?" The old woman did not catch him. He repeated it. The girl laughed again, unable to raise her head. The old woman said to Sheng, "I said she had little discipline—you see it now. She is sixteen, yet as silly as a child." Sheng said, "She is a year younger than I." "Ah, my nephew is seventeen—is he not a Gengwu year, born under the Horse?" Sheng nodded in assent. She asked again, "And who is your wife?" He answered, "I have none." She said, "With such talent and looks, how can he be still unbetrothed at seventeen? Yingning also has no betrothal—they are a perfect match; only it is a pity that they are close kin." Sheng said nothing, his eyes fixed on Yingning, unable to look away. The maid whispered to the girl, "Those blazing eyes—that rogue look has not changed!" The girl laughed again, and turning to the maid said, "Let us see if the peach blossoms have opened." She abruptly rose, covering her mouth with her sleeve, and went out with quick, mincing steps. Once outside the door, her laughter burst forth freely. The old woman also rose, called the maid to prepare bedding, and made arrangements for Sheng. She said, "It is not easy for my nephew to come; you should stay three or five days, and I will send you home in good time. If you feel bored, there is a small garden behind the house where you may amuse yourself; there are books to read." The next day, he went behind the house and indeed found a garden of half a mu, with fine grass spread like a carpet and willow catkins scattered on the paths; there were three thatched rooms, surrounded by flowering trees on all sides. Strolling among the flowers, he heard a rustling sound in the treetops; looking up, he saw Yingning up there. Seeing him approach, she burst into wild laughter and nearly fell. Sheng said, "Careful—you will fall!" She descended while still laughing, unable to stop herself. Just as she was about to reach the ground, she lost her hold and fell; only then did the laughter cease. Sheng helped her up and secretly squeezed her wrist. She burst out laughing again, leaning against the tree, unable to walk, and only after a long while did she stop. Sheng waited until her laughter subsided, then took out the flower from his sleeve and showed it to her. She took it and said, "It is withered. Why keep it?" He said, "This is what my little cousin gave me at the Lantern Festival, so I kept it." She asked, "Why keep it?" He said, "To show that I cherish your kindness and will not forget. Since we met at the Lantern Festival, I have pined and fallen ill, thinking I would turn into a ghost; I never expected to see your face again—I beg you to take pity on me." She said, "That is a trifling matter. Between such close kin, what is there to begrudge? When you are ready to leave, I will call an old servant to break off a great bundle of flowers from the garden and carry it for you." Sheng said, "Are you foolish, cousin?" She said, "How am I foolish?" He said, "I do not love the flower—I love the person who holds it." She said, "With the affection of kindred, what need is there to speak of love?" He said, "The love I speak of is not the love of relatives, but the love of husband and wife." She said, "Is it different?" He said, "It means sharing a pillow at night." She pondered with bowed head for a long time, then said, "I am not used to sleeping with strangers." Before she had finished, the maidservant stole up, and Sheng, flustered, fled away. After a while, they met at the old woman's place. The old woman asked, "Where have you been?" The girl answered that they had been talking in the garden. The old woman said, "The meal has been ready for a long time; what long talk was so protracted?" The girl said, "Elder brother wanted me to share his bed." Before she finished, Sheng was greatly embarrassed and glared at her urgently. The girl smiled and stopped. Fortunately, the old woman did not hear and kept pressing with questions. Sheng hurriedly deflected with other words, and then quietly reproved the girl. She said, "Was that not the right thing to say?" He said, "That is a private matter." She said, "One may hide it from others, but how can one hide it from one's mother? Besides, sleeping together is a common thing—why be secretive about it?" Sheng resented her simplicity, but there was no way to enlighten her. Just as they finished eating, people from his family arrived with two donkeys to fetch him. First, the mother, having waited a long time for Sheng's return without success, began to grow suspicious. She searched throughout the village several times, but found no trace of him. She then went to inquire of Wu. Wu recalled what he had said before, and so told her to go look in the southwestern mountain villages. After passing through several villages, she finally arrived at this place. Sheng came out the door just as she arrived, so he went in to inform the old woman, and asked to take the girl back with him. The old woman was delighted and said: "I have had this wish for a long time, not just since yesterday or today. But my worn-out body cannot travel far; if I may have my nephew take my little girl to go and recognize her aunt, that would be excellent!" She called for Yingning. Yingning came over, laughing. The old woman said: "What is there to be so happy about, that your laughter never stops? If you did not laugh, you would be a perfect person." She glared at her with reproachful eyes. Then she said: "Your older brother wants to take you with him—go and pack your things." She then served the household servants food and wine, and only then sent them out, saying: "Aunt's family has abundant fields and property, enough to support an extra person. When you get there, do not think of returning soon; learn some poetry and propriety, and it will also be good for serving your future parents-in-law. I will trouble your aunt to choose a fine match for you." The two then set out. When they reached the mountain pass, looking back, they could still dimly see the old woman leaning against the door, gazing northward. When they arrived home, the mother saw the beautiful young woman and asked in surprise who she was. Sheng said she was his aunt's daughter. The mother said: "What that Wu fellow told you before was a lie. I have no elder sister—how could I have a niece?" She asked the girl, who said: "I was not born to mother. My father was of the Qin family; when he died, I was still in swaddling clothes and cannot remember." The mother said: "I did have one elder sister who married into the Qin family—that much is true—but she passed away long ago, how could she still be alive?" She then questioned her closely about her face, features, and birthmarks, and they matched in every detail. Still doubtful, she said: "That is right. But she has been dead many years—how could she still exist?" While she was still puzzling over this, Wu arrived, and the girl withdrew into the inner chamber. Wu learned the whole story and was bewildered for a long while. Suddenly he said: "Is this girl's name Yingning?" Sheng said yes. Wu repeatedly exclaimed that it was strange. Asked how he knew this, Wu said: "After Aunt Qin passed away, Uncle Qin lived as a widower and was haunted by a fox spirit, growing ill and emaciated until he died. The fox spirit gave birth to a daughter named Yingning, who was swaddled and laid on the bed—all the family saw her. After Uncle Qin died, the fox spirit still came from time to time; later, when a Taoist priest's talisman was pasted on the wall, the fox spirit took the girl and left. Could this not be her?" They all puzzled over it together. But from within the room came the sound of Yingning's giggles. The mother said: "This girl is too much of a simpleton." Wu asked to see her face to face. The mother went into the room, but the girl was still laughing heartily without a care. The mother urged her to come out, and only then did she force herself to hold back her laughter, and after facing the wall for a while, she came out. But as soon as she made a bow, she abruptly turned and ran back inside, bursting into loud laughter. All the women in the room were set off laughing as well. Wu offered to go and investigate the strangeness of it, and to act as matchmaker as well. He soon went to the village, but the house was completely gone, with only scattered mountain flowers remaining. Wu recalled where his aunt had been buried; it seemed to be not far off, but the grave mound had been obliterated beyond recognition. He returned in wonder and lamentation. The mother began to suspect the girl was a ghost. When she told the girl what Wu had said, Yingning showed not the least alarm; and when she expressed sympathy that she had no family, she likewise showed no sadness, only smiling her simple, foolish smile. No one could fathom her. The mother had her sleep with her younger daughter. At dawn she would come to pay her respects, and her needlework was exquisite beyond compare. But she was prone to laughter—it could not be stopped even by forbidding it; yet when she laughed she was charming, and even when unrestrained, it did not detract from her beauty, so everyone enjoyed it. The neighboring girls and young wives all vied to welcome her. The mother chose an auspicious day to have them wed, but still feared she might be a ghost. She secretly peeked at her in the sunlight—her form and shadow were no different at all. On the appointed day, she had her dress in finery and go through the bride's rites; but Yingning laughed so much she could not bend or straighten up, so they called it off. Sheng, because of her simple-mindedness, feared she might let slip the secrets of the bedchamber; but Yingning was extremely discreet and would not speak a single word. Whenever the mother was worried or angry, Yingning would come, and one smile from her would dissolve everything. If servants or maids committed minor faults and feared a beating, they would beg Yingning to go and talk with the mother; when the offending servant then presented herself, she would usually be let off. She also had an obsession with flowers, seeking them out among all relatives and acquaintances; she secretly pawned her gold hairpins to buy fine varieties. In a few months, the steps, railings, walls, and even the latrines were covered with flowers. Behind the courtyard there was a trellis of woodbine, which bordered the western neighbor's house. Yingning would often climb up on it to pick flowers for her hair or to admire. The mother would scold her whenever she saw her. But Yingning never changed. One day, the neighbor's son saw her and gazed at her, utterly captivated. Yingning did not avoid him but smiled. The neighbor's son thought her heart was already his, and his desires grew more wanton. Yingning pointed at the foot of the wall, still smiling, and climbed down. The neighbor's son took this as a sign of a tryst and was overjoyed. At dusk he went there, and Yingning was indeed there. He embraced her and tried to have his way with her—but suddenly it felt as if a needle were stabbing his lower parts, with pain piercing his heart. He screamed loudly and fell over. Looking closely, it was not Yingning at all, but a dead tree lying by the wall, and what he had penetrated was a knothole that had been worn through by water. The neighbor's father heard the sound, rushed over and questioned him; he only groaned and would not speak. When his wife came, he finally told her the truth. They brought a torch to light the hole, and inside found a huge scorpion, like a small crab. The old man broke the wood and killed it. He carried his son home, but the son died at midnight. The neighbor sued Sheng, accusing Yingning of being an妖异 (strange being). The county magistrate had always admired Sheng's talent and knew he was a man of steadfast virtue, so he ruled that the neighbor's accusation was false and was about to have him flogged. Sheng pleaded for mercy for him, and the man was released. The mother said to Yingning: "So wild and foolish—I knew that excessive joy would harbor misfortune. The magistrate is enlightened, and luckily we were not implicated; if it had been a muddled official, he would surely have had you women brought to court—how would my son have been able to face his relatives and neighbors?" Yingning put on a grave expression and swore she would never laugh again. The mother said: "There is no one who never laughs—one just needs to know the proper time." But from then on, Yingning indeed never laughed again; even when deliberately teased, she still would not laugh, yet she showed no sign of sadness all day long. One evening, she wept in front of Sheng. Surprised, he asked what was wrong. Yingning, choking with tears, said: "Previously, since we had been together only a short time, I feared that speaking of it would cause shock and alarm. But now I see that both my aunt and you have shown me nothing but affection, with no ill intent—may I speak frankly? I was born of a fox. When my mother left, she entrusted me to my ghost mother, and we depended on each other for over ten years, which is how I have come to this day. I have no brothers, and the only one I can rely on is you. My old mother lies solitary in the hills, with no one to pity her and bury her properly, and in the Nine Springs she grieves forever. If you would not begrudge the trouble and expense, so that she underground may be freed from this resentment, then perhaps those who bear daughters need not be so quick to drown them." Sheng agreed, but worried that the grave might be lost among the wild grass. Yingning said not to worry. They set a day, and the couple took a coffin and went there. In the midst of wild mists and tangled brush, Yingning pointed out the grave site, and indeed they found the old woman's body, her skin and flesh still intact. Yingning wept over her with great sorrow. They carried her back and found the Qin family grave to bury her alongside. That night, Sheng dreamed that the old woman came to thank him, and upon waking he told Yingning. She said: "I saw her last night, and she told me not to startle you." Sheng regretted not having invited her to stay. Yingning said: "She is a ghost. There are too many living people here, and the force of yang is too strong—how could she remain long?" Sheng asked about Little Rong. She said: "She too is a fox, and the most cunning. The fox mother left her to look after me; she would always bring me food to feed me, so I remain grateful and never forget her. I asked Mother yesterday, and she said she has already married." From then on, every Cold Food Festival, the couple would go to the Qin grave to sweep it without fail. The following year, Yingning gave birth to a son. When held in the arms, the child was not afraid of strangers; he would laugh at everyone he saw, and greatly took after his mother. The Historian of the Strange remarks: "Watching her diligent, foolish laughter, one would think she had no heart at all; but that prank by the wall—could there be any greater cunning? Yet when it came to her sorrowful attachment to her ghost mother, she turned laughter into tears—my Yingning was truly one who hid herself in laughter. I have heard that in the mountains there is a plant called 'Laughing-to-Death.' One sniff of it and you cannot stop laughing. Plant this kind in a room, and the 'Joy-Together' and 'Forget-Worry' flowers would pale by comparison. As for the 'Flower That Understands Speech,' it is rather too affected." Nie Xiaoqian Ning Caichen was a man of Zhejiang. He was open and straightforward by nature, and scrupulous in his conduct. He often said to others: "In my whole life, I have never had a second woman." He happened to be traveling to Jinhua, and when he reached the northern outskirts, he put up at a Buddhist temple. The temple's halls and pagodas were magnificent, but the mugwort and brambles grew as tall as a man, suggesting that no one came there. The monks' quarters on the east and west sides had their double doors closed but not locked; only a small cell on the south side had its door bolted as if newly locked. He also noticed that in the eastern corner of the hall, the tall bamboos were as thick as a man's grasp, and below the steps was a large pond where wild lotuses were already in bloom. He was greatly pleased by its secluded quietness. It happened that the provincial examiner was arriving for the examinations, so lodgings in the city were expensive, and he thought he might stay here; he therefore strolled about, waiting for the monks to return. At dusk, a scholar came and opened the southern door. Ning hurried forward to salute him and told him his intention. The scholar said, "There is no landlord here; I too am lodging temporarily. If you can endure the desolation, and will favor me with your instruction morning and evening, I would be most fortunate." Ning was delighted, using straw as a mat and propping up a board as a table, making preparations for a long stay. That night the moon was bright and lofty, its pure light like water. The two men sat knee to knee in the corridor of the hall and exchanged their names. The scholar introduced himself, saying, "My surname is Yan, my courtesy name Chixia." Ning thought he was a candidate for the examinations, but listening to his voice, which was quite unlike that of Zhejiang, he asked further, and the man said, "I am from Qin." His speech was very simple and sincere. Soon their conversation was exhausted, so they saluted each other and retired to their respective beds. Ning, being in a new dwelling, could not fall asleep for a long time. He heard whispering from the north of the house, as if there were family members. He rose, lay prone under the north wall, and peered slightly through a stone window. He saw beyond a low wall a small courtyard, with a woman of about forty or more, and an old woman in a dark crimson garment, wearing a rustic hairpin, with a hunched back and dragging steps, murmuring together under the moonlight. The woman said, "Why has Xiaoqian not come for so long?" The old woman said, "She is probably about to come." The woman said, "Is she perhaps harboring some complaint against the old lady?" The reply was, "I have not heard any, but her expression seems troubled." The woman said, "The girl ought not to make close acquaintances with just anyone!" Before she had finished speaking, a girl of seventeen or eighteen arrived, coming gently, and her appearance was stunningly beautiful. The old woman laughed and said, "Do not speak of people behind their backs—we two were just talking about you, you little demon maid, and you come quietly without a trace of footsteps. Fortunately we did not happen to speak of your shortcomings." Then she added, "Miss, you are so fine and lovely, you are like a figure from a painting; even if this old body were a man, she would have her soul stolen away." The girl said, "If the old lady does not praise me, who else will speak well of me?" The woman and the girl then said something else unknown. Ning thought they were the family of his neighbors, so he lay down and did not listen further. After some time, all became silent. Just as he was about to fall asleep, he sensed someone coming to his chamber. He quickly rose and looked carefully—it was the girl from the northern courtyard. He asked in surprise. The girl smiled and said, "On this moonlit night, unable to sleep, I wish to offer you my companionship." Ning said with a serious expression, "You should fear public gossip, and I fear men's talk; with one slight misstep, one's honor and shame are lost." The girl said, "There is no one who knows at night." Ning again rebuked her. She hesitated as if to speak again, but Ning cried, "Go quickly! Otherwise, I shall call the scholar from the southern chamber." The girl was frightened and withdrew. When she reached outside the door, she turned back and placed a gold ingot on his mat. Ning picked it up and flung it into the courtyard, saying, "Ill-gotten goods, they would defile my bag!" The girl, ashamed, went out, picked up the gold, and said to herself, "This man must be made of iron and stone." The next morning, a scholar from Lanxi came with a servant to await the examinations and lodged in the eastern wing. By night he suddenly died. On the sole of his foot was a small hole, as if pierced by an awl, with a tiny trickle of blood. No one knew the cause. After a night passed, one of the servants also died, with the same symptoms. Toward evening, Yan returned, and Ning questioned him about it. Yan thought it was the work of a demon. Ning had always been upright and unyielding, and paid little heed. At midnight, the girl came again and said to Ning, "I have seen many men, but never one with such an iron will as yours. You are truly a sage, and I dare not deceive you. My name is Xiaoqian, surname Nie. I died at eighteen and was buried beside the temple, and have since been threatened by demonic things and forced to do menial tasks. To shamelessly approach people is not my wish. Now there is no one left in the temple to be killed, and I fear that a yaksha will come tonight." Ning was terrified and asked for a plan. The girl said, "Sharing a room with Scholar Yan will save you." He asked, "Why does he not enchant Yan?" She said, "He is an extraordinary man, and I dare not approach him." He then asked, "How do you enchant people?" She said, "Those who are intimate with me—I secretly prick their feet with an awl, and they become dazed and confused, and I then draw their blood for the demon to drink. Or I give them gold—but it is not real gold; it is the bone of a rakshasa demon, which, if kept, can cut out the heart and liver. These two things are merely to cater to their common tastes." Ning thanked her and asked when he should be on guard. She answered, "Tomorrow night." As she left, she wept and said, "I have fallen into a dark sea and can find no shore. Your righteous spirit reaches the clouds, and you must be able to rescue me from suffering. If you would be willing to take my rotting bones and bury them in a safe resting place, that would be more than a second act of creation for me." Ning resolutely agreed, and asked where she was buried. She said, "Just remember—on the white poplar tree, there is a crow's nest; that is the place." Having said this, she went out the door and vanished in a flutter. The next day, fearing that Yan might go out, Ning went early to invite him. After the hour of Chen, he prepared wine and food and carefully observed Yan. Having arranged to share the night, Yan declined, saying he was by nature fond of quiet and solitude. Ning would not listen and forcibly brought his bedding over. Yan had no choice but to move his couch and follow him, instructing him, saying, "I know you are a man of honor, and my admiration for you is deep. However, I have a private concern that is difficult to reveal immediately. I ask that you do not pry into my boxes and wrappers. If you violate this, it will be bad for both of us." Ning respectfully accepted the admonition. Thereupon they each went to bed. Yan placed his box by the window, and after lying down for a while, snored like thunder. Ning could not fall asleep. Near the first watch—one version has "hour"—there was faintly a human shape outside the window; presently it came near the window to peer in, its eyes flashing and gleaming. Ning was frightened, and was about to call for Yan, when suddenly something burst out of the wicker box, shining like a bolt of white silk; it struck and broke the stone lattice of the window, and with a whistling sound—one version has "suddenly"—it shot forth, then swiftly drew back in, like a flash of lightning extinguished. Yan awoke and rose; Ning pretended to be asleep to observe him. Yan took the wicker box and examined it, then took out an object, and under the moon sniffed and looked at it: it was white and sparkling, about two inches long and as thick as a leek leaf. After a while he wrapped it securely in several layers and put it back into the broken box, muttering to himself: "What old demon is this, so audacious as to damage my box?" Then he lay down again. Ning, greatly astonished—one version has "called out"—rose and questioned him, and also told him what he had seen—one version has "told Yan what he had seen." Yan said, "Since you have shown me such trust and affection, how dare I conceal it further? I am a swordsman. If it were not for the stone lattice, the demon would have been killed on the spot; even so, it is wounded." Ning asked, "What is it that you sealed up?" He replied, "A sword. Just now I sniffed it and detected demonic aura." Ning wished to see it; Yan generously brought it out to show him: it was a tiny sword, gleaming faintly. From then on Ning held Yan in even greater esteem. The next day, looking outside the window, they saw bloodstains. Thereupon they went out to the north of the temple and saw a cluster of desolate graves; indeed there was a white poplar, with a crow's nest on its top. When Ning had finished his preparations, he packed his things to return home. Yan Sheng set up a farewell feast, with deep and sincere affection. 〈[He's comment: His deportment was that of a proper man.]〉 He presented Ning with a worn leather pouch, saying, "This is a sword bag. If you treasure it, it can keep away demons and monsters." 〈[Dan's comment: Sincerity, faithfulness, and uprightness naturally resonate with a swordsman; the gift of the leather pouch was by no means ordinary.]〉 Ning wished to learn his arts from him. Yan said, "With your sincerity, faithfulness, and uprightness—〈[Feng's comment: An upright man is not without feeling, but he can restrain himself within the bounds of propriety and righteousness. Hence the loyal ministers and filial sons, the righteous husbands and chaste wives of antiquity, who performed resplendent deeds, all did so through feeling. As for those shallow and unprincipled people of the world, who covet profit at the sight of gain, who are infatuated by beauty at the sight of a woman, and who, at the slightest change, cast aside their commitments like worn-out shoes—Wang Kui and Yuan Zheng might well have considered themselves full of passion, but I say that Liu Xiahui and the man of Lu were the truly passionate people of the world.]—you are fit for this. However, you are still a man of wealth and rank; you are not one of this path." Ning then pretended that he had a younger sister buried there, exhumed the maiden's bones, wrapped them in clothes and coverlets, hired a boat, and returned home. Ning's study faced the wilds; he therefore built a grave and buried her outside the study, and offered a sacrifice, saying: "I pity you, a fox spirit's soul, buried near my humble abode; our songs and wails shall be heard by each other, and perhaps you will not be bullied by fierce ghosts. 〈[Dan's comment: His openness and magnanimity are evident in his words.]〉 A single cup of water and thin wine—though not clear or fine—I hope you will not despise it." After the prayer he turned back, and then someone called out: "Wait a moment, let me go with you!" Looking back, it was Xiaoqian, who joyfully thanked him, saying: "Your sincerity and faithfulness—even ten deaths would not repay you. Please allow me to follow you home to pay respects to your parents; as a handmaid or concubine I shall have no regrets." He scrutinized her: her skin shone like rosy clouds, her feet were dainty as tender bamboo shoots; by daylight, when he looked closely, she was even more exquisitely beautiful. So they went together to his study; he asked her to sit and wait a little, and first went in to tell his mother. His mother was startled. At that time Ning's wife had been ill for a long time, so his mother warned him not to speak of it, fearing it would alarm her—one version has "cause alarm." While they were speaking, the girl had already swept in gracefully—one version has "nimbly"—and knelt down on the floor. Ning said, "This is Xiaoqian." His mother was so shocked she could not even look at her properly. The girl said to his mother: "I am a solitary soul, far from my parents and brothers. Thanks to your son's shelter and protection, his kindness has covered my very skin and hair. I wish to serve as a humble attendant, to repay his great virtue." 〈[Dan's comment: Demons arise from men; when men abandon proper conduct, then demons arise: when a man has lustful thoughts, beauty-demons are born; when he has greedy thoughts, wealth-demons are born. Before the tryst is over, blood is already lapped; before the bag is opened, the liver is already cut out. Unless one stands firm as iron and stone, how many can escape death from the yaksha's awl or the rakshasa's bone? Even if one meets a remarkable man, would he lightly act as a protector for those who are not yet made men? Your lordship's righteousness reaches to the clouds; indeed you can rescue the suffering and give life to the dead. She is grateful that her lonely soul has found a refuge, and fortunate that the fierce ghosts will not bully her; her humble wish to serve as handmaid is but a proper recompense, and also fitting by the principles of requital. Thus a man who has never taken a second wife—how can he not enjoy the blessing of a beautiful mate?]〉 When his mother saw how charming and lovely she was, she dared to speak with her, saying: "Little miss, your kindness in favoring my son fills this old woman with boundless joy. But I have only this one son, to carry on the family line; I dare not let him take a ghost as his mate." The girl said, "I truly have no ulterior motives. Since an one from the underworld cannot gain the trust of my honored mother, may I beg to serve as your son's younger sister, to attend upon you, wait on you morning and evening—how about that?" His mother, moved by her sincerity, agreed. She then wished to pay her respects to her sister-in-law, but his mother excused herself on the grounds of illness, and so she desisted. The girl then went into the kitchen, and took over his mother's work of cooking; she moved about the rooms and through the doors—one version has "through the thresholds"—as if she had long been accustomed to the place. At dusk, his mother, still fearful of her, told her to go back to her own chambers—one version has "wanted her to go back to sleep"—and did not prepare a bed or bedding for her. The girl, perceiving his mother's intention, left at once. She passed by the study and wanted to enter but drew back; she paced about outside the door, as if afraid of something. Ning called to her. The girl said, "There is a sword aura in this room that frightens people. The reason I did not dare approach you on the road—one version has "it"—was precisely because of this." 〈[He's comment: This supplies the explanation.]〉 Ning (then) realized it was the leather pouch, and took it to hang in another room. The girl then entered and sat down by the lamp. After a while, she remained completely silent; after a long time, she asked, "Are you reading tonight? 〈[Feng's comment: This gives rise to more.]〉 When I was young I recited the Shurangama Sutra; now I have forgotten more than half. May I ask you for a copy, so that in my spare evenings I may come and have you correct my recitation?" Ning agreed. She sat again, still silent, and when the second watch was nearly over, she showed no sign of leaving. 〈[Feng's comment: She lingered fondly like a bird that clings to a person.]〉 Ning urged her to go; she said sorrowfully, "A lonely soul in a strange land—I am especially afraid of the desolate graveyard." Ning said, "There is no other bed here; besides, as brother and sister—one version has "younger brother"—we should keep a proper distance." The girl rose, her brows—one version has "countenance"—knit in distress, on the verge of tears; her feet hesitated and she moved reluctantly, then unhurriedly went out, stepped over the threshold, and vanished. Ning secretly pitied her, and wished to let her stay in another bed, but feared his mother's displeasure. The girl came to pay respects to his mother every morning, brought a basin for her to wash, and went about the household tasks below, all of which she performed in complete accordance—one version has "to her mother's will"; at dusk she would take her leave, but always passed by the study, where she read the sutra by lamplight; only when she sensed that Ning was about to retire did she sadly go away—one version has "go out." Earlier, 〈[Feng's comment: A retrospective narration.]〉 Ning's wife had been bedridden from illness, and his mother had been exhausted beyond endurance; but since obtaining the girl, she was much at ease, and felt grateful to her. As time passed and they grew more familiar, she loved her as if she were her own daughter, and quite forgot that she was a ghost; she could not bear to send her away at night, and kept her to sleep and rise together. At first the girl had never eaten or drunk—one version has "food and drink"—but after half a year she gradually began to sip thin gruel. Both mother and son doted on her, and avoided mentioning that she was a ghost, so others also did not—one version has "know how to"—distinguish her. Before long, Ning's wife died. His mother secretly—one version has "covertly"—had thoughts of taking the girl as daughter-in-law, but feared she might not be good for her son. The girl, having glimpsed—one version has "learned"—this, took an opportunity to tell (his mother): "I have lived here over a year, and you should know my inmost heart. It was to avoid harming travelers that I came with your son. My humble intent is nothing else—only that because your son is so open and magnanimous, admired by all heaven and men, I truly wish to stay and assist him for a few years, so as to gain for him an official title for his wife, and thereby bring glory to my grave." 〈[Dan's comment: "Gain an official title to glorify my grave"—for one who is admired by heaven and men, it is as certain as holding a left tally.]〉 His mother also knew that she meant no harm, but feared that she might not be able to continue the family line. The girl said, "Children are only bestowed by Heaven. Your son has good fortune recorded in the book of fate; he will have three sons who will uphold the ancestral line, and that will not be taken away just because he has a ghost for a wife." 〈[Feng's comment: The sages and worthies are originally found within human feelings.]〉 His mother believed her, and discussed it with her son; Ning was pleased, and thereupon set out a feast and informed his relatives and friends. Someone asked to see the new bride. The girl, with great composure, adorned herself in splendid dress and came out. Everyone in the hall was astonished—some said "pleased"—and no longer suspected her of being a ghost, but rather thought her an immortal. Thereupon the womenfolk of the five clans all came bearing gifts to congratulate her, vying to make her acquaintance. The girl excelled at painting orchids (and plums), and would always respond with a foot-long scroll; those who received one treasured it, wrapping it in multiple layers, and counted it an honor. One day, leaning over the window with her head bowed, she seemed melancholy and at a loss—[Feng's commentary: another ripple.] Suddenly she asked, "Where is the leather pouch?" Ning replied, "Because you feared it, I sealed it away elsewhere." She said, "I have absorbed living breath for a long time now; I should no longer fear it. It would be best to bring it and hang it at the head of the bed." Ning pressed her for her meaning. She said, "For three days, my heart has been palpitating without cease. I fear that the demon from Jinhua, resenting my escape, may come seeking me at any moment." Ning indeed brought the leather pouch. The girl examined it closely again and again, saying, "This is what a sword immortal uses to hold a person's head. It is so tattered—who knows how many it has slain! Even now, when I look at it, my flesh still crawls with fear." So she hung it up. The next day, she ordered it moved again and hung over the door. That night, they sat facing the candle (and Ning was told not to sleep). Suddenly something descended like a flying bird. The girl, startled, hid behind the curtain. Ning saw the thing had the appearance of a yaksha—lightning-like eyes, blood-red tongue, flashing and glaring as it reached forward. It came to the door, then halted; paced back and forth for a long time, gradually approaching the leather pouch. It reached out with its claws, as if to tear it open. Suddenly the pouch gave a rattling sound and swelled to the size of a large basket. As if in a trance, a ghostly figure emerged halfway from within, seized the yaksha, and pulled it in. The sound then ceased, and the pouch instantly shrank back to its former size. Ning was terrified and astounded. The girl also came out, overjoyed, and said, "All is well!" Together they looked inside the pouch—only several dou of clear water remained. Several years later, Ning indeed passed the imperial examinations. (The girl) bore a son. After he took a concubine, each bore another son—[Feng's commentary: each bore a son—this means Xiaoqian had truly become human. In such matters, one should only discuss the writing, not insist on verifying the events.]—and all were successful in officialdom and earned good reputations. [He's commentary: The demon cannot overcome the righteous, yet without Yan Sheng, Ning would hardly have escaped. The leather pouch subdues demons—it is the object that does it, not the person.] [Fang's commentary: Virtue and righteousness are the great safeguards of the world. With these as safeguards, people still die for greed of wealth and lust, like the scholar from Lanxi. Caichen alone stood aloof from worldly dust. His rejection of lust—that is Zhan Chen's being unmoved by a woman in his lap; his disregard for wealth—that is Yang Zhen's refusing gold in the dead of night. He did not know that the beauty was a ghost, nor that the gold was rakshasa bone. He merely guarded himself with virtue and righteousness, and in the end received their reward. Yet in this world, when people are warned of disaster they fear it, but as soon as they see wealth and lust they forget it at once—this is to cast down one's own safeguards and seek to escape drowning, how misguided is their planning!] The Righteous Mouse Yang Tianyi related: He saw two mice come out; one was swallowed by a snake. The other stared with eyes like peppercorns, seemingly filled with hatred and rage, yet it watched from afar and dared not approach. The snake, its belly full, coiled into its hole. Just as it was about halfway in, the mouse rushed over and bit fiercely at its tail. Enraged, the snake withdrew its body. The mouse, naturally quick, darted away in an instant. The snake gave chase but could not catch it, and turned back. As it entered the hole, the mouse came again and bit as before. Whenever the snake went in, the mouse came; whenever the snake came out, the mouse fled. This went on for a long time. The snake finally came out and spat the dead mouse onto the ground. The living mouse came over, sniffed it, and made chirping sounds as if mourning, then carried it away in its mouth. The author's friend Zhang Liyou composed "The Righteous Mouse's Journey" on the matter. The Earthquake On the seventeenth day of the sixth month in the seventh year of the Kangxi reign, at the hour of Xu (around 8 p.m.), a great earthquake occurred. I happened to be staying in Jixia, drinking by candlelight with my elder cousin Li Duzhi. Suddenly we heard a sound like thunder, coming from the southeast and heading toward the northwest. Everyone was alarmed and puzzled, unable to explain it. Soon the tables and desks began to sway, cups overturned; roof beams, rafters, and pillars creaked and cracked audibly. We looked at each other in dismay. After a long while, we realized it was an earthquake, and each rushed outside. We saw towers, pavilions, and houses topple and rise again; the sounds of walls collapsing and houses crumbling, mingled with the cries of children and women, rose like a boiling cauldron. People were so dizzy they could not stand; they sat on the ground, rolling and shifting with the earth. The river water splashed up over a zhang high, and the quacking of ducks and barking of dogs filled the city. After over an hour, it began to settle. Looking at the streets, men and women were gathered naked, all telling each other what had happened, having quite forgotten they were not clothed. Later I heard that in some places wells had tilted and could not be drawn from; in some places towers and buildings had changed direction from north-south to east-west; Mount Qixia split open; the Yi River sank into a pit several mu across. Truly this was an extraordinary and unprecedented calamity. There was a country woman who rose at night to relieve herself. When she returned, a wolf had seized her son. The woman hurriedly struggled with the wolf. The wolf loosened its jaws, and the woman snatched her son out and held him in her arms. The wolf crouched and would not leave. The woman screamed loudly; neighbors gathered running, and then the wolf went away. When the woman's fright subsided, she became joyful, and gesticulated, pointing at the sky and the ground, describing how the wolf had seized her son and how she had taken him back. After a long while, she suddenly realized she was wearing not a single thread, and ran off. This is the same condition as the men and women during the earthquake who both forgot their clothing. How ridiculous it is that people in panic lose all sense! Master Hai On the ancient island of Donghai, there are five-colored winter-hardy flowers that bloom all year round. But on the island there had never been any inhabitants, and few people ever went there. A certain Zhang Sheng of Dengzhou, curious by nature and fond of hunting, heard of its beauty and prepared wine and food, then took a small boat and went there himself. When he arrived, the flowers were in full bloom, their fragrance carrying for several li; some trees were over ten spans in girth. He lingered there repeatedly, fully satisfying his fondness. He opened his wine jar to drink alone, lamenting that he had no companion. Suddenly, from among the flowers came a beautiful woman in red garments that dazzled the eyes, incomparably lovely. Seeing Zhang, she laughed and said, "I thought my own inclination was out of the ordinary—I never expected to find a kindred spirit already here." Zhang started and asked, "Who are you?" She replied, "I am a courtesan from Jiao. I came here with Master Hai just now. He has gone off to explore scenic spots, and since I have difficulty walking, I stayed behind." Zhang, who had been suffering from loneliness, was overjoyed at meeting a beauty and invited her to sit and drink with him. Her speech was gentle and warm, stirring one's spirit. Zhang took a liking to her, and fearing that Master Hai might come and prevent them from enjoying themselves fully, he drew her close and seduced her. The woman gladly yielded. While they were still in the midst of their dalliance, they suddenly heard a whistling wind, and the grass and trees bent and snapped with a sound. The woman quickly pushed Zhang up and said, "Master Hai has arrived." Zhang hurriedly fastened his clothes and looked around in alarm; the woman had already vanished. Then he saw a great serpent emerge from the thicket, thicker than a large barrel. Zhang was terrified and screened himself behind a large tree, hoping the snake would not see him. The snake came near, coiled its body around both the man and the tree, winding several times around; his arms were bound straight against his sides so that he could not bend them in the least. It raised its head and thrust its tongue into Zhang's nose. Blood dripped down from his nose, forming a puddle on the ground, and it bent down to drink it. Zhang was certain he would die, but then remembered the sachet at his waist containing poison for foxes. He pinched it out with two fingers, broke open the wrapping, and piled the powder in his palm; then tilting his head, he looked at his own palm and let the blood drip onto the medicine, and in a moment it filled his hand. The snake indeed came to drink from his palm. Before it had drunk it all, it suddenly stretched its body and lashed its tail with a thunderous crack, striking the tree and breaking half of the trunk; the snake lay dead on the ground like a beam. Zhang was also dazed and could not rise; only after some time did he revive. He took the snake back with him in his boat, and was ill for over a month. He suspected that the woman was also a snake spirit. Ding Qianxi Ding Qianxi was a man from Zhucheng. He was wealthy in money and grain. He was a knight-errant and loved righteousness, admiring the conduct of Guo Jie. The Censorate circuit inspector came to search for him. Ding fled. He reached Anqiu, where he encountered rain and took shelter in an inn. The rain continued past noon without stopping. A young man came and provided him with abundant food and lodging. When evening came, he stayed overnight at the young man's home; chopped beanstalks and beans were given to his horse, and he was provided with food most attentively. He asked the young man's surname and given name. The young man said, "My host's surname is Yang; I am his wife's nephew. My host loves to travel and socialize, and has just gone out on a journey; only the madam is at home. We are poor and cannot provide generously for guests; I hope you will be understanding." He asked what the host did for a living; it turned out the family had no assets, and only set up a gambling house daily to earn a meager living. The next day, the rain still did not stop, and the provisions were supplied without slackening. At dusk, he was chopping fodder, but the bundles of fodder were wet and quite uneven. Ding found this strange. The young man said, "To tell you the truth, honored guest: my family is poor and has nothing to feed your horse with; just now the madam had the roof thatch removed." Ding was even more astonished, thinking that their intention was to get money from him. At daybreak, he offered them money; they would not accept it. He pressed it on them; the young man took it inside. Soon after, he came back out and returned the money to the guest, saying, "The madam says: I am not one who makes a living by this sort of hunting for gain. When my master is away from home, he often goes several days without carrying a single coin; now that a guest has come to our house, how can we demand payment?" Ding sighed with admiration and took his leave. He charged them, saying, "I am one Ding of Zhucheng. When your master returns, you should tell him. If he has leisure, I hope he will visit me." Several years passed with no word. Then came a year of great famine, and Yang was in dire straits, with no way to cope. His wife casually urged him to go visit Ding, and he followed her advice. He went to Zhucheng and gave his name to the gateman. Ding could not at first recall him. Only after further explanation did he remember. He came out in his slippers, bowed, and invited the guest inside. Seeing Yang's clothes worn out and his heels showing through his shoes, he placed him in a warm room, set out a feast in his honor, and treated him with extraordinary favor. The next day, he had a hat and clothes made for him, lined and faced so they were warm both inside and out. Yang was moved by this kindness; but he also grew more anxious about his family at home, and in his narrow-mindedness could not help feeling a little disappointed. After several days, Ding still said nothing about giving him a parting gift. Yang was very worried, and said to Ding, "I dare not hide it from you: when I came, I had less than a sheng of rice. Now I have been overburdened with your generous hospitality, and I am certainly happy; but what of my wife and children?" Ding said, "You need not trouble yourself about that; I have already made arrangements on your behalf. Pray relax your mind and stay a little longer; I will help you with traveling expenses." He sent a servant to summon all the gamblers, and had Yang sit and collect a cut from the stakes; after one whole night, he had gained a hundred taels of silver, and Ding then sent him home. When Yang returned and saw his wife, her clothes and shoes were fresh and neat, and a young maidservant attended on her. He asked in astonishment. His wife said, "After you left, on the very next day there came carts and servants bringing bolts of cloth, grain, and beans, piled up and filling the house, saying that they were gifts from that gentleman Ding. Also a maidservant with nimble fingers was sent to wait on me." Yang was overcome with emotion. From this point on, his family became moderately prosperous, and he disdained his old occupation. The Historian of the Strange says: "To be poor yet fond of guests—drinking, gambling, and idle roisterers are good at that; the most extraordinary thing is the wife alone. To receive a man's charity and not repay it—can that be worthy of a man? Yet not to forget a single meal's kindness—that Ding had it indeed!" The Great Fish of the Sea By the seacoast there had originally been no mountains. One day, suddenly steep peaks were seen overlapping one another, stretching for several li; everyone was alarmed and amazed. Another day, the mountains suddenly moved elsewhere and disappeared into nothing. It is said that there is a great fish in the sea which, at the Qingming Festival, brings its whole family to pay respects at its ancestral graves; therefore, during the Cold Food Festival, it is often seen. Old Zhang Old Zhang was a man from Shanxi. He was about to marry off his daughter, and had brought his family to Jiangnan to personally purchase the trousseau. When the boat reached Mount Jinshan, Zhang crossed the river first, instructing his family to stay in the boat and not to cook anything with a fishy or rank smell. There was a yuan monster in the river that would emerge whenever it smelled such things, overturn boats, and devour travelers; it had been doing harm for a long time. After Zhang left, his family forgot his warning and roasted meat in the boat. Suddenly, huge waves capsized the boat, and his wife and daughter were both drowned. Zhang returned in his boat, grief-stricken and wishing he were dead. He went up Mount Jinshan, called on the temple monks, and inquired about the yuan's peculiarities, intending to take revenge on it. When the monks heard this, they said in alarm, "We live close to it every day, and we fear it will bring calamity upon us. We only serve it as a spirit, praying that it will not be angered; from time to time we slaughter livestock and throw half a carcass into the water, and it leaps up, swallows it, and goes away. Who could possibly take revenge on it?" When Zhang heard this, he suddenly conceived a plan. He summoned blacksmiths, set up a furnace halfway up the mountain, and smelted red-hot iron weighing over a hundred catties. Having ascertained the place where the creature usually lurked, he had two or three strong men lift it with large tongs and throw it in. The yuan leaped out, swallowed it quickly, and went down. In a short while, the waves surged like mountains. After a moment, the waves subsided, and the yuan floated dead on the water. Travelers and the temple monks all rejoiced at this. They built a shrine to Old Zhang and set up his portrait inside as a minor deity; prayers offered to him always received a response. The Water Mangcao Water mangcao is a poisonous plant. It creeps like kudzu; its flowers are purple, resembling those of the hyacinth bean. If one eats it by mistake, one dies on the spot and becomes a water mangcao ghost. It is popularly said that such ghosts cannot be reborn, and must wait for another person to die of the poison before they can take that person's place. For this reason, in the region of the Taohua River in Chu, these ghosts are especially numerous. The people of Chu call those born in the same year “same-year” (tongnian); when they exchange visiting cards and meet, they address each other as “Elder Brother Geng” or “Younger Brother Geng,” and their sons and nephews call them “Uncle Geng”—such is the custom. There was a certain scholar Zhu who went to visit one of his same-year acquaintances. On the way, he grew parched and thirsty and wished to drink. Soon he saw an old woman by the roadside who had set up a shed and was offering drinks, so he went over. The old woman welcomed him into the shed and served him very attentively. He noticed a strange smell, unlike that of tea or herbal drink, so he set it down without drinking and rose to leave. The old woman urgently stopped him and called out: “Third Lady, bring a cup of good tea.” Shortly a young girl came out from behind the shed carrying tea. She was about fourteen or fifteen, of exceedingly lovely appearance, and her finger rings and arm bracelets glittered with a crystalline sheen. Zhu took the cup and his mind wandered; when he smelled the tea, its fragrance was incomparably strong. He drained it and asked for more. Seeing that the old woman had gone out, he playfully seized the girl’s slender wrist and removed one of her rings. The girl blushed and smiled, and Zhu became even more infatuated. He inquired briefly about her household, and the girl said: “If you come at dusk, sir, I will still be here.” Zhu asked for a pinch of tea leaves and hid them together with the ring, then left. When he arrived at his same-year’s house, he felt a queasiness in his heart and suspected that the tea had caused him harm, so he told the whole story to his friend. His friend was alarmed and said: “Disaster! This is a Water Mangcao ghost. My late father died from this. There is no cure—what can we do?” Zhu was terrified and produced the tea leaves to examine them; they were indeed Water Mangcao. He also brought out the ring and described the girl’s appearance. His friend pondered and said: “This must be Kou Sanniang.” Zhu, finding the name exactly matched, asked: “How do you know?” He replied: “She is the daughter of the wealthy Kou family in the southern village, long known for her beauty. Several years ago, she mistakenly ate Water Mangcao and died—this must be her haunting.” Some said that if one who has been bewitched can learn the ghost’s surname and obtain her old trousers, boil them and drink the decoction, he can be cured. His friend hurried to the Kou household, told them the truth, and knelt in earnest supplication; but the Kou family, because she would take the young man’s place in death, grudgingly refused to give them. The friend returned in anger and told Zhu. Zhu also gnashed his teeth in hatred and said: “If I die, I will never let that girl escape rebirth!” His friend had him carried home, but he died just before reaching his door. His mother wept and wailed and buried him. He left one son, just over a year old. His wife could not keep to the vow of widowhood and remarried after half a year. The mother kept the orphan and nursed him herself, suffering great hardship, weeping morning and evening. One day, as she was holding her son and crying in the house, Zhu suddenly entered silently. His mother was greatly startled, wiped her tears, and asked him. He replied: “Your son, in the underworld, heard Mother weeping and felt deeply grieved, so I have come to attend to you morning and evening. Though your son is dead, I now have a household; I have brought my wife along to share Mother’s burdens—Mother must not grieve.” His mother asked: “Who is your wife?” He said: “Kou Sanniang sat by and let your son die, and I resented her deeply. After death I sought out Sanniang but did not know where she was; recently I met an Elder Brother Geng who pointed me to her. I went, but Sanniang had already been reborn into the family of Vice Minister Ren; I rushed there and forcibly brought her back—now she is my wife, and we get along well, with no hardship.” After a while, a woman entered from outside, dressed in splendid attire, and prostrated herself to greet the mother. Zhu said: “This is Kou Sanniang.” Though she was not a living woman, the mother looked at her and felt somewhat comforted. Zhu then sent Sanniang to do chores. Sanniang was not at all accustomed to it, but she obeyed with such endearing grace that she won sympathy. From then on they lived in the old house and stayed without leaving. The girl asked Mother to inform her own family. Zhu was inclined not to tell them, but Mother, complying with the girl’s wish, eventually did inform them. When the Kou father and mother heard this, they were greatly shocked and ordered a carriage to rush over. When they saw her, it was indeed Sanniang. They wept aloud together, but the girl comforted them and stopped them. The old mother saw that Zhu’s family was very poor and was deeply distressed. The girl said: “Since I am already a ghost, why should I resent poverty? Looking at the mother and son, their affection is sincere—I have already found peace here.” She then asked: “Who was that old woman with the tea?” They replied: “Her surname is Ni; ashamed that she could not bewitch travelers, she sought my help. She has now been reborn into the family of a gruel seller in the prefectural city.” Then turning to Zhu she said: “Since he is your father-in-law, if you do not bow to him, how could I bear it?” So Zhu went forward and paid his respects. The girl then went into the kitchen, took over cooking from Mother, and served the old couple. The old mother watched her with a heavy heart. After they returned home, they immediately sent two maidservants to attend to them, along with a hundred catties of gold, several tens of bolts of cloth, and frequent gifts of wine and meat—so that Mother Zhu’s circumstances became somewhat comfortable. The Kou family also often invited her to return home. After staying a few days, she would always say: “There is no one at home, so you should send me back early.” If they deliberately delayed her, she would float away on her own. The old father then built a large house for Zhu and furnished everything to perfection. But Zhu never once went to the Kou household. One day, a villager who had been poisoned by Water Mangcao revived after death, and it was passed around as extraordinary. Zhu said: “I revived him. He was harmed by Li Jiu; I drove away that ghost for him.” His mother said: “Why do you not take someone to replace yourself?” He replied: “I deeply hate these sorts of creatures; I am about to drive them all away—why would I stoop to that? Besides, I find it most joyful to serve Mother and do not wish to be reborn.” From then on, those who were poisoned often prepared sumptuous feasts and prayed in his courtyard, and it always proved effective. After more than ten years, Mother died. The husband and wife also grieved deeply, but they did not receive guests; they only made their son wear mourning and perform the rites of grief, teaching him the proper rituals. After burying Mother, another two years or so passed, and they married a wife for their son. This wife was the granddaughter of Vice Minister Ren. Earlier, Vice Minister Ren’s concubine had borne a daughter who died after a few months. Later, hearing of Zhu Sheng’s strange deeds, he had driven to their home and arranged the match. Thus he now gave his granddaughter in marriage to their son, and the two families visited each other without end. One day, Zhu said to his son: “The Supreme God, because I have merit in the human world, has appointed me as the Dragon Lord Herding the Four Rivers—I am leaving now.” Soon they saw four horses in the courtyard, drawing a carriage with a yellow canopy, and the four legs of the horses bore scales and armor. The husband and wife dressed in full attire and went out, mounting the same carriage. The son and his wife all wept and bowed, and in an instant they vanished. On that day, the Kou family saw their daughter arrive; she bade farewell to her father and mother, just as Zhu had said. The old mother wept and tried to detain her, but the girl said: “Lord Zhu has gone ahead already.” When she went out the door, she was never seen again. Their son was named E, styled Lichen. He petitioned Old Man Kou and had Sanniang’s bones buried together with Zhu’s. **Creating Beasts** The arts of witchcraft and nightmares take many forms. Some cast attractive bait and trick people into eating it, whereupon the person becomes confused and follows them away; this is commonly called “da xuba” in the north, and in the south of the Yangtze it is called “che xu.” Young children, being ignorant, often fall victim to it. There is also a method of transforming people into animals, called “creating beasts” (zao chu). This art is still rare north of the Yangtze, but south of the River it is often seen. In a hostel in Yangzhou, a man led five donkeys and temporarily tethered them in the stable, saying: “I will return shortly.” He also instructed: “Do not let them drink or eat.” Then he left. The donkeys were exposed to the fierce sun and made a great commotion with their hooves and braying. The host led them to a cool place. When the donkeys saw water, they rushed to it and were allowed to drink freely. After one roll in the dust, they turned into women. Astonished, the host questioned them about the matter, but their tongues were stiff and they could not answer. So he hid them in a room. Soon the donkey owner arrived, drove five sheep into the courtyard, and was startled to ask where the donkeys were. The host seated the guest and offered him food and drink, saying: “Sir, please eat first—the donkeys will be here shortly.” The host went out and gave all five sheep water to drink, whereupon they rolled about and all became boys. He secretly reported to the prefecture, and officers were sent to arrest the culprit, who was then put to death in the cangue. **The Scholar of Fengyang** A scholar of Fengyang, carrying his book-box, went on a long journey. He said to his wife, "I shall return in half a year." After more than ten months, there was still no news. His wife pined for him most anxiously. One night, just as she had laid her head on the pillow, the moon cast wavering shadows through the gauze curtains, and thoughts of separation clung to her heart. As she tossed and turned, a beautiful woman entered, with pearl-decorated hair and a crimson cape, lifting the bed-curtain and entering with a smile, asking, "Sister, do you not wish to see your lord?" The wife rose hurriedly and answered her. The beauty invited her to come along. The wife feared the long and difficult road, but the beauty only bade her not to worry. Then she took the woman's hand and led her out, both stepping on the moonlight, walking about the distance of a bowshot. The wife felt the beauty move swiftly, while her own steps were laboured; she called to the beauty to wait a little, that she might return to put on her proper shoes. The beauty made her sit by the roadside, then herself took hold of her foot, took off her own shoes, and lent them to her. The wife gladly put them on, and fortunately they did not pinch. She rose again and followed, walking as fast as flying. After a while, she saw her husband riding a white mule. When he saw his wife he was greatly startled, and dismounted hurriedly, asking, "Where are you going?" She said, "I was coming to see you." He then looked at the beauty and asked who she was. Before the wife could answer, the beauty covered her mouth with a smile and said, "Do not ask yet. Your wife has had no easy journey; and you, my lord, have been riding through the night; both man and beast must be exhausted. My home is not far; pray rest here for a while, and set out at dawn—it will not be too late." Looking around, there was a hamlet only a few paces away, so they walked together. Entering a courtyard, the beauty roused the sleepy maidservant to serve the guests, saying, "The moonlight is bright tonight, no need for candles; we may sit on the stone bench by the little terrace." The scholar tied his mule to the eaves-tree, then took his seat. The beauty said, "The shoes were not quite fitting for you; did they trouble you on the road? Now that you have a mount for your return, I beg you to give them back." The wife thanked her and returned them. Soon wine and fruits were set out. The beauty poured wine and said, "The phoenix and the crane have long been parted; tonight they are reunited. This cup of humble wine I offer in congratulation." The scholar also raised his cup in response. Host and guest laughed and chatted, their shoes and slippers intermingling. The scholar kept his eyes on the beauty, repeatedly teasing her with amorous words. Though husband and wife had just met, he did not exchange a single word of greeting with his wife. The beauty also cast amorous glances from her lovely eyes, speaking coquettish riddles. The wife only sat in silence, feigning ignorance. After a long while, as they grew tipsy, the two spoke more and more familiarly. The beauty again urged him with a large goblet; the scholar declined in his drunkenness, but she pressed him all the more. The scholar laughed and said, "If you will sing me a tune, I will drink." The beauty did not refuse, and taking an ivory plectrum, she played the violin and sang: "When dusk has shed the fading dress, Through the window the west wind chills the gauze. Hear the plantains' sound, shower after shower of fine rain. Where is he now, idly chattering with another? My longing eyes pierce autumn waters, but he comes not home; Tears fall like hemp-threads, unending. I think of him, I hate him, Taking my red embroidered shoe, I cast the ghost-divining lots." When the song ended, she laughed and said, "This is but a village ditty, unworthy of your ear. Yet because it is the fashion of the vulgar, I have merely imitated them." The music was seductive, the manner wanton. The scholar was bewildered and shaken, as if unable to control himself. After a short while, the beauty feigned intoxication and left her seat; the scholar also rose and followed her away. Long they did not return. The maidservant, weary, lay down to sleep under the corridor. The wife sat alone, desolate without company; her heart was filled with anger and resentment, hardly to be borne. She thought of stealing away homeward, but the night was dim and she could not recall the road. Tossing about, unable to decide, she rose and went to spy on them. Just as she neared the window, she could faintly hear sounds of cloud-parted and rain-scattered passion. Listening further, she heard her husband pour out in full detail all the intimate postures he had habitually used with her. At this, her hands trembled and her heart shook, almost beyond restraint; she thought she might as well go out and throw herself into a ditch to die. In anger she was about to go, when suddenly she saw her younger brother Sanlang riding up on horseback; he dismounted at once and asked what was the matter. She told him everything. Sanlang flew into a great rage and at once turned back with his sister, going straight into the house; but the chamber door was bolted, and the voices on the pillow were still murmuring. Sanlang picked up a huge stone as big as a peck-measure and flung it at the window, smashing the lattice in three or four breaks. A voice from within cried, "Your lordship's head is broken! What shall we do?" Hearing this, the wife was stunned and burst into tears, saying to her brother, "I did not mean to have you kill my lord—what now?" Sanlang stared and said, "You wailed and urged me to come; just when I had vented this anger in my breast, you defend your man and blame your brother—I am not used to being ordered about by a serving-wench!" He turned to go, but the wife caught his clothes and said, "If you do not take me with you, where shall I go?" Sanlang shook off his sister, throwing her to the ground, and went off. The wife suddenly started awake and knew it had been a dream. The next day, the scholar indeed returned, riding a white mule. The wife was surprised but said nothing. That night the scholar also had a dream; what he had seen and encountered, when he told it, matched hers exactly, and they were both astonished. Soon after, Sanlang, hearing that his brother-in-law had returned from afar, came to visit. In the course of conversation he said to the scholar, "Last night I dreamed of your return, and today it is so—most strange." The scholar laughed and said, "Fortunately I was not killed by that stone." Sanlang was startled and asked why; the scholar told him the dream. Sanlang was greatly amazed. For that night, Sanlang too had dreamed of meeting his sister weeping and complaining, and in his anger throwing a stone. The three dreams agreed, but none knew who that beauty was. Geng Shiba Geng Shiba of Xincheng was dangerously ill and knew he would not recover. He said to his wife, "Our parting for ever is near. After I die, whether you remarry or remain a widow is for you to decide; pray tell me your intention." His wife remained silent. Geng pressed her, and added, "To remain a widow is good, but to remarry is also human—to speak plainly, what harm is there? As I take leave of you, if you stay a widow, my heart is comforted; if you remarry, my mind is settled." Then his wife said sorrowfully, "Our household has not even a peck of grain; while you were alive we were still in want—how could I keep a widow's state?" When Geng heard this, he suddenly seized his wife's arm and said with a bitter voice, "Cruel indeed!" Having spoken, he died. His hand would not let go. His wife wailed. The family came, and two of them pulled at his fingers, forcing them apart with effort, and only then did they open. Geng was unaware of his own death. Going out, he saw over ten small carts, each carrying ten persons, and on each a square slip of cloth with names written, pasted on the cart. The driver saw Geng and urged him to mount. Geng saw that there were already nine persons in the cart, and with himself ten. He also looked at the pasted list and saw his own name last. The cart rattled along, the noise jarring his ears; he did not know where they were going. Soon they arrived at a place and heard someone say, "This is the Land of Longing for Home." Hearing the name, he was puzzled. He also heard the drivers muttering among themselves, "Today we clip three." Geng was alarmed. When he listened carefully to their talk, it was all about the netherworld. Then he understood and thought, "Am I not then become a ghost?" At once he thought of his home; there was nothing else to worry about, but his old mother was advanced in years, and after his wife remarried, she would lack support. At this thought, tears flowed unbidden. After a while, he saw a terrace several fathoms high, with many visitors; persons with their heads in sacks and feet in fetters were sobbing as they went up and down. He heard people say it was the "Terrace of Gazing Home." All the others, on reaching it, stepped over the cart-shafts and scrambled to climb up. The drivers either whipped them or stopped them; but when it came to Geng, they urged him to ascend. He climbed several tens of steps before reaching the top. Lifting his head to look, he could see his own gate and courtyard as clearly as before his eyes. But the inner chambers were indistinct, as if veiled in mist and smoke. Grief overwhelmed him. Looking back, a man in a short jacket stood at his shoulder and asked his name. Geng told him everything. The man said he was a carpenter from Donghai. Seeing Geng in tears, he asked, "What matter remains unresolved in your heart?" Geng told him again. The carpenter proposed that they escape together by leaping over the terrace. Geng feared that the underworld would pursue them, but the carpenter insisted there was no harm. Geng also feared that the terrace was too high and he might fall, but the carpenter told him to follow him. Then he leaped first, and Geng indeed followed. When they reached the ground, they were unhurt. He was glad no one noticed. He saw that the cart he had ridden was still below the terrace. The two ran swiftly, but after a few paces, Geng suddenly remembered that his name was pasted on the cart, and feared they might be tracked by that name; so he turned back, approached the cart, wetted his finger with spittle, and rubbed out his own name. Then he ran again, gasping and panting, not daring to pause for a moment. After a short while, they entered the village gate; the carpenter saw him to his house. Suddenly catching sight of his own corpse, he revived. He felt weary, parched, and irritable, and suddenly called for water. His household was greatly alarmed and gave him water, and he drank more than a *shi* before suddenly rising and making gestures as if bowing and offering obeisance; after that, he went out the door, made a bow of thanks, and then returned. Once back, he lay stiffly and did not move. His family, finding his behavior strange, suspected that he was not truly alive; but as they gradually observed him, there was nothing else unusual about him. After a while they drew near and questioned him, and only then did he recount everything from beginning to end in detail. They asked, "Why did you go out?" He replied, "To bid farewell to the craftsmen." "Why did you drink so much water?" He said, "At first it was for me to drink, but later it was the craftsmen who drank." They gave him broth and soup, and after several days he recovered. From then on he grew weary and contemptuous of his wife and no longer shared the same mat with her. --- **Zhu'er** In Changzhou prefecture there lived a commoner named Li Hua, who possessed ample fields and property. He was over fifty and had no son. He had a daughter named Xiao Hui, of refined and beautiful appearance, whom the husband and wife loved most dearly. At fourteen, she suddenly fell ill and died young, leaving the courtyard desolate and their lives all the more bereft of joy. He then took a concubine, and after more than a year, she bore him a son, whom he cherished like a precious jade disc and named Zhu'er. As the child grew, he became sturdy and lovable. Yet his nature was utterly dull-witted; at five or six he still could not distinguish beans from wheat, and his speech was halting. Li still loved him and did not see his faults. It happened that a one-eyed monk was soliciting alms in the market, and he would always know what went on in people's inner chambers, so that everyone was astonished and took him for a divine being; moreover, he claimed he could determine life, death, good fortune, and misfortune for people. For sums of tens, hundreds, or thousands, he would call out names to demand payment, and none dared to disobey. He came to Li and solicited a hundred strings of cash. Li found it difficult to comply and gave him ten gold pieces, but he would not accept; he gradually increased to thirty. The monk said sternly, "It must be a hundred strings—not a single coin less!" Li grew angry as well, took back his gold, and left abruptly. The monk rose in fury and said, "Do not regret this! Do not regret this!" Before long, Zhu'er felt a violent pain in his heart, clawing and writhing on the bed mat, his face the color of ash. Terrified, Li took eighty gold pieces and went to the monk to beg for help. The monk laughed and said, "Much gold is not easily come by! But what can this mountain monk do?" Li returned home, and the child was already dead. Li grieved deeply and filed a complaint with the county magistrate. The magistrate had the monk arrested and interrogated him, but he was eloquent and gave evasive, unfeeling answers. When flogged, it was like striking tanned leather. The magistrate ordered a search of his person and found two wooden figures, one small coffin, and five small banners. The magistrate grew angry and, forming hand seals with his fingers, raised them to show the monk. Only then did the monk grow frightened and kowtowed countless times. The magistrate would not heed him and had him beaten to death with a staff. Li kowtowed in thanks and returned home. By then dusk had fallen, and he sat with his wife on the bed. Suddenly a small child, hobbling and stooping, entered the room and said, "Grandfather, why did you walk so fast? I strained with all my might but could not catch up." Looking at his form and appearance, he seemed about seven or eight. Startled, Li was about to question him when he saw that the child seemed now visible, now invisible, indistinct as mist and smoke; and in a twirl, he had already climbed onto the bed and sat down. Li pushed him off, and he fell to the ground without a sound. The child said, "Grandfather, why must you be like this!" In a flash he was back on the bed. Terrified, Li fled with his wife. The child called "Father! Mother!" in a babbling, unceasing voice. Li ran into the concubine's chamber and hastily shut the door; when he turned to look, the child was already at his knees. Alarmed, Li asked what he wanted. The child answered, "I am from Suzhou, surname Zhan. I lost my father and mother at six, and my elder brother and his wife would not tolerate me, so I was sent to live at my maternal grandparents' house. One day I happened to be playing outside the gate when an evil monk entranced and killed me under a mulberry tree, and made me serve him as a *chang* ghost. My grievance was buried deep in the underworld, and I could not escape my fate. Fortunately, thanks to Grandfather, the injustice was redressed, and I wish to become your son." Li said, "The ways of men and ghosts are different—how can we rely on each other?" The child replied, "Simply clear out a small room, set up a bed and mattress for me, and pour a cup of cold gruel each day; nothing else is required." Li agreed. The child was delighted and slept alone in that room. In the morning he came and went through the inner chambers just like a child born into the family. When he heard the concubine weeping for her son, he asked, "How many days has it been since Zhu'er died?" They answered, "Seven days." He said, "The weather is bitterly cold, so the corpse should not have decayed. Try opening the grave to examine it; if the body is not damaged, the child may be restored to life." Overjoyed, Li went with the child, opened the grave, and verified that the shell of the body was as before. Just as he was lamenting this, he turned and saw that the child had vanished. Finding this strange, he had the corpse carried back home. No sooner had they laid it on the bed than the eyes twitched open; after a little while he called for hot broth, and having drunk it, he broke into sweat; after the sweat subsided, he rose at once. Everyone rejoiced that Zhu'er had come back to life, and moreover he had become clever, quick, and agile, utterly different from before. But at night he lay rigid, without any breath, and when they turned him over, he was utterly unconscious as if dead. Everyone was greatly alarmed, thinking he had died again; but just before dawn, he seemed to wake from a dream. They all gathered and questioned him. He replied, "In the days when I followed the evil monk, there were two other boys like me; one of them was named Gezi. Yesterday, when I could not catch up with Grandfather, it was because I was behind, bidding farewell to Gezi. Now he is in the underworld, adopted as a righteous son by Elder Yuanwai Jiang, and lives quite at ease. At night he always comes to invite me to play. Just now he brought me back on a white-nosed piebald horse." His mother then asked, "Did you see Zhu'er in the netherworld?" He said, "Zhu'er has already been reborn. He has no father-son fate with Grandfather; he was merely the son of Yan Zifang of Jinling, come to collect a debt of a hundred or so strings of cash." Previously, Li had done business in Jinling and still owed money for goods to Yan, but Elder Yan had since died, and no one knew of this matter. When Li heard this, he was greatly startled. His mother asked, "Did you see your elder sister Hui?" He said, "I do not know; when I go again, I will inquire." Two or three days later, he said to his mother, "Elder Sister Hui is doing very well in the underworld. She has married the young master of Prince Chu of Jiang, and her coiffure is bedecked with pearls and kingfisher feathers; whenever she goes out, a retinue of a hundred or more clears the way with shouts and cries." His mother said, "Why does she not come home to visit?" He replied, "Once people are dead, they are no longer connected to their flesh and blood. Only if someone carefully recounts their former life to them can they be thoroughly stirred and recall their attachments. Yesterday I asked Elder Yuanwai Jiang to help arrange a meeting, and I saw Elder Sister. She called me to sit beside her on a coral bed, and when I spoke of Father and Mother's yearning, she seemed as if asleep. I said, 'When Elder Sister was alive, you loved to embroider paired flowering branches. Once a pair of scissors pricked your finger and blood stained the silk; you then embroidered that stain into a pattern of red water-clouds. Even now Mother still keeps it hanging by the head of her bed, and her heart never turns from it. Has Elder Sister forgotten?' Only then did she show sadness and say, 'I will surely tell my lord and come to visit Mother.'" His mother asked when that would be, but he answered that he did not know. One day he said to his mother, "Elder Sister is about to arrive, and her retinue is very large; you should prepare plenty of wine and provisions." After a moment, he ran into the room and said, "Elder Sister has come!" He moved a couch to the central hall and said, "Elder Sister, please sit and rest awhile, and do not weep too much." None of the others could see anything. The boy led them to burn paper money and pour libations outside the gate, then returned and said, "The outriders have been sent away for now. Elder Sister said, 'The green brocade quilt I used to cover myself—once a candle spark burned a spot on it the size of a bean; is it still there?'" His mother said, "It is." She then opened a chest and brought it out. The boy said, "Elder Sister has instructed me to spread it in her old chamber. She is weary and will rest a little; tomorrow she will speak with Mother again." The daughter of the Zhao family next door had been a close friend of Hui's in their embroidery-room days. That night, she suddenly dreamed that Hui, wearing a hood and a purple wrap, came to visit her, talking and laughing just as in life. She also said, "I am now of a different realm, and seeing my parents face to face is no easier than crossing mountains and rivers. I will have to borrow you, little sister, to speak with my family—please do not be afraid." At dawn, just as she was speaking with her mother, she suddenly collapsed in a daze. After a while she revived and said to her mother, "Little Hui has been parted from Auntie for several years—how your hair has turned white and wispy!" Her mother was alarmed and said, "Child, have you gone mad?" The girl took her leave and went out at once, and her mother, sensing something strange, followed her. She went straight to Li's house, embraced his mother, and wept piteously. His mother was startled and did not know what to make of it. The girl said, "When I returned yesterday, I was quite exhausted and had no chance to speak a word. I was unfilial to leave you midway and abandon you, causing Father and Mother to grieve and miss me—how can my sin ever be redeemed!" His mother suddenly understood and began to weep. Then she asked, "I have heard that you are now honored and well—that greatly comforts your mother's heart. But you dwell in the household of a king—how could you come here?" The girl said, "My lord is most loving and good to me, and my parents-in-law also cherish me; they do not at all regard me as jealous or unworthy." When Hui was alive, she had a habit of resting her chin on her hand; as the girl spoke, she repeatedly made the same gesture, and her expression was exactly like Hui's. Before long, Zhu'er rushed in and said, "The one who comes to escort Elder Sister has arrived." The girl then rose, bowed in farewell, and wept, saying, "I am going now." Having said this, she collapsed again, and after some time she revived. Several months later, Li’s illness grew critical; medicines and treatments proved of no effect. The son said, “At any moment I fear he will not be saved! Two ghosts sit at the head of the bed—one holds an iron staff, the other drags a hempen rope over four or five chi long. I plead with them day and night, but they will not leave.” The mother wept, and so prepared the burial clothes and coverlets. When evening came, the son hurried in and said, “Let the womenfolk of the household step aside, for my brother-in-law has come to see Father.” In a moment he clapped his hands and laughed. When his mother asked why, he said, “I laugh at the two ghosts: hearing that my brother-in-law had come, they both hid under the bed like turtles.” After a little while, he gazed into the void and exchanged greetings, inquiring after his sister’s well-being. Then he clapped his hands again and said, “Those two ghost slaves would not leave despite all my pleading—but now this is a great relief!” He went out to the gate, then turned back and said, “My brother-in-law has gone. The two ghosts are shackled to the horse’s crupper. Father should recover at once. My brother-in-law said: ‘I will return and report to the King of the Underworld, and beg for a hundred years of life for your parents.’” The whole family was overjoyed. By night, the illness had greatly abated, and within a few days he recovered completely. They engaged a tutor to teach the son to read. The son was very clever; at eighteen he entered the district school, and could still speak of matters in the netherworld. Whenever he saw a sick person in the village, he would point out where the ghostly mischief lay and burn it with fire, and often the patient would recover. Later he fell suddenly ill; his skin turned blue and purple, and he said that the ghosts and spirits had punished him for revealing their secrets. From then on he spoke no more of such things. The Little Official A certain Grand Historian—whose surname is forgotten—was lying at noon in his study when suddenly a small procession emerged from the corner of the hall. The horses were as large as frogs, the men smaller than fingers. There were several dozen small ceremonial guards; an official in a black gauze cap and embroidered hood, riding in a sedan chair, filed out the door in great numbers. The Grand Historian found it strange and privately suspected it was an illusion from dozing off. Suddenly he saw a little man return into the room, carrying a felt bundle as large as a fist, and come straight to the foot of the bed. He announced, “My master has a modest gift and respectfully presents it to the Grand Historian.” Having said this, he stood opposite, yet did not display the articles. After a moment he laughed to himself and said, “Such paltry things—I imagine the Grand Historian has no use for them; better to give them to me.” The Grand Historian nodded. The little man then carried them away joyfully, and was never seen again. It is a pity that the Grand Historian was too reserved to ask whence they came. Hu Sijie Shang Sheng, a man of Mount Tai, lived alone in a quiet studio. It chanced to be an autumn night; the Milky Way hung high and bright, the moon was in the sky. He paced among the flower shadows, lost in distant thoughts. Suddenly a girl climbed over the wall and came in, laughing, “Why is the scholar so deep in thought?” Shang drew near and looked at her; her face was like that of an immortal. In surprise and delight he embraced her and brought her inside, and they gave themselves to the utmost intimacy. She said her name was Hu, and she was the Third Sister. When he asked where her home was, she only laughed and did not answer. Shang did not press the question, but only pledged that they should be forever fond of each other. From then on, not a night passed without her coming. One night, as they sat close together by the lamplight, Shang adored her and gazed at her intently. The girl laughed and said, “Why do you stare at me so fixedly?” He said, “I look upon you as I would upon red peonies and peach blossoms—even if I gazed all night, I would not tire.” Third Sister said, “With my plain looks, to receive such favor—if you were to see our family’s Fourth Sister, I do not know how infatuated you would become.” Shang was all the more stirred, and longed to see her; he knelt and begged piteously. The next night, she indeed brought Fourth Sister along. She was just at the age of fifteen; her lotus-like bloom hung with dew, her apricot flowers moist with mist; she smiled charmingly, exquisitely beautiful. Shang was beside himself with joy and drew her to sit. Third Sister chatted and laughed with him, while Fourth Sister only played with her embroidered sash and hung her head. After a while, Third Sister rose to leave; the younger sister wanted to follow, but Shang held her back and would not let go, turning to Third Sister and saying, “Please, my dear, say a word for me.” Third Sister laughed and said, “The wild fellow is impatient! Little sister, stay a while longer.” Fourth Sister said nothing, and the elder sister departed. The two enjoyed each other to the fullest; then they used an arm as a pillow and poured out their lives, with nothing concealed. Fourth Sister said she was a fox. Shang, enamored of her beauty, did not find it strange. Fourth Sister then said, “Our elder sister is cruel and has already killed three men. Whoever is captivated by her invariably dies. I am fortunate to have received your affection, and cannot bear to see you destroyed—you must break with her early.” Shang was frightened and asked what to do. Fourth Sister said, “Though I am a fox, I have obtained the true orthodox method of the immortals. I shall write a talisman and paste it on the bedroom door, and that will keep her away.” Thereupon she wrote it. At dawn, Third Sister came, but when she saw the talisman she retreated, saying, “The little maid is ungrateful—she has given her heart to her new lover and forgets the one who brought them together. You two have a destined bond, and I bear no enmity, but why must it be so?” Then she went away. A few days later, Fourth Sister went elsewhere and agreed to return the following night. That day, Shang happened to step out and look into the distance. Below the mountain there was a grove of oak trees; out from the thicket came a young woman, also quite charming. She came near and said, “Why must you, scholar, be so taken with the Hu sisters? They cannot give you a single coin.” She handed him a string of cash, saying, “Take this home first and buy some good wine; I shall bring some dishes, and we will have a merry time.” Shang put the money in his pocket and went home, doing as she had instructed. Shortly after, the woman arrived, placed on the table a roast chicken and a salted pork shoulder, then drew a knife and sliced them into pieces; they poured wine and exchanged pleasantries, and were extraordinarily happy together. Then they put out the lamp and went to bed, their amorous play wild and wanton. They rose only at dawn. As she sat at the bedside and bent down to change her shoes, she suddenly heard voices; listening, she saw that someone had entered the curtain—it was the Hu sisters. At the sudden sight, the woman fled in panic, leaving her shoe on the bed. The two girls shouted, “Saucy fox! How dare you share a bed with a man!” They gave chase and did not return for some time. Fourth Sister reproached Shang, saying, “You have no ambition—to couple with that lewd fox! I can no longer stay near you.” She turned to leave in anger. Shang, terrified, threw himself at her feet and pleaded in the most abject words. Third Sister interceded on his behalf. Fourth Sister’s anger abated somewhat, and from then on they were as close as before. One day, a man from Shaanxi arrived riding a donkey and called at the gate, saying, “I have been searching for that demon for a long time, and only today have I found it.” Shang’s father, finding his words strange, asked whence he came. The man said, “I travel the waves and roam the four quarters; for more than ten months of the year, I am often eight or nine parts away from home. That demon bewitched and killed my younger brother. I returned and mourned bitterly, and swore to seek her out and destroy her. I have traveled thousands of li without trace. Now she is in your house—if you do not eliminate her, there will be others who follow my brother to death.” Now Shang had been secretly close to the girl, and his parents had some inkling of it. Hearing the visitor’s words, they were greatly frightened and invited him in, asking him to perform his arts. He produced two bottles, placed them on the ground, and chanted talismans for a long while. Four clusters of black mist flew separately into the bottles. The visitor rejoiced, saying, “The whole family is here.” He then sealed the bottle mouths with pig bladders and tied them fast. Shang’s father was also pleased and pressed the visitor to stay for a drink. Shang’s heart was pained; he approached the bottles and peered in secretly, and heard Fourth Sister say from within, “You sit by and do not save me—how can you be so faithless?” Shang was all the more moved. He hurried to unseal the mouth, but the knot could not be undone. Fourth Sister said again, “No need for that—just lay down the flag on the altar and prick the bladder with a needle to make a hole, and I can come out.” Shang did as she asked. Indeed, a wisp of white air issued from the hole and rose into the sky. When the visitor came out and saw the flag lying flat on the ground, he exclaimed in astonishment, “She has escaped! This must have been done by the young master.” He shook the bottles and listened, then said, “Fortunately only one is gone. This creature is not fated to die yet; I can pardon her.” So he took the bottles and departed. Later, when Shang was in the fields supervising hired laborers reaping wheat, he saw from afar Fourth Sister sitting under a tree. Shang went up to her, took her hand, and asked after her. She said, “After we parted, ten years have passed. Now my Great Elixir is complete, but I have not forgotten my thoughts of you, so I have come once more to call on you.” Shang wanted to take her home with him, but she said, “I am no longer what I was; I must not be stained by worldly affections. We shall meet again.” Having said this, she vanished from sight. More than twenty years later, Shang happened to be living alone when he saw Fourth Sister come in from outside. Shang joyfully spoke with her. She said, “I am now ranked among the immortals, and should not again tread the mortal dust; but mindful of your affection, I have come to tell you the time of your passing. Settle your affairs early; and do not grieve—I will deliver you as a Ghost Immortal, and that will not be painful.” Then she took her leave. On the appointed day, Shang indeed died. Now Shang Sheng was a relative and friend of my friend Li Wenyu, who saw it with his own eyes. Zhu Weng Jiyang Zhu Village had an old man named Zhu, over fifty years of age, who died of illness. The family entered the chamber to arrange the mourning garments, when suddenly they heard Old Man Zhu shouting most urgently. All rushed together to the spirit hall, and there saw that he had already revived. All joyfully offered their condolences. Old Man Zhu only said to his wife: "I had just gone, resolved never to return. After walking several li, I turned and thought of casting off this old skin and bones of yours into the hands of our children—cold and heat depending on others, with no further joy in living—better to follow me. Therefore I came back, wishing to take you along with me." All took his new revival as wild talk and did not put much faith in it. Old Man Zhu spoke again. His wife said: "That would be fine as well. But you have just been born again, how can you die at once?" Old Man Zhu waved her off, saying: "This is not difficult. The common business of the household—quickly make your arrangements." His wife smiled and did not go. Old Man Zhu urged her again. She then went outside, lingered for several double-hours, then came back in and deceived him, saying: "All is settled properly." Old Man Zhu ordered her to dress quickly. His wife did not go; Old Man Zhu urged her ever more urgently. His wife could not bear to go against his will, so she put on her skirt and ornaments and came out. Daughters-in-law and daughters all hid their laughter. Old Man Zhu moved his head onto the pillow and patted with his hand for her to lie down. His wife said: "The children are all here—the two of us lying stiff side by side—what kind of sight is that?" Old Man Zhu pounded the bed and said: "Dying together—what is there to laugh at!" When the children saw Old Man Zhu agitated, they all urged their mother to humor him for the time being. His wife did as told, and lay stiffly on the pillow beside him. The family all laughed at them again. Presently they looked—and saw that the smile on his wife's face had suddenly faded, and gradually both her eyes closed; after a long while there was no sound, just as if she had fallen asleep. All then drew near to look, and found her skin already cold and her nose without breath. They tried Old Man Zhu as well—it was the same. Only then did they all become terrified. In the twenty-first year of the Kangxi reign, Old Man Zhu's sister-in-law was employed in the household of Prefect Bi, and related this matter in full detail. The Historian of the Strange says: "Did Old Man Zhu perhaps have some extraordinary virtuous conduct in former days? The dim road of the Yellow Springs—coming and going at his will—how wondrous! And moreover, when the white-haired one wished to depart, he called out and made her go—how unhurried he was! When a person is at the moment of expiration, the one hardest to part with is the bedfellow at the pillow. If one could widely extend this art, then the matter of selling shoes and dividing incense need not be undertaken." --- **Pig-Dragon** The Pig-Dragon is produced in the Western River. Its shape resembles a dragon but is shorter, and it can fly sideways; it often comes out along the riverbanks to pounce on and eat geese and ducks. If hunters catch one, they sell its meat to the Chen and Ke families. These two surnames are both descendants of Youliang, and for generations they have eaten Pig-Dragon meat; other clans dare not eat it. A traveler from Jiangyou obtained one and tethered it in his boat. One day, when moored at Qiantang, the bindings loosened slightly, and it suddenly leaped into the river. In an instant, great waves arose, and the merchant vessel capsized and sank. --- **A Certain Gentleman** A certain gentleman from Shaanxi, a Jinshi of the Xinchou year, could remember his former life. He once said that in his former life he was a scholar and died in middle age. After death, he saw King Yan judging cases, with tripods, cauldrons, and oil kettles—just as traditionally transmitted. In the eastern corner of the hall were set several racks, on which hung various hides—pig, sheep, dog, horse. The registrar called out names, and some were sentenced to become horses, some to become pigs; all were stripped naked, and hides were taken from the racks and draped over them. Soon it came to the gentleman, and he heard King Yan say: "This one should be made a sheep." A ghost brought a white sheep hide and pressed it down over the gentleman's body. The registrar said: "This man once saved a person from death." King Yan checked the register, reviewed it, and indicated: "Spare him. Though his evils are many, this good deed can redeem them." The ghost again stripped off the hide and fur. The hide had already adhered to his body and could no longer be moved. Two ghosts gripped his arms and pressed his chest, forcibly pulling it off—the agony was indescribable; the hide tore piece by piece and could not be completely removed. After it was pulled off, near his shoulder there still adhered a patch of sheep hide as large as a palm. After the gentleman was born, there grew a thicket of sheep's wool on his back; when cut off, it grew again. --- **The Sharp Blade** At the end of the Ming dynasty, the Ji'nan region had many bandits. Each district maintained troops, and when caught they were immediately put to death. Zhangqiu had especially many bandits. There was a soldier whose blade was very sharp—whenever he beheaded someone, the cut followed the joints cleanly. One day, he captured more than ten bandits and escorted them to the execution ground. Among them one bandit recognized the soldier, hesitated, and then said: "I hear your blade is the sharpest—beheading in one cut, never a second stroke—I beg you to kill me." The soldier said: "Yes. Just follow me closely and do not stray." The bandit followed him to the place of execution; the soldier drew his blade and swung—with a swish the head fell. Several paces away, the head was still spinning round and round, and loudly praised: "What a fine sharp blade!" --- **The Chivalrous Maiden** Gu Sheng was a man of Jinling. He was broad in learning and talent, but his family was extremely poor. Moreover, because his mother was old, he could not bear to leave her side; he only made a living by painting and calligraphy for others daily, accepting gifts to support himself. He had reached twenty-five years of age, yet still had no spouse. Opposite his gate there was an old vacant house, where an old woman and a young girl rented lodging. Because there were no men in that household, he had not asked who they were. One day, happening to come in from outside, he saw a young girl come out of his mother's room—about eighteen or nineteen, delicate, fair, and elegant, rarely matched in the world. When she saw Sheng, she was very evasive, yet her expression was cold and stern. Sheng entered and asked his mother. His mother said: "That is the girl from across the way; she came to borrow a ruler and scissors from me. She just now said that her household also has only a mother. This girl does not seem to be from a poor family. I asked why she was not yet betrothed, and she excused herself on the grounds of her mother's age. Tomorrow we should go pay respects to her mother, and then hint at the idea; if her expectations are not high, you could support her mother in her place." The next day he went to their dwelling; her mother was merely a deaf old crone. Looking at their rooms, there was not even a day's reserve of grain. He asked what they did for a living, and it turned out they relied on the girl's needlework. He gently broached the idea of sharing meals; the old woman seemed agreeable, but turned to consult her daughter; the daughter remained silent, appearing quite displeased. Sheng's mother then returned. She pondered the situation and said doubtfully: "Could the girl be disdaining our poverty? She does not speak nor laugh with people—lovely as peach and plum, yet cold as frost and snow—a strange person indeed!" Mother and son wondered and sighed, and left it at that. One day, while Sheng was sitting in his study, a young man came to ask for a painting. His appearance was very handsome, and his manner quite frivolous and flirtatious. When asked where he came from, he replied "a neighboring village." Thereafter he came every two or three days; gradually they became familiar, and he increasingly engaged in teasing and jesting. Sheng embraced and held him, and he did not resist much, so they had a private affair. From then on they were intimate and close. One time the young girl passed by, and the young man followed her with his eyes, asking who she was. Sheng replied: "The girl next door." The young man said: "So beautiful, yet why is her expression so fearsome?" After a while, Sheng went inside. His mother said: "The girl just came to beg for rice, saying they had not cooked for a whole day. This girl is extremely filial; though very poor and pitiable, we should give her a little relief." Following his mother's words, Sheng carried a peck of rice to her door and conveyed his mother's intent. The girl accepted it but did not express thanks. She often came to Sheng's house; seeing his mother making clothes and shoes, she would sew and stitch in her place; coming and going in the hall, she worked like a daughter-in-law. Sheng became ever more grateful to her. Whenever he received gifts of food, he would be sure to share them with her mother; the girl, likewise, said almost nothing in acknowledgment. His mother happened to develop a carbuncle in a private place, crying out day and night. The girl would often come to the bedside to attend her, washing the wound and applying medicine, several times a day. His mother felt very uneasy, but the girl never tired of the filth. His mother said: "Ah! How I wish I had a daughter-in-law like you, to serve this old body until death!" Having said this, she sobbed with grief. The girl comforted her, saying: "Your son is greatly filial—far more than a hundred times my orphaned mother and lonely daughter." His mother said: "The chores at the bedside—how can a filial son perform them? Besides, I am already near evening, and day and night I may catch the mist and dew; my deep concern is the continuation of the family line." As she spoke, Sheng entered. His mother wept and said: "We have been greatly indebted to this young lady—you must not forget to repay her virtue." Sheng prostrated himself in thanks. The girl said: "You respect my mother—I did not thank you; why should you thank me?" From then on he respected and loved her all the more. Yet her manner was stiff and unyielding, and nothing could be taken improperly. One day, the girl went out the door, and Sheng fixed his eyes on her. The girl suddenly turned her head and smiled sweetly. Sheng was overjoyed beyond expectation; he hurried after her to her house, and when he made advances, she did not refuse, and they joyfully had intercourse. When finished, she warned Sheng: "This may be done once, but never again." Sheng did not answer and returned home. The next day he tried to arrange another meeting, but the girl sternly ignored him and left. She came daily, and when they met, she did not give him a word or a pleasant look. When he played a little with her, she chilled him with cold words. Suddenly, in an empty place, she asked Sheng: "That young man who has been coming recently—who is he?" Sheng told her. The girl said: "His bearing and behavior have frequently been rude to me. Because of your intimacy with him, I let it pass. Please pass on this message: if he does it again, he will not want to live!" That evening, Sheng told the young man, adding: "You must be careful—she is not to be provoked!" The young man "It is already impossible to offend her," they said, "so why would you presume to offend her yourself?" Sang explained that he had done nothing of the sort. "If you have done nothing," they said, "then how did those lewd words reach her ears?" Sang could not answer. The youth said, "I must trouble you to convey this message to her: let her stop that hypocritical pretence; otherwise, I shall spread the story far and wide." Sang grew very angry, and his feelings showed in his face, whereupon the youth departed. One evening, as he sat alone, the girl suddenly appeared, laughing and saying, "My fate with you is not yet severed—surely this is Heaven's will." Sang was wild with joy and took her in his arms, when suddenly he heard the sound of footsteps approaching. The two started up in alarm, and the youth pushed open the door and entered. Sang asked in surprise, "What business have you here?" The youth laughed and said, "I have come to see the chaste and virtuous one." Then, turning to the girl, he said, "Do you not reproach people today?" The girl's brows drew together and her cheeks flushed; she remained silent, then quickly turned up her outer garment, revealing a leather pouch. At a move of her hand, out came a glittering dagger, about a foot long. When the youth saw it, he recoiled in terror and fled. She pursued him out of doors, but when she looked in all directions, there was no trace of him. The girl hurled the dagger into the air; it made a sharp sound and shone like a long rainbow. In a moment, something fell to the ground with a thud. Sang hurriedly brought a candle to look, and there lay a white fox, its head severed from its body. He was greatly horrified. The girl said, "This was your catamite. I was willing to forgive him, but what could I do when he was so determined not to live?" She put the blade back into its pouch. Sang drew her inside and said, "Just now that fiend spoiled our pleasure; please wait until tomorrow night." But she went out the door and departed directly. The next evening she did indeed come, and they were united in intimacy. When he questioned her about her arts, she said, "This is not something you need to know. You must keep it strictly secret; if it is divulged, I fear it will not bode well for you." When he also pressed her about marriage, she said, "Sharing my pillow and mat, drawing water and tending to you—if that is not a wife, what is? We are already husband and wife; why speak again of marrying?" Sang said, "Do you not disdain my poverty, then?" She replied, "You are indeed poor, but am I rich? Our meeting tonight is precisely because I pity your poverty." At parting, she charged him, saying, "Such clandestine affairs must not be repeated often. When I should come, I will come of myself; when I should not, no amount of urging will do any good." Thereafter, whenever they met, Sang would try to draw her aside for private words, but she would always evade him. Yet in mending his clothes and preparing his meals, she attended to everything, no less than a wife. After several months, his mother died, and Sang exhausted himself in burying her. The girl thereafter lived alone. Sang thought that in her solitary state he might seduce her, so he climbed over the wall and called to her repeatedly through the window, but received no answer. When he looked at her door, the empty room was locked. He secretly suspected that she had other engagements. He went again the next night, and it was the same. So he left a jade pendant on the windowsill and went away. The next day, they met at his mother's place. After he came out, the girl followed him and said, "Do you suspect me, sir? Everyone has his own heart, and some things cannot be told to others. If I wished to free you from suspicion now, how could I do it? However, there is one matter for which I must urgently trouble you to make arrangements." When he asked what it was, she said, "I am already eight months pregnant; I fear that I may give birth any day now. 'My person is not yet clearly identified'—I can bear a child for you, but I cannot raise it for you. You may secretly tell your mother to find a wet nurse, pretending that she is adopting a foundling, but do not mention me." Sang agreed and told his mother. His mother laughed and said, "How strange this girl is! When we sought to betroth her, she would not agree, yet she has taken to my son in private." Pleased, she followed the plan and waited. After another month or more, the girl did not come for several days. His mother grew suspicious and went to her door, which was silent and closed. She knocked for a long while before the girl opened it, her hair dishevelled and her face unwashed. She let her in and then closed the door again. When she entered the room, there was a baby wailing on the bed. His mother asked in surprise, "How long ago was it born?" The girl answered, "Three days." When she lifted the swaddling clothes and looked, it was a boy, with full cheeks and a broad forehead. Delighted, she said, "My son has already given me a grandson; but you are all alone—where will you go?" The girl said, "My humble and secret feelings cannot be fully laid before you, good mother. When the night is quiet and no one is about, you may take the child away." His mother returned and told her son, and they were both secretly amazed. That night, she went and brought the child home. After several more nights, around midnight, the girl suddenly knocked and entered, carrying her leather pouch in her hand. Smiling, she said, "My great business is now concluded—I shall take my leave from here." He urgently asked her reason, and she said, "The kindness you showed in caring for my mother is never out of my thoughts. I once said that 'it could be done once but not twice'—that was because the repayment was not to be in the marriage bed. I saw that you were too poor to marry, so I wished to extend your line for you. I expected to conceive at the first attempt, but unexpectedly my monthly courses came again, and so I broke my vow a second time. Now that your virtue is repaid and my wish is fulfilled, I have no regrets." He asked, "What is in that pouch?" She answered, "The head of my enemy." He examined it and saw a tangle of hair and beard, all bloodied and indistinct. He was struck with terror and pressed her further. She said, "The reason I did not tell you before was that secret plans must not be carelessly divulged, for fear of leaks. Now that it is done, I may as well tell you: I am from Zhejiang. My father was a vice minister of war, and he fell victim to an enemy, who seized our household. I fled with my aged mother, concealed my name, and kept my head down for three years. The reason I did not act sooner was solely because my mother was still alive; after she was gone, there was again the burden in my womb, which delayed me further. That night I went out for no other purpose than that I was not yet familiar with the roads and gates, and feared some mistake." Having spoken, she went out the door, and again charged him, saying, "Take good care of the child I have borne. You have a thin fate and a short life, but this child will bring glory to your family. In the dead of night, do not disturb your mother. I am going now!" Just as he was about to ask her sadly where she was going, she flashed away like lightning and disappeared in an instant. Sang stood there lamenting and stunned, as if his soul had left him. In the morning, he told his mother, and they could only marvel at the strangeness of it all. Three years later, Sang indeed died. When the child was eighteen, he passed the imperial examinations and supported his grandmother until her final years. The Historian of the Strange says: "A man must have a chivalrous woman in his house before he can keep a catamite. Otherwise, 'You may love your boar, but she will love your sow.'" --- **Lianxiang** There was a scholar named Sang, styled Ziming, a native of Yizhou. Orphaned young, he lodged at Honghua Ferry. Sang was of a quiet and self-possessed nature, content with his own company. Twice a day he went out to eat at his eastern neighbour's; the rest of the time he sat steadfastly alone. The eastern neighbour once came to visit and said in jest, "Are you not afraid of ghosts and foxes, living all alone?" Sang laughed and answered, "What has a brave man to fear from ghosts and foxes? If a male comes, I have my sharp sword; if a female, I shall open the door and welcome her in." The neighbour returned home and conspired with a friend to have a courtesan climb over the wall. She tapped at the door, and Sang peered out and asked who it was. The woman said she was a ghost. Sang was terrified, his teeth chattering audibly. The courtesan hesitated and went away on her own. The neighbour came early to Sang's study, and Sang told him what he had seen, adding that he was about to go home. The neighbour clapped his hands and laughed, saying, "Why did you not open the door and welcome her in?" Sang suddenly realized it was a trick, and so he settled down again as before. After half a year, a girl came one night and knocked at his study door. Thinking it was his friend playing another prank, he opened the door and invited her in, only to find a beauty of surpassing loveliness. Startled, he asked where she had come from, and she said, "I am Lianxiang, a courtesan from the western quarter." As there were indeed many brothels at the ferry, he believed her. They put out the candle and went to bed, and were deeply intimate. Thereafter, she came every three or five nights. One evening, as he sat alone deep in thought, a girl swept in lightly. Sang thought it was Lianxiang and went forward to speak with her; but when he saw her face, she was quite different—only fifteen or sixteen, with twin buns and hanging tresses, graceful and lovely, moving as if she might advance or retreat. Greatly startled, he suspected she was a fox. The girl said, "I am of a good family, my surname Li. I admire your refinement, and I hope you will deign to look upon me with favour." Sang was pleased. Taking her hand, he found it cold as ice, and asked, "Why are you so cold?" She answered, "I have a delicate constitution and am often cold; coming out at night, exposed to the dew and frost, how could it be otherwise?" Then she loosened her silken robe, and was indeed a virgin. The girl said, "For the sake of our destined love, I, in my tender bud, have once lost my hold on virtue. If you do not disdain my worthlessness, I wish to serve you always at pillow and mat. Is there anyone else in the house?" Sang said, "No one, only a neighbouring courtesan, but she does not come often." The girl said, "You should be careful to avoid her. I am not like those women of the pleasure quarters. Keep it secret and do not tell; let her come and I go, or she go and I come—that will do well enough." At cockcrow, she was about to leave and gave him an embroidered slipper, saying, "This is what I wear on my feet. Playing with it will suffice to remember me by. But be careful not to play with it when anyone is about!" He took it and looked: its upturned toe was like a knot-untying awl. He loved it deeply. The next evening, when no one was about, he brought it out to examine and admire it, when the girl suddenly arrived again, and they were tenderly united. From then on, whenever he brought out the slipper, she would unfailingly appear in answer to his thoughts. Surprised, he asked her about it, and she laughed, saying, "The time was just right." One night, Lianxiang came and exclaimed in surprise, "Why is your spirit so listless, sir?" The scholar said, "I am not aware of it myself." Lianxiang then took her leave, agreeing to meet again in ten days. After she left, Li came every night without fail. She asked, "Why has your lover not come for so long?" He told her of the agreed appointment. Li laughed and said, "How do you think I compare to Lianxiang in beauty?" He replied, "You may be called two peerless ones. But Lianxiang's skin is warmer and softer." Li changed color and said, "You say we are both beauties, but you say that to me. She must be a fairy from the Moon Palace, and I am certainly not her equal." With that, she became unhappy. Then she counted on her fingers; the ten-day period was up. She cautioned him not to reveal it, and said she would secretly observe. The next night, Lianxiang indeed arrived, and they talked and laughed cheerfully. When they went to bed, she was greatly alarmed and said, "It is dangerous! In ten days without seeing you, how much more weary and worn you have become! Surely you have not had other encounters?" The scholar asked her the reason for her words. She said, "I judge by your spirit and breath; your pulse is thready and disordered like tangled silk—this is a sign of a ghostly affliction." The next night, Li came, and the scholar asked, "What did you think of Lianxiang when you spied on her?" She said, "She is beautiful. I always said there could be no such lovely woman in the mortal world—she is indeed a fox. When she left, I followed her, and she dwells in a cave in the southern hills." The scholar suspected she was jealous and answered vaguely. The following evening, he joked with Lianxiang, saying, "I did not believe it, but someone said you are a fox." Lianxiang urgently asked, "Who said that?" He laughed and said, "I was only teasing you." Lianxiang said, "How is a fox different from a human?" He said, "Those who are bewitched by them fall ill, and in severe cases die—therefore it is fearsome." Lianxiang said, "Not so. At your age, after three days of abstinence, your essence and vitality can be restored. Even if it were a fox, what harm could it do? But if you drain yourself every day, humans can be worse than foxes. Are all those who waste away from consumption or die of ghostly maladies truly killed by fox enchantment? However, there must be someone who speaks ill of me." The scholar stoutly denied it, but Lianxiang pressed him harder. He could not help but reveal it. Lianxiang said, "I was indeed wondering why you were so weary. But how did it come to this so quickly? Could it be that she is not human? Do not speak of it; tomorrow night, I shall spy on her as she spied on me." That night Li came, but after only a few words, she heard a cough outside the window and fled in haste. Lianxiang entered and said, "You are in grave danger! That is truly a ghostly thing! If you cling to her beauty and do not break off swiftly, the road to the underworld is near!" The scholar thought she was jealous and remained silent. Lianxiang said, "I know you cannot forget your feelings, but I cannot bear to see you die. Tomorrow, I shall bring medicine to purge the yin poison from you. Fortunately, the root of the illness is still shallow; in ten days you should recover. Let me share your bed to watch over your recovery." The next night, she indeed produced a powder of medicine and fed it to him. In an instant, he had two or three bowel movements, and felt his viscera clean and clear, his spirit suddenly refreshed. Though he was grateful in his heart, he still did not believe she was a ghost. Every night Lianxiang lay beside him and held him close. When the scholar wished to unite with her, she always stopped him. After several days, his skin and flesh filled out again. When she was about to leave, she earnestly enjoined him to break with Li. The scholar falsely agreed. When he closed the door and lit the lamp, he would take up Li's shoes and think longingly of her. Suddenly Li arrived. After several days of separation, she wore a resentful look. The scholar said, "She has been acting as a healer for me night after night; please do not be angry. Our affection is between you and me." Li was somewhat mollified. While on the pillow, the scholar whispered to her, "I love you deeply, yet there are those who say you are a ghost." Li was struck dumb for a long while, then cursed, saying, "It must be that wanton fox who has bewitched your ears! If you do not break with her, I will not come again!" Thereupon she sobbed and wept. The scholar comforted her with a hundred words, and so she relented. The next night, Lianxiang came and learned that Li had returned. Angrily she said, "Are you determined to die?" The scholar laughed and said, "Why are you so jealous?" Lianxiang grew even angrier and said, "You have planted the root of death, and I am removing it for you. If I were not jealous, what then would I do?" The scholar prevaricated and teased her, saying, "She said that the other day's illness was caused by a fox spirit." Lianxiang sighed and said, "Truly as you say, you are infatuated and will not awaken. If some mishap occurs, how can I with a hundred mouths clear myself? Let me take my leave from now. In a hundred days, I shall see you on your sickbed." He could not keep her. She went off in anger. From then on, Li stayed with him every night without fail. After about two months, he felt greatly enfeebled. At first he still reassured himself; gradually he grew gaunt and weak, able only to drink a bowl of gruel. He wished to return home to be cared for, but he was still too attached to leave abruptly. He lingered for several days until he became so gravely ill that he could not rise again. A neighboring scholar, seeing his sickness and exhaustion, sent his servant daily to bring food and drink. It was only then that the scholar began to suspect Li, and he said to her, "I regret not heeding Lianxiang's words, and now I have come to this!" Having said this, he closed his eyes. After a while he revived, and opening his eyes he looked around—Li had already left, and from that time she never came again. Sheng, weak and emaciated, lay in his empty study, longing for Lian Xiang as one longs for a good harvest. One day, as he was deep in thought, suddenly someone lifted the curtain and entered—it was Lian Xiang. She came to his bedside and said with a smile, "Country bumpkin, was I wrong?" Sheng sobbed for a long time, saying he knew his fault and begged only to be saved. She said, "The disease has entered the vital organs; truly there is no cure. I have come only to bid you farewell forever, to show that I am not jealous." Sheng said in great sorrow, "There is an object under my pillow; I beg you to crush it for me." Lian searched and found a shoe, brought it to the lamp, and turned it over and over in her hands. Suddenly the girl Li entered, but when she saw Lian Xiang, she turned to flee. Lian blocked the door with her body; Li, frantic and desperate, knew not where to go. Sheng reproached her, and Li could not answer. Lian laughed and said, "Now at last I can confront this lady face to face. Formerly I said that my lord's old malady might well have been caused by you; now what do you say?" Li bowed her head and apologized. Lian said, "With such beauty, how could you turn love into enmity?" Li then threw herself to the ground, weeping, and begged for mercy and help. Lian helped her up and questioned her in detail about her life. Li said, "I am the daughter of Vice-Prefect Li. I died young and was buried outside the wall. Like a spring silkworm already dead, my lingering threads remain. To be united with my lord was my wish; to bring him to death was truly not my original intent." Lian said, "I have heard that ghosts profit from human death, so that after death they may be together forever—is that so?" Li replied, "Not so. When two ghosts meet, there is no pleasure at all. If there were pleasure, are there not plenty of young men in the underworld?" Lian said, "Foolish one! To be a man's companion every night—even a living person cannot bear it, much less a ghost!" Li asked, "Foxes can cause death—what art do you alone lack?" Lian said, "That is the way of those who practice the art of 'plucking and replenishing'; I am not of that kind. Thus in this world there are foxes that do not harm people, but there is never a ghost that does not harm people, because the yin qi is too strong." Hearing these words, Sheng realized that both fox and ghost were real. Fortunately, he had grown accustomed to strange sights and was not greatly frightened. But thinking that his remaining breath was as thin as a thread, he could not help crying out in great pain. Lian turned and asked, "What shall we do with our lord?" Li blushed and apologized humbly. Lian laughed and said, "I fear that when my lord recovers, the jealous lady will want to eat plums." Li gathered her skirts and said, "If there is a master healer, so that I may not have wronged my lord, then I shall bury my head underground—how would I dare show my face again in the world of men?" Lian opened her pouch and produced a medicine, saying, "I knew long ago that this day would come. After I left you, I gathered herbs on the Three Isles, taking three full months; only then were the ingredients prepared. For consumptive wasting that leads to death, once this is administered, none fails to revive. But the cause of the illness determines the guiding agent, and for that I cannot but ask for your help." Li asked, "What is needed?" Lian replied, "A single drop of fragrant saliva from your cherry mouth. I will put in one pill, and I beg you to put your lips to his and spit." Li's cheeks flushed crimson; she hung her head and turned aside, staring at her shoe. Lian teased, "The only thing that delights you is that shoe." Li grew even more abashed, looking up and down as if she had no place to hide. Lian said, "This is a skill you have long practiced—why be so stingy now?" Thereupon she placed the pill in Sheng's mouth and pressed Li urgently. Li had no choice but to spit. Lian said, "Again!" And she spat again. After three or four spits, the pill had gone down his throat. In a short while, his stomach rumbled like thunder. She put in another pill, then herself pressed her lips to his and breathed into him. Sheng felt a fiery heat in his dantian and his spirit revived. Lian said, "He is cured!" Li heard the cock crow and reluctantly took her leave. Lian, because he had just recovered and still needed care, knew that taking meals elsewhere was not the plan; so she locked the door from outside, pretending that Sheng had gone home, to cut off all visitors, and guarded him day and night. Li also came every evening, serving attentively, treating Lian as an elder sister. Lian likewise deeply cherished her. After three months, Sheng was as robust as before. Then Li did not come for several nights; when she did come occasionally, she would glance at him and leave at once. When they sat together, she was also listless and unhappy. Lian often tried to keep her to share the bed, but she would never agree. Sheng chased after her, carried her back in his arms—she was as light as a straw effigy. The girl could not escape, so she lay down in her clothes, curling up her body to less than two feet in length. Lian felt all the more pity for her and secretly had Sheng hold her in his arms, but even when shaken she did not wake. Sheng fell asleep, and when he awoke and looked for her, she had vanished. After more than ten days, she never came again. Sheng missed her deeply and often took out her shoe to play with. Lian said, "So slender and lovely—even I feel pity at the sight, how much more a man." Sheng said, "In former days, whenever I played with the shoe, she would come. I always suspected something, but never imagined she was a ghost. Now, facing her shoe and thinking of her face, I am truly grieved." And he wept. Previously, there was a wealthy family named Zhang who had a daughter called Yan'er, fifteen years old, who had died without sweating. But after the whole night she revived, rose up, looked about, and tried to flee. Zhang bolted the door and she could not get out. The girl said, "I am the ghost of the Vice-Prefect's daughter. Grateful for Sang Lang's regard, the abandoned shoe remains there with him. I am truly a ghost—what use is it to confine me?" Because her words had a basis, they questioned her as to the reason for her coming here. The girl hesitated and looked about, utterly at a loss herself. Someone said that Sang Sheng had gone home ill, but the girl insisted it was false, greatly puzzling the family. A neighbor student, hearing of this, climbed over the wall to peep, and saw Sheng conversing with a beautiful woman. He slipped in and pressed close, but in the flurry she had already disappeared. The neighbor student, alarmed, questioned him. Sheng laughed and said, "I told you before—if it was female, I would take her in." The neighbor student then told him of Yan'er's words. Sheng opened the door and wished to go investigate, but had no means to do so. Zhang's mother heard that Sheng indeed had not returned home, which amazed her all the more. She therefore sent an old servant woman to ask for the shoe, and Sheng gave it to her. Yan'er was overjoyed to get it. She tried it on, but the shoe was a full inch smaller than her foot—she was greatly startled. She took up a mirror and looked at herself, and suddenly realized with a start that she had been born again in a borrowed body, and she told the whole story. Her mother then believed her. The girl wept before the mirror, crying, "My former appearance was quite pleasing; whenever I saw Sister Lian I still felt shame. Now that I have become like this, I am not even as good as my ghostly self!" Clutching the shoe, she wailed, and none could comfort her. She drew the bedclothes over her and lay stiffly. When food was offered, she would not eat; her body and skin swelled all over. After seven days without food, she did not die, but the swelling gradually subsided. She felt hungry beyond endurance, so she ate again. After a few days, she itched all over and her skin peeled away completely. When she rose in the morning, her bed-shoes fell off; she sought them and put them on, but they were now far too large. Then she tried the former shoe; it fitted exactly, fat and thin matching perfectly, and she was delighted. She looked at herself in the mirror again, and her brows, eyes, cheeks, and face were exactly as they had been in life—she was even more delighted. After washing and combing, she went to see her mother, and all who saw her were astonished. Lian Xiang, hearing of this marvel, urged Sheng to arrange a match through a go-between; but because the disparity in wealth was great, he did not dare proceed. It happened that the old lady's birthday came, and he went in the company of his son-in-law to offer congratulations. The old lady saw Sheng's name and had Yan'er peek through the curtain to recognize the guest. Sheng arrived last; the girl suddenly came out, caught his sleeve, and wished to follow him home. Her mother scolded her, and she retired in shame. Sheng looked at her closely and saw she was exactly the same, and could not help shedding tears; he knelt and prostrated himself, not rising. The old lady helped him up and did not take it as an insult. When Sheng left, he begged the girl's uncle to act as matchmaker. The old lady then chose an auspicious day for him to marry into the family. The scholar returned and told Lianxiang, and discussed what to do. Lianxiang was disconsolate for a long while, then wanted to leave. The scholar was greatly alarmed and wept. Lianxiang said: "You are about to marry into another family; if I follow you there, what face would I have?" The scholar planned to first return to his hometown with her, and then marry Yan; Lianxiang then agreed. The scholar told Zhang the truth. Zhang heard he already had a wife; angry, he reproached him, but Yan'er strenuously explained, and so he granted the request. On the appointed day, the scholar went to welcome the bride. At home preparations were quite rough; but upon their return, from the gate to the hall, all was carpeted with felt rugs, and hundreds of lanterns and candles blazed in splendid array like brocade. Lianxiang helped the bride into the bridal chamber; once her veil was lifted, they were as happy as if they had known each other all their lives. Lianxiang joined in the nuptial cup and asked in detail about the marvel of her return to life. Yan said: "That day I was depressed and forlorn, feeling myself a thing of another world and ashamed of my form. After parting, in anger I did not return to my grave, but drifted with the wind. Whenever I saw the scholar, I envied him. By day I clung to grass and trees; by night I wandered at will, floating and sinking. By chance I came to the Zhang household and saw a young girl lying on a bed; I drew near and attached myself to her, not knowing I would thereby come to life." Lianxiang heard this and fell silent, as if pondering something. After more than two months, Lianxiang gave birth to a son. After childbirth she suddenly fell ill, and day by day grew weaker. She took Yan's arm and said: "I venture to burden you with this ill-starred offspring; my son is your son." Yan wept and tried to comfort her. They summoned shamans and physicians, but she always refused them. Her illness grew deep, and as she lingered, her breath was like a thread hanging by a hair. The scholar and Yan'er both wept. Suddenly she opened her eyes and said: "Do not do so! You delight in life, and I delight in life. If there is fate, in ten years we may meet again." Having said this, she died. When they lifted the coverlet to prepare for burial, the corpse had turned into a fox. The scholar could not bear to look upon it differently, and gave it a generous burial. The son was named Fox-child; Yan raised him as her own. Every Qingming festival, she would hold the child and weep at her grave. Later the scholar passed the provincial examination, and the family gradually prospered. But Yan suffered from being unable to bear children. Fox-child was quite intelligent, but frail and often ill. Yan often urged the scholar to take a concubine. One day, a maidservant suddenly said: "There is an old woman outside, bringing her daughter to sell." Yan called her in. At first sight, she was greatly startled and cried: "Sister Lian, have you come back to life?" The scholar looked at her; she truly resembled her, and was also alarmed. He asked: "How old are you?" She answered: "Fourteen." "What is the bride-price?" She said: "I have only this one flesh of my flesh; if only she gets a proper place, I will also have a place to eat, and in the future my old bones will not be cast into a ditch—that is enough." The scholar gave a generous price and kept her. Yan took the girl's hand, led her into a private room, lifted her chin, and laughed: "Do you recognize me?" She answered: "I do not." She asked her surname; she said: "My surname is Wei. My father was a seller of drinks in Xucheng; he has been dead three years." Yan counted on her fingers and pondered; Lianxiang had died exactly fourteen years ago. She examined the girl again; her appearance and bearing were in every way marvelously similar. Then she patted her head and called: "Sister Lian, Sister Lian! The promise to meet after ten years surely does not deceive me!" The girl suddenly woke as if from a dream and said with sudden clarity: "Ah!" She stared intently at Yan'er. The scholar smiled and said: "This is 'the swallow returns, as if it were once known.'" The girl wept and said: "Yes. I heard my mother say that when I was born I could already speak; they considered it inauspicious and made me drink dog's blood, which clouded my past causes. Today only have I woken as from a dream. Are you not the younger sister Li who was ashamed of being a ghost?" They talked of former lives, and grief and joy came together. One day, the Cold Food Festival, Yan said: "This is the day each year when I and my lord weep for our elder sister." So they personally went to her grave; the wild grass was rank, and the trees were already thick enough to encircle. The girl also sighed. Yan said to the scholar: "Sister Lian and I have been close for two lifetimes; I cannot bear to be parted from her. We should let our bones be buried in the same grave." The scholar followed her words; they opened Lianxiang's grave and obtained her remains, carried them back, and buried them together. Relatives and friends heard of this marvel, and dressed in festive clothes they came to the grave; several hundred people gathered without prior arrangement. In the year Gengxu, I traveled south to Yi, was stopped by rain, and rested in a hostel. There was a young man Liu Zijing, a relative by marriage, who showed me the biography of Sang Sheng written by our fellow society member Wang Zizhang, of about ten thousand words, which I was able to read through. This is only a rough outline. The Historian of the Strange remarks: "Alas! The dead seek life, and the living seek death; is not the human body the rarest thing under heaven? Yet those who possess this body often cast it aside, until they live shamelessly, not as good as a fox, or die obliviously, not as good as a ghost." Abao In western Guangdong, Sun Zichu was a famous scholar. He had an extra finger. He was simple and slow of speech; if people deceived him, he would always believe it as true. Whenever there were singing girls at a gathering, he would always look from afar and then retreat. Those who knew this would lure him in and have a courtesan tease and press close to him; then his face would redden up to his neck, and sweat would drip down in beads, so everyone laughed at him. They would mimic his foolish appearance and spread ugly jokes about him, and called him "Sun the Simpleton." In the same town, there was an old merchant whose wealth rivaled that of nobles. His relatives and in-laws were all high-born. He had a daughter, Abao, of surpassing beauty. He was daily selecting a good match; the sons of great families all vied to send betrothal gifts, but none pleased the old man. Sun had recently lost his wife; someone joked with him and urged him to send a matchmaker. Sun, without any self-measure, indeed followed the advice. The old man had long heard his name but thought him poor. As the matchmaker was about to leave, she happened to meet Abao, who asked what it was about, and she told her. The girl jested: "If he gets rid of his extra finger, I will marry him." The matchmaker told Sun. Sun said: "That's not hard." After the matchmaker left, Sun cut off his finger with an axe; the pain pierced his heart, blood gushed out, and he nearly died. After several days he could rise, and went to show the matchmaker. The matchmaker was startled and ran to tell the girl. The girl also thought it strange, and jestingly asked him to get rid of his foolishness as well. Hearing this, Sun clamored in protest, saying he was not foolish; but he had no way to see her and explain himself. Then he reflected that Abao might not be as beautiful as a celestial being; why should she set herself so high? From then on his former passion suddenly cooled. It happened that at Qingming, it was the custom for women to go out on this day; frivolous youths also formed groups to follow them, freely criticizing them. Several of his society mates forcibly invited Sun to go. Some teased him: "Don't you want to see that charming one?" Sun knew they were joking, but because he had been mocked by the girl, he also wanted to see her, so he happily went with the crowd to look. From afar they saw a girl resting under a tree, with lewd youths surrounding her like a wall. The crowd said: "That must be Abao." They hurried over; indeed it was Abao. Gazing at her, she was exquisitely beautiful beyond compare. After a short while, the crowd grew denser. The girl rose and left abruptly. Everyone was infatuated, commenting on her appearance, all in a frenzy. Sun alone remained silent. When the others went elsewhere, they looked back and saw Sun still standing foolishly at the same spot; they called him but he did not respond. They tugged him and said: "Has your soul gone after Abao?" He did not answer. Since he was usually slow, they were not surprised; they pushed and pulled him home. Once home, he went straight to bed and lay down, not rising all day, dazed as if drunk; they called him but he would not wake. His family suspected he had lost his soul; they called it back in the wilderness, but it did not work. They forced him to respond, and he replied in a haze: "I am at Abao's house." When they pressed further, he would again fall silent. The family was alarmed and puzzled. At first, when Sun saw the girl leave, he could not bear to let her go; he felt his body follow her, gradually drawing near to her collar and belt, and no one rebuked him. So he followed her home, sitting and lying beside her, and at night he would caress her, feeling very close; but he felt incredibly hungry in his belly and wanted to return home, yet he had lost his way. The girl often dreamed of being intimate with someone; she asked his name, and he said: "I am Sun Zichu." She was amazed but could not tell anyone. Sun lay in bed for three days, his breath faint as if about to perish. The family was terrified; they sent someone to gently inform the old man, asking to summon his soul at his house. The old man laughed and said: "We have never had dealings; why would his soul be left at my house?" The family pleaded earnestly, and at last he agreed. The shaman took his old clothes and a straw mat and went. The girl questioned the shaman and learned the reason; she was greatly shocked, and would not let the shaman go elsewhere, but directly led her into the room, allowing her to call out. When the shaman returned and reached the door, Sun already groaned on his bed. Once awake, he described clearly the colors and names of all the toiletries and objects in the girl's room without mistake. When the girl heard this, she was even more shocked, and secretly moved by the depth of his feeling. Once he had left his bed, he sat or stood in deep thought, dazed as if in oblivion. He constantly spied on A-bao, hoping for another encounter. On the Bathing Buddha Festival, hearing that she would come to Xiangshui Yue Temple, he went at dawn to wait by the roadside, his eyes blurred and weary. By noon she finally arrived; from her carriage she caught sight of him, and with her slender hand she lifted the curtain, staring fixedly without turning away. He was even more moved and followed behind her. She suddenly ordered her maid to ask his name and surname. He introduced himself with eager earnestness, his soul growing more unsettled. Only when the carriage drove off did he return home. Back home he fell ill again, in a stupor, refusing food, and in his dreams he constantly called out Bao's name. He often lamented that his soul would not leave his body again. The family had long kept a parrot, which suddenly died, and a child was playing with it on the bed. He thought to himself: if only he could become a parrot, he could flap his wings and reach her chamber. As soon as this thought was fixed in his mind, his body had already turned into a graceful parrot, which at once flew off and arrived straight at Bao's place. She was delighted and caught it, tied a cord to its claw, and fed it hemp seeds. It cried loudly: "Sister, do not tie me! I am Sun Zichu." She was greatly startled, untied it, and it did not leave. She prayed: "Your deep affection is already engraved in my heart. But now we are of different kinds, man and bird; how can our marriage bond be restored?" The bird said: "To be near your fragrant presence is enough for my wish." When others fed it, it would not eat; when she fed it herself, it would eat. When she sat, it perched on her knee; when she lay down, it nestled by her bed. Thus for three days. She took great pity on it, and secretly sent someone to look in on him; he lay stiff as dead, having ceased breathing for three days, but his heart was still warm. She prayed again: "If you can become a man again, I swear to follow you even unto death." The bird said: "You are deceiving me!" She then made a vow. The bird cocked its head as if thinking. After a moment, she bound her slippers and took them off under the bed; the parrot suddenly swooped down, seized one slipper in its beak, and flew away. She called out urgently, but it had already flown far. She sent an old woman to inquire, and he had already awakened. The family had seen the parrot carrying an embroidered slipper, drop it to the ground, and die; they were all astonished. As soon as he revived, he asked for the slipper. No one knew the reason. Just then the old woman arrived, entered to see him, and asked where the slipper was. He said: "That is A-bao's pledge object. Tell her on my behalf: this humble scholar has not forgotten your golden promise." The old woman returned with the message. She was even more amazed, so she had a maid reveal his feelings to her mother. Her mother, having confirmed it, said: "This young man has no mean reputation for talent, but he is as poor as Sima Xiangru. After choosing for years, if we take such a son-in-law, I fear we will be laughed at by the prominent." But because of the slipper, she swore she would have no other. Her parents yielded. They sent a messenger to inform him. He was overjoyed and his illness immediately healed. Her father proposed that he live with them. She said: "A son-in-law should not long stay in his father-in-law's house. Besides, he is poor; staying longer will only make him more despised. Since I have promised him, I am content to dwell in thatched huts and eat coarse fare; I will not complain." So he welcomed her and performed the wedding rites; their reunion was like joy after a lifetime apart. From then on, the household received her dowry and became fairly well-off, adding considerably to their property. But he was so absorbed in books that he did not know how to manage domestic affairs; she was good at accumulating wealth and never troubled him with other matters. After three years, the family grew even richer. He suddenly fell ill with wasting thirst and died. She wept bitterly, her eyes never dry, to the point of forgoing sleep and food. They tried to dissuade her but she would not listen; one night she hanged herself. The maid discovered it and revived her in time, but still she would not eat. After three days, relatives and friends gathered to prepare his coffin. They heard a moaning sound from within; they opened it, and he had come back to life. He said: "I saw the King of Hell, who, because of my plain honesty in life, appointed me as a department official. Suddenly someone reported: 'The wife of Department Official Sun is about to arrive.' The King checked the ghost register and said: 'She is not due to die yet.' The report came again: 'She has not eaten for three days.' The King turned to me and said: 'Moved by your wife's constancy and righteousness, I grant you both rebirth.' Thereupon he ordered a groom to lead a horse and send me back." From then on his body gradually recovered. When the triennial provincial examination came, before he entered the examination hall, some young men made sport of him; they jointly devised seven obscure and recondite topics, led him to a secluded spot, and said: "These are the examination questions obtained from a certain family; we respectfully pass them to you in secret." He believed them and pondered day and night, composing seven essays. They secretly laughed at him. At that time the chief examiner, fearing that familiar topics would invite plagiarism, deliberately departed from the usual patterns; when the examination papers were issued, the seven topics all matched what he had prepared. Thus he placed first in the provincial examination. The next year, he passed the metropolitan examination and was appointed to the Hanlin Academy. The emperor, having heard of the strange events, summoned him and asked about them. He gave a full account. The emperor greatly praised and delighted him. Later he summoned A-bao and bestowed additional rewards upon her. The Historian of the Strange comments: "When one is obsessive, one's will becomes concentrated; hence those obsessed with books are sure to excel in writing, and those obsessed with arts are sure to excel in skill. Those who are shiftless and fail in the world are all those who claim not to be obsessed. Moreover, squandering property on women, or losing one's fortune on gambling—are those not obsessions? From this it is known that excessive cleverness is the true obsession. What obsession does Sun Zichu have?" A list of ten kinds of obsession: "Hoarding gold while eating in poverty. Always boasting of one's child's cleverness to guests. Loving a child so much as to forbear teaching him to read. Hiding illness for fear others know. Spending money to lure others into whoring. Secretly going to banquets to entice others to gamble. Getting others to write essays and deceiving one's father and elder brothers. Keeping father-and-son accounts too clear. Using schemes within the family. Delighting in one's disciples being good at gambling." Jiushan Wang There was a man surnamed Li in Caozhou, a county student. His family had always been well-off, but his residence was not very spacious; behind the house there were a few acres of garden, left waste. One day an old man came to rent a house, offering a hundred taels of silver. Li declined, saying he had no house to let. The old man said: "Please accept it; do not trouble yourself." Li did not understand his intent, but accepted it anyway, to see what was strange about it. The next day, villagers saw carriages, horses, and families entering Li's house, many and bustling; they all wondered where Li's house could accommodate them, and asked him. Li himself had no idea; he returned and inspected, but there was no trace or sound. After several days, the old man suddenly came to call on him, saying: "I have been sheltered under your roof for several mornings and evenings. Everything is still rough; I have been busy with stoves and hearths, and have not had time to observe proper guest etiquette. Now I have had my daughters prepare a meal; I hope you will deign to visit." Li followed him. As he entered the garden, suddenly he saw fine buildings, brand new and splendid. When he entered the room, the furnishings were fragrant and beautiful. Wine cauldrons bubbled under the eaves, and tea smoke curled in the kitchen. Soon they served wine and offered dishes, all of the most delicious. He saw many young men coming and going in the courtyard; and he heard children whispering, and the sound of girls' laughter from within the curtains. The household servants and maids seemed to number several hundred. Li knew in his heart they were foxes. When the feast ended he returned, but secretly harbored murderous intent. Whenever he went to market, he bought saltpeter and sulfur, accumulating several hundred catties, and secretly spread them all over the garden. He suddenly set fire to them; the flames reached to the heavens, like a black mushroom, the stench of burning and the blinding smoke making it unbearable to approach. But he heard shrieks, howls, and wailing sounds, a great clamor filling his ears. After the fire died, he went in to look, and dead foxes lay all over the ground, their heads scorched and faces burnt, too many to count. While he was surveying the scene, the old man came from outside, his expression grievous and sorrowful, and reproached Li: "We had no grudge or enmity before; the hundred taels for the barren garden was not little—how could you bear to exterminate my whole clan? This most bitter vengeance will not go unavenged!" He left in anger. Li suspected he would throw stones and cause disasters, but for over a year there was no sign of anything unusual. In the early years of the Shunzhi reign, bandits arose in the mountains, gathering in roving bands of over ten thousand men. The officials could not suppress them. Li, having many family members, daily worried about disorder and separation. Just then a fortune-teller came to the village, calling himself "Old Man South Mountain." He spoke of people's fortunes and misfortunes as clearly as if he had seen them with his own eyes, and his fame grew greatly. Li summoned him to his home and asked him to calculate his bazi (birth year). The old man, startled, rose with respect and said, "This is the true lord!" Li was greatly alarmed upon hearing this, thinking it was nonsense. The old man, with solemn countenance, insisted on it. Li was half doubtful and half believing, and said, "How could one rise up empty-handed and become emperor?" The old man said, "Not so. From ancient times, emperors and kings have mostly arisen from commoners—who among them was born a Son of Heaven?" Li, perplexed, leaned forward on his mat and inquired further. The old man resolutely took upon himself the role of "Sleeping Dragon." He requested first to prepare several thousand suits of armor and several thousand bows and crossbows. Li worried that the people would not rally to him. The old man said, "I shall go on your behalf and forge alliances with all the mountains, binding them closely. I will make the rumor-mongers say that the king is a true Son of Heaven, and the soldiers in the mountains should surely respond." Li was delighted and sent the old man on his way. He opened his hidden coffers and had armor and helmets made. The old man returned only after several days, saying, "By the king's awesome fortune and the power of your subject's three-inch tongue, all the mountains are willing to hold your reins and follow your banner." Within ten days, indeed several thousand men came to pledge allegiance. Thereupon Li made the old man his military counselor, raised a great standard, and set up colorful banners like a forest; he occupied the mountains and set up stockades, and his power and influence shook the region. The county magistrate led troops to attack, but the old man directed the bandits and thoroughly routed them. The magistrate, frightened, urgently sought help from Yanzhou. The Yanzhou troops traveled far and arrived, but the old man again ambushed and attacked, and the troops fled in great disorder, with many officers and soldiers killed or wounded. His power grew even more formidable, and his followers numbered in the tens of thousands. Thereupon he declared himself "Nine Mountain King." The old man worried about a shortage of horses. It happened that the capital was dispatching horses to Jiangnan, so he sent a detachment to intercept and seize them on the road. From this, the name "Nine Mountain King" became even more famous. He added to the old man the title "Grand General Who Protects the Nation." He reclined at ease in his mountain lair, openly self-satisfied, believing that the donning of the yellow robe was only a matter of days away. The eastern governor, because of the seized horses, was about to launch a campaign to suppress him; and having also received the report from Yanzhou, he dispatched several thousand elite troops, joining with six circuits to surround and advance. The military banners filled the mountains and valleys. The Nine Mountain King, greatly terrified, summoned the old man to consult him, but he was nowhere to be found. The Nine Mountain King, desperate and without recourse, climbed the mountain and gazed out, saying, "Now I know how great the power of the court is!" The mountain was breached, and he was captured; his wife and children were executed. Only then did he realize that the old man was the old fox, come to repay Li for the extermination of his clan. The Historian of the Strange says: "A man embracing his wife and children, sitting bareheaded behind closed doors—where would he find occasion to kill? And even if he killed, how would it lead to the extermination of his clan? The fox's scheme was indeed clever. Yet if the soil lacks the seed, even watering will not make it sprout. The cruelty with which he killed the fox had already planted the root of banditry in his heart, so the fox could nurture that sprout and exact retribution. Now try taking a passerby on the road and telling him, 'You shall be Son of Heaven!'—there is none who would not flee in terror. Though it is clearly the act that would annihilate one's clan, yet he still gladly listened to it; that his wife and children were executed—what more is there to say? Yet when people listen to wild words, at first they hear them with anger, then with doubt, then with belief; only when their persons and reputations are both destroyed do they realize their error. It is mostly like this." THE FOX IN THE ZUNHUA OFFICE Qiu Gong of Zhucheng served as Circuit Intendant of Zunhua. His office had long been infested with foxes; the last building in particular was home to a whole clan of them, densely dwelling there as their household. They would often appear and bring calamity to people, and when driven away they only grew more rampant. Those who held this post would only offer sacrifices and pray to them, not daring to offend them. When Qiu Gong took office and heard of this, he was angered. The foxes, also fearing Qiu's sternness and fierceness, transformed into an old woman and told his servants, "Please inform the master: do not be enemies with us. Allow us three days, and we shall take our young and small ones and move away." When Qiu heard this, he remained silent. The next day, after reviewing the troops, he ordered them not to disperse, and had them carry all the great cannons from the camp and quickly enter. They surrounded the building and fired a thousand cannons simultaneously; the several-zhang-tall building was instantly leveled to the ground, and flesh and fur rained down from the sky like a downpour. Amidst the thick dust and poisonous fog, a wisp of white air pierced through the smoke and shot up into the sky. The crowd watched it and said, "One fox has escaped." And from then on, the office was peaceful. Two years later, Qiu sent a capable servant with a certain amount of silver to the capital, seeking to secure a promotion. The matter not yet settled, he temporarily buried the silver in the home of a yamen runner. Suddenly an old man appeared at the court to lodge a grievance, saying that his wife and children had been brutally slaughtered, and further accused Qiu of embezzling military grain and currying favor with those in power, stating that the silver was currently stored in a certain household and could be verified. By imperial order, they went to verify it. At the runner's house they searched thoroughly but found nothing. The old man only tapped the ground with one foot. They grasped his meaning, dug there, and indeed found the silver; on the silver was engraved the inscription "Remitted by such-and-such prefecture." When they then looked for the old man, he had vanished. They inquired after the names of his village and household to find the man, but there was no such person. Qiu thus met with disaster, and only then did he realize that the old man was the escaped fox. The Historian of the Strange says: "The fox's harming of people was indeed most deserving of execution. Yet if it submits, to spare it is also to preserve one's own benevolence. Qiu Gong may be said to have 'carried his severity too far.' But even if Guan Xi had been in his place, how could a hundred foxes have taken revenge against him?" ZHANG CHENG A certain Zhang of Henan had ancestors from Qi. At the end of the Ming, Qi was in great chaos, and his wife was carried off by northern soldiers. Zhang often traveled as a merchant to Henan, and so settled there. He married a woman in Henan and had a son, Na. Before long, his wife died, and he took another wife, who bore him a son, Cheng. The second wife, née Niu, was fierce and shrewish, and daily envied Na, treating him like a slave, feeding him coarse food, and sending him to gather firewood, requiring one shoulder-load each day. If he failed, she would beat him with curses and abuse, unbearable. She secretly kept delicacies to feed Cheng and had him study with a tutor. As Cheng grew older, he was filial and fraternal by nature, and could not bear his elder brother's toil. He secretly pleaded with his mother, but she would not listen. One day, Na went into the mountains to gather firewood but had not finished when a great wind and rain came. He took shelter under a cliff, and when the rain stopped, dusk had already fallen. He was extremely hungry in his belly, so he carried the firewood home. When his mother saw it was too little, she angrily refused him food. Starvation burned at his heart, and he entered his room and lay stiffly on his bed. Cheng, returning from the tutor's, saw his brother listless and asked, "Are you ill?" He said, "Just hungry." Asking the reason, Na told him the situation. Cheng, grieved, left at once. After a while, he came back with a pancake in his bosom and gave it to his brother. Na asked where it came from. He said, "I stole some flour and asked a neighbor woman to make it. Just eat and say nothing." Na ate it, then warned his brother, "Do not do this again in the future. If it is discovered, you will be implicated. Besides, if I eat once a day, hunger will not kill me." Cheng said, "Brother is naturally weak—how can you gather so much firewood?" The next day, after eating, he secretly went to the mountain, arriving at where his brother was cutting wood. When his brother saw him, he asked in surprise, "What are you going to do?" He answered, "I am coming to help gather firewood." He asked, "Who sent you?" He said, "I came myself." His brother said, "Setting aside that you cannot gather wood, even if you could, it is still not permissible." And he hurried him back. Cheng would not listen, and with hands and feet he broke branches to help his brother. He also said, "Tomorrow I shall bring an axe." His brother, drawing near to stop him, saw that his fingers were already cut and his shoes worn through, and said sorrowfully, "If you do not return quickly, I shall kill myself with this axe." Cheng then went back, and his brother accompanied him halfway before turning back. After returning from firewood-gathering, Na went to the tutor's and instructed him, saying, "My younger brother is young; you should keep him inside. There are many tigers and wolves in the mountains." The tutor said, "I do not know where he went before noon—I have already punished him with the ruler." Na returned and said to Cheng, "You did not listen to my words, and you have been caned for it." Cheng smiled and said, "Not at all." The next day, he took his axe and went again. His brother said in alarm, "I told you not to come—why are you doing it again?" Cheng did not answer, but cut firewood with urgency, sweat streaming down his face without rest. When he had gathered about a bundle, he left without a word. The tutor scolded him again, and he then told the truth. The tutor, sighing at his virtue, no longer forbade him. His brother repeatedly stopped him, but he never listened. One day, while he was gathering firewood in the mountains with several others, suddenly a tiger arrived. The men were terrified and prostrated themselves. The tiger actually seized Cheng in its jaws and carried him off. The tiger, bearing its burden, walked slowly, and Na caught up with it. Na swung his axe with all his might and struck it in the haunch. The tiger, maddened with pain, bolted away, and there was no way to track it. Na wept bitterly and returned. The others tried to comfort him, but he wept all the more sorrowfully, saying, “My younger brother is not like other men’s younger brothers—and moreover he died for my sake. How can I go on living?” So he took his axe and cut his own neck. The men rushed to save him; the blade had already gone in about an inch, blood gushed out like a fountain, and he fainted and collapsed. Alarmed, they tore strips from his clothing to bind the wound and helped him home, supporting him together. His mother wept and scolded, saying, “You killed my son—are you trying to slit your throat to make amends?” Na moaned, “Mother, do not fret. If my brother is dead, I will certainly not live.” He was laid upon his bed; the wound pained him so that he could not sleep, and he sat day and night against the wall, weeping. His father, fearing he too would die, would from time to time bring him to the bedside and give him a little food, but the cow[? actually “牛” refers to the mother? In context, it's the mother scolding, but here it says "牛輒詬責" - it might be a term for the mother? Actually earlier the mother is "母", here "牛" might be a typo or a nickname? But we translate as "the mother" or "she". Let's check: earlier the mother scolded, now "牛輒詬責" - likely "牛" is the mother's name or a derogatory? Actually in classical Chinese, sometimes "牛" is used as a term for a stubborn person, but here it says "牛輒詬責" meaning the mother would always scold and reproach him. We'll translate as "the mother" for clarity. So: His father feared he too would die, and would from time to time go to the bedside to give him a little food, but the mother would always scold and reproach him. So Na stopped eating and died after three days. In the village there was a shaman who acted as a go-between for the dead. Na met him on the road and recounted in detail his former sufferings. He then asked about his brother’s whereabouts. The shaman said he had not heard. Thereupon he turned back and led Na away. They came to a great city, and saw a man in a black robe coming out from within the city walls. The shaman stopped him and asked on Na’s behalf. The black-robed man checked his register in his waist-pouch and examined it carefully; among over a hundred men and women, there was no offender named Zhang. The shaman suspected it might be in another register. The black-robed man said, “This road is under my jurisdiction—how could there be a mistaken arrest?” Na did not believe him and forced the shaman to enter the inner city. Within the city, new ghosts and old ghosts moved to and fro in a throng; some were old acquaintances, but when asked, none knew anything. Suddenly all cried out, “The Bodhisattva is coming!” Looking up, they saw in the clouds a great figure, whose radiant hair-light shone through heaven and earth, and instantly the whole world became bright. The shaman congratulated him, saying, “How fortunate you are, eldest son! The Bodhisattva enters the underworld only once every several decades to deliver all from suffering—and today you have chanced upon it.” He then urged Na to kneel. All the ghost prisoners, in a confused and clamorous crowd, clasped their palms together and chanted the cry for compassionate salvation, a roaring sound that shook the earth. The Bodhisattva sprinkled sweet dew with a willow branch, the droplets fine as dust. Soon the mist cleared and the light faded, and the Bodhisattva vanished from sight. Na felt dew fall upon his neck, and the wound from the axe no longer pained him. The shaman again led him back together. When they sighted the gate of his village, the shaman took his leave and went away. Na had been dead for two days when he suddenly revived completely and related everything he had encountered, saying that Cheng was not dead. His mother thought he was fabricating lies and reviled him instead. Na, wronged and unable to clear himself, felt the scar on his wound, which had healed remarkably well. He got up by his own strength, bowed to his father, and said, “I am going to pierce the clouds and cross the seas to search for my brother. If I cannot find him, I will never hope to return in this life. I beg you, Father, to regard me as already dead.” The old man led him to a quiet place and wept with him, not daring to detain him. Na then departed. He inquired after his brother’s news at every thoroughfare, and when his travel funds were exhausted along the way, he begged as he walked. After more than a year, he reached Jinling, clad in tattered rags, bent and shuffling along the road. By chance he saw a party of more than ten horsemen pass by and stepped aside to avoid them. Among them was one who looked like an official, about forty years old, with sturdy soldiers and spirited horses galloping before and behind. A young man riding a small pony repeatedly glanced at Na. Na, thinking him a noble son, did not dare to look up. The young man reined in his horse and paused, then suddenly dismounted and called out, “Is that not my elder brother?” Na raised his head and looked carefully—it was Cheng. They clasped hands in great anguish, and Na sobbed aloud; Cheng also wept, saying, “How have you drifted so low as to come to this?” Na told him his story, and Cheng grew even more sorrowful. The riders all dismounted to ask the reason, and reported it to the official. The official ordered a horse to be freed for Na to ride, and they rode side by side back to his house, where they then asked for the full details. At first, when the tiger had carried Cheng off, no one knew when it had set him down by the roadside, and he lay there through the night. It happened that Assistant Magistrate Zhang was coming from the capital and passed by; seeing that Cheng had a refined appearance, he took pity on him and tended him, and gradually he revived. When Cheng told him his native place, it was far away. So Zhang took him along in his carriage and brought him home. He also applied medicine to his wounds, and after several days they healed. Assistant Magistrate Zhang had no son of his own, so he adopted Cheng. That day he had just been out on an excursion. Cheng told his elder brother everything in detail. While they were speaking, the Assistant Magistrate entered, and Na bowed and thanked him repeatedly. Cheng went inside and brought out silk garments, which he presented to his brother, and then they set out wine and feasted together. The Assistant Magistrate asked, “Your family in Henan—how many able-bodied men are there?” Na said, “There are none. My father was originally from Qi, and drifted to Henan as a sojourner.” The Assistant Magistrate said, “I too am from Qi. To which district does your native place belong?” Na answered, “I once heard my father say that it is under the jurisdiction of Dongchang.” The Assistant Magistrate started in surprise and said, “We are fellow townsmen! Why did he move to Henan?” Na said, “In the last years of the Ming, the Qing troops entered the borders and carried off my former mother. My father, suffering from the war, was left without a home. He had previously traded in the western route, and was quite familiar with that area, so he settled there.” The Assistant Magistrate asked in further surprise, “What is your esteemed father’s name?” Na told him. The Assistant Magistrate stared with wide eyes, then bowed his head as if in doubt, and hurried inside. Before long, the Lady Mother came out. They all bowed to her in a row, and then she asked Na, “Are you the grandson of Zhang Bingzhi?” He said, “Yes.” The Lady Mother burst into loud tears and said to the Assistant Magistrate, “This is your younger brother.” Na and his brother could not understand. The Lady Mother said, “I was married to your father for three years, then was carried off to the north and belonged to General Heishan for half a year, during which I gave birth to your elder brother. After another half year, the General died, and your elder brother succeeded to his post under the banner and was transferred to this office. Now he has retired from office. Every moment I thought of my native place, so we left the banner and restored our original family register. I repeatedly sent people to Qi, but found no news—how could I have known that your father had migrated west?” Then she said to the Assistant Magistrate, “You took your younger brother as your son—that is a sin that will shorten your life!” The Assistant Magistrate said, “When I questioned Cheng earlier, he never said he was from Qi—I suppose he was too young to remember.” Then they arranged themselves by age: the Assistant Magistrate was forty-one, the eldest; Cheng was sixteen, the youngest; and Na was twenty-two, so he became the elder among the younger brothers. The Assistant Magistrate was overjoyed to have gained two younger brothers, and they shared the same sleeping quarters. When he had fully learned all the details of their separation, he planned to return home. The Lady Mother feared she might not be tolerated. The Assistant Magistrate said, “If they can tolerate us, we shall all live together; if not, we shall divide households. Under heaven, is there ever a land without a father?” So they sold the house, prepared their belongings, and set a day to travel westward. When they reached their native place, Na and Cheng first rode ahead to inform their father. Since Na had left, his wife had also died; he was a solitary old widower, keeping company only with his own shadow. Suddenly seeing Na enter, he was wildly overjoyed, dazed with astonishment; then he saw Cheng, and his joy was extreme, so that he could not speak but only shed tears. When they told him that the Assistant Magistrate and his mother were also coming, the old man stopped weeping and stared in amazement, unable to feel joy or sorrow, standing there in a daze. Before long, the Assistant Magistrate entered, bowed, and then the Lady Mother took the old man’s hands and wept facing him. After that, old maidservants, serving women, and grooms and servants filled the house inside and out, so that they did not know where to sit or stand. Cheng did not see his mother, and when he asked about her, he learned that she had already died; he wailed until his breath failed, and only after the space of a meal did he revive. The Assistant Magistrate contributed funds to build towers and halls; he engaged a tutor for the two younger brothers; horses pranced in the stables, and men bustled in the chambers—they had become a great household indeed. The Historian of the Strange says: “As I heard this story to the end, tears fell several times: when the boy of ten or so took his axe and firewood to help his elder brother, I sighed and said, ‘Is not Wang Lan seen again?’—and at that I wept once. When the tiger carried Cheng away, I could not help crying out, ‘So blind is Heaven’s way!’—and at that I wept again. When the brothers suddenly met, I wept for joy; and when there was one more elder brother, and another sorrow added, I wept for the Assistant Magistrate. When the whole family was reunited, unexpected in their astonishment, unexpected in their joy, and tears came from nowhere—I wept for the old man. I wonder if in later ages there will be one who weeps as readily as I?” The Fox of Fenzhou Magistrate Zhu of Fenzhou Prefecture had many foxes in his official residence. One night as he sat in his study, a young woman came and went about the lamplight. At first he took her for a wife or daughter of one of his household servants and paid her no close attention; but when he raised his eyes, he found he did not know her at all, and her countenance was dazzlingly bright. He knew in his heart she was a fox, yet he was charmed by her, and forthwith called her over. The woman halted her steps and laughed, saying, "Why do you shout at people so harshly? Who do you take me for, your maidservant or your old nurse?" Zhu laughed, rose, and drew her by the sleeve to sit down as he apologized. Thereupon he became intimate with her, and for a long time their relations were as those of husband and wife. Suddenly she said to him, "Your rank is due for promotion, and the day of parting will come." He asked, "When?" She answered, "Very soon. But while the congratulators are at your door, the mourners will be at your lane's end—you will not be able to hold office." Three days later, the report of his promotion indeed arrived. The next day, he received news of his mother's death. Zhu resigned his post and wished to take her back with him. The fox would not consent. He escorted her to the riverbank and pressed her to board the boat with him. The woman said, "You do not know—foxes cannot cross rivers." Zhu could not bear to part, and lingered sadly by the riverside. The woman suddenly went out, saying she would pay a call on an old acquaintance. After a while she returned, and soon a guest arrived to return the visit. The woman received him in a separate room and spoke with him. When the guest had left, she came back and said, "Please board the boat now; I will see you across." Zhu said, "Earlier you said you could not cross—why do you say this now?" She replied, "The one I called on just now was no other than the River God. For your sake I specially petitioned him. He has granted me ten days for the round trip, so I can stay with you for a while." So they crossed together. When the tenth day came, she parted from him and left. Qiaoniang In Guangdong there was a squire named Fu, over sixty years old, who had a son called Lian. He was very intelligent, but born with a natural impotence; at seventeen, his organ was no bigger than a silkworm. Far and wide this was known, and no one would give him a daughter in marriage. He knew his line must end, and worried day and night, but could do nothing. Lian studied with a tutor. One day the tutor happened to go out, and just outside the gate there was a monkey performer; Lian went to watch it and neglected his studies. Fearing his tutor would return, he ran away. A few li from home, he saw a young woman in white, with a young maidservant walking ahead of him. The woman turned her head and was enchantingly beautiful. She walked with slow, halting steps, and Lian hurried past her. The woman turned to her maid and said, "Ask that young gentleman whether he is not perhaps going to Qiong?" The maid accordingly called out and asked. Lian asked what she meant. The woman said, "If you are going to Qiong, I have a letter which I would trouble you to deliver at my village gate. My old mother is at home and could also be your hostess." Lian had originally set out with no fixed destination; thinking that even crossing the sea would do, he agreed. The woman took out a letter and gave it to the maid, who handed it to him. When he asked her name and place of residence, she said, "My surname is Hua, and I live in Qinnü Village, three or four li north of the north suburb." Lian boarded a boat and went on his way. When he reached the north suburb of Qiongzhou, the sun was already setting. He asked for Qinnü Village, but no one knew it. He walked four or five li northward; the stars and moon were already bright, the fragrant grasses confused his eyes, and there was no inn in sight—he was greatly distressed. Seeing a grave by the roadside, he thought of taking shelter beside it, but greatly feared tigers and wolves. So he climbed a tree like a monkey and perched himself upon it. He listened to the soughing of the pines and the mournful chirping of the night insects, his heart filled with anxiety and dread, and his regret burned like fire. Suddenly he heard voices below. Looking down, he saw a courtyard plainly laid out; a beautiful woman sat on a rock, while two maids with painted candles attended her on either side. The beauty glanced left and said, "Tonight the moon is bright and the stars are sparse—the dumpling tea that Hua Gu gave us may be brewed in a cup to enjoy this fine night." Lian took them for ghosts or goblins, and his hair stood on end. He dared not even stir. Suddenly one of the maids looked up and said, "There is someone in the tree!" The woman started up and cried, "What bold fellow is this, peeping in the dark at people?" Lian was terrified and saw no hiding place, so he scrambled down and prostrated himself on the ground, begging for mercy. The woman drew near and looked at him; then her anger turned to pleasure, and she drew him to sit beside her. Glancing at her, she appeared about seventeen or eighteen, with a stunningly beautiful bearing. Her speech too was not the local dialect. She asked, "Where are you going, sir?" He answered, "I am carrying a letter for someone." She said, "The wilds are full of ruffians; sleeping in the open is risky. If you do not disdain my humble cottage, I invite you to stay." She led him inside. There was but a single couch, and she bade the maids spread two quilts upon it. Lian was ashamed of his own deformity and wished to take the lower bed. The woman laughed and said, "When a fine guest comes, how could I, a woman, presume to lie high?" Lian had no choice but to share the couch with her, yet he was fearful and dared not relax. After a while, the woman in the dark reached out a slender hand and gently touched his shin and thigh. Lian feigned sleep, as if unconscious. A little later, she lifted the quilt and crept in, shaking him, but he still did not move. She then reached down and explored his secret parts. She withdrew her hand in dismay, and quietly crept out of the quilt. Soon he heard sobbing. Lian was mortified and ashamed beyond measure, and cursed the defect Heaven had given him. The woman called for a maid to light the lamp. When the maid saw the tearstains, she asked in alarm what was the matter. The woman shook her head and said, "I am merely lamenting my own fate." The maid stood by the bed, watching her expression. The woman said, "Wake the young gentleman and send him away." Hearing this, Lian was even more ashamed and mortified; moreover he feared that in the middle of the night he had nowhere else to go. As he was pondering, a woman pushed the door open and entered. The maid announced, "Hua Gu has come." Peering covertly, he saw a woman of about fifty, still of elegant bearing. Seeing that the young woman was not asleep, she questioned her. The young woman did not answer. Then she saw someone lying on the couch and asked, "Who is that on the same couch?" The maid answered for her: "A young gentleman staying here for the night." The older woman laughed and said, "I did not know that Qiaoniang was celebrating her bridal night." Seeing that Qiaoniang's tears were still undried, she exclaimed in surprise, "On the night of the wedding cup, to weep so is most unseemly—surely the young gentleman has been rough with you." Qiaoniang said nothing and wept all the more. The older woman was about to pull aside Lian's clothes to look at him, but when she shook his garment, a letter fell from the couch. She picked it up and looked at it, then cried in astonishment, "This is my daughter's handwriting!" She tore it open, read it, and sighed in dismay. Qiaoniang asked what it was. She said, "It is a letter home from Sanjie, saying that her husband Wu is dead and she is left all alone, with no one to rely on—what is to be done?" Qiaoniang said, "He did say he was carrying a letter for someone; fortunately we have not sent him away." The older woman called Lian to rise and asked him in detail where the letter had come from. Lian told her everything. She said, "To have troubled you to carry a letter so far—how shall we repay you?" She then scrutinized him carefully and asked with a smile, "How did you offend Qiaoniang?" Lian said, "I do not know what my offense was." She asked the girl again. Qiaoniang sighed and said, "I pitied myself for being wedded to a eunuch, and so I wept." The older woman looked at Lian and said, "You clever boy—are you in fact a male who is like a female? Since you are my guest, I cannot keep you troubling others." So she moved Lian into the eastern chamber, put her hand inside his trousers, and examined him. She laughed and said, "No wonder Qiaoniang shed tears. But fortunately you still have root and stem, and something can still be done." She lit a lamp and searched through all the boxes and trunks, found a black pill, and gave it to Lian, ordering him to swallow it at once. She strictly enjoined him not to make a sound, then went out. Lian lay alone, thinking hard, not knowing what ailment the medicine was meant to cure. As the fifth watch approached, he woke up and felt a thread of hot breath at his navel surging straight down to his hidden parts; something seemed to be stirring and hanging between his thighs. He felt it himself and found he had become a full-grown man. His heart was filled with amazed joy, as if he had just received the Nine Gifts of investiture. As soon as the window began to lighten, the woman came in, put some baked cakes in his room, told him to sit patiently, and locked the door behind her. She went out and said to Qiaoniang, "The young gentleman has earned merit by carrying the letter; I shall keep him here to invite San Niang over, so that they may pledge sisterly friendship. And I shall keep him shut up for now, so as not to trouble others." Then she went out. Lian paced about in boredom, often peering through the crack in the door like a bird in a cage. When he saw Qiaoniang, he wanted to call out and reveal himself, but shame and hesitation stopped him. By nightfall, the woman returned with a young lady. She opened the door and said, "How bored the young gentleman must be! San Niang, come and thank him." The newcomer entered hesitantly and made a curtsey to Lian. The older woman bade them address each other as brother and sister. Qiaoniang laughed and said, "Sisters would do just as well." They all came out to the main hall, sat down together, and set out wine. As they drank, Qiaoniang teasingly asked, "Do eunuchs also have feelings for beauties?" Lian replied, "A lame man does not forget his shoes, nor a blind man his sight." They all burst out laughing. Qiaoniang, seeing that San-niang was exhausted, pressed her to retire. The matron glanced at San-niang and bade her go with the young man. San-niang, overcome with shyness, did not move. The matron said, "This is a man who is a woman at heart—what is there to fear from him?" And she urged them off together. Privately she charged the young man, saying, "In secret be my son-in-law; in public be my son. That will do." The young man, overjoyed, took her arm and mounted the bed. The new blade was put to the whetstone, and its keenness may well be imagined. Afterward, resting on the pillow, he asked the girl, "What is Qiaoniang?" She replied, "She is a ghost. Her beauty and talents are without equal, but her times are fallen and forlorn. She was wedded to a young son of the Mao family, who was sickly and castrated—at eighteen he could not perform the husband's office—and so she has been melancholy and ill at ease, nursing her grievance as if in the underworld." The young man was startled and suspected that San-niang was also a ghost. The girl said, "To tell you the truth, I am no ghost, but a fox. Qiaoniang lives alone without a mate; my mother and I had no home, so we borrowed her hut to lodge in." The young man was greatly alarmed. The girl said, "Do not fear—although they are ghosts and foxes, they mean you no harm." From then on they daily conversed and feasted together. Though he knew Qiaoniang was not human, he loved her charming beauty in his heart, only regretting that he had no opportunity to offer himself. The young man was refined and witty, skilled in flattery and jest, and won much of Qiaoniang's affection. One day, when Hua and her daughter were going elsewhere, they again locked the young man in his room. Bored and restless, he paced about and called to Qiaoniang through the door. Qiaoniang ordered a maid to try several keys until at last the lock opened. The young man leaned close and begged for a private word. Qiaoniang sent the maid away. He drew her to the bed and nestled against her. The girl teasingly grasped him below the navel and said, "What a pity that this dear one here is so lacking!" But before she finished speaking, her hand encountered a full handful. Startled, she exclaimed, "How was it so tiny before, and now suddenly so full?" The young man laughed and said, "Before, I was ashamed to meet a guest, so I shrank; now, finding your mockery hard to bear, I have merely puffed up like an angry frog." And so they became intimate. Afterward she said angrily, "Now I know why the door was locked on you. Formerly, when we mother and daughter were drifting homeless, we borrowed this house to lodge in. San-niang studied embroidery with me, and I never begrudged her any secret of my art. Yet she is so jealous!" The young man soothed her and told her the full truth of the matter. Qiaoniang still harbored resentment. The young man said, "Keep it secret—Hua-gu strictly charged me." Before he had finished, Hua-gu burst in. The two, flustered, were just rising. Hua-gu glared and asked, "Who opened the door?" Qiaoniang smiled and confessed herself. Hua-gu grew angrier and scolded without end. Qiaoniang deliberately sneered, "Old mother, you also make people laugh! This is a man who is a woman at heart—what harm can he do?" San-niang, seeing her mother and Qiaoniang locked in bitter contention, felt uneasy and tried to mediate between them, until at last their anger turned to pleasure. Although Qiaoniang's words were fierce, from then on she humbled herself to serve San-niang. But Hua-gu kept watch day and night, and the two lovers could not unfold their feelings, only exchanging glances full of affection. One day Hua-gu said to the young man, "Both my daughters have now served you. I think it is not well for us to remain here; you should go home and tell your parents, and make an early betrothal." She then packed his things and urged him to leave. The two girls looked at him with sad and mournful expressions. Qiaoniang especially could not bear it; her tears rolled down like a broken string of pearls, without end. Hua-gu stopped them and pulled the young man out. Once outside the gate, the courtyard and buildings were gone—only a desolate grave mound remained. Hua-gu saw him to the boat and said, "After you leave, I shall take my two daughters to rent a house in your honorable county. If you do not forget our former affection, at the abandoned Li family garden you may await the bridal procession." The young man then returned home. At that time, Father Fu had been searching for his son and was in great anxiety. When he saw his son return, his joy was beyond expectation. The young man gave a brief account of what had happened and also mentioned the betrothal with the Hua family. His father said, "How can you listen to the words of demons? The only reason you came back alive is that they thought you were castrated—otherwise, you would be dead!" The young man said, "Though they are different beings, their feelings are like those of humans; besides, they are wise and beautiful, and marrying one would not bring shame upon our kin." His father said nothing but only sneered. The young man withdrew. But his itch for sport made him restless, and he secretly took liberties with the maidservants, gradually even engaging in open debauchery by daylight, intending to shock his parents into notice. One day he was spied by a little maid, who ran and told his mother. The mother did not believe it, but when she stealthily observed, she was alarmed. She called the maid for investigation and learned the full extent. Overjoyed, she told everyone she met, to show that her son was not castrated, and began to discuss marriage with respectable families. The young man privately told his mother, "I will take no wife but Hua's daughter." His mother said, "The world is not lacking in beautiful women—why must you have a ghost?" The young man said, "If it were not for Hua-gu, I would never have known the way of man and woman; to betray her would be inauspicious." Father Fu gave in and sent a servant and an old woman to investigate. They went four or five li east of the city wall and sought the Li family garden. Amid broken walls, bamboo, and trees, they saw wisps of cooking smoke. The old woman alighted and went straight to the gate. There the mother and daughter were washing and preparing things by the table, as if awaiting someone. The old woman bowed and delivered her master's message. When she saw San-niang, she exclaimed in surprise, "Is this our young mistress? Even I find her lovely—no wonder the young master's soul dreams of her!" She then asked about the elder sister. Hua-gu sighed and said, "She was my adopted daughter, but three days ago she suddenly passed away." She then offered wine and food to the old woman and the servant. When the old woman returned, she fully described San-niang's appearance and bearing, and both parents were pleased. Finally she reported Qiaoniang's death, and the young man was so grieved he nearly wept. On the night of the bridal procession, he saw Hua-gu and asked her personally. She answered, "She has already been reborn in the northern lands." The young man sighed and lamented for a long time. He brought San-niang home, but he could never forget Qiaoniang. Whenever anyone came from Qiong, he would summon them and ask about her. Someone said that at night, ghostly weeping was heard at the tomb of the Qin girl. The young man, finding this strange, went in and told San-niang. San-niang pondered for a long while, then wept and said, "I have wronged our elder sister!" When pressed, she answered, "When my mother and I came here, we truly did not let her know. That resentful weeping now—could it not be our elder sister? I had wished to tell you before, but feared to expose my mother's fault." When the young man heard this, his grief turned to joy. He immediately ordered a carriage and raced day and night to the tomb. Knocking on the tomb's tree, he called, "Qiaoniang! Qiaoniang! I am here." Soon he saw a young woman emerge from the cave, holding an infant. She raised her head with a bitter sob, her resentment boundless. The young man also shed tears. He reached into her bosom and asked whose child it was. Qiaoniang said, "It is your offspring. He was born three months ago." The young man sighed, "I mistakenly listened to Hua-gu's words, and made mother and child lie buried in the underworld—how can I atone for my fault?" He then took her into the carriage and returned by sea. He brought the child to tell his mother. When she saw it, its body was robust and strong, unlike a ghostly thing, and she was even more delighted. The two women were harmonious and served their mother-in-law filially. Later, when Father Fu fell ill and a physician was summoned, Qiaoniang said, "The sickness cannot be cured—his soul has already left its abode." She supervised the preparation of funeral goods, and when they were ready, he died. The child grew up to resemble his father closely; he was exceptionally bright and entered the district school at fourteen. A certain Weng Zixia of Gaoyou, traveling in Guang, heard this tale. The place-names have been lost, and the end is not known. --- The Magistrate of Wu A certain Magistrate of Wu County—his surname and given name are forgotten—was upright and stern, and enjoyed a reputation for integrity. In Wu custom, the City God was most revered. They carved a wooden image of him, clothed it in brocade, and fitted it with hidden mechanisms so that it seemed alive. On the god's birthday festival, the residents would collect funds for a procession, carting the image through the main streets, erecting banners and pennants, arranging a full retinue of ceremonial paraphernalia in orderly ranks, while drums and music played, filling the thoroughfares with noise, one continuous line. This had become a settled custom; no one dared neglect it for a year. When the magistrate went out and chanced upon the procession, he halted and asked about it. The residents told him. He further inquired and learned that the expense was considerable. The magistrate grew angry, pointed at the god, and rebuked him, saying, "The City God is the true lord of this district. If you are dull and soulless, then you are but a licentious, ignorant spirit, not worth serving. If you have spiritual power, then you should cherish the people's resources—why waste their blood and sweat on useless expense?" Having spoken, he pulled the god to the ground and gave it twenty lashes. From then on, the custom was abruptly changed. The magistrate was upright and selfless, but in his youth he had loved to play tricks. After he had been in office over a year, he chanced to climb a ladder under the eaves of his yamen to reach a nest of young sparrows, lost his footing, fell, broke his leg, and soon died. People heard from the City God's temple that the magistrate was shouting angrily, as if contending with the god, and it continued for days without ceasing. The people of Wu did not forget his virtue; they gathered to offer prayers and intercede, and built a separate temple for the magistrate, whereupon the noise ceased. That temple was also named after the City God, and sacrifices were offered in spring and autumn; it became even more renowned than the old god's shrine. To this day, Wu has two City Gods. --- Ventriloquism In the village came a young woman, about fourteen or fifteen years old. She carried a medicine pouch and sold her medical services. When someone asked about an illness, the woman could not prescribe a formula herself; she waited until night to ask the gods. In the evening she cleaned a small room and was locked inside. The crowd surrounded the door and windows, straining their ears in silent listening; only whispers were heard, no one dared to cough. Inside and out, all sounds were still. After about half a watch, suddenly the sound of the curtain was heard. The woman inside said, "Has Jiugu come?" A woman's voice answered, "I have come." Again she said, "Is Lamei with Jiugu?" A maidservant's voice seemed to answer, "I have come." The three of them chattered in mixed conversation, ceaselessly. Soon the curtain hook sounded again, and the woman said, "Has Liugu arrived?" Then a confused voice said, "Has Chunmei also brought the little boy?" A woman said, "The stubborn boy! He would not sleep even when hushed; he insisted on coming with his mistress. He is as heavy as a hundred jun, a tiring burden." Then were heard the woman's attentive voice, Jiugu's greeting voice, Liugu's polite inquiries, the two maids' consoling voices, the child's happy laughter, and the cat's mewing, all in a hubbub. Then the woman was heard laughing and saying, "The little master also loves to play; he carried the cat all the way here." Thereafter the voices gradually thinned; the curtain sounded again, and the whole room burst into noise, saying, "Why has Sigu come so late?" A little girl's thin voice laughed and said, "The road is over a thousand li; we walked with Auntie for such a long time before arriving. And Auntie walked slowly." Then each exchanged pleasantries, along with sounds of moving seats and calling for extra seats, intermingled, filling the room with clamor, which settled only after the time of a meal. Then the woman was heard asking about the illness. Jiugu thought it appropriate to use ginseng, Liugu thought it appropriate to use astragalus, Sigu thought it appropriate to use atractylodes. After deliberating for a while, Jiugu was heard calling for brush and inkstone. Presently, the sound of folding paper rustling, the pulling of the brush and tossing of the cap with a clink, the grinding of ink with a rumble; then the brush was thrown down and struck the table, making a vibrating sound, and then the sound of gathering medicine and wrapping it in rustling paper. After a moment, the woman pushed open the curtain and called the patient to give him the medicine and the prescription. She turned back and entered the room, and immediately the three aunts were heard taking leave, the three maids taking leave, the child babbling, the cat mewing, all rising at once. Jiugu's voice was clear and penetrating, Liugu's was slow and deep, Sigu's was charming and gentle, and the voices of the three maids each had its own character, all distinctly discernible. The crowd was amazed, thinking it truly supernatural. But when they tried the prescriptions, they were not very effective. This is what is called ventriloquism; it was simply used to sell her art, but it was indeed marvelous! In former times, Wang Xinyi once said: In the capital, I happened to pass by a market and heard the sound of string music, with spectators forming a wall. Drawing near to look, I saw a youth singing in a melodious voice. There was no musical instrument; he only pressed one finger to his cheek, and while pressing he sang; when listened to, the sound was resonant, no different from stringed instruments. This too is a descendant of the art of ventriloquism. The Fox Couplet Jiao Sheng was the younger cousin-brother of Mr. Shihong of Zhangqiu. He was studying in a garden. At midnight, two beautiful women came, both of peerless appearance. One was about seventeen or eighteen, the other about fourteen or fifteen; they leaned on the table and smiled. Jiao knew they were foxes, and with a stern face rejected them. The elder said, "Your beard is like halberds; why have you no manly spirit?" Jiao said, "In my life I dare not have two colors." The woman laughed and said, "How pedantic! Are you still keeping to a stale convention? The gods of the lower world turn all things black to white; how much more so for trivial matters between the sheets?" Jiao again scolded them. The woman knew he could not be moved, so she said, "You are a renowned scholar; I have a couplet, and I ask you to match it. If you can match it, I will go. 'Wuxu share one body, only lacking a dot in the belly.'" Jiao pondered but could not complete it. The woman laughed and said, "So this is how a famous scholar is? I can match it for you: 'Jisi are linked in tracks, why not double pick under your foot?'" And with a laugh she went away. The Weishui Fox There was a Mr. Li in Wei county who had a separate villa. Suddenly an old man came to rent it, offering fifty taels of gold per year, and Li agreed. After he left, there was no word, and Li instructed his household to rent to someone else. The next day, the old man arrived and said, "The rental of the house has already been settled; why do you want to lease it to another?" Li stated his doubts. The old man said, "I intend to live here long; the reason for the delay is that I have chosen an auspicious day ten days hence." So he first paid one year's rent and said, "For the rest of the year, leave it empty; do not ask about it." Li saw him out and asked the date; the old man told him. After several days past the date, he still had not appeared. When Li went to look, the double doors were closed from inside, smoke rose from the kitchen, and voices were mingled. Surprised, he sent in his visiting card to call. The old man hurried out, welcomed him in, and was affable in conversation. After Li returned, he sent people to present gifts to the old man's household; the old man rewarded them generously. Li also held several banquets inviting the old man, and they were very cordial. When asked where he lived, he replied that he came from Qinzhong. Li was surprised at the distance. The old man said, "Your place is a blessed land. Qinzhong is not habitable; a great calamity is about to occur." At that time the country was at peace, so Li did not press further. The next day, the old man sent a note in return for the host's courtesy, with furnishings and food all extremely sumptuous. Li became even more astonished, suspecting he was a high official. Because of their friendship, the old man revealed that he was a fox. Li was terrified and told everyone he met. The local gentry heard of this strange occurrence and daily came in carriages to the door, wishing to befriend the old man, and the old man received them all with bows. Gradually, even the prefectural officials sometimes visited. Only the county magistrate sought an introduction, but the old man always declined with excuses. The magistrate then asked the host, Li, to intercede, but the old man refused. Li asked why. The old man left his seat, drew near the guest, and whispered, "You do not know: in his former life he was a donkey. Though now he sits above the people, he is one who drinks urine and gets drunk. I am indeed of a different kind, and I am ashamed to associate with him." Li then made an excuse to tell the magistrate, saying that the fox feared his divine wisdom and therefore dared not meet him. The magistrate believed it and stopped. This happened in the eleventh year of Kangxi. Not long after, Qinzhong suffered from war and fire. That the fox could foreknow is indeed credible. Yishi Shi says: "The donkey is a bulky creature. When angered, it kicks, bucks, brays, and neighs; its eyes are larger than a basin, its breath coarser than an ox's; not only is its voice unpleasant, but its appearance is also hard to bear. Yet if one holds a bundle of hay to lure it, it flattens its ears and lowers its head, gladly accepting the halter. Thus when such a creature rules over the people, it is only fitting that it drinks urine and gets drunk. I would urge those who govern the people to take the donkey as a warning and seek to rank with the fox; then their virtue will advance daily." Hong Yu In Guangping, there was an old man surnamed Feng who had a son, whose courtesy name was Xiangru. Both father and son were government students. The old man was nearly sixty, upright and unyielding in nature, but his family was often impoverished. Within a few years, his wife and his son's wife had passed away one after another, and he himself managed the household chores. One night, Xiangru was sitting under the moonlight when he suddenly saw a girl from the eastern neighbor's house peeping over the wall. He looked at her; she was beautiful. He approached her, and she smiled. He beckoned to her with his hand; she neither came nor went away. He earnestly invited her, and she then brought a ladder and crossed over, and they shared the same bed. He asked her name and family; she said, "I am Hong Yu, the neighbor's daughter." The young man was deeply enamored and pledged eternal love with her. She agreed. They met every night for about half a year. One night, the old man got up and heard laughter and voices from his son's room; peeping in, he saw his son, and grew angry. He called him out and scolded him, saying, "You beast, what are you doing! In such poverty, you still do not study hard, but instead learn to be dissolute? If people know, they will scorn your virtue; if they do not, it will shorten your life!" The young man knelt and confessed, weeping and saying he knew his fault. The old man then scolded the girl, saying, "You girl, not keeping to the rules of the inner chamber, you have already sullied yourself, and now you sully others. If this matter comes to light, it will bring shame not only to our humble house!" After cursing, he angrily went back to bed. The girl wept and said, "The reproach from your father is indeed shameful and humiliating! Our fate is over!" The young man said, "My father is here; I cannot act on my own. If you still have affection, you should bear the disgrace and continue." But the girl's words were resolute. The young man then shed tears. The girl stopped him, saying, "I and you have no go-between's words nor parents' command; we have climbed walls and crept through cracks—how can we grow old together? There is a good match here; you can send a betrothal." He told her he was poor. The girl said, "Wait for me tomorrow night; I will plan for you." The next night, the girl indeed came and presented him with forty taels of silver. She said, "Sixty li from here, there is a family named Wei in Wu Village; their daughter is eighteen. They ask a high price, so she has not been married off. If you offer them generously, they will surely agree." Having said that, she left. Sheng took the opportunity to speak to his father, wishing to go and meet her. But he dared not tell him about the hidden gift of gold. His father, reckoning that he had no means, for that reason stopped him. Sheng then said tactfully, "Let me try, and if it fails we can stop." His father nodded. Sheng then borrowed a horse and servant and went to the Wei household. Wei was an old farmer. Sheng called him out and drew him aside for private conversation. Wei knew that Sheng came from a distinguished family, and also saw his handsome bearing and open demeanor, so he consented in his heart, yet worried that he might be stingy with money. Sheng, hearing his hesitant words, grasped his meaning, and poured out all his money on the table. Wei was delighted, and asked a neighbor to act as intermediary, writing a red contract and sealing the betrothal. Sheng went in to pay respects to the mother; the room was cramped, and the daughter screened herself behind her mother. He glanced at her sidelong—though she wore plain hemp and cloth, her expression and bearing were radiant and beautiful, and he rejoiced inwardly. Wei lent a room to entertain the son-in-law and said, "You need not come in person to fetch the bride; let us wait a little while we make her clothes and adornments, then we shall have her carried to you." Sheng agreed on a date and returned. He deceitfully told his father that Wei cherished a pure family and did not demand money, and his father was pleased. On the appointed day, Wei indeed sent his daughter over. The daughter was diligent and thrifty, with compliant virtue, and their marital harmony was deep. After two years, she bore a son, named Fuer. At the Qingming festival, she carried the child to visit the graves, and encountered a local gentry named Song. Song had been a censor but had been dismissed for accepting bribes, and now lived retired, where he greatly fanned his power and cruelty. That day he too was returning from the graves, and saw the girl's beauty. He asked the villagers and learned she was Sheng's wife. Calculating that the Fengs were poor scholars, he tempted them with heavy bribes, hoping to sway them, and sent his servants to hint at it. Sheng, on suddenly hearing this, showed anger on his face; but then, thinking that he was no match, he turned his anger into a smile and went home to tell his father. The old man flew into a rage, rushed out, and in front of Song's servants, pointed to heaven and earth, cursing them in every possible way. The servants scurried away like mice. Song too grew angry, and sent several men into Sheng's house, where they beat the old man and his son, making a clamor like a boiling cauldron. The girl, hearing this, abandoned her child on the bed, let down her hair, and cried out for help. The crowd seized her and carried her off amid noise and commotion. Father and son lay wounded, groaning on the ground, while the baby wailed in the room. The neighbors took pity on them and helped them onto a couch. After a day, Sheng, leaning on a staff, could rise, but his father was so enraged that he would not eat; he vomited blood and soon died. Sheng wept bitterly, then took his son and filed a complaint, going up to the governor and the viceroy—he sued nearly everywhere, but ultimately obtained no justice. Later he heard that his wife had refused to yield and died—he grieved even more. Injustice filled his breast, and he had no way to vent it. He often thought of ambushing and killing Song on the road, but feared that Song's guards were many, and his son had no one to entrust him to. Day and night he grieved, and his eyelids never closed. Suddenly a tall man came to offer condolences in his house—with curly whiskers and a broad chin, and with whom he had never been acquainted. Sheng drew him to sit and was about to ask his native place, when the visitor abruptly said, "You have a father's murder and a wife's abduction—do you forget revenge?" Sheng suspected he was a spy sent by Song, so he feigned agreement. The visitor's eyes blazed with rage, and he rose abruptly to leave, saying, "I took you for a man, but now I see you are a contemptible wretch!" Sheng, perceiving his unusual nature, knelt and detained him, saying, "I truly feared that the Song people were trying to trap me. Now I will bare my heart: I have been sleeping on brushwood and tasting gall for quite some time. But I pity this babe in swaddling clothes, for fear that our ancestral line may be cut off. You are a righteous man—can you act as my Cheng Ying?" The visitor said, "That is a woman's or a child's task—not my ability. What you wish to entrust to others, please take upon yourself; what you wish to take upon yourself, I am willing to do in your stead." Hearing this, Sheng knocked his head to the ground. The visitor did not look back and left. Sheng pursued and asked his name and surname. He replied, "If I fail, I will bear no blame; if I succeed, I will bear no gratitude." Then he departed. Sheng, fearing disaster, fled with his son. That night, when the Song household was all asleep, someone scaled the high wall and entered, killing the御史 Song, his two sons, one daughter-in-law, and one maidservant. The Song family submitted a written complaint to the officials. The officials were greatly alarmed. Song's family insisted that Xiangru (Sheng) was the culprit, so they dispatched constables to arrest Sheng. Sheng had fled to parts unknown, which made the case against him seem all the more true. Song's servants, together with official runners, searched everywhere in secret. At night they reached the southern mountains, heard a child crying, traced it, found him, and put him in chains to take him back. The child cried all the more bitterly, and they seized him and threw him away. Sheng, filled with grief and indignation, was brought before the county magistrate. The magistrate asked, "Why did you kill people?" Sheng said, "How unjust! They died at night; I left by daylight, and I was carrying a wailing infant—how could I have scaled a wall to kill anyone?" The magistrate said, "If you did not kill anyone, why did you flee?" Sheng was at a loss for words and could not defend himself. So he was thrown into prison. Sheng wept and said, "My death is nothing to regret, but what crime has this orphan committed?" The magistrate said, "You killed many other people's sons; killing your son—what resentment is there?" After Sheng was stripped of his rank, he suffered many tortures, but ultimately had no further statement. That night, as the magistrate was lying down, he heard something strike his bed, with a loud vibrating noise. Terrified, he cried out. The whole household, startled, gathered and brought a candle to look—it was a short knife, sharp as frost, that had stabbed into the wood of the bed more than an inch deep, firmly stuck and impossible to pull out. The magistrate, seeing this, lost his wits. He took up arms and searched everywhere, but found no trace. In his heart he grew fearful. Moreover, since the Song people were dead, there was nothing to fear, so he reported the case to his superiors, spoke in Sheng's defense, and finally released him. Sheng returned home; his jar held not a pint of grain, and he faced only the bare walls. Fortunately, the neighbors took pity and gave him food and drink, so he barely managed to survive. When he thought that his great revenge had been accomplished, he would rejoice with a smile; when he thought of the cruel disaster that had nearly exterminated his family, tears would stream down; and when he thought of his half-life of utter poverty and his broken lineage, he would wail uncontrollably in lonely places, unable to restrain himself. After half a year like this, the pursuit and arrest grew ever more relaxed. He then pleaded with the county magistrate to have the bones of Wei's daughter (his wife) returned for burial. After the burial, he returned home, grief-stricken to the point of death. He tossed and turned on his empty bed, with no way forward. Suddenly someone knocked at the door. He concentrated and listened, and heard a person outside, murmuring and talking with a small child. Sheng hurriedly got up to look—it seemed a woman. As soon as he opened the door, she asked, "Your great injustice has been redressed—can it be that you are well?" Her voice was familiar, but in his haste he could not recall it. By candlelight he saw—it was Hongyu! She was leading a little boy, who was laughing and playing at her side. Sheng had no time to ask; he embraced the woman and wept bitterly. She too looked sorrowful. Then she pushed the child forward and said, "Have you forgotten your father?" The child tugged at her clothes, staring brightly at Sheng. When he looked closely, it was Fuer. Greatly startled, he asked through tears, "Where did the child come from?" She said, "I will tell you the truth: my former claim to be a neighbor's daughter was a lie. I am in fact a fox. The other night I was walking along and heard a child crying in the valley mouth; I took him and raised him in the Qin region. When I heard that the great disaster was over, I brought him here to reunite with you." Sheng wiped his tears and bowed in thanks. The child, in her arms, clung to her as to his mother, and no longer recognized his father. Before dawn, the woman rose hurriedly. Asked why, she replied, "I wish to leave." Sheng knelt naked by the bed, weeping so bitterly he could not raise his head. She laughed and said, "I am teasing you. Now that our household is newly reestablished, we cannot but rise early and work late." Then she cut weeds and wielded a broom, doing tasks like a man. Sheng worried about poverty and insufficient means. She said, "Please just lower your curtain and study; do not ask about surplus or deficit—perhaps we shall not starve to death." Then she produced money, bought weaving tools, rented several dozen mu of farmland, and hired laborers to till. She carried a hoe to clear brush, pulled vines to patch the roof, and made this her daily routine. The villagers, hearing of her virtue, were all the more willing to help. After about half a year, their household flourished, resembling that of a moderately wealthy family. Sheng said, "From the ashes, you have rebuilt everything with your bare hands. But one matter is not yet settled—what is to be done?" She asked what; he replied, "The examination date is near, and my scholar's cap and gown have not yet been restored." She laughed and said, "I earlier sent four taels of silver to the educational commissioner, and your name has already been re-registered. If I had waited for you to mention it, we would have been long delayed." Sheng was all the more amazed by her. That year he passed the provincial examination. He was then thirty-six, with rich fields stretching in rows and spacious mansions. Hongyu was slender and graceful as if about to float away in the wind, yet she worked harder than a farm woman; though she toiled through the bitter winter, her hands remained soft as lard. She said she was twenty-eight, but people always saw her as about twenty. The Historian of the Strange remarks: "His son was worthy, and his father virtuous; therefore the recompense to him was chivalrous. Not only was the man chivalrous—the fox was also chivalrous. The encounter was indeed extraordinary! Yet the officials were negligent—enough to make one's hair stand on end. That knife, quivering as it struck into the wood—why not shift it half a foot higher onto the bed? If Su Zimei were to read this, he would surely raise his wine cup and say, 'Alas, the blow missed its mark!'" Dragon In the northern border region, a falling dragon entered a village. Its movement was heavy and clumsy; it entered the residence of a certain gentleman, whose doorway could barely contain its body. It stuffed itself in. The family members all fled. They climbed to the upper story and raised a clamor, while muskets and cannons boomed. Then the dragon came out. Outside the gate lay accumulated rainwater, shallow and not even a foot deep. The dragon entered and rolled about in it, its body entirely covered with mud; it exerted itself to leap up, but after barely over a foot it fell back. It coiled in the mud for three days, with flies gathering on its scales and armor. Suddenly a great rain came, and with a thunderclap it seized the sky and departed. A student named Fang and a friend ascended Mount Niu and entered a temple to look around, when suddenly a yellow brick fell from between the rafters; on it coiled a small snake, slender as an earthworm. Suddenly it spun around once and became as thick as a finger; then again it spun and became as thick as a belt. All were startled, knowing it was a dragon, and they hurried down together. Just as they reached halfway up the mountain, they heard a thunderclap in the temple, shaking the valleys. Black clouds like a canopy hung in the sky, and a huge dragon writhed and twisted within them; after a while it vanished. In Xiaoxianggong Village, Zhangqiu, a country woman went out into the fields when a great wind arose, blowing dust and sand into her face. She felt one eye blurred, as if it held a grain of barley awn. She rubbed it and blew on it, but it did not heal. She opened her eyelid and examined it carefully; her eyeball was indeed unharmed, but there was a red thread meandering within the flesh. Someone said, "This is a dormant dragon." The woman was frightened and awaited death. After more than three months, a violent rain came, and suddenly a great thunderclap split her eye and departed. The woman suffered no harm at all. Yuan Xuansi said: "In Suzhou, on an overcast and gloomy day, a thunderclap broke out violently. Everyone saw a dragon hanging at the edge of the clouds, its scales and armor spreading and moving; in its claws it clutched a human head, with beard and eyebrows clearly visible; after a while, it entered the clouds and vanished. Yet I never heard of anyone having lost his head." Lin Siniang Chen Baoyue, the Daoist Intendant of Qingzhou, was a man from Fujian. One night as he sat alone, a woman pushed aside the curtain and entered. He looked at her and did not recognize her; but she was surpassingly beautiful, wearing long-sleeved court attire. She smiled and said, "Sitting alone in the clear night, are you not lonely?" Startled, he asked, "Who are you?" She said, "My home is not far off, just to the west in the neighborhood." He suspected she was a ghost, yet he took a liking to her. He took her sleeve and drew her to sit beside him; her conversation was elegant and refined, and he was greatly pleased. He embraced her, and she did not resist much. She looked around and said, "There is no one else, is there?" He quickly closed the door and said, "No." He urged her to loosen her garments, and she seemed quite shy and bashful. He assisted her with solicitous care. She said, "I am twenty years old, and still a virgin; if you are too wild, I will not bear it." After their intimacy, the crimson stain soaked the mat. Then, whispering by the pillow, she said her name was Lin Siniang. He questioned her in detail. She said, "All my life I have been chaste, and now you have nearly defiled me completely. If you truly care for me, merely seek lasting affection—why all these questions?" Before long, the rooster crowed, and she rose and departed. From then on she came every night without fail. Each time they closed the door and drank together in refined pleasure. When conversation turned to music and temperament, she could analyze the five notes and six pitches with complete clarity. He thus believed she excelled in composing melodies. She said, "I learned it in childhood." He asked her to favor him with a performance. She said, "It has been long since I last touched music; the rhythms are mostly forgotten, and I fear I would be laughed at by those who know." When he pressed her again, she bowed her head, beat time, and sang a tune of the Yiliang mode; her voice was mournful and plaintive. When the song ended, she wept. He too felt a sad pang, and embraced and comforted her, saying, "Do not sing the music of a fallen kingdom—it makes one so melancholy." She said, "Sound expresses the heart; one who grieves cannot make it joyful, just as one who is joyful cannot make it mournful." The two were intimate, surpassing even the harmony of qin and se. After a long time, the household servants eavesdropped on them, and those who heard her singing could not help but weep. The madam peeped at her appearance and doubted that any such enchanting beauty existed in the human world—she must be either a ghost or a fox; fearing that she might bring affliction and harm, she urged her husband to break with her. He could not heed her, but he firmly questioned the woman. She looked distressed and said, "I was a palace lady of the Prince of Heng’s residence. I met disaster and died, and it has been seventeen years now. Because of your noble character, I entrusted myself to you in tender union, but truly I dare not bring misfortune upon you. If you are suspicious and fearful, then I shall take my leave from this point on." He said, "I do not take it amiss, but since we are so deeply attached, I cannot but know the truth." Then he asked about affairs in the prince’s palace. She recounted at length, speaking vividly and delightfully. When she came to the time of decline, she sobbed and could not finish her words. She did not sleep much; every night she would rise and recite the Zhunti and Diamond sutras and other scriptures. He asked, "Can the dead atone for themselves?" She said, "It is the same. I think of my lifelong fall and want to cultivate for the next life." She also often criticized poetry with him; whenever she found a flaw, she would point it out; for fine lines, she would chant them in a soft, charming voice. Her manner was elegant and free, making one forget weariness. He asked, "Are you skilled in poetry?" She said, "While alive, I also occasionally wrote some." He asked her for a gift of verse. She laughed and said, "Words of a young girl—how could they be worthy of offering to a lofty gentleman?" After three years, one evening she suddenly took leave with a sorrowful air. Startled, he asked why. She answered, "The King of Hell, because I was innocent in life and even in death did not forget the scriptures and incantations, has decreed that I be reborn into a royal household. Our parting is tonight, and we shall never see each other again." Having said this, she was grief-stricken. He too shed tears. They set out wine and drank deeply together. She sang with passionate abandon, in a mournful and lingering voice—every word turned a hundred ways, and whenever she reached a sorrowful passage, she would choke with sobs. She stopped and resumed several times before finishing the song. They could not drink with ease. Then she rose and lingered as if to leave. He held her back firmly, and she sat a while longer. Suddenly the rooster crowed, and she said, "I truly cannot stay longer. But since you have always lamented that I would not offer my poor efforts, now that we are about to part forever, I shall compose a piece." She asked for a brush and wrote it out, saying, "My heart is sad and my mind confused; I cannot polish it. The notes are discordant, and I fear you should not show it to others." She covered her face with her sleeves and departed. He escorted her outside the gate, and she melted away and vanished. He grieved and mused for a long time. He looked at her poem; the calligraphy was elegant and fine, and he treasured and kept it. The poem read: "Securely locked in the deep palace for seventeen years, Who will ask the blue sky about my former land? Idly I gaze at the halls overgrown with tall trees, Weeping as I look toward my sovereign turned cuckoo. Sea-bound waves slant in the setting sun, The Han court’s flutes and drums quiet the beacons of war. My rosy face weak, I cannot become a vengeful spirit; My pure heart sad, I only turn to Zen. Daily I recite a thousand lines of Bodhi, Idly I peruse two or three pages of palm-leaf scriptures. Loudly I sing opera tunes in place of weeping— If you listen alone, you too will shed tears." In the poem there are repetitions and disconnected passages—there may be errors.