Chapter 8

Volume Five Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio, Volume Six, by Pu Songling Volume Seven → The Magistrate of Lu Song Guoying, a native of Dongping, obtained the post of magistrate of Lucheng through his service as a tutor. He was greedy, tyrannical, and unkind, especially cruel in exacting taxes; those who died under his beatings lay strewn about his courtyard. My fellow villager Xu Baishan happened to pass through that place and, seeing his tyranny, remonstrated with him, saying, "As the father and mother of the people, must your might and flame indeed reach such a pitch?" Song, smug and self-satisfied, replied in a boastful tone, "Ho! I dare not! Though my post is small, within a hundred days of assuming office I have put fifty-eight men to death." Half a year later, while he was seated at his desk handling official business, he suddenly stared wide-eyed and rose, flailing his hands and feet as if struggling against someone. He said to himself, "My crime deserves death! My crime deserves death!" He was supported into the yamen, and within an hour he died. Alas! Fortunately the netherworld also takes charge of the affairs of the living; otherwise, if one plunders and seizes goods without restraint, then cries of "Outstanding Merit" would arise, and where would the poison of his depredations end? The Historian of the Strange said: "The old region of Luzi—the souls of its people are steadfast, and therefore they make fierce ghosts even in death. Now when an official holds the seal of office above, there are always a few base fellows who follow the wind and lick his haemorrhoids. When he is in his prime, they exhaust the remaining fat and grease they have not yet seized to present him with embroidered screens; when he is about to fall, they drive the yet-unslain bodies of the people to beg for his retention. Whether the official is greedy or incorruptible, every time he assumes a post, these two things invariably happen. So long as the august one has not left for a single day, the ignorant multitude dare not disobey. This accumulated custom, handed down, has become established practice—and it surely makes even the ghosts of Lucheng laugh!" Ma Jiefu Yang Wanshi was a licentiate from Daming. All his life he suffered from "the fear of Ji Chang." His wife, née Yin, was extraordinarily shrewish. If he crossed her in the slightest, she would resort to flogging. Yang's father was over sixty and a widower; Yin treated him as a slave. Yang and his younger brother Wan Zhong would secretly feed the old man, not daring to let his wife know. Moreover, he wore tattered cotton, and for fear of inviting ridicule, they would not let him receive guests. Wanshi was forty and had no son; he took a concubine, Wang, but dared not exchange a single word with her by day or night. While the brothers were taking the prefectural examinations, they saw a young man of elegant appearance and refined dress. They spoke with him and took a liking to him. Inquiring his name and style, he said, "My style is Jiefu; my surname is Ma." From then on their friendship grew daily closer, and they burned incense and swore an oath of brotherhood. After they parted, about half a year later, Ma suddenly came visiting with servants. He found old Yang outside the gate, sunning himself and picking lice. Taking him for a hired servant, Ma announced his surname and asked him to inform the master. The old man went off in his tattered wadding. Someone told Ma, "That is his father." Ma was astonished, when the Yang brothers came out to greet him bareheaded. After they had entered the hall and exchanged bows, they invited him to pay respects to their father. Wanshi excused him on the grounds of a slight indisposition. They sat together in pleasant conversation, and before they knew it evening had come. Wanshi repeatedly said that food was being prepared, but nothing ever appeared. The brothers went in and out in turn; at last a thin servant brought a ewer of wine. Soon it was drained. They sat waiting for a long while; Wanshi kept getting up to urge and call, sweat steaming from his forehead and cheeks. Presently the thin servant brought out the meal—coarse millet, badly cooked, far from palatable. When they had eaten, Wanshi left hurriedly. Wan Zhong spread his bedding and came to keep the guest company for the night. Ma reproved him, saying, "Formerly I took you brothers for men of high principle, and so I formed a sworn friendship with you. Now your old father is truly not well fed or clothed—even a passerby would be ashamed!" Wan Zhong wept and said, "The feelings in my heart are difficult to express at last. Our household is ill-fated; we have encountered a fierce sister-in-law. Elders and young are all cruelly tormented. Were it not for a bond sealed in blood, I would not dare to air this shame." Ma was alarmed and sighed for a long while, then said, "I had meant to leave early tomorrow morning, but now that I have heard this strange tale, I must see it with my own eyes. Lend me a spare room, and I will cook for myself." Wan Zhong followed his advice and cleared a chamber for Ma to settle in. Late at night he secretly brought vegetables and grain, fearing only that his sister-in-law might learn of it. Ma understood his intention and firmly declined them. Furthermore, he invited old Yang to eat and sleep with him. He himself went to the market in town, bought cloth and silk, and had robes and trousers made for him. Father and sons alike wept with gratitude. Wan Zhong had a son named Xi'er, just seven years old, who slept with his grandfather at night. Ma patted him and said, "This child's fortune and longevity will surpass his father's, but he will suffer loneliness in his youth." When the wife heard that the old man was well fed and comfortable, she flew into a rage and cursed, saying that Ma was meddling in other people's family affairs. At first her foul language was confined to the inner chambers, but gradually it came nearer to Ma's quarters, to show her meaning through song and string. The Yang brothers, drenched in sweat and pacing about, could not stop her; but Ma acted as if he had heard nothing. The concubine Wang was five months pregnant; when the wife learned of it, she stripped her and beat her cruelly. After that, she called Wanshi to kneel and receive a woman's headdress, then took a whip and drove him out. He happened to find Ma outside, and shamefaced he dared not go forward. She pursued and pressed him, and only then did he come out. The wife also came out, arms akimbo and stamping her feet, while onlookers filled the place. Ma pointed at the wife and shouted, "Go! Go!" She immediately turned and fled, as if chased by a demon. Her trousers and shoes came off, her foot-bindings trailed about the road, and she went back barefoot, her face ashen. After a little while, a maid brought socks and shoes. Once she had put them on, she burst into loud wailing. None of the household dared to ask why. Ma pulled Wanshi along to undo the headdress. Wanshi stood stiffly, holding his breath, as if afraid it would fall off; Ma forcibly removed it. But Wanshi remained restless, still fearing that to remove it privately would add to his offense. Only when he heard that his wife had stopped weeping did he dare to enter, shuffling forward hesitantly. The wife did not utter a single word, but immediately rose and went to the inner room to lie down. Wanshi's mind began to relax, and he and his brother secretly marvelled at it. All the household thought it strange and gathered to whisper among themselves. The wife caught some of it, and grew even more humiliated and angry; she beat all the servants. She called for the concubine, but the concubine was too badly injured to rise. The wife thought she was pretending, and went to the couch to flog her, causing a sudden gush and a miscarriage. Wanshi, when no one was about, wept piteously to Ma. Ma comforted him. Then Ma called for his servant to prepare a sumptuous feast; when the night watch had already sounded twice, he still would not let Wanshi go home. In the inner chamber, the wife, resentful that her husband had not returned, was in a great fury. Suddenly she heard the sound of the door being forced; she urgently called for a maid, but the chamber door was already open. A giant man entered, his shadow filling the room, hideous as a demon. Soon several more men entered, each carrying a sharp blade. The wife was terrified beyond measure and tried to scream. The giant man pressed his knife to her neck and said, "If you cry out, I'll kill you!" The wife hastily offered gold and silk to ransom her life. The giant man said, "I am a messenger from the netherworld. I do not want money; I have come only for the heart of a shrew!" The wife grew even more frightened and threw herself down, bruising her forehead. The giant man then used his sharp knife to trace lines on her heart while enumerating her crimes: "For such a deed—do you think it deserves death?" And he drew one line. He counted off all her vicious and violent acts, and when he had finished his indictment, the lines cut into her skin and flesh numbered no less than several tens. Finally he said, "The child of your concubine is also your own line of descent—how could you bear to beat it out? For this deed there can be no pardon!" He then ordered the men to tie her hands behind her back and cut open her belly to examine her shrewish heart and bowels. The wife kowtowed and begged for her life, only saying that she repented. Soon they heard the opening and closing of the middle gate, and a voice said, "Yang Wanshi has come. Since she has already repented, let her keep her remaining life." Then they all dispersed in confusion. Not long after, Wanshi entered and saw his wife naked and bound hand and foot, with knife scars on her chest too many to count. He untied her and asked what had happened; learning the whole story, he was greatly alarmed, and secretly suspected Ma. The next day, she told Ma of it. Ma was also alarmed. From then on, the wife's ferocity gradually waned, and for several months she dared not utter a single harsh word. Ma was overjoyed and said to Wan Shi: "I will tell you truthfully, but be careful not to divulge it: I formerly used a minor art to frighten her. Now that you have achieved harmony, I beg leave to depart for a while." Then he left. Every evening, the wife would detain Wan Shi to keep her company, greeting him with laughter and smiles. Wan Shi in all his life had never known such pleasure; suddenly encountering it, he felt he knew neither how to sit nor how to stand. One night, the wife recalled the appearance of the giant, and trembled and shuddered in fear. Wan Shi, wishing to ingratiate himself with his wife, slightly hinted that it had been a ruse. The wife instantly rose and pressed him with bitter cross-examination. Wan Shi realized he had misspoken and could not take it back, so he told her the truth. The wife flew into a rage and cursed him violently. Wan Shi, terrified, knelt for a long time at the foot of the bed. She paid him no heed. He begged until the third watch. The wife said: "If you want me to forgive you, you must take a knife and carve your heart a certain number of times—only then will this grudge be dispelled." She then rose and seized the kitchen knife. Wan Shi, greatly frightened, fled, and she pursued him. Dogs barked and chickens flew about; the whole household arose. Wan Zhong, not knowing the reason, merely used his body to shield his brother left and right. The wife was still cursing when she suddenly saw the old man arrive; catching sight of his robes, her fury redoubled. She immediately tore strips from the old man's body, slapped his face, and plucked out his beard. Wan Zhong, seeing this, was enraged and struck his wife with a stone, hitting her on the head; she toppled and fell dead. Wan Zhong said: "If I die and my father and elder brother survive, what regret is there?" Then he threw himself into a well; when they rescued him, he was already dead. After a while, the wife revived. Hearing of Wan Zhong's death, her anger was also dispelled. After the funeral, the younger sister-in-law, attached to her child, swore she would not remarry. The wife cursed and spat at her, refused her food, and forced her to wed another. The orphaned child was whipped and beaten morning and night. Only after the household had finished eating was he given cold scraps. After half a year, the child was so emaciated he barely had breath. One day, Ma suddenly arrived. Wan Shi instructed the household not to tell his wife. Ma saw that the old man was in the same tattered state as before and was greatly shocked. He also heard that Wan Zhong had passed away and stamped his foot in grief. When the child heard that Ma had come, he came to cling to him, calling out "Uncle Ma" as he approached. Ma did not recognize him; only after scrutinizing him did he make him out. Startled, he said: "Child, how have you become so haggard!" The old man then falteringly told the whole story. Ma said indignantly to Wan Shi: "I formerly said you were not a man, and it was indeed true. These two are your only bloodline—if you kill him, what then?" Wan Shi said nothing, but only bowed his head, ears flat, and wept. They had been sitting and talking for but a few moments when the wife already knew of it. She dared not come out herself to drive the guest away, but only called Wan Shi in and slapped him, ordering him to break with Ma. He came out with tears streaming, the slap marks plainly visible. Ma, enraged, said to him: "You cannot assert authority over her—can you not even issue a divorce? She beat your father and killed your brother, and you bear it quietly—how can you call yourself a man?" Wan Shi stretched and yawned, as if somewhat moved. Ma further goaded him, saying: "If she will not leave, reason demands that you overawe her by force—even kill her, and do not fear. I have two or three close friends, all in positions of power; they will surely do their utmost to ensure you come to no harm." Wan Shi assented, and with a surge of anger strode quickly in. He happened to meet his wife, who cried out: "What are you doing?" Wan Shi, flustered and pale, put his hands on the ground and said: "Ma Sheng has taught me to divorce you." The wife grew even more furious and looked around for a knife or staff; Wan Shi, terrified, retreated. Ma spat and said: "Brother, you are truly beyond teaching!" He then opened his case, took out a powdered medicine, mixed it with water, and handed it to Wan Shi to drink. He said: "This is a Husband-Making Powder. The reason I do not use it lightly is that it can cause illness. Now, with no alternative, I shall try it for a while." After drinking, in a short while Wan Shi felt a surge of anger fill his chest, like a blazing fire within, intolerable for even an instant. He charged straight into the inner chambers, bellowing like thunder. Before his wife could question him, Wan Shi kicked her, and she flew back several feet. He then clenched his fists and pounded her countless times. Her body was nearly flayed, yet she still cursed him. Wan Shi produced a knife from his waist. His wife shouted: "You draw a knife—dare you kill me?" Wan Shi said nothing, but sliced a piece of flesh from her thigh, as large as a palm, and threw it to the ground. He was about to cut again when his wife wailed piteously and begged forgiveness. Wan Shi would not listen and cut again. When the household saw Wan Shi in his wild fury, they gathered together and with all their strength pulled him out. Ma met him, took his arm, and consoled him. Wan Shi's remaining anger had not yet subsided, and he repeatedly tried to rush back. Ma stopped him. After a while, the drug's power gradually wore off, and he was dejected as if bereft. Ma enjoined him: "Brother, do not lose heart. The establishment of your authority hinges on this one act. The reason she fears you is not a matter of a single morning or evening—it has come about gradually. Think of yesterday as death and today as life; from now on you must wash away the old and renew yourself. If you weaken again, all is lost." He sent Wan Shi in to check on her. The wife trembled with terror, and with the help of a maid she rose, intending to approach on her knees. He stopped her, and that was the end of it. When he came out and told Ma, father and son congratulated each other. Ma wished to leave, and father and son together detained him. Ma said: "I happen to have a journey to the Eastern Sea, so I passed by on my way. When I return, we may meet again." After more than a month, the wife arose and served her husband with the respect due a good wife. But after a long while, perceiving that the Guizhou donkey had no more tricks, she gradually grew familiar, gradually mocked, gradually cursed; before long, her old ways were fully revived. The old man could not bear it, and fled by night to Henan, where he enrolled among the Daoist clergy. Wan Shi dared not seek him out. After more than a year, Ma arrived, and learning of the situation, angrily reproached him at length. He then summoned the child at once, placed him on a donkey, and drove off with him straight away. From then on, the villagers all despised Wan Shi. When the Educational Commissioner came to inspect, Wan Shi was struck from the rolls for misconduct. Another four or five years passed, and a fire broke out; his dwelling and possessions were all reduced to ashes, and the flames spread to neighboring houses. The villagers seized him and reported him to the prefect, who imposed heavy fines. Thus his family property was gradually exhausted, until he had no place to live. The neighboring villages mutually warned each other not to lend Wan Shi any lodging. The Yin brothers, angered by their sister's behavior, also cut her off. Wan Shi, now destitute, pawned his concubine to a wealthy family and crossed south with his wife. By the time they reached the borders of Henan, their funds were exhausted. The wife refused to follow him and clamored for him to let her remarry. There happened to be a widowed butcher who bought her for three hundred cash. Wan Shi wandered alone, begging for food in distant villages and near towns. He came to a vermilion gate, where the gatekeeper shouted and drove him back, refusing him entry. After a short while, an official came out, and Wan Shi lay prostrate on the ground, sobbing. The official scrutinized him for a long time, then asked his name, and exclaimed in surprise: "This is my uncle! How have you become so poor?" Wan Shi, looking closely, recognized him as Xi'er, and could not help but weep loudly. He followed him inside and saw the hall gleaming with gold and jade. Presently, his father emerged, supporting a young boy; they faced each other and wept with grief. Wan Shi then told all that had happened. Earlier, Ma had brought Xi'er here, and after a few days went out to find Old Man Yang, bringing him to live with his grandson. He also engaged a teacher for Xi'er's studies. At fifteen, Xi'er entered the district school; the following year, he passed the provincial examination, and only then did Ma arrange his marriage. Then Ma took his leave. Grandfather and grandson wept and begged him to stay. Ma said: "I am not human; I am in truth a fox immortal. My fellow cultivators have been waiting for me long." And he departed. As the filial candidate spoke of this, he could not help but feel deep sorrow. Recalling how he and his former step-aunt had both suffered cruel abuse, he felt even more aggrieved. He therefore sent carriages and horses with money to ransom Wang back. After more than a year, she bore a son, and he was made the legitimate heir. Yin, after half a year with the butcher, was as wild and perverse as ever. Her husband, enraged, bored a hole through her thigh with his butcher knife, threaded a rope of bristles through it, hung her from a beam, and went out carrying his meat. She screamed at the top of her lungs until her voice gave out, and only then did the neighbors know. They untied her and pulled out the rope; with each pull, her cries of pain shook the whole neighborhood. Thus, whenever she saw the butcher coming, her very bones and hair stood on end. Although her leg wound later healed, broken bristles remained inside the flesh, so she could never walk well; yet she still served day and night without daring the least slackness. The butcher was tyrannical, and whenever he returned drunk, he would beat and curse her mercilessly. Only then did she realize that what she had once done to others was no different. One day, Lady Yang and her aunt went to burn incense at Putuo Temple, and farm women from nearby villages all came to pay their respects. Yin stood among them, hesitant to step forward. Wang deliberately asked: "Who is that?" A servant presented her: "The butcher Zhang's wife." Wang then ordered her forward to make obeisance to the old lady. Wang smiled and said: "This woman, having married a butcher, should not lack meat to eat—why is she so gaunt?" Yin, shamed and resentful, returned home and attempted to hang herself, but the rope was too weak and she did not die. The butcher grew even more disgusted with her. After a year or so, the butcher died. On the road, she encountered Wan Shi, and from afar she approached him on her knees, her tears streaming like cords. Wan Shi, hindered by his servants, did not speak a word. He returned and told his nephew, wishing to ransom her back. His nephew absolutely refused. The woman, spurned by the villagers, had long had nowhere to go, and lived by begging with the other vagrants. Wan Shi would still occasionally meet her in an abandoned temple. His nephew, deeming this a disgrace, secretly instructed the beggars to humiliate her, and so it ceased. I do not know the final outcome of this matter; the last few lines were composed by Bi Gongquan. Yishi shi said: "Fear of the inner chamber is a common ailment under heaven. Yet I never expected that between heaven and earth there should be such a one as Yang Lang! Is this not indeed an anomaly? I once composed a continuation of the Miao Yin Jing, and I beg leave to append it here to provoke a laugh: 'Privately I consider that the Way of Heaven transforms and gives birth to the myriad things, relying heavily upon the K'un's completion; a man's ambition ranges to the four directions, yet all the more he needs inner assistance. Sharing the sweet while bearing the bitter alone, alas for your ten months of groaning; moving from the wet to the dry, how bitter those three years of smiles and frowns. It is for the sake of the ancestral temple that one stirs to thought—hence the gentleman has his desire for a match; gazing upon the well and the pestle, one cherishes remembrance—hence the ancients had their love of fish and water. But once the banners of yin teaching are daily erected, the proper order of qian's guiding line is lost. At first come words of disrespect, with great outbursts met by small returns; next the respect due to guests proceeds in one direction only without return. Simply because of deep affection for children, heroes are made short of breath. When the yaksha of the bed sits there, even the vajra must lower his brows. When poisonous smoke rises from the cauldron, even the iron man cannot stiffen his neck. The pestle of the autumn anvil may be seized, yet it will not pound the clothes on the moonlit night; the claws of Magu can scratch, yet they lightly test the lotus face. For small offenses accept, for great ones flee—truly one may replace Meng Mu's flying shuttle; the wife sings and the husband follows—instead one would revive Lady Zhou's making of rites. Dancing and leaping about, they halt the gaze of passersby in the streets; with shrieks and hisses, they scatter a flock of pretty birds. How odious! Crying to heaven and calling upon earth, suddenly one lets down her hair and rushes to the silver bed. How ugly! Rolling her eyes and shaking her head, basely she would hang herself and stretch forth her jade neck. At such a time: below the earth there are already many shattered gallbladders, beyond the sky there are further startled souls. Beigong You would not necessarily escape, Meng Shishe could hardly be without fear. A general's spirit is like thunder and lightning, yet once he enters the inner court, it straightway returns to the land of Nothing-Whatsoever; a great man's face is as frost and ice, yet when he reaches the bedchamber door, there arise matters that cannot be questioned. Can it indeed be that the breath of powder and rouge, without force, yet inspires awe? Why then does this filthy body shiver without cold? What can still be understood: when the demon maiden with coiled tresses comes beneath the moon, why not prostrate oneself and take refuge? The most unjust is this: when the owl-headed, disheveled one appears in the human world, she too must be offered incense and flowers. Hearing the roar of the angry lion, both nostrils point to heaven; listening to the crow of the hen, one prostrates with all five limbs. Dengtuzi in his lust forgot ugliness; the Huibo song in its pity became mockery. Were one made the son-in-law of Fen Yang, honor and eminence would at once arrive—to flatter you, my dear, indeed had reason; but if one is married into the family of Wai Huang, servitude and labor are unavoidable—bowing and scraping, what would one seek? That poor wretch feels himself without face, and lets her chop his trees and break his flowers, only begging to be kept within the waste of his jealous wife; if the God of Money may be said to have power, yet he too incurs the scales and defies the rules, unable to call upon Elder Brother Square for aid. Is it only this bird's path that binds the wanderer's heart? Or is it this great moat that quells the tyrant's spirit? Yet they die in the same grave, live under the same quilt—why does one never teach them to chant "White Heads"? But they move as clouds by morning and as rain by evening, ever wishing to monopolize Mount Wu. One hates the "Clear Pond Water" to death, vainly striking the red clappers and jade boards; pity your concubine's meager fate, alone she endures the long cold watches. The cicada shell and egret shore—rejoice that the black dragon is just asleep; the calf cart and yak-tail whisk—hate that the jade horse will not gallop. The person who shares the couch—when driven away, one learns he is her uncle; the guest long tethered before the bed—when pulled forward, he has turned into a sheep. That which is eagerly sought lasts but a moment; the poison that flows from it is without end. Buying smiles and head-wraps, one commits the sin of self-making—Tai Jia surely says it is hard to defy; bowing head and flattening ears, one suffers undeserved punishment—Li Yang also says it cannot be. A bitter wind piercing cold, it blows and withers the spring of the bower; a vinegar sea vast and wide, it drowns the moon over the Bridge of Blue. Or again, when a grand feast suddenly occurs and good friends sit together, the hidden wine is kept back, and from the inner chamber is issued a letter of expulsion; old friends grow distant and do not come, and I myself spread forth a discourse on breaking off relations. Worse still, the wild geese's shadows fly apart, and tears fall in vain upon the thorn tree; once one seeks again the phoenix glue, a calamity arises from the reed flowers. Thus when drinking at Yangcheng, in one hall there are only brothers; when playing the yu at Shangzi, for over seventy years there was no household—the ancients did this because of hidden pain. Alas! A hundred-year pairing of mandarin ducks turns into a bone-attached ulcer; five bolts of deer-skin may purchase the pain of a peeled bed. When one whose beard is like halberds is thus, who is the man with a gall like a bushel? One dares not, beneath the horse-rack, cut off the source of calamity; and who can, within the silkworm chamber, root out the origin of sin? The Army of Women gives free rein to its violence—bitterly there is no cure for jealousy; the Tigress of Rouge devours all living things—fortunately there is a ferry for crossing delusion. When celestial incense burns by night, it wholly clears the waves of the boiling cauldron; when flower-rain flies at dawn, it utterly extinguishes the fire of the sword-wheel. In the land of ultimate bliss, paired wings rest together; at the tip of the long tongue, blue lotuses bloom side by side. They pluck suffering from the land of the Upasika, and establish a bodhimanda on the shore of the River of Love. Ah! May these few chapters of palm-leaf scripture be sprinkled as a single drop of willow-branch water!'" Kuixing Zhang Jiyu of Yuncheng lay down but could not sleep, when suddenly he saw bright light filling the room. Startled, he looked and saw a ghost holding a brush, standing as if in the form of Kuixing. He hurriedly rose, bowed, and kowtowed. The light then soon died out. From this he became conceited, believing it to be an omen that he would be the top scholar. Yet afterward he fell into obscurity and accomplished nothing; his household also declined, and his flesh and blood died one after another, until only he alone remained. Why did that Kuixing not bestow fortune but instead bring misfortune? General She She Dayou, styled Junshi, was a native of Yangxian in Hanzhong. As a military juren, he served under Zu Shushun's command. Zu treated him generously, and he received many promotions, eventually rising to commander-in-chief under the usurper Zhou. Later, sensing that the tide had turned, he secretly led troops to seize Zu. Zu resisted and was wounded in the hand, and was thus captured; She then submitted to Governor Cai. When he reached the capital, he dreamed that he went to the underworld. The King of Hell, angered by his faithlessness, ordered demons to pour boiling oil over his feet. When he awoke, his feet ached unbearably. Later they swelled and festered, and all his toes fell off. In addition, he contracted malaria. He would constantly cry out: "I was indeed faithless!" And so he died. Yishi shi said: "To serve a usurper dynasty is hardly to be called loyalty; yet when a state's knight or a common man knows how to repay, that is how worthy heroes should conduct themselves. This can indeed serve as a warning to all subjects under heaven who harbor double hearts." Jiang Fei In the year Guihai, I was lodging in the Chuoran Hall of Gentleman-Supervisor Bi. The Bi family's flowers and trees were most abundant, and in my spare time I often followed Sir Bi with staff and sandals, enjoying free rein in sightseeing. One day, after gazing about and returning, I was weary and longed for sleep; I took off my shoes and climbed onto the bed. I dreamed that two young ladies, dressed in gorgeous raiment, approached and said, "We have something to entrust to you; we dare to ask you to move your jade steps." I started up in surprise and asked, "Who summons me?" They said, "It is Jiang Fei." Vaguely not understanding what they meant, I followed them at once. Soon I beheld halls and pavilions rising high to meet the Milky Way. Below there were stone steps, ascending layer upon layer; after about a hundred-odd steps, I at last reached the summit. There I saw a vermilion gate standing wide open. Two or three more beauties hurried in to announce a guest. Before long, I arrived outside a hall, with golden hooks and emerald blinds, their light dazzling to the eyes. Within, a woman descended the steps and came out; her rings and pendants jingled, and her bearing was like that of a noble consort. I was about to bow when the lady first spoke: "We have respectfully troubled you, sir; in propriety we should first offer our thanks." She ordered attendants to spread a felt mat on the ground, as if she would perform the rite. I was overcome with panic and did not know where to put myself, so I said, "I am a humble weed of the wilds; to be honored with your summons is already more glory than I deserve. How dare I stand as an equal—that would only increase your servant's offense and diminish your servant's fortune!" The lady ordered the mat removed and a feast laid, with seats facing each other. After several rounds of wine, I excused myself, saying, "Your servant is intoxicated after but a little wine and fears he may offend against decorum. What is your command? Pray dispel my doubts." The lady did not speak, but only urged me to drink from a large cup. I repeatedly begged for her instructions. At last she said, "I am the goddess of flowers. My whole household, weak and small, dwells here, and has repeatedly suffered wanton destruction at the hands of the handmaid of the Duke of Feng. Now I wish to make a last stand against the odds, and I trouble you to compose a proclamation." Flustered, I rose and replied, "Your servant's learning is shallow and his writing poor; I fear I may fail your great trust. But having received your gracious command, how dare I not exhaust the poor wits of my liver and guts?" The lady was pleased and granted me brush and paper on the spot. The beauties wiped the table and arranged the seat, ground the ink and moistened the brush. Another girl with hanging tresses folded paper to serve as a model and placed it beneath my wrist. After I had written a line or two, two or three of them clustered behind me, peeping over one another's backs. I am naturally slow, but at this moment my thoughts seemed to pour forth. In a short while the draft was complete; they snatched it up and took it to present to Jiang Fei. The lady unfolded it and read it through, then said it was not flawed, and so sent me back again. When I awoke and recalled it, the events were all vivid. But much of the proclamation was half-forgotten, so I completed it as follows: Respectfully, Feng by nature is given to flight and arrogance, with envy and jealousy in his heart. He employs his talents for evil, and his envy is as though his very bones were drunk; he shoots at men from the dark, his villainy like that of the sand-spitting creature. In former days Emperor Shun was charmed by his fox-like wiles; the two consorts Ying and Huang could not relieve his cares, but rather borrowed him to dispel his vexation. The King of Chu was deceived by his bewitchment; worthy talents could not satisfy his will, only by him could he claim supremacy. The hero of Pei, amid the flying clouds, thought of his stalwart men; the Son of Heaven of Maoling, in the high autumn, recalled his fair ladies. From then on, relying on favor, he grew daily more wanton, and thus gave rein to wildness without restraint. With roaring wrath through ten thousand hollows, he shattered jade in the royal palace; with blustering might in the dead of night, he played cold notes upon autumn trees. Suddenly he would hide in the thickets of mountain forests, borrowing the tiger's might; at times amid the Yanyu Rock, he raised the river's waves. Moreover, the curtain-hooks were often moved, sending forth the clear shang tone from the lofty pavilion; the eave-bells suddenly clashed, breaking the secluded dream of the parted one. He sought the curtain and approached the couch, acting as a guest who enters the inner chamber; he burst through the door and mounted the hall, making himself a visitor who turns over books. Without ever having known a face in life, he straight opened the doors and came; if not for the skirt that remained on the palm, he would almost have carried off the imperial consort. He spat rainbow threads in the blue firmament, daring thereby to form a balustrade from the moon; he turned the willow waves on the green outskirts, falsely claiming to deliver tidings by flowers. For him who wrote his return to the fields, the homeward way was just begun, when fluttering he blew the coat of fig-leaf garments; for him who mounted the high terrace, his high spirits were at their peak, when lightly he let fall the cap of cornel. The stalks of the pennisetum rolled up and down, the whirlwind of the third autumn spun in the void; the zither's sound rose into the clouds, the hundred-foot kite string was snapped. He did not obey the Empress Dowager's decree, yet wished to hasten the flowers to bloom; he did not remove the guests' cap-tassels, yet he blew out the lamps. Worse still, he raised dust and scattered earth, leveling Li He's mountain; he called rain and summoned clouds, tearing apart Du Fu's thatched roof. Feng Yi rose and beat the drum, while the Young Maiden advanced and played the sheng. As he rippled along, all the grasses were laid flat; as he howled and rushed, the very tiles seemed about to fly. Without yet displaying his power to churn the waters, the river porpoises came out to bow; suddenly putting forth a sky-obscuring might, the line of wild geese in the sky could not keep formation. He aided the light sail at Madang—that had its purpose; he tugged the emerald curtains of the Jasper Terrace—what did that mean? As for the sea bird that had a spirit, it still perched by the Lu gate to avoid him; but if only the traveler might be safe, he would be willing to summon Youlang back. In ancient times there were heroes who rode him and broke through ten thousand leagues; in this age, where are the high-minded men who drive him and travel? Riding the wild clouds of the cannon-cart, he thereupon fancied himself as great as Yelang; relying on the perverse breath of the greedy wolf, he rashly honored the River Earl as supreme. Both sisters suffered his destruction, and all their kind were trampled by him. The flurry of red and the shock of green—how endless their scattering? The snapping of willows and the breaking of branches—how boundless their desolate rustling? Rain fell on the Golden Valley, falling to become a mat for guests; dew cooled the Flowery Grove, departing to become fluff that clings to mud. Burying fragrance and interring jade, their faded adornments fell and fluttered; the red pavilions and carved railings saw their various ornaments scattered in disorder. The spring light was diminished in a single morning and evening; ten thousand blossoms were drifting with sorrow; he sought the remaining red in the east and west, but at the fifth watch it was not a case of misplaced resentment. The light-stepping river and Han maidens, their bow-shoes trod idly through the spring garden; the lonely lady in the jade tower, her pearl-adorned halter only neighed at the fragrant grass. At this time: those who grieved for spring had a sadness that could hardly be borne; those who sought fair scenes sang a song of helplessness. Then, with haughty strides and high spirits, he launched into wanton violence; hastening the fall of the budding and shaking the leaves, he moved in ceaseless decline. Alas! the green trees still stood, but the rustling ones fell of themselves about the walls; long has the red streamer not been raised, and the delicate ones shed tears—who pities them? Falling into the mire or clinging to the fence, they ended their fragrant souls in a single day; blooming in the morning and withering at dusk, when shall they escape this cruelty? They resent the easy parting of the silken robe, and curses are heard in the night; they sue the wanton lord for his tyranny, but the memorial has not yet been answered in the heavenly court. They made known their complaint to their fragrant neighbors, and learned to form a formation of moth-eyebrows; all who shared the same breath gathered a host of plants and trees. Let none say that the willow and the cattail are powerless, but only that the hedge and fence have resolve. Let them look at the orioles and swallows, their comrades, to avenge the wrong of stolen love; let them ask the butterflies and bees, their friends, to join in a sworn pact of one heart. With orchid oars and cassia rudders, they may train for war on Kunming Lake; with mulberry canopies and willow banners, they may review their troops in the Upper Garden. The hermit of the Eastern Fence also comes forth from his thatched hut; the General of the Great Tree should feel righteous indignation. Slay his fierce breath, and wash away the thousand-year grievance of powder and paint; annihilate his violent might, and destroy the eternal regret of romance and gallantry! The Scholar of Hejian A certain scholar of Hejian had in his field a pile of wheat straw as high as a mound. His family daily took it for fuel, and in doing so bored a hole into it. A fox lived there, often meeting with the master—it was an old man. One day, he invited the master to drink, and bowed, leading the scholar into the hole. The scholar was reluctant, but after being urged, he entered. Inside, there were fine corridors and handsome houses. When they were seated, the tea and wine were fragrant and strong. But the daylight was dim and yellow, so that one could not tell whether it was day or night. When the feast ended and he came out, all the sights had vanished. The old man went out every night and returned early, so that none could trace his movements; when asked, he said that friends had invited him to drink. The scholar asked to go with him, but the old man would not. He pleaded repeatedly, and at last the old man consented. Taking the scholar's arm, he sped along as if riding the wind; in the time it takes to cook millet, they reached a city. They entered a wineshop, where they saw many guests seated, drinking and making a great clamor. He then led the scholar up to the upper floor. Looking down at the drinkers, the tables and dishes of food could all be counted. The old man went downstairs by himself, and taking whatever wine and fruit were on the tables, he brought them up in his hands to serve the scholar, and none of the feasters tried to stop him. After a while, the scholar noticed a man in a red robe who had golden tangerines set before him, and he ordered the old man to take them. The old man said, "This is a righteous man; you must not approach him." The scholar thought to himself: Since the fox consorts with me, I must be wicked. From now on, I will surely be righteous! As soon as this thought came to his mind, he felt his body uncontrollably spinning and he fell dizzily from the upper floor. The drinkers were greatly alarmed, and all shouted that there was a demon. The scholar looked up and saw that it was not a floor at all, but the beams of the ceiling. He told them the truth. They examined the facts and found them correct, so they gave him gifts and sent him away. When he asked where it was, it was Yutai, a thousand li from Hejian. Yun Cuixian Liang Youcai, a native of Jin by origin, had drifted to Ji and made a living as a petty peddler. He had no wife, children, fields, or property. He followed a villager to Mount Tai. On Mount Tai, at the turn of the fourth month, pilgrims thronged in mixed crowds. There were also Buddhist nuns and laymen, leading groups of men by the hundred and ten, kneeling in disorder beneath the goddess’s shrine, timing themselves by the burning of incense sticks—this was called “incense-kneeling.” Youcai noticed among the crowd a young woman of seventeen or eighteen, beautiful, and was smitten with her. He pretended to be a pilgrim and knelt near the young woman; he also feigned that his knees were weary and weak, and deliberately used his hand to press against the young woman’s foot. The young woman turned her head as if annoyed, moved forward on her knees and distanced herself. Youcai again knelt forward and drew near; after a short while, he pressed her foot again. The young woman noticed, rose abruptly, stopped kneeling, and went out the door. Youcai also rose, followed her tracks, but did not know where she had gone. His heart lost hope, and he walked away disconsolate. On the way he saw the young woman following an old woman, who appeared to be her mother. Youcai hurried toward them. The old woman and the girl walked and talked. The old woman said: “You are able to pay respects to the Lady—that is a fine thing! You have no younger brothers or sisters, but if you gain the Lady’s hidden protection, she will guard you and secure you a fine husband—one who can be filial and obedient, and there is no need for him to be a noble son or wealthy scion.” Youcai secretly rejoiced, and gradually drew near and questioned the old woman. The old woman said her surname was Yun, and the girl was named Cui Xian; she was her daughter. Their home was forty li west of the mountain. Youcai said: “The mountain path is rough; with you, mother, walking so slowly, and with your sister so delicate, how can you reach it?” She said: “It is already late; we will lodge at my brother’s house for the night.” Youcai said: “Just now you spoke of choosing a son-in-law—one not rejected for poverty nor scorned for lowliness—would I perhaps suit your mother’s intent?” The old woman asked the girl, but the girl did not answer. The old woman asked several times, and the girl said: “He is scant of fortune, and moreover dissolute and lacking in conduct; his frivolous heart is also prone to caprice. I cannot become the wife of such a slovenly fellow!” Youcai heard this, and professed his honesty and sincerity, swearing solemnly by the bright sun. The old woman was pleased and actually agreed to it. The girl was displeased and merely fumed. The mother again forcibly soothed her. Youcai was assiduous; he put his hand into his bag, found two mountain sedans, and had them carry the old woman and the girl. He walked behind on foot, like a servant. Whenever they passed narrow spots, he would shout at the bearers not to jolt or sway them, and was very attentive. Soon they reached a village house, and he was invited to enter the uncle’s home with them. The uncle came out—an old man; the aunt came out—an old woman. They were Yun’s elder brother and sister-in-law. They said: “Youcai is our nephew-in-law. Today is auspicious; no need to choose another day—let it be tonight.” The uncle was also pleased, and brought out wine and dishes to entertain Youcai. After that, they adorned Cui Xian in full dress and brought her out; they brushed the bed and urged them to retire. The girl said: “I knew all along that you, sir, were unrighteous, but compelled by my mother’s command, I have followed you carelessly. If you, sir, are a true man, then we need not worry about living together.” Youcai only agreed and accepted. The next morning, the mother said to Youcai: “You should go ahead first; I will send the girl to follow shortly.” Youcai returned, swept the door and courtyard. The old woman indeed brought the girl to him. When she entered and looked at the room, it was empty and bare. She then said: “How can you support yourselves like this? I will return quickly and will help a little with your hardships.” So she left. The next day, several men and women came, each carrying clothes, food, utensils, and furnishings, filling the room completely. Without eating, they all left, leaving only one maidservant. From this, Youcai became comfortably well-fed and warm; he only daily led the local ne'er-do-wells, drinking and gambling in competition, and gradually stole the girl’s hairpins and earrings to stake in gambling. The girl advised him, but he did not listen; she grew rather impatient, and only guarded her trunks and cases strictly, as if against bandits. One day, a gambling crony knocked at the door to visit Youcai; catching sight of the girl, he was utterly startled. He joked to Youcai: “You are greatly wealthy and honored—why worry about poverty?” Youcai asked why. He replied: “I saw your wife just now—she is truly an immortal. Yet she does not match your household standing. If you sell her as a concubine-servant, you can get a hundred in silver; as a courtesan, a thousand. With a thousand taels in your chamber, why listen to drink and gambling without funds?” Youcai said nothing, but in his heart agreed. When he returned, he would sigh and sob toward the girl, constantly saying that poverty made life impossible. The girl paid no heed; Youcai repeatedly pounded the table, threw down chopsticks and spoons, cursed the maidservant, and made all sorts of displays. One evening, the girl bought wine and drank with him. Suddenly she said: “You, sir, because of poverty, daily fret your heart. I too cannot manage poverty, nor share your worries—how could I not feel shame and remorse? But I have no extra possessions; I have only this maidservant. If we sell her, we might slightly help with household management.” Youcai shook his head and said: “How much would she be worth?” After drinking a little more, the girl said: “For you, sir, is there anything I would not support? But my strength is exhausted. Thinking of such poverty, even if I die and follow you, we would only share these hundred years of bitterness—how could there be any rising? Better to sell me to a wealthy family; it would benefit both sides. The price obtained might be more than that of the maidservant.” Youcai pretended to be shocked and said: “How could it come to this!” The girl insisted on it, with a serious expression. Youcai was delighted and said: “Let me consider it further.” Thereupon he contacted a eunuch intermediary and sold her to the entertainer’s register. The eunuch personally came to Youcai, saw the girl, and was greatly pleased. Fearing he could not secure her immediately, he drew up a contract for eight hundred strings of cash. The matter was nearly concluded. The girl said: “My mother daily worries about my husband’s poverty, and often thinks of it. Now that the decision is made, I will go home briefly to see her; moreover, since you, sir, are parting from me, how can you not inform my mother?” Youcai feared her mother would obstruct it. The girl said: “I myself am willing—rest assured there will be no mistake.” Youcai complied. It was nearly midnight when they reached her mother’s house. They pounded on the door and entered; they saw fine towers and houses, and maids and servants coming and going in a bustle. Youcai had lived daily with the girl, and whenever he asked to visit her mother, she would stop him. Thus, as a son-in-law, he had lived there for over a year without ever once visiting his wife’s family. Now he was greatly shocked, and thought that with such a wealthy household, the girl would surely not be content as a concubine or courtesan. The girl led Youcai up the tower. The old woman was startled and asked why the couple had come. The girl complained: “I always said this man was unrighteous—and now it is indeed so!” Then from under her clothes she produced two gold ingots, placed them on the table, and said: “Fortunately I was not tricked out of them by that villain; now I return them to Mother.” The mother was astonished and asked the reason. The girl said: “He was about to sell me, so I had no use for the gold.” Then she pointed at Youcai and cursed: “You wolf-rat! In former days you carried your shoulder-pole, your face covered with dust like a ghost. When you first came near me, you stank of sweat, your skin dirt almost crumbling, your hands and feet calloused an inch thick—making one sick all night. Since I came to your house, you have sat at ease eating meals, and that ghost-skin has begun to peel off. Mother is here—am I slandering you?” Youcai hung his head and dared not even breathe. The girl went on: “I know I have no city-toppling beauty and am not worthy to serve a noble; but for fellows of your sort, I consider myself quite a match. What have I failed you in, that you have not a single thought of the incense-fire vow? Could I not raise buildings and buy fine lands? I thought of you—a frivolous, beggarly look—you are not a companion for old age!” As she spoke, the maids and old women joined arms and swirled around him in a circle. Hearing the girl’s reproaches, they all spat and cursed, saying together: “Better to kill him—why go on talking?” Youcai was terrified, threw himself to the ground, and only said he knew his fault. The girl again said angrily: “Selling one’s wife is already a great evil, yet that is not the worst; how could you bear to deceive your bedfellow into becoming a prostitute?” Before she finished, all present glared with fury and stabbed his ribs with sharp hairpins and knife blades. Youcai howled in misery and begged for his life. The girl stopped them and said: “You may release him for now. Though he has no kindness or righteousness, I cannot bear to see him in such terror.” Then she led the crowd downstairs. Youcai sat and listened for a while; all voices ceased. He thought to sneak away. Suddenly he looked up and saw the Milky Way; the east was already pale, and the wilds were vast and dim; the lamp soon went out. There was no house at all; he was sitting on a sheer cliff. Looking down, he saw a bottomless chasm. Terrified beyond measure, he feared falling. He shifted slightly, and with a crash, the rock he sat on crumbled and fell. Halfway down the cliff there was a withered branch, which caught him so he could not fall further. The branch pressed against his belly, and his hands and feet had nothing to grasp. Below, all was dim and measureless, he knew not how many fathoms deep. He dared not turn or move; he howled in terror until his voice was hoarse, his whole body swollen, and the strength of his eyes, ears, nose, tongue, and body all exhausted. As the sun rose higher, at last a woodcutter saw him from afar; he found a rope, let it down, and lowered himself to take him up, placing him on the cliff-top, barely alive and about to expire. He was carried back to his home. When he arrived, the door stood wide open; the house was desolate as a ruined temple; beds, baskets, and all furnishings were gone—only a rope bed and a broken table, which were his old possessions, remained scattered and still there. He lay down listlessly. When hungry, he begged a meal from the neighbors each day. Soon the swellings festered and became leprosy. His fellow villagers despised his conduct and all spat on him. Youcai had no recourse; he sold his house and lived in a cave, begging along the road, always carrying a knife with him. Some advised him to trade the knife for food, but Youcai would not, saying: “Living in the wilds I guard against tigers and wolves—I use it to defend myself.” Later, he met on the road the man who had formerly urged him to sell his wife; he drew near and spoke plaintively, then suddenly drew his knife, struck and killed him, and was accordingly arrested. The official, having investigated the truth of the case, was also unwilling to treat him harshly, and kept him in prison, where he soon died of illness. The Historian of the Strange says: "To obtain a distant mountain like the芙蓉 [hibiscus] and share it with one's four walls—how could that be easier than facing south as king? When a man is himself inhuman, yet blames his evil friends for his ruin; therefore those who are friends must know to be on guard. All those dissolute fellows who lure men into lewdness and gambling, and into all sorts of unrighteousness—if their affairs are not exposed, though one does not resent them, neither does one owe them gratitude. But when a man has no jacket for his body, and his wife no trousers, and a thousand fingers point at him, and he is near death though not ill—then thoughts of poverty and ruin ceaselessly缠 [wind] about his heart, and hatred of poverty and ruin ceaselessly gnaws at his teeth; in the clear night, lying in his coarse blanket, he tosses and cannot sleep. Then at last he vividly recalls the time before his fall, vividly recalls the time of his falling, and again vividly recalls the causes that brought about his fall, and thereby also the man who set in motion the causes of his fall. When it comes to this, the weak arise, hug their quilts, and sit cursing; the strong endure the cold, strip and go out, kindle a fire and seek a knife, whetting it with a sharp sound—they will not wait out the night. Therefore, to admonish a man with good counsel is like giving him an olive; to entice a man with evil is like offering him dried poisonous meat. Those who listen should surely reflect—can those who speak then not be afraid!" **Tiaoshen (Jumping Spirits)** In Ji province, it is the custom: when commoners have illness, the womenfolk divine by spirits. They employ an old shamaness to strike an iron ring and a single-sided drum, posturing and dancing about, and this is called "Tiaoshen." This custom is especially prevalent in the capital. Virtuous ladies of good families sometimes perform it themselves. In the hall, meat is placed on a table, wine in basins, and the offerings are laid out abundantly. A great candle is burned, bright as day. The woman wears a short pleated skirt, bends one leg, and performs the "Shangyang Dance." Two people hold her arms, supporting her on left and right. The woman chatters in a low, broken murmur, like singing, and like praying; the words are many or few, uneven in number, without meter but with a kind of tune. Several drums in the room beat wildly like thunder, booming and deafening to the ear. The woman's lips open and close, mingled with the drum sounds, so that one cannot distinguish clearly. Soon her head droops, and her eyes squint sideways; standing requires someone to support her entirely—if the support is lost, she collapses. Then suddenly she stretches her neck and leaps high, rising a foot or more off the ground. All the young women in the room, startled and astonished, gaze at her and say, "The ancestor has come to eat the offerings." Then they give a single puff, blowing out the candle, and inside and outside all is pitch black. People stand trembling in the darkness, not daring to exchange a single word; and even if they spoke, it could not be heard, for the drums are in turmoil. After the space of a meal, they hear the woman call out loudly the childhood names of her father-in-law, mother-in-law, husband, and sisters-in-law, and only then do they together light the candles, stooping to ask about good or ill fortune. They look in the wine vessels, the pots, and the tables, and find them all empty again. They observe her expression, and discern her pleasure or anger. They solemnly line up to question her, and her replies come like echoes. If any among them harbors secret doubts, the spirit knows at once, and she points out that so-and-so has mocked her—great disrespect—and that she will have her trousers stripped off. The doubter looks at herself and sees she is already bare, and then finds her trousers retrieved from a tree branch outside the gate. Manchu women are especially devout in this observance. At the slightest doubt, they must seek a decision through it. Sometimes, in full formal dress, they ride fake tigers or fake horses, bearing long weapons, and dance upon the kang, called "Tiaohu Shen" (Jumping Tiger Spirits). The horse and tiger posture fiercely in wrath, and the medium's voice is harsh and rough. Sometimes they invoke Guan, Zhang, or Xuantan—the titles vary. The awe-inspiring and fierce atmosphere is especially terrifying. If a man peeps through a hole in the window, he is often struck through the window by the long weapon, which pierces his hat and lifts him inside. All the old women, daughters-in-law, elder and younger sisters in the household stand in strict and fearful order, lined up like wild geese, without straying thoughts, without slackening their bearing. **Tiebu Shan Fa (Iron Cloth Shirt Technique)** Sha Huizi obtained the great-strength method of the Iron Cloth Shirt. He would press his fingers together and chop with force—able to sever a bull's neck; he would thrust sideways—able to pierce a bull's belly. Once, at the home of Master Chou Pengsan, they suspended a log in the air, had two strong servants push it with all their might and swing it back violently; Sha received the log on his bare abdomen—with a loud crash, the log flew far away. He also exposed his vital parts, placed them on a stone, and had a wooden mallet strike them with force—without the least injury; only a blade could harm him. **Dali Jiangjun (The Mighty General)** Zha Yihuang was a man of Zhejiang. On Qingming Festival, he was drinking in a wild temple, when he saw before the hall an ancient bell, larger than two stone vats; and the traces of hands and soil on its top and bottom were smooth as if freshly made. He wondered at this. Bending down to look beneath it, he saw a bamboo basket holding about eight sheng, but he did not know what it contained. He had several men take hold of the ears and lift with all their strength—but it did not move in the least. He was all the more astonished. So he sat drinking to await the man. Before long, a beggar entered, carrying the dry provisions he had obtained, and piled them up beneath the bell. Then he lifted the bell with one hand, and with the other scooped the food into the basket; he went back and forth four or five times before finishing. Then he closed it again and left. After a while he returned, reached in, and took out food to eat. When he had eaten, he reached in again, as lightly as opening a box. Everyone in the hall was astonished. Zha asked: "If you are a man, why do you go about begging?" He replied: "Because I eat too much, and no one will employ me." Zha, seeing his strength, advised him to join the army. The beggar looked sad, worrying that he had no way in. Zha then brought him home and fed him; reckoning his food, he ate about five or six times as much as a normal man. He gave him new clothes and shoes, and also presented him with fifty taels of silver to go on his way. More than ten years later, Zha's nephew was serving as magistrate in Fujian, when a certain General Wu Liuyi suddenly came to pay a visit. During the cordial conversation, he asked: "What relation is Yihuang to you?" He replied: "He is my uncle. In what connection does the General know him?" He said: "He is my teacher. After ten years of separation, I often recall him with longing. May I trouble you to convey my invitation for him to honor me with a visit." He gave a vague assent. He thought to himself: My uncle is a famous scholar—how could he have a military disciple? It happened that Yihuang arrived, and he told him of this. Yihuang was utterly at a loss to remember. But because the inquiries were so earnest, he ordered a servant with horse and carriage to deliver his visiting card at the gate. The general hurried out and received him outside the main gate. When he looked at him, he had no recollection of him at all. He privately suspected the general had made a mistake, but the general bowed even more humbly. He ushered the guest in, opening three or four inner gates in succession, when suddenly he saw women coming and going—realizing it was the private quarters, he stopped and stood still. The general again bowed him forward. In a little while they ascended the hall, where those who rolled up the curtains and those who moved the seats were all young concubines. After they were seated, and he was about to begin inquiries, the general gave a slight movement of his chin, and a concubine brought forth his court robes; the general at once rose and changed his clothes. Zha did not know what he was doing. After the crowd of old women had adjusted his sleeves and collar, the general first ordered several men to press Zha down in his seat so that he could not move, and then he prostrated himself in courtly obeisance, as if in audience with his sovereign and father. Zha was greatly alarmed and could not understand why. After the obeisance, the general changed back into ordinary clothes and sat attending him. He said with a smile: "Does the gentleman not remember the beggar who lifted the bell?" Zha then understood. Soon a sumptuous feast was laid out, and family musicians performed below. When the wine was done, a crowd of concubines stood in attendance. The general conducted him to his chamber, and personally asked which direction he would like his feet to rest, before withdrawing. Zha woke up late from his drunkenness, and the general had already asked after him three times outside the bedroom door. Zha felt uneasy and begged to take his leave. The general had the carriage shafts removed and the doors locked, confining him there. He observed that the general had no other business each day but to count his concubines, maids, servants, grooms, and soldiers, as well as his horses, mules, clothing, and utensils, and to supervise the making of ledgers, cautioning that nothing should be missing or omitted. Zha, considering it the general's household affairs, did not press him deeply. One day, the general took the ledgers and said to Zha: "That I, unworthy as I am, have come to this day is all due to your great and lofty bounty. Not a single maid or single thing do I dare to keep for myself—I presume to offer half to you, sir." Zha was astonished and would not accept, but the general would not listen. He brought out several tens of thousands in stored silver, and also set that aside in two piles. According to the ledger he checked and counted, antique curios, tables, and couches were arranged inside and outside the hall, nearly filling it. Zha repeatedly tried to stop him, but the general paid no heed. After checking the names of the maids and servants, he at once ordered the men to prepare luggage and the women to pack the utensils, and admonished them to serve the gentleman with reverence. A hundred voices responded in fear. He also personally saw the concubines and maids into their carriages, and the grooms mount the horses and mules, and after the whole procession had set off with a great clamor, he returned and took leave of Zha. Later, Zha, in the case of the "Compilation of History," was implicated and arrested, but in the end he was released—all through the general's efforts. The Historian of the Strange says: "To bestow generously and not ask the recipient's name—truly a chivalrous and heroic man of old! And the general's requital, with its generosity and unconstrained spirit, is something rarely seen through the ages. With such breadth of mind, he certainly should not have been left to waste in the ditches. From this one knows that the meeting of two worthy men is no mere coincidence." **Bailian Jiao (White Lotus Sect)** White Lotus bandit chief Xu Hongru obtained a book of heretical arts and could command ghosts and spirits. He tried it on a small scale, and all who watched were terrified. Crowds flocked to his door. Thereupon he secretly harbored treasonous intentions. He produced a mirror, claiming it could reveal a person’s entire life. He hung it in the courtyard and bade people look at themselves—some appeared in kerchiefs, some in gauze caps, embroidered robes and marten tails and cicada-wing ornaments, each taking a different form. People grew even more astonished and puzzled. From this, word spread far and wide along the roads; those who came in succession to seek the mirror’s reflection were so many that their sweat mingled in a constant stream. Xu then declared: “All those who appear in the mirror as civil or military high officials are destined by the Tathāgata to be in the Dragon Flower Assembly. Each of you should strive hard and not retreat.” He then also faced the mirror himself before the crowd—and there appeared a king with tasseled crown and dragon robe, majestic and regal. All looked at one another in shock and prostrated themselves together. Xu then raised banners and bore battle-axes, and none who followed him did so without joy and excitement, hoping to match what the mirror had shown. Within months, his followers numbered in the tens of thousands; the region of Teng and Yi capitulated at the mere sight of him. Later, the imperial army came to suppress him. Among them was Commander Peng, a native of Changshan, whose martial prowess and courage were unmatched. The rebels sent out two young maidens with their hair in twin buns to fight him. Both wielded double blades, sharp as frost; they rode large horses that snorted and neighed furiously. They whirled and circled from dawn to dusk; they could not wound Peng, nor could Peng defeat them. For three days this continued, until Peng felt his sinews and strength utterly exhausted—he gasped and died. After Xu Hongru was finally executed and the rebel band captured and interrogated, it was learned that the blades were wooden swords and the horses wooden stools. A false army and horse slew a true general—how strange! Yan Shi A certain student from Shuntian, poor in family, in a year of famine followed his father to Luo. He was dull-witted; at seventeen he could barely complete a composition. Yet he was handsome in appearance, skilled at elegant banter, and adept at letter-writing. Those who saw him did not know that he had nothing inside. Before long, his parents died one after another, leaving him all alone; he taught young children at the confluence of the Luo River. At that time, in the village there was an orphaned daughter of the Yan family, descendant of a famed scholar. She had been bright since childhood. When her father was alive, he had taught her to read, and she never forgot anything after one perusal. At ten or so, she learned to chant verse from her father. Her father said, “Our family has a female scholar—pity she cannot wear the cap.” He doted on her, intending to choose a noble son-in-law. After her father died, her mother held to this intention; after three years she had not succeeded, and then her mother died too. Some advised her to marry a worthy gentleman. The girl agreed but had not yet acted on it. Just then, a neighboring woman climbed over the wall and came to chat with her. She wrapped embroidery thread in a sheet of waste paper; the girl opened it and saw it was a letter from that student, sent to the neighbor’s son. She read it over and liked it. The neighbor woman, perceiving her intent, whispered, “He is a handsome young man, orphaned like yourself, and about your age. If you would care for him, I will ask my husband to arrange it.” The girl remained silent, her eyes soft. The woman returned and told her husband. The neighbor’s son had always been on good terms with the student; he told him, and the student was overjoyed. He had a gold鸦 ring left by his mother, which he entrusted to them as a betrothal gift. A day was set for the wedding, and they lived together in great harmony. When she saw his essays, she laughed and said, “Your writing seems like two different people from yourself—at this rate, when will you succeed?” She urged him to study day and night, strict as both teacher and friend. At dusk, she would first light the candle, settle at her desk, and recite aloud to set an example for her husband; she would not stop until the third watch had sounded. After more than a year, the student’s examination essays became fairly passable; but he failed again and again in the tests, his reputation and career stagnant, his meals insufficient. Reflecting on his plight, he was desolate and wept bitterly. His wife scolded him, saying, “You are no man—you disgrace that cap! If I changed my coiled hair for a headdress, I would regard green and purple robes as mere mustard!” The student, already downcast, glared at her and said angrily, “You, in the inner chambers, have never set foot in the examination hall—you treat fame and fortune like drawing water and cooking porridge in your kitchen. If that cap were on your head, I fear you would be just like any other!” She laughed and said, “Do not be angry. When the examination period comes, I will change attire and take your place. If I too am as unsuccessful as you, then I shall never again dare to look down on the scholars of the world.” The student also laughed, saying, “You do not know the bitterness of cork—truly you should try it yourself. But I fear you will expose yourself and become the laughingstock of our neighbors.” She said, “This is no jest. You have often said there is an old house in Yan. Please let me dress as a man and return with you, pretending to be your younger brother. Since you left home as a child in swaddling clothes, who could tell the difference?” The student agreed. She went into the room and came out in cap and robe, asking, “Look—can I pass for a man?” He looked at her; she was entirely a handsome youth. Delighted, he took leave of all the villagers. His friends gave him small gifts; he bought a lame donkey and drove his wife home. His elder uncle and brother were still there. When they saw the two younger brothers, both as handsome as jade, they were very pleased and looked after them morning and evening. Seeing them study hard from dawn to night, they cherished and respected them all the more. They hired a young servant with a shorn head to attend to them. After nightfall, they always sent him away. For village ceremonies of condolence and celebration, the elder brother handled all social calls; the younger brother only lowered the curtain and read. After half a year, few had seen his face. When visitors asked to see him, the elder brother always declined on his behalf. When they read his essays, they were stunned with wonder. If someone forced open the door and pressed in, he would make one bow and slip away. The visitors admired his bearing and all became fond of him. Thus his fame spread greatly, and prominent families vied to have him as a son-in-law. The uncle and elder brother discussed it with him; he only chuckled. When they pressed further, he said, “I have sworn to reach the blue clouds; without passing the highest examination, I will not marry.” When the educational commissioner came to the district, both brothers went out together. The elder brother failed again. The younger brother, having placed first in the prefectural examination, went on to place fourth in the Shuntian provincial examinations; the next year he became a presented scholar; he was appointed magistrate of Tongcheng, where he showed administrative ability; soon he was promoted to the post of Censor-in-Chief of Henan Circuit, with wealth equal to that of princes and marquises. Then, pleading illness, he requested retirement and was granted leave to return to his native fields. Guests filled the gate, but he refused to receive them all. Moreover, from his days as a candidate student to his high rank, he never spoke of taking a wife, and everyone found it strange. After returning home, he gradually acquired serving maids. Some suspected him of secret affairs; his sister-in-law observed him closely and found nothing improper. Before long, the Ming dynasty fell and the realm fell into great disorder. Then he said to his sister-in-law, “To tell the truth: I am your younger brother’s wife. Because my husband was worthless and could not stand on his own, I acted out of pique and did it myself. I am deeply afraid that if this becomes known and the Son of Heaven summons me for questioning, I will be a laughingstock throughout the land.” The sister-in-law did not believe her. She took off her boots and showed her feet—only then did she gasp in astonishment; looking inside the boots, she found them stuffed with tattered cotton. Thereupon she made her husband assume her official title, and she herself retired behind closed doors, resuming her feminine role. But she had never conceived, so she bought a concubine with her own money. She said to her husband, “When ordinary men attain high office, they buy concubines for their own enjoyment; I have been in officialdom for ten years and still remain alone. How fortunate you are to sit and enjoy beauties?” He replied, “Thirty concubines—you may arrange them yourself.” This was passed around as a joke. By that time, her husband’s parents had received multiple imperial favors. Officials came to pay respects, treating her husband with the courtesy due a censor. He was ashamed to assume a woman’s title and only rested content as a candidate student; he never rode in a carriage or used an umbrella all his life. The Strange Historian remarks: “For a father-in-law and mother-in-law to receive imperial honors from their daughter-in-law—that may be called strange. Yet how often do we not find censors who are but women? But women who become censors are few. All those who wear the Confucian cap and call themselves men should die of shame!” Du Weng Du Weng, a man of Yishui, happened to come out from the market and sat down by a wall to wait for a companion. He felt somewhat weary, and suddenly, as if in a dream, he saw a man holding a summons come to arrest him. They arrived at a government office, one he had never seen before. A man wearing a tiled-ridge hat came out from within—it was Zhang of Qingzhou, an old acquaintance of his. Zhang, seeing Du, exclaimed in surprise, “Brother Du, how did you come here?” Du said, “I do not know for what business, but there is a summons.” Zhang suspected a mistake and offered to verify it. He instructed Du, “Stand here carefully; do not go elsewhere. I fear that if you get lost, it will be hard to save you.” Then he left and did not come back for a long time. Only the man who held the summons came and admitted the error, releasing Du to return. Du took his leave and walked on. Along the way he encountered six or seven maidens with lovely, charming faces; he was delighted and followed them. They left the main road and took a narrow path; after a dozen paces, he heard Zhang shouting behind him, “Brother Du, where are you going?” But Du was too infatuated to stop. Soon he saw the maidens enter a small arched doorway; he knew it was the house of the Wang family who sold wine. Involuntarily he stuck his head inside to steal a glance—and at once found himself in a pigsty, lying together with a litter of piglets. He suddenly understood: he had turned into a pig. Yet he could still hear Zhang’s shouts in his ears. Terrified, he hurriedly struck his head against the wall. He heard someone say, “This little pig has fits of frenzy.” Looking back, he had already become a man again. He rushed out the door, and Zhang was waiting on the road. Zhang scolded him, “I specifically told you not to go elsewhere—why did you not listen? You nearly ruined everything!” Then he took Du by the hand and saw him to the market gate, after which he left. Du suddenly woke up; his body was still leaning against the wall. He went to the Wang family and inquired, and indeed a pig had died there by dashing its head against the wall. Xiao Xie South of Wei River, in the residence of Minister Jiang of the Lang department, there were many ghosts and goblins that often bewitched people. He therefore moved away, leaving an old servant to guard the gate, but the servant died; several replacements all died, so the place was abandoned. In the village there was a scholar named Tao Wangsan, who was by nature free-spirited, fond of visiting courtesans, but when the wine gave out he would always leave. His friends once deliberately sent a courtesan to throw herself at him; he smiled and took her in without refusing, yet in fact spent the whole night without any intimacy. He once stayed overnight at Minister Jiang's house, and a maidservant came to him at night; he firmly resisted and did not succumb, and for this Minister Jiang held him in high regard. His family was extremely poor, and he had also suffered the grief of losing his wife; with only a few thatched huts, the sweltering summer heat was unbearable. He therefore asked Minister Jiang to lend him the abandoned residence. Minister Jiang refused because of its ill-omened history. Tao then composed a "Continuation of the Treatise on No Ghosts" and presented it to Minister Jiang, adding, "What can ghosts do!" Because his request was so insistent, Minister Jiang consented. Tao went and cleared out the main hall. At dusk, he placed his books there; returning to fetch something else, he found the books already gone. Surprised, he lay down on the couch and rested quietly, waiting to see what would happen. After the time of a meal, he heard footsteps; peering, he saw two young women coming out of the room, and the missing books were returned to the table. One was about twenty, the other about seventeen or eighteen, both lovely. They hesitated and stood by the couch, smiling at each other. Tao lay motionless. The elder one lifted a foot and tapped his belly; the younger covered her mouth and giggled. Tao felt his heart sway as if he could not control himself, but immediately he composed himself sternly and concentrated his thoughts, and paid them no attention. The woman came near, with her left hand stroked his beard, and with her right gently slapped his cheek, making a small sound. The younger laughed all the more. Tao suddenly rose and shouted, "How dare you ghost creatures do this!" The two women fled in fright and scattered. Fearing they would torment him at night, Tao thought of moving back, but was ashamed that his words would be proven false; so he lit a lamp and read. In the darkness, ghostly shapes flitted about, but he did not glance at them. When night was half spent, he blew out the candle and slept. He had just closed his eyes when he felt someone insert a thin object into his nose; it itched terribly, and he let out a great sneeze—but heard only faint laughter from the dark. He said nothing, feigned sleep, and waited. Soon he saw the younger girl twist a thin strip of paper into a fine string, and creeping like a crane and stalking like an egret, she came near; Tao suddenly rose and scolded her, and she flitted away. After he lay down again, she pierced his ear. All night he could not bear their disturbances. When the rooster crowed, all fell silent, and Tao slept soundly; the whole day he saw and heard nothing. As dusk fell, they appeared again, wavering. Tao then cooked his supper at night, intending to stay awake until dawn. The elder one gradually leaned on the table, watching him read. Then she covered his book. Tao angrily grabbed at her, but she had already drifted away; after a moment, she touched it again. Tao pressed the book with his hand and read. The younger one stole behind him, crossed both hands and covered his eyes, then instantly darted away and stood at a distance laughing. Tao pointed and cursed, "Little ghost! If I catch you, I'll kill you all!" The young women then were no longer afraid. He jokingly said to them, "I don't understand the sports of the bedchamber; it's no use tormenting me." The two women smiled, turned to the stove, split firewood and rinsed rice, and prepared his meal. Tao looked at them and praised them, saying, "You two doing this, is it not better than your foolish antics?" Soon the congee was ready, and they vied to set the spoons, chopsticks, and earthen bowls on the table. Tao said, "I am grateful for your service—how can I repay your kindness?" The women laughed and said, "We mixed arsenic and poison in the congee." Tao said, "I have never had any grudge against you; why would you go so far?" After he ate, they refilled his bowl again, and vied to run about for him. Tao enjoyed it, and it became a daily routine. As days passed, they grew familiar, sitting together and conversing intimately. He asked their names. The elder said, "I am Qiurong, of the Qiao family; she is little Xie of the Ruan family." He further inquired where they came from. Little Xie laughed and said, "Foolish boy! You haven't even dared to show yourself intimately, yet who asks about family status to arrange a marriage?" Tao said with a serious face, "Facing such beautiful forms, how could I be without feelings? But the yin and ghostly aura will surely kill a man if it penetrates him. If you are not pleased to live with me, you may go; if you are pleased to live with me, then stay. If you do not love me, why defile two fair ladies? If you do love me, why kill a reckless man?" The two women looked at each other, moved in countenance, and from then on did not torment him so cruelly; yet sometimes they would slip their hands into his bosom, or pull his trousers to the ground, but he took it not amiss. One day, Tao went out before finishing copying a book; when he returned, little Xie was bent over the desk, holding a brush and copying for him. Seeing him, she threw down the brush and smiled sidelong. He looked closely: though the writing was poor and not like proper calligraphy, the rows and columns were neat. Tao praised her, saying, "You are an elegant lady! If you enjoy this, I will teach you." He then drew her into his embrace, took her wrist, and guided her hand in writing. Qiurong entered from outside; her expression suddenly changed, as if jealous. Little Xie laughed and said, "When I was a child I learned writing from my father; having not practiced for so long, it is like a dream." Qiurong said nothing. Tao understood her meaning, but pretended not to notice; he then embraced her and gave her the brush, saying, "Let me see if you can do this." She wrote a few characters and then rose; Tao said, "Qiuniang has excellent brush strength!" Qiurong was then delighted. Tao thereupon folded two sheets of paper as models and had them copy together; Tao lit another lamp and read by it. He secretly rejoiced that each had her own occupation and did not disturb him. When they finished copying, they stood respectfully before the table and listened to Tao's critique. Qiurong had never been good at reading; her scribbles were illegible; after his judgment, she saw she was inferior to little Xie and looked ashamed. Tao praised and comforted her, and her expression brightened. From then on the two women treated Tao as their teacher, scratching his back when he sat, massaging his thighs when he lay—not only did they dare not tease him, but vied to please him. After a month, little Xie's calligraphy was quite neat and fine; Tao casually praised her. Qiurong was deeply mortified, her powder and rouge flowing, tears tracing like threads; Tao comforted and soothed her in every way, and only then did she stop. He then taught them to read; they were extraordinarily quick-witted—once he pointed something out, they never needed to ask again. They vied with him in reading, often until the middle of the night. Little Xie also brought her younger brother Sanlang to become a disciple of Tao. He was fifteen or sixteen, with a handsome and elegant appearance. He offered a golden如意 (ruyi) hook as a tuition gift. Tao had him study a classic together with Qiurong; the whole hall was filled with the drone of recitation. Tao thereby set up a "ghost school" there. When Minister Jiang heard of it, he was pleased and supplied them with daily provisions. After several months, Qiurong and Sanlang could both compose poetry, and they often exchanged verses. Little Xie secretly urged Tao not to teach Qiurong, and Tao agreed; Qiurong secretly urged him not to teach little Xie, and Tao also agreed. One day, Tao was about to go for the examinations; the two women wept and took their leave of him. Sanlang said, "On this journey you can plead illness and excuse yourself; otherwise, I fear the outcome will be inauspicious." Tao considered pleading illness shameful, and so set out. Now, Tao had previously been fond of satirizing current affairs in his poems and essays, and had offended a powerful scion of the district, who daily plotted to harm him. This man secretly bribed the education commissioner, who falsely accused Tao of misconduct and had him imprisoned. His funds exhausted, he begged food from fellow prisoners, and thought he had no hope of surviving. Suddenly a figure floated in—it was Qiurong. She brought him food. They faced each other weeping sorrowfully, and she said, "Sanlang feared your journey would be unlucky, and now indeed he was right. Sanlang and I came together; we have gone to the provincial judicial office to plead your case." After a few words she went out, and no one saw her. The next day, when the provincial judge came out, Sanlang blocked the road and cried out his grievance, and was taken in. Qiurong entered the prison to report this to Tao, then turned back to spy on the outcome, but did not return for three days. Tao was distressed, hungry, and despondent; each day felt like a year. Suddenly little Xie arrived, grief-stricken and utterly wretched, and said, "When Qiurong returned, she passed by the City God shrine and was forcibly seized by the Black Judge in the western corridor, who compelled her to become a consort attendant. Qiurong would not submit, and is now also imprisoned. I raced a hundred li, exhausted from the journey; arriving at the northern outskirts, an old thorn pierced the sole of my foot, the pain cutting to the marrow—I fear I can come no more." She showed him her foot, the blood staining her delicate shoe. She gave him three taels of gold, and limped away. The tribunal examined Sanlang, who was not related by any ties, yet had taken it upon himself to plead on behalf of another without cause, and was about to have him caned, when he fell to the ground and vanished. They found this strange. They read his petition, and the words were sorrowful and moving. They brought the scholar in for interrogation and asked, "Who is Sanlang?" The scholar feigned ignorance. The tribunal recognized his injustice and released him. After he returned, not a single person was there the whole night. As the night wore on, Xiao Xie finally arrived. Looking grief-stricken, she said, "Sanlang was at the tribunal, and the god of the offices escorted him to the Underworld; the King of the Underworld, because of Sanlang's righteousness, has ordered him to be reborn into a wealthy and noble family. Qiurong has long been imprisoned; I submitted a complaint to the City God, but it was again held up and I could not get it through. What are we to do now?" The scholar angrily said, "How dare that black old fiend act thus! Tomorrow I will knock down his statue, trample it to mud, and then call the City God to account; his subordinates are so tyrannical—is he in a drunken stupor?" They faced each other in grief and indignation, and before they knew it, the fourth watch was nearly over. Then Qiurong suddenly arrived, floating in. The two were overjoyed and urgently questioned her. Qiurong wept and said, "I have suffered greatly for you, my lord! The judge daily threatened me with knives and staffs, but tonight he suddenly released me, saying, 'I had no other motive; it was originally out of love. Since you are unwilling, I have not defiled you. Please inform Tao Qiucao, and do not reproach me.'" The scholar was somewhat relieved and wished to share the bed with them, saying, "Today I am willing to die for you, my ladies." The two maidens said sadly, "We have received your guidance before and have come to understand propriety and righteousness; how could we bear to kill you out of love for you?" They adamantly refused; yet they bowed their heads and inclined their necks, their affection equal to that of a married couple. Because of the hardships they had endured, all jealousy between the two maidens had vanished. It happened that a Daoist met the scholar on the road, looked at him and said, "You have a ghostly aura about you." The scholar, finding his words strange, told him everything. The Daoist said, "These ghosts are excellent; one should not betray them." He then wrote two talismans and gave them to the scholar, saying, "Go back and give them to the two ghosts; let their fortunes and destinies decide: if you hear a woman weeping outside the gate, have them swallow the talismans and rush out; the first to arrive may be revived." The scholar bowed and received them, returned and instructed the two maidens. More than a month later, they indeed heard the sound of a woman weeping. The two maidens rushed out, competing to be first. Xiao Xie, in her haste, forgot to swallow her talisman. Seeing a funeral bier passing by, Qiurong went straight out, entered the coffin and disappeared; Xiao Xie could not enter and returned weeping bitterly. The scholar went out to look, and saw that it was the wealthy family of Hao who were burying their daughter. Everyone had seen a young woman enter the coffin and disappear, and were all astonished; soon they heard a sound from within the coffin, so they set it down and opened it to check, and the young woman had suddenly revived. They temporarily lodged her outside the scholar's study, surrounding and guarding her. Suddenly she opened her eyes and asked for Tao Sheng. The Hao family questioned her closely. She replied, "I am not your daughter." Then she told them the whole story. Hao did not fully believe her and wanted to carry her back home; but the young woman refused, going straight into the scholar's study and lying down without rising. Hao then acknowledged his son-in-law and left. The scholar went to look at her—though her features were different, her radiance and beauty were no less than Qiurong's; he was overjoyed beyond expectation and warmly recounted their past. Suddenly he heard the sobbing of a ghost—it was Xiao Xie crying in a dark corner. His heart was filled with pity, so he moved the lamp over to console her sorrow, but her sleeves were drenched with tears and her grief could not be assuaged. She did not leave until nearly dawn. At daybreak, Hao sent maidservants and old women with a trousseau, and thus they became father-in-law and son-in-law. That evening, when he entered the bridal chamber, Xiao Xie was weeping again. This went on for six or seven nights. The couple were both deeply affected and could not perform the nuptial rites. The scholar was troubled and could think of no solution. Qiurong said, "That Daoist is an immortal. Go and beg him again; perhaps he will take pity and save her." The scholar agreed. He traced the Daoist's whereabouts, knelt and prostrated himself, explaining his situation. The Daoist insisted, "I have no means." The scholar pleaded without end. The Daoist laughed and said, "You stubborn scholar, you are so persistent! Since there is a fate between you, I will exhaust my arts." He then came with the scholar, asked for a quiet room, closed the door and sat inside, admonishing them not to disturb him. For more than ten days, he neither ate nor drank. Peeping secretly, he seemed to be asleep with closed eyes. One morning, a young girl lifted the curtain and entered, with bright eyes and white teeth, her radiance illuminating the room. She smiled and said, "I have traveled all night and am utterly exhausted! Because you kept pestering me, I had to run a hundred li before finding a good dwelling place; the Daoist brought me here with him. When you see that person, I will deliver her to you." As dusk fell, Xiao Xie arrived; the young girl quickly rose to embrace her, and they merged into one body, falling to the ground stiff. The Daoist came out from the room, made a bow with clasped hands, and departed straightaway. They bowed and saw him off. When they returned, the young girl had revived. They helped her onto the bed, and her breath and strength gradually recovered, but she kept clutching her feet and moaning that her toes and thighs ached; only after several days was she able to rise. Later, the scholar took the examinations and gained official rank. There was a Cai Zijing, who was of the same cohort, and who came to visit the scholar on business and stayed for a few days. Xiao Xie returned from a neighbor's house, and Cai caught sight of her, quickly following after her; Xiao Xie turned sideways to avoid him, secretly angry at his impertinence. Cai said to the scholar, "There is a matter that is deeply startling to hear; may I tell you?" When asked, he replied, "Three years ago, my younger sister died young, and after two nights her body disappeared, causing me endless wonder and suspicion to this day. Just now I saw your wife—how strikingly she resembles her!" The scholar laughed and said, "My humble wife is plain and unworthy, how could she compare to your sister? But since we are of the same cohort, our bond is close; why not present my wife and children to you?" He then went inside and had Xiao Xie dress in the burial clothes and come out. Cai exclaimed in astonishment, "She is truly my sister!" And he wept. The scholar then related the whole story from beginning to end. Cai rejoiced, saying, "My sister is not dead; I will hurry home to comfort our parents." And he left. After a few days, the entire family arrived; thereafter they exchanged visits as with the Hao family. The Historian of the Strange remarks: "Peerless beauties are hard enough to find even one, so how could one obtain two at once? Such a thing is seen but once in a thousand ages; only one who does not elope with a woman could encounter it. Was that Daoist an immortal? How wondrous his arts! If one had such arts, even ugly ghosts could be befriended." The Hanged Ghost A certain Fan Sheng was staying at an inn. After eating, he lit a candle and dozed off. Suddenly a maidservant came in, placed a wrapped bundle of clothes on a chair, and then arranged a mirror case and a comb box on the table, one by one, and left. Soon a young woman came out from the inner room, opened the boxes and case, and before the mirror began to comb and dress her hair; then she made a coiffure, then inserted hairpins, and gazed at her reflection for a long time, pacing to and fro. The former maidservant came in, brought a basin for washing, and held out a towel after she had washed; then she took away the basin of water. The woman unwrapped the bundle and took out a skirt and a cape, dazzlingly new-made, and put them on. She adjusted the collar and smoothed the lapels, making everything neat and trim. Fan said nothing, but was full of suspicion in his heart, thinking she must be a runaway woman preparing herself to meet a guest. When the woman finished dressing, she took out a long sash and hung it from the beam, tying a knot. He was startled. The woman calmly raised her small feet, stretched out her neck, and put it into the noose. As soon as the sash touched her neck, her eyes closed, her brows knitted, her tongue protruded two inches from her lips, and her face turned ghastly like a ghost. Terrified, he rushed out, calling for the innkeeper; when they went to examine her, she had vanished. The innkeeper said, "Formerly, my daughter-in-law hanged herself right here—could it have been that?" Alas! Strange indeed! Even after death she still reenacts that scene—what explanation is there for this? The Historian of the Strange remarks: "When grievances reach the extreme and lead to self-extinction, how bitter it is! Yet before, as a living person, she was unaware, and afterward, as a ghost, she did not perceive it—the hardest to bear is the very moment of arranging the clothes and tying the sash. Thus after death she suddenly forgets all else, but only this moment and this scene she still vividly reenacts—it is the one thing she can never forget." The Painter from Wu Gate A certain painter from Wu, whose name has been forgotten, liked to paint Lu Zu. Every time he imagined him and communed with him in spirit, he hoped for a chance encounter. His devotion was fixed in his thoughts, not a moment without it. One day, he came upon a group of beggars drinking in the outskirts. Among them was one with tattered clothes revealing his elbows, yet his expression was open and spirited. His heart suddenly stirred; he suspected it was Lu Zu. Looking closely, he felt more certain. So he grabbed his arm and said, "You are Lu Zu." The beggar laughed heartily. The painter insisted it was so, prostrated himself, and would not rise. The beggar said, "I am Lu Zu — what will you do about it?" The painter kowtowed, only begging for instruction. The beggar said, "That you could recognize me shows we have a connection. But this is not a place for talk. We shall meet at night." He wanted to ask further, but in a blink, he was gone. Amazed and sighing, he returned home. That night, he indeed dreamed that Lu Zu came and said, "Considering your sincere devotion, I have come especially to see you. But your nature is greedy and stingy; you cannot become an immortal. I can let you see someone, though." He then beckoned into the air, and thereupon a beautiful woman descended through the air. Her attire was like that of a noble consort; her radiant face and robes illuminated the whole room. Lu Zu said, "This is Empress Dong — mark her well." Then he asked again, "Do you remember her?" He replied, "I have already remembered her." He said again, "Do not forget." Soon the beauty left, and Lu Zu also departed. He woke up and found it strange. He painted what he had seen in the dream and kept it. In the end, he did not understand its meaning. Several years later, he happened to be traveling in the capital. It happened that Consort Dong passed away. The emperor, mindful of her virtue, was going to have her portrait made. Many painters gathered. They were given verbal descriptions and tried to picture her in their minds; in the end, none could capture her likeness. The painter suddenly recalled the person in his dream. "Could it not be her?" He presented his painting. It was passed around in the palace; all said it was an uncanny likeness. He was appointed to the post of Zhongshu, but he declined and did not accept. He was given ten thousand gold. Thereupon his fame spread widely. Noble families vied to send him generous gifts, begging him to paint portraits of their ancestors. He painted from imagination, without sitting, and none were not entirely lifelike. Within ten days, he accumulated tens of thousands. Zhu Gongkui of Laiwu once saw this man. Lin Qi Anqi of Jinan was naturally frivolous and unrestrained, and liked to dally with prostitutes. His wife gently warned him, but he did not listen. His wife was Lin, beautiful and virtuous. It happened that northern troops entered the region, and she was captured and taken away. As they camped for the night on the road, he wanted to violate her. Lin pretended to agree. Just then, the soldier's sabre was hanging by the bed. She quickly drew the sabre and cut her own throat to death. The soldier picked her up and abandoned her in the wild. The next day, they broke camp and left. Someone spread word that Lin had died. Qi mourned deeply and went there. He looked at her — there was a faint breath. He carried her back home. Her eyes gradually moved; she gradually groaned and moaned. He supported her neck and trickled water into her mouth through a bamboo tube; she could swallow. Qi stroked her and said, "If you should by chance survive, the one who wronged you will surely meet a violent end!" After half a year, Lin recovered as before, but her head was pulled by the scar on her neck, so she often seemed to be looking to the left. Qi did not consider it ugly; he loved her more than ever before. His wanderings in the pleasure quarters ceased from then on. Lin felt herself to be blemished and wanted to arrange a concubine for him; Qi firmly refused. After several years, Lin did not bear children, so she urged him to take a maid as a concubine. Qi said, "I have already sworn not to take a second; surely the spirits have heard it? Even if there is no heir, that is my fate. If it is not meant to end, could you be too old to bear children?" Lin then pretended to be ill, made Qi sleep alone, and sent the maid Haitang with a bedroll to sleep under his bed. After a long time, she secretly asked the maid about the nightly affairs. The maid said there was nothing. Lin did not believe her. At night, she ordered the maid not to stay, and went herself to where the maid had slept. After a short while, she heard the breathing on the bed change to sleep. She quietly rose, climbed onto the bed, and felt him. Qi woke and asked who it was. Lin whispered, "I am Haitang." Qi drew back and refused: "I have a sworn oath; I dare not break it. If it were like the old days, would I need you to come to me?" Lin then got off the bed and left. From then on, Qi slept alone. Lin had the maid pretend to be her and go to him. Qi thought that his wife had never been one to come uninvited in all her life; he was suspicious. He felt her neck — there was no scar. He knew it was the maid, and scolded her. The maid withdrew in shame. When it became light, he told Lin what had happened and told her to quickly marry off the maid. Lin smiled and said, "You don't need to be so obstinate. If you get a son, that would be fortunate indeed." Qi said, "If I break my oath, divine punishment will come; how could I hope to continue the lineage?" The next day, Lin said to Qi with a smile, "As for farmers, we cannot know if the sprouts will flourish, but the regular rule of sowing must not be violated. Tonight, the time for plowing and weeding has come." Qi smiled and understood. When evening came, Lin blew out the candle and called the maid, making her lie in her own quilt. Qi entered, and approaching the bed, he joked, "The tenant farmer has come. I am deeply ashamed that my plow is not sharp, failing this good field." The maid did not speak. Then they proceeded. The maid whispered, "My private parts are slightly swollen; I cannot bear too violent a thrust!" Qi was gentle and considerate. When it was done, the maid pretended to get up to urinate and replaced herself with Lin. From then on, whenever it was her monthly time, she would do this once, and Qi never knew. Before long, the maid's belly quickened. Lin always made her sit still and did not let her serve before her. She therefore said to Qi, "I advised you to take the maid, but you would not listen. Suppose that day when she pretended to be me, you mistakenly believed her, and after intercourse she conceived — what then would you do?" Qi said, "Keep the calf and sell the mother." Lin then said nothing. Not long after, the maid gave birth to a son. Lin secretly hired a wet nurse and had him raised at her mother's home. Over four or five years, she bore another son and a daughter. The eldest son was named Changsheng, already seven years old; he went to his maternal grandfather's home to study. Lin would pretend to visit her parents every half month and go to see them. The maid was growing older; Qi often urged to send her away. Lin always agreed. The maid daily missed her children; Lin granted her wish, secretly dressed her hair, and sent her to her mother's place. She told Qi, "You always said I would not marry off Haitang. There is an adopted son at my mother's home; I have already married her to him." After several more years, the children all grew up. It happened to be Qi's birthday. Lin prepared everything beforehand to entertain guests and friends. Qi sighed and said, "The years rush by; suddenly, half a lifetime has passed. Fortunately, we are all healthy, and the family is not in want. What we lack is a child at our knees." Lin said, "You are stubborn and would not listen to me — who is there to blame? But if you want a son, even two is not difficult, let alone one." Qi smiled and said, "Since you say it is not difficult, tomorrow I will ask for two sons." Lin said, "Easy, easy!" Early in the morning, she ordered a carriage to go to her mother's home, dressed the children elegantly, and brought them back with her. Upon entering, she made them stand in a row and told them to call their father and wish him a long life. After the bows, they rose and laughed, looking at each other. Qi was astonished and did not understand. Lin said, "You asked for two sons; I added a daughter." Then she related the whole story from beginning to end. Qi rejoiced and said, "Why did you not tell me earlier?" She said, "If I told you earlier, I feared you would send away the mother. Now the children are grown — can you still send her away?" Qi was deeply moved; he could not help but weep. So he brought the maid back, and they grew old together. In ancient times there were virtuous women like Lin — she can be called a sage! Hu Dagu Yidu Yue Yujiu had a fox haunting his home. Cloth and silk, implements and utensils, were constantly thrown over to the neighbors' walls. He had stored some fine thin silk, intending to have clothes made from it; when he went to look at it, the bolt appeared rolled up as before, but on unrolling it, the edges were solid while the middle was hollow—all had been cut away. Things of this sort were endless, and the suffering was unbearable. He cursed and reviled it wildly. Yue stopped him, saying, "I fear the fox will hear." The fox spoke from the rafters, saying, "I have already heard it." From then on the haunting grew even worse. One day, husband and wife were lying in bed not yet risen, when the fox snatched away their quilts and clothes. Each squatted naked on the bed, gazing up into the air and praying pitifully. Suddenly a fine young woman entered through the window and tossed their clothes back onto the head of the bed. Looking at her, she was not very tall; she wore crimson red, with a snowflake-patterned vest over it. Yue put on his clothes, bowed to her, and said, "If you, Immortal, are willing to look after us, then do not trouble us further. Please let me take you as a daughter—what do you say?" The fox said, "My age is greater than yours—how can you presume to be so self-important?" He then asked to take her as a sister, and she agreed. Thereupon he ordered the household to all call her Hu Dagu (Fox Eldest Aunt). At that time, in the household of the eighth young master Zhang of Yanzhen, there was a fox dwelling in the upper story, which was constantly speaking with people. Yue asked, "Do you know it?" She answered, "That is my family's Aunt Xi—how could I not know?" Yue said, "That Aunt Xi does not trouble people—why do you not imitate her?" The fox would not listen, and continued its disturbances as before. It did not greatly trouble others, but singled out Yue's daughter-in-law: shoes, socks, hairpins, and earrings were often thrown onto the road; at every meal, she would bury dead rats or filth in the rice bowl. The daughter-in-law would fling away the bowl and curse the lascivious fox, but never prayed for deliverance. Yue pleaded, "The younger ones all call you Aunt—why do you show not the least regard for the dignity of an elder?" The fox said, "Tell your son to put away his wife, and let me be your daughter-in-law, and then all will be at peace." The daughter-in-law cursed, "Shameless vixen, are you not ashamed to contend with another for a man?" At that moment the woman was sitting atop a clothes chest, when suddenly thick smoke issued from beneath her haunches, sweltering hot as a steamer. She opened it and looked inside: all the stored garments were burned to ash; the one or two things left were all her mother-in-law's clothes. The fox also pressed Yue's son to put away his wife; the son would not comply. After several days, she pressed him again, and still he would not comply. The fox grew angry and struck him with a stone, splitting his forehead so that blood flowed and he nearly died. Yue grew even more distressed. Li Chengyao of West Mountain was skilled in talismanic water magic, so Yue hired him with a gift of money. Li wrote talismans on red silk with powdered gold, and it took three days to complete them. He also bound a mirror to the top of a staff and held it as a handle, illuminating every part of the house with it. He made a boy follow and look; wherever he saw something, he was to report it at once. When they reached one place, the boy said that on the wall there was something crouching like a dog. Li immediately pointed with his fingers spread like a halberd and wrote a talisman at that spot. Then he paced the Yubu in the courtyard and chanted incantations for a time, whereupon the household's dogs and pigs all came, pressing their ears and tucking their tails, as if listening to orders. Li waved and said, "Go!"—and they all filed out one after another. He chanted again, and the ducks came; again he waved them away. Then the chickens came. Li pointed at one chicken and shouted at it fiercely. All the other chickens went away; this one chicken alone crouched, crossing its wings and cackling at length, saying, "I dare not anymore!" Li said, "This creature is the Zigu that was made in this household." The family all said they had never made one. Li said, "The Zigu is still here now." They then all recalled that three years before, they had played that game, and the strange occurrences had begun from that very day. They searched everywhere, and found the straw doll still on a beam in the stable. Li took it and threw it into the fire. Then he brought out a wine jar, chanted three times and shouted three times, and the chicken rose and went straight away. From the mouth of the jar came a voice saying, "Yue Si—how cruel! In a few years, I shall come again." Yue begged that it be cast into boiling water or fire; Li would not consent, but took it away with him. Some people later saw that on his wall hung dozens of bottles, all stopped with corks—each contained a fox. They said he released them one by one, they went out to cause hauntings, and by this means he earned hiring fees, hoarding them as valuable goods. Xihou Man Sheng of Changhua had set up as a tutor in Yuhang. One day, while walking through the marketplace, he passed beneath a pavilion by the street, when suddenly a lychee shell fell onto his shoulder. Looking up, he saw a young courtesan leaning on the balustrade above, with an enchanting and exquisite beauty, and he could not help but stare, losing his wits. The girl bent down with a smile and withdrew inside. Upon inquiry, he learned that she was Xihou, daughter of the courtesan Madam Jia of that brothel. Her price was quite high, and he knew he could not afford her. Returning to his study he fell into deep meditation, unable to sleep all night. The next day, he went to present his visiting card. They met, and their conversation and laughter were most delightful, and his infatuation grew even deeper. On some pretext he borrowed from his colleagues, gathering a certain sum of silver, and brought it to her, where their intimacy reached perfection. Lying in bed, he improvised a quatrain and presented it to her: "Grease thick on the bronze plate, the night not yet spent, By the bedside, soft whispers, musk and orchid scent. Tomorrow your new coiffure will be styled like the phoenix again— No more will clouds and rain dream of the King of Chu in vain." Xihou frowned and said, "Though I am sullied and base, I have always wished to find one of like mind to serve. Since you have no wife, do you think I could manage your household?" Sheng was greatly delighted, and immediately gave his solemn word, firmly pledging himself. Xihou was also pleased and said, "As for verse-making, I believe I am not unequal to it. Often, when no one is about, I have wished to try composing a piece, but I fear it might not turn out well and I would be mocked by listeners. If I am to follow you, I hope you will teach me." She then asked how much land and property his family had. He answered, "A scant half-acre of thin fields, and a few ramshackle rooms, that is all." Xihou said, "After I return with you, we shall stay together always; do not set up as a tutor anymore. Forty mu will be enough for our livelihood; with ten mu we can plant millet, weave five bolts of silk, and pay the tax of Great Peace with surplus. We shall close our door and face each other—you reading, I weaving; in leisure, poetry and wine will while away our time—what worth is a marquis of a thousand households compared to that!" Sheng asked, "About what sum is your price?" She replied, "Given the madam's greedy nature, how could it be small? More than two hundred taels at most would suffice. It is a pity that I was young and did not value money; whatever I received I gave to my mother, and what I have secretly saved is pitifully little. If you can raise one hundred taels, beyond that there is nothing to worry about." Sheng said, "My poverty is known to you—how could I produce a hundred taels on my own? There is an oath-bound friend of mine who is magistrate in Hunan; he has often invited me, but I have dreaded the long journey. Now, for your sake, I shall go and seek help from him. In three or four months I should be able to return—I beg you to wait for me." Xihou agreed. Sheng then abandoned his teaching post and journeyed south. When he arrived, however, the magistrate had already been dismissed from office, and being implicated in a case, he was living in a commoner's dwelling, his official purse empty, unable to assist him. Sheng, stranded and unable to return, took on students in that district. Three years passed and he could not go back. Once, when he caned a pupil, the pupil drowned himself. The boy's father, grieving for his son, sued the tutor, and Sheng was arrested and thrown into prison. Fortunately, he had other disciples who pitied their teacher's innocence and frequently sent him gifts, so he was able to endure without too much hardship. Xihou, since parting from Sheng, had kept her door closed and received no visitors. Her mother, having learned the reason, could not dissuade her and let her be. A wealthy merchant by the name of Jia, admiring Xihou's fame, sent a matchmaker to Madam, determined to have her at any cost, not stinting on the price. Xihou would not consent. Jia then went to Hunan on the pretext of trade, and secretly inquired after Sheng's circumstances. At that time the case was about to be resolved, but Jia bribed the officials in charge to keep him imprisoned indefinitely. Returning, he told Madam, "Sheng has died in prison." Xihou suspected the news was not reliable. Madam said, "Putting aside whether Man Sheng is dead or not, even if he lives, would it not be better to pass your days in silk and satin, glutted with fine food, than to follow a poor scholar and end in coarse hempen clothes?" Xihou replied, "Though Man Sheng is poor, his spirit is pure; to cleave to a sordid merchant is truly not my wish. Besides, how can rumors from the road be trusted?" Jia then sent word through other merchants, having them forge a farewell letter from Man Sheng and deliver it to Xihou, to cut off her hopes. When Xihou received the letter, she wept morning and night. Madam said, "I raised you from childhood with great toil. You have been grown for two or three years now, and what you have given me in return has been little enough day by day. If you are unwilling to remain in this profession, yet also refuse to marry, how are we to make a living?" Xihou had no choice but to marry Jia. Jia provided clothes, hair ornaments, and jewelry in lavish abundance. After a year or so, she bore him a son. Before long, Sheng, with the help of his disciples, was exonerated and released, and only then learned that Jia had had him confined; yet he recalled that there had been no enmity between them, and could not fathom the reason. His disciples charitably provided him with travel money, and he returned home. When he heard that Xihou had already married, his heart was greatly pained, so he entrusted an account of his suffering to an old woman who sold congee in the market to convey it to Xihou. Xihou was deeply grieved. She then understood that all the previous machinations had been Jia's schemes. While Jia was away, she killed the child in her arms, took all her belongings, and fled back to Sheng; she took none of Jia's clothes or ornaments. When Jia returned, he angrily brought charges against her. The magistrate, taking into account the circumstances, dismissed the case. Alas! Was this any different from the Marquis of Shouting's return to Han? Yet to kill her own child and leave—this too is the most unfeeling act in all the world! Three Wolf Stories There was a butcher who had sold meat and was returning home; the day was already dusk. Suddenly a wolf came, looking at the meat in the load, seeming to slaver greatly; it followed step by step, trailing him for several li. The butcher was afraid, and showed it his knife; then it drew back a little; but as soon as he went on, it followed again. The butcher had no plan, and silently thought that what the wolf wanted was the meat; better to hang it on a tree and take it early in the morning. So he hooked the meat, lifted his foot and hung it on the tree, showing the empty load. The wolf then stopped. The butcher went straight home. At dawn he went to take the meat; from afar he saw a huge thing hanging on the tree, like a person hanged to death; he was greatly frightened. He hesitated and approached it; it was a dead wolf. Looking up carefully, he saw that it held meat in its mouth; the meat hook had pierced the wolf's palate, like a fish swallowing bait. At that time wolf pelts were expensive, worth over ten taels of gold; the butcher made a small profit. “Climbing a tree to catch fish” — the wolf suffered that fate; how laughable! Another butcher came home late; his load had no meat left, only some bones. On the way he met two wolves, which followed him for a long distance. The butcher was afraid, and threw them a bone. One wolf got the bone and stopped; the other still followed. He threw another bone; the rear wolf stopped but the front wolf came again. The bones were gone, but the two wolves continued as before. The butcher was in great straits, fearing to be attacked from front and back. He looked around and saw a wheat field, where the owner had piled firewood, covered with a thatch to form a mound. The butcher ran and leaned against it, put down his load and grasped his knife. The wolves did not dare to come forward, glaring at him. After a while, one wolf went straight off; the other sat in front like a dog, and after a long time, its eyes seemed closed, looking very leisurely. The butcher suddenly sprang up, struck the wolf's head with his knife, and with several more blows killed it. Just as he was about to go, he turned to look behind the woodpile; another wolf was digging a hole in it, intending to tunnel in to attack him from behind. Its body was already half in, only its haunches and tail were visible. The butcher cut off its hind legs from behind, and also killed it. Then he realized that the front wolf had been feigning sleep, in order to lure the enemy. The wolf was also cunning! But in a moment both were killed; how much deception can beasts use? They only add to our laughter! A butcher was walking at dusk, and was pressed by a wolf. By the roadside there was a temporary shelter left by a night ploughman; he ran in and hid there. The wolf thrust its paw in through the thatch. The butcher grabbed it quickly, so that it could not pull away. But he had no way to kill it. He had only a small knife less than an inch long; so he cut the skin under the paw, and blew into it as one blows a pig. He blew with all his might for a while, and felt that the wolf was not moving much; then he tied it with his belt. He went out and saw that the wolf was swollen like an ox, its legs straight and unable to bend, its mouth open and unable to close. So he carried it home. Who but a butcher could devise such a scheme? These three incidents all came from butchers; thus the cruelty of butchers can also be used to kill wolves. Beauty's Head Several merchants were lodging in a house in the capital. The house adjoined a neighbor's, separated by a plank wall; in the plank, a knot had fallen out, leaving a hole like a cup. Suddenly a woman's head thrust in through the hole, with a coiled phoenix chignon, extremely beautiful; then she extended an arm, white as jade. All the merchants were alarmed at this apparition and wanted to seize it, but it had already drawn back. After a while, it came again, but through the partition they could not see her body. They ran to it, but it withdrew again. One merchant took a knife and lay in wait under the wall. Soon the head came out; he suddenly struck it, and it fell at his blow, blood splashing on the dust. The others were startled and told the owner. The owner was afraid, and reported the head as a crime. The merchants were arrested and interrogated, but it was very absurd. They were detained for half a year, without any clear statement, nor did anyone sue for homicide; so they released the merchants and buried the woman's head. Liu Liangcai I heard from Huai Liren of Jinan: Mr. Liu Liangcai was a reincarnation of a fox. Initially, his father lived in the southern mountains; an old man came to his cottage, saying his surname was Hu. Asked where he lived, he said: “Just in these mountains. In this secluded place there are few people; only we two, we can spend days and nights together, so I came to pay respects and make your acquaintance.” So they conversed, and his words were clever and agreeable; the father was pleased. He prepared wine and they enjoyed themselves; the old man left tipsy. The next day he came again, and they became more intimate. Liu said: “Since you have condescended to befriend me, our bond is deepest. But I do not know where your home is; how can I inquire after your well-being?” Hu said: “I dare not conceal it; I am truly an old fox in the mountains. I have a past affinity with you, so I presume to seek friendship with you. I cannot bring you blessings, but I dare not bring you misfortune either; I hope you believe me and do not be alarmed.” Liu did not doubt him, and they became even more attached. They then compared ages; Hu became the elder brother, and they visited each other like brothers. When there were small omens of fortune or misfortune, he would also tell him. At that time Liu had no heir; the old man suddenly said: “Sir, do not worry; I shall be your posterity.” Liu was surprised at his strange words. Hu said: “My allotted years are exhausted; the time for reincarnation is near. Rather than go elsewhere, why not be born into an old friend's family?” Liu said: “You are an immortal with a lifespan of ten thousand years; how can you come to this?” The old man shook his head and said: “You do not understand.” Then he left. That night Liu indeed dreamed that the old man came and said: “I am coming now.” When he woke, his wife gave birth to a son, who was Mr. Liu. When he grew up, he was short of stature, but his speech was witty and fluent, very much like Hu. He had a reputation for talent from a young age; in the year Renchen he became a jinshi. He was chivalrous and eager to help others in need; therefore guests from Qin, Chu, Yan, and Zhao thronged at his gate; those selling wine and cakes formed a market before his door. Huifang Ma Erhun lived inside the east gate of Qingzhou, making a living by selling flour. His family was poor, he had no wife, and he toiled in hardship together with his mother. One day, while the old woman was alone at home, a beautiful woman suddenly came, about sixteen or seventeen years of age. Her hair was simply bound and her clothes were plain, yet her radiance lit up the room. The old woman stared in astonishment and pressed her with questions. The girl smiled and said, "Because your worthy son is honest and sincere, I wish to offer myself to your household." The old woman was even more startled and said, "Lady, you are a heavenly being. With such a word, you would shorten our mother and son's years of life!" The girl insisted firmly. The old woman thought she must be a fugitive from some noble house and refused all the more forcefully. The girl then left. After three days, she came again, lingering and unwilling to go. When asked her surname and clan, she said, "If mother is willing to accept me, then I will tell; otherwise, there is no need to ask." The old woman said, "We are poor and lowly, with bones fit only for hirelings. To get such a wife would not only be unseemly but also inauspicious." The girl smiled and sat at the bedside, her attachment clearly very deep. The old woman declined her, saying, "Lady, you should leave quickly; do not bring misfortune upon us." The girl then went out, and the old woman watched her go west. A few days later, old woman Lü from the west lane came and said to the mother, "The neighbor girl Dong Huifang is orphaned and without support; she is willing to become your worthy son's wife. Why not accept her?" The mother told her all her doubts and apprehensions. Lü said, "How could that be? If there is any error, the blame rests on this old woman." The mother was greatly delighted and agreed. After Lü left, the old woman swept the room and laid out mats, waiting for her son to return so they could go and fetch the bride. As dusk was falling, the girl drifted in on her own. She entered the room, paid her respects to the mother, rose and bowed with full ceremony. She told the old woman, "I have two maidservants, but not having received mother's command, I dared not bring them in." The old woman said, "We mother and son live in this poor hovel and do not understand how to employ maids and servants. The trifling profits we earn each day are barely enough to support ourselves. Now with one new daughter-in-law added, delicate and idle, I am still afraid we cannot fill our bellies; if we add two maids as well, how could they live on nothing but air?" The girl smiled and said, "When the maids come, they will not cost mother any outlay; they can all find their own food." Asked, "Where are the maids?" The girl then called out, "Qiuyue! Qiusong!" Before the sound had died away, suddenly like flying birds alighting, the two maids stood before them. She then had them kneel and kowtow to the mother. Soon Ma returned, and the mother went out to tell him. Ma was delighted. He entered the room and saw green rafters and carved beams, equalling a palace; the tables, screens, curtains, and canopies inside dazzled the eyes. He was so startled that he dared not enter. The girl came down from the bed to greet him with a smile, and seeing her, he took her for an immortal. All the more alarmed, he stepped back. The girl pulled him in, seated him, and spoke gently with him. Ma was overjoyed beyond his due, his form and spirit seeming not quite his own. He then rose, intending to go out and buy wine. The girl stopped him, saying, "There is no need." She then ordered the two maids to prepare the feast. Qiuyue took out a leather bag, held it behind the door, and shook it with a creaking sound. Then she put her hand inside and brought out a pot filled with wine and a platter piled high with roasted meat, and all sorts of things steamed with fragrance. After they had drunk, they retired to sleep, and found flowered woolen blankets and brocaded mats, exceptionally warm and soft. When morning came and he went out the door, the thatched hut was still as before. Mother and son both found it strange. The mother went to Lü's place, intending to trace the matter to its source. Upon entering the door, she first thanked Lü for her virtue in matchmaking. Lü said in surprise, "I have not visited for a long time; how could a neighbor girl have entrusted anything to me?" The mother grew all the more suspicious and told the whole story from beginning to end. Lü was greatly shocked and went with the old woman to see the new wife. The girl smiled and welcomed them, expressing at length the virtue of their matchmaking. Lü, seeing her cleverness and beauty, stared in astonishment for a long while, then could not make out the truth and merely murmured assent. The girl presented Lü with a white wooden back-scratcher, saying, "I have nothing to repay your kindness; I offer this for grandmother to scratch her back." Lü received it and went home. On careful inspection, it had turned into white silver. From the time Ma obtained this wife, he suddenly changed his old occupation, and the household took on a new appearance. In the chests were countless sable furs and brocades, which Ma could take and wear as he pleased; but when he went out of the room, they turned into plain cloth, only light and warm. The clothes the woman herself wore were the same. After four or five years, she suddenly said, "I was banished to the mortal world for more than ten years. Because I have a karmic affinity with you, I temporarily remained here. Now I must take leave." Ma begged her to stay. She said, "Please choose another good spouse, to carry on the family and tend the graves. I will come once in a while." Suddenly she disappeared. Ma then married a woman named Qin. Three years later, on the Qixi festival, the husband and wife were just talking together when the woman suddenly entered, smiling, and said, "With a new spouse so delightful, do you not miss your old friend?" Ma started up in surprise, sadly pulled her to sit down, and poured out his heartfelt feelings. She said, "I have just escorted the Weaver Girl across the river, and took the opportunity to come and see you." The two clung to each other, and their conversation went on without end. Suddenly someone in the air called out, "Huifang!" The woman hurriedly rose to take her leave. Ma asked who it was. She said, "I came together with Sister Shuangcheng; she cannot wait long." Ma saw her off. The woman said, "Your lifespan is eighty years. When that time comes, I will come to collect your bones." Having said this, she vanished. Now Ma is over sixty. That man is only simple and reticent, with no other talents. The Historian of the Strange remarks: "Ma's name is 'Hun' (Mixed), and his trade is lowly; what did Huifang see in him? From this one sees that immortals value simplicity, reticence, sincerity, and earnestness. I once said to friends: if it were you and I, even ghosts and foxes would abandon us. The one thing that does not make us ashamed before immortals is only that 'mixedness.'" Mountain God Li Huidou of Yidu was once walking in the mountains when he encountered several people sitting on the ground drinking. Seeing Li arrive, they joyfully all rose, pulled him into their seats, and vied to toast him. Looking at their platters of food, various delicacies were laid out. After a while, they drank very happily; but the wine tasted thin and astringent. Suddenly a man came from afar. His face was narrow and long, about two or three feet, and his hat was tall and slender in proportion. The company exclaimed in alarm, "The Mountain God has arrived!" They all scattered in all directions. Li also crouched and hid in a pit. When he later rose and looked, there was no food or wine at all; only broken pottery vessels containing urine, and on pieces of tile were placed several lizards. Xiao Qi Xu Jichang, a native of Linzi, lived in Mofang Village east of the city. He studied the Confucian classics but did not succeed, so he left to become a clerk. Once, while going to his in-laws' home, he passed by the Yu family's funeral hall. At dusk, drunk on his way back, he passed that place and saw ornate towers and pavilions, with an old man sitting by the door. Xu, thirsty from wine, wished to drink; he bowed to the old man and asked for some liquid. The old man rose, invited the guest in, and led him up the hall to offer drink. After drinking, the old man said, "It is dusk and hard to travel; you might as well stay the night and set out early tomorrow—how about that?" Xu was also tired and gladly agreed. The old man ordered his household to prepare wine and serve the guest. Then he said to Xu, "I have one word to say—do not take it as rash: You come from a pure family with good repute, and we might form a marriage alliance. I have a young daughter not yet betrothed; I wish to offer her as a humble concubine, and I hope you will deign to accept." Xu hesitated and did not know what to reply. The old man then sent a messenger to inform his relatives, and also sent word for the young lady to dress up. In a while, four or five men in tall caps and broad belts arrived one after another. The young lady also appeared in splendid attire, her bearing and looks surpassing the ordinary. Then they all sat down together for the feast. Xu's spirit was confused and dazzled; he only wished to retire quickly. After several rounds of wine, he firmly declined any more. So they had a young maidservant lead the couple into the bedchamber, where they shared a room and rested. Xu asked her family name; the girl said, "My surname is Xiao, and I am the seventh." He further inquired about her lineage. The girl said, "Though I am of humble and lowly birth, to be matched with a clerk should not bring shame upon you—why bother to investigate so deeply?" Xu was captivated by her beauty and treated her with utmost tenderness, no longer harboring any suspicion. The girl said, "This place cannot be a home for us. I know that your elder sister at home is very kind and gentle; she probably will not oppose it. If you clear out a room and return, I will come on my own." Xu agreed. Then she laid her arm over him, and he quickly fell asleep. When he awoke, the arms embracing him were empty. The sky was bright, pine shadows dimmed the dawn, and beneath him lay a mat of millet straw about a foot thick. Startled and sighing, he returned home and told his wife. His wife, teasingly, cleared a room and set up a bed there, then closed the door and came out, saying, "The new bride will arrive tonight." They laughed together. When dusk came, his wife teasingly dragged Xu to open the door, saying, "Has the new bride not already come inside?" When they entered, there was a beautiful woman in splendid attire sitting on the bed. Seeing the two enter, she rose quickly to greet them. The husband and wife were greatly startled. The girl covered her mouth with a tittering laugh and saluted them respectfully. His wife then prepared utensils and celebrated their union. The girl rose early to work, without needing to be urged. One day she said to Xu, "My aunts and sisters all wish to come to our house for a visit." Xu feared that in the rush they would have nothing to entertain the guests. The girl said, "They all know our household is not wealthy; they will first bring provisions, but we will have to trouble your elder sister to do the cooking." Xu told his wife, and she agreed. After the morning meal, indeed someone came carrying wine and meat, set down the load, and left. His wife took on the role of cook. After mid-afternoon, six or seven young ladies arrived; the eldest was no more than about forty. They sat in a circle and drank together, their noisy laughter filling the room. Xu's wife peered through the window but could only see her husband and the seventh sister sitting face to face; all the other guests were invisible. When the Big Dipper hung above the corner of the house, they departed noisily. The girl went to see the guests off and had not yet returned. His wife entered and looked at the table; the cups and plates were all empty. She laughed and said, "All those sisters must have been hungry, to eat like dogs licking a chopping board." After a while, the girl returned, warmly expressing her thanks, took the utensils to wash them herself, and urged the senior wife to retire. The wife said, "When guests come to our house and provide their own food and drink, that is quite a laughing matter. Tomorrow we should invite them anew." After several days, Xu followed his wife's advice and had the girl summon the guests again. When they arrived, they ate and drank freely; only four dishes were left untouched, with no chopsticks used. Xu asked about it. They all laughed and said, "The mistress said we are crude, so we left these for the one who seasons them." Among the guests was a young woman of eighteen or nineteen, in white shoes and white garments, who said she was newly widowed—the girl called her Sixth Sister. Her bearing was seductive and charming, good at laughing and witty. She gradually became familiar with Xu and often teased him with banter. During the drinking game, Xu was the tally-keeper and forbade laughter and joking. The Sixth Sister frequently broke the rule, and was made to drink over ten cups in a row; flushed, she became thoroughly drunk. Her fragrant body languid and delicate, she could barely support herself. Presently she slipped away. Xu lit a candle and searched for her; she was sound asleep in a dark curtained alcove. He drew near and kissed her lips, but she did not stir. He put his hand inside her trousers and found her private parts swollen. His heart was agitated, but then the guests in the hall were calling for him, so he hastily straightened her clothes. He noticed a silk kerchief in her sleeve, stole it, and came out. By midnight, the guests rose from the table, but the Sixth Sister had not awakened. The Seventh Sister went in, shook her, and only then did she yawn and stretch, then tied her skirt, arranged her hair, and followed the others away. Xu nursed a deep longing, unable to put it from his mind. He planned to take out the kerchief and admire it in a quiet place, but when he looked for it, it was gone. He suspected it had fallen on the road while seeing the guests off; he held a candle and carefully examined the steps and the ground, but it was nowhere to be found. He felt dejected and disconsolate. The girl asked him, and he gave an evasive answer. The girl laughed and said, "Don't lie—someone has already taken that kerchief; you are only wasting your eyes and mind." Startled, Xu told her the truth and also spoke of his yearning. She said, "She has no predestined bond with you; the connection ends here." He asked why. She said, "In her former life she was a singing girl; you were a scholar, and you saw her and fancied her, but your parents blocked it, so your ambition was thwarted. You fell ill and grew critical. You sent someone to tell her: 'I am beyond recovery. If only you would come and let me touch your skin once, I would die without regret!' She was moved by this sentiment and agreed to your request. But because she was detained by other business, she could not go at once; she came the next night, but the sick man had already passed away. That is why in this life she has only a single touch of fate with you; anything beyond that is not to be hoped for." Later, when they again held a banquet and invited all the young ladies, only the Sixth Sister did not come. Xu suspected the girl was jealous and harbored resentment. One day the girl said to Xu, "Because of the Sixth Sister, you unjustly blame me. It is truly that she will not come—how am I to blame? Now our eight years of good relations are about to end; let me make every effort to scheme for you, to dispel your former delusion. Even if she will not come, can I be forbidden to go to her? If we go to her house and approach her, perhaps human resolve may overcome fate—who knows?" Xu was delighted and agreed. The girl took his hand, and they floated as if treading on air; in an instant they arrived at her home. Yellow bricks and a broad hall, winding gates and doorways—no different from what he had seen at first. Her father and mother both came out and said, "Our clumsy daughter has long been blessed by your warmth. We, in our declining years, have been remiss in visiting, but I hope you will not take offense?" Then they set out a banquet for the gathering. The girl asked after all her sisters. Her mother said, "Each has returned to her own home; only the Sixth Sister is here." She then called a maidservant to invite the Sixth Lady, but after a long while she did not come out. The girl went in and dragged her out. She hung her head, taciturn and reserved, not as merry as before. After a while, the old man and woman withdrew. The girl said to the Sixth Sister, "Elder Sister holds herself so high that you make others resent me!" The Sixth Sister gave a faint smile and said, "How could such a frivolous fellow be fit to approach?" The girl took the remaining cups of the two, forced them to exchange drinks, and said, "Your lips have already touched—why put on airs?" After a short while, the Seventh Sister slipped away, leaving only the two of them in the room. Xu suddenly rose and pressed close to her; the Sixth Sister twisted and struggled to fend him off. Xu tugged at her dress, knelt at length, and pleaded with her; her expression gradually softened, and they went hand in hand into the chamber. He had barely loosened her bodice when suddenly a great shout and clamor shook the ground, and firelight shone through the door. The Sixth Sister, greatly alarmed, pushed Xu up, saying, "Disaster is upon us—what shall we do?" Xu, flustered and at a loss, could do nothing, and the young lady had already fled and vanished without a trace. Xu sat disconsolate for a while, and all the buildings were gone. More than ten hunters, holding hawks and brandishing knives, arrived and asked in surprise, "Who is lurking here at night?" Xu made an excuse of having lost his way and gave his name and surname. One man said, "We were chasing a fox—have you seen it?" He answered, "No." Looking closely at the place, it turned out to be the Yu family's funeral hall. He returned home disheartened. He still hoped that the Seventh Sister would come again; in the mornings he divined by magpies, in the evenings by lamp flowers, but in the end there was no news. Related by Dong Yuxuan. Two Tales of Disorder and Flight The school instructor Liu Fanghui was a native of the capital. He had a younger sister who was betrothed to a certain Mr. Dai, and the wedding day was set. At that time, the northern troops entered the border; her father and elder brother, fearing that the women and children would be burdened, planned to send her off to the Dai household in her bridal finery. Before the preparations were complete, the disorderly soldiers swarmed in, and the father and sons fled separately. The girl was captured by a company commander (niulu). He kept her for several days but showed no familiarity at all. At night he had her sleep on a separate couch and provided her with food and drink very generously. He also captured a young man, about the same age as the girl, with elegant appearance and refined bearing. The commander said to him, "I have no son; I will make you my heir—are you willing?" The young man assented. Then he pointed at the girl and said, "If you agree, I will give her to you as your wife." The young man was overjoyed and said he would follow his command. The commander then had them share the same bed, and they were deeply harmonious and happy. Later, while on the pillow, they each told their names and surnames—and the young man was none other than Mr. Dai. A certain gentleman of Shaanxi, holding a salt post, did not take his family with him. When the rebellion of Jiang Xiang occurred, his hometown fell into a den of bandits, and letters were cut off. After the rebellion was pacified, he sent someone to inquire, but for a hundred li there was no smoke of habitation, and nowhere could news be obtained. It happened that he went to the capital to report on his mission. An old servant had lost his spouse and was too poor to marry; the gentleman gave him several gold pieces to buy a wife. At that time, the victorious army returned, and countless captured women were put up for sale in the market with tags, like cattle and horses. So the servant took the money and went to choose. Knowing he had little money, he dared not ask for young beauties. Among them was an old woman, very neat, so he redeemed her and brought her back. The old woman sat on the bed, looked carefully, and said, "Are you not the servant of so-and-so?" He asked how she knew. She said, "You served my son—how could I not recognize you!" The servant was greatly shocked and quickly told the gentleman. The gentleman looked and it was indeed his mother. He wept bitterly and paid double the price. The servant, now having more money, disdained to take the old woman. He saw a woman of about thirty, with an extraordinary demeanor, so he redeemed her. As they left, the woman walked and glanced back, saying, "Are you not the servant of so-and-so?" Again he was startled and asked. She said, "You served my husband—how could you not recognize me!" The servant was even more shocked and led her to the gentleman. The gentleman looked and it was truly his wife. He again cried out in grief. In one day, mother and wife were reunited, and joy was boundless. He then gave a hundred gold pieces to the servant to marry a beautiful woman. It is thought that the gentleman must have had great virtue, so the ghosts and gods responded in sympathy. Regrettably, the storyteller forgot his name and surname; perhaps someone in Qinzhong can tell it. Yishi Shi said: "The calamity of Yan Kun, where jade and stone are not distinguished—truly so! If such a family as his, it is because they were reunited and thus handed down. After Dong Sibai, only one grandson remained, and now he cannot even offer sacrifices to him; that is also the responsibility of the court officials. Sad!" Domesticated Snakes In the mountains of Sishui there was formerly a Buddhist monastery, surrounded by no villages, rarely visited by men, where a Daoist priest resided. Some said there were many large snakes within, so travellers kept even farther away. A young man went into the mountains to catch hawks. Having gone deep in, he found no place to lodge; spying a temple from afar, he hurried to take shelter there. The priest was startled and said, "Why have you come, lay brother? Fortunately you were not seen by my lads!" He had him sit and served porridge. Before he finished eating, a huge snake entered, more than ten spans around, raising its head toward the guest, its angry eyes flashing like lightning. The guest was terrified. The priest struck its forehead with his palm and scolded, "Begone!" The snake lowered its head and entered the eastern chamber. It coiled and moved for a long while before its entire body disappeared inside, filling the whole room as it lay coiled. The guest was greatly frightened and trembled. The priest said, "These are what I usually raise. With me here, no harm; what you have to fear is if you meet them yourself." The guest had barely sat down when another snake entered, somewhat smaller than the previous, about five or six spans around. It stopped short on seeing the guest, flicking its tongue and glaring as before. The priest again scolded it, and it also went into the room. The room had no space to lie down; half of it coiled around the beams, shaking dust from the walls with a rustling sound. The guest grew even more afraid and could not sleep all night. In the morning he rose and wished to return; the priest saw him off. As they went out the door, he saw snakes on the walls and steps, large as basins or cups, moving and resting in all directions. When they saw the stranger, they all showed a devouring look. The guest, terrified, clung to the priest's side and made him escort him out of the valley mouth, and then he returned. A fellow villager of mine who travelled to the central provinces once lodged at the Snake-Buddha Temple. The monks served supper; the meat soup was very tasty, but the pieces were all round, like chicken necks. He asked the monks in wonder, "How many chickens did you kill to get so many necks?" The monk said, "These are snake pieces." The guest was greatly alarmed, and there were those who went out and vomited. After retiring, he felt something wriggling on his chest. He felt it—it was a snake. He leaped up in fright and cried out. The monk arose and said, "This is a common occurrence—why be so alarmed?" He then lit a torch and shone it on the walls; large and small they covered the walls, and the bed and floor were all covered with them. The next day, the monk led him into the Buddha hall. Under the Buddha's seat was a huge well; in the well there was a snake as thick as a large jar, sticking its head over the well's edge but not coming out. They lit a fire and looked down, and saw snake sons and grandsons by the hundreds of thousands, dwelling together in the well. The monk said, "Formerly the snakes came out and did harm; the Buddha sat on top to suppress them, and the trouble was then pacified." Lei Gong A man of Bozhou named Wang Congjian had his mother sitting in her room during a light rain and dim sky, when she saw Lei Gong holding a hammer, flapping his wings and entering. Greatly frightened, she quickly poured on him some excrement from a chamber vessel. Lei Gong, stained with filth, seemed as if struck by a knife or axe, and turned back to flee swiftly; he exerted himself to spread his wings but could not get away. He tumbled about in the courtyard, bellowing like an ox. The clouds in the sky gradually lowered, gradually coming level with the eaves. In the clouds there was a rustling like horses neighing, responding to Lei Gong. After a little while, rain poured down in torrents, washing away all the foulness from his body, and then he made a thunderclap and departed. Water Caltrop Hu Dacheng was a man of Chu. His mother had long been a devout Buddhist. Dacheng passed by the Guanyin Shrine on his way to and from his tutor's school, and his mother bade him always enter and pay homage when he passed. One day, when he arrived at the shrine, he saw a young girl leading a child in play within; her hair only just covered her neck, yet her bearing was exquisitely pleasing. At that time Dacheng was fourteen and took a liking to her. He asked her surname. The girl laughed and said, "I am Lingjiao, daughter of the painter Jiao who lives west of the shrine. Why do you ask?" Dacheng then asked, "Do you have a betrothed?" The girl blushed and said, "No." Dacheng said, "Would it be well if I were your betrothed?" The girl said in shame, "I cannot decide for myself." But her eyes were clear and bright, and she glanced up and down at Dacheng, her expression as if pleased and attached. Dacheng then went out. The girl pursued him and called from afar, "Cui Ercheng is a friend of my father's; if you use him as a matchmaker, nothing will fail." Dacheng said, "Yes." He then thought of her cleverness and amorous nature, and his admiration for her grew even more. Returning home, he told his mother frankly his wish. His mother had only this son and was always afraid of thwarting him, so she immediately commissioned Cui to act as go-between. But Jiao demanded an excessive betrothal gift, and the matter was not concluded. Cui spoke at length of Dacheng's pure lineage and fine talents, and only then did Jiao consent. Dacheng had an uncle, old and sonless, who held a teaching post in Hubei. His wife died at his post, and his mother sent Dacheng to attend the funeral. After several months, he was about to return when his uncle fell ill and also died. The delay was prolonged, and just then great bandits occupied Hunan, so news from home was cut off. Dacheng fled among the common people, solitary and forlorn. One day, there was an old woman of forty-eight or forty-nine who wandered about the village and did not leave even at sunset. She said of herself, "In these disorders I have no home to return to; I wish to sell myself." Someone asked her price. She said, "I disdain to be a slave, nor do I wish to be a wife; but if there is one who will treat me as a mother, I will follow him, without haggling over the price." Those who heard laughed. Dacheng went to look at her; in her face there was something that rather resembled his mother, and he was moved to great sorrow. Thinking that he was alone and had no one to sew for him, he invited her home and treated her with the rites due a mother. The old woman was pleased, and then cooked meals and wove sandals, toiling as a mother would. When he displeased her, she would reprove him; but if he had the least ailment, she nursed him even more tenderly than a birth mother. Suddenly she said, "This place is peaceful, and fortunately we need have no fear. But you are now grown, and though you are in exile, the great human relationships cannot be abandoned. In two or three days, I will find a wife for you." Dacheng wept and said, "I already have a wife, but we are separated north and south." The old woman said, "In times of great chaos, human affairs turn upside down; how can you wait rigidly?" Dacheng wept again and said, "Not to mention that the vow of the first hairpin cannot be broken, but who would give a cherished daughter to a drifting man?" The old woman did not answer, but only made curtains, bedclothes, and pillows, very completely, though it was not known whence they came. One day, after sunset, she warned Dacheng, "Sit by the candle and do not sleep; I am going to see whether the bride has come." Then she went out the door. After the third watch had passed, the old woman did not return. He was greatly puzzled. Soon he heard a commotion outside the door; going out to look, he saw a young woman sitting in the courtyard, dishevelled and sobbing. He asked in surprise, "Who are you?" She did not speak. After a long while, she said, "If you have married me, it is no blessing—I would rather die!" Dacheng was greatly alarmed and did not know the reason. The girl said, "I was betrothed in childhood to Hu Dacheng; unexpectedly he went to Hubei and all news ceased. My parents forced me to marry into your family. My body may be brought here, but my resolve cannot be taken!" When Dacheng heard this, he wept and said, "I am that Hu. Are you Lingjiao?" The girl stopped weeping and was startled, not believing him. They entered the room together, and by the lamp she looked him over carefully and said, "Surely this is not a dream?" Then their sorrow turned to joy, and they told each other of their hardships. Earlier, after the disorders, within a hundred li of Hunan the land was utterly desolated. Jiao took his family and fled east of Changsha, and there accepted a betrothal from a certain Mr. Zhou. In the chaos they could not perform the rites, and they set that night for sending her to his house. The girl wept and would not wash or comb her hair; her family forced her into a carriage. On the way, the girl tumbled from the carriage. Then four men came bearing a sedan chair, saying they were from the Zhou family to receive the bride, and they helped her into the chair, which sped as if flying, until it stopped here. An old woman pulled her in and said, "This is your husband's home; just enter and do not weep. Your mother-in-law will arrive shortly." Then she left. When Dacheng had questioned her and learned all, he realized that the old woman was a divine being. The couple burned incense and prayed together, wishing that mother and son might be reunited. His mother, since the martial law and strict alert, had fled with other women into the mountain valleys. One night, there was a clamour that bandits were coming, and they all panicked and hid in all directions. A boy gave his horse to the mother. In her haste she had no time to ask, but leaned on his shoulder and mounted; the horse was swift and flew, and in an instant reached the lakeside, where it galloped over the water, its hooves raising no spray. Before long, he helped her down and pointed to a house, saying, "You may dwell here." The mother was about to bow and thank him; looking back at the horse, it had turned into a golden-haired hound, over ten feet tall, and the boy leaped on it and departed. The mother knocked at the door, and it opened wide. Someone came out and asked who was there; surprised that the voice was familiar, she looked and saw it was Dacheng. Mother and son embraced and wept. The wife also rose in astonishment, and the whole household was joyful and consoled. They suspected that the old woman was a manifestation of Guanyin. From then on they recited the Guanyin scripture and mantra with even greater devotion. They then settled in Hubei and bought farmland and a house. The Hungry Ghost Ma Yong was a man of Qi. He was greedy and a rogue; his family was perpetually poor, and the villagers mockingly called him "The Hungry Ghost." When he was over thirty, he grew ever poorer, his clothes patched like a quail's plumage, and he would fold his arms and snatch food in the marketplace. Everyone shunned him and would not count him among decent folk. There was an old man named Zhu who in his youth had taken his wife to live in the town markets, following a base trade. In his later years he returned to his native village, and the literati greatly disparaged him; but Zhu purified his conduct and did good, so people gradually began to treat him with some civility. One day, he encountered Ma snatching food without paying and being harassed by the shopkeepers. Pitying him, he paid the sum for him. He brought him home and gave him several hundred coins to use as capital. Ma left, but he would not seek any occupation; he sat and ate. Before long, the money was gone again, and he returned to his old ways. Yet he was always afraid of meeting Zhu, so he went off to Linzi. At night he lodged in the school temple; the winter nights were bitterly cold, and he would pull off the tassels from the sages' crowns and burn the wooden tablets for warmth. The school supervisor learned of it and was angry and wanted to punish him. Ma begged for mercy and promised to make money for the master. The supervisor was pleased and let him go. Ma sounded out a certain prosperous scholar, went to his door and extorted money, deliberately provoking his anger; then he cut himself with a knife and falsely accused the scholar before the school authorities. The supervisor extorted a heavy bribe from the scholar, and only then did he refrain from reporting and dismissing him. The other students were all incensed and jointly brought the case before the county magistrate. The magistrate investigated and got the truth, had Ma flogged forty strokes, put a cangue on his neck, and he died in three days. That night, Old Zhu dreamed that Ma appeared wearing a cap and belt and said, "I have failed to repay your great virtue; now I come to repay it." When he woke, his concubine gave birth to a son. Zhu knew it was Ma, and named the child Ma'er. As a child he was not clever, but Zhu was pleased that he could read. When he was over twenty, after great efforts in managing affairs, he gained entrance to the county school. Later, during examinations, he lodged in a hostel and lay on the bed during the day, seeing that the walls were covered with old examination essays. Looking at them, he saw a four-line topic, "The nature of the dog," and fearing its difficulty, he read and memorized it. When he entered the examination hall, it happened to be that very topic; he copied it out and got a high grade, receiving a stipend. At over sixty, he was appointed assistant instructor in Linzi. After several years in office, he never made a single friend of principle. He only showed a cormorant-like grin when he could draw money from his sleeve; otherwise his eyelashes were an inch long and his gaze sharp as if he did not know you. If occasionally the magistrate, for some minor fault of a student, ordered a light punishment, he would torture him cruelly as if dealing with bandits. When anyone brought a suit against a scholar, if the scholar was rich, he would come knocking at the door. He did many such things, and the students could no longer bear it. But he was nearly seventy, corpulent, deaf, and dim-sighted, and he was always asking people for a black-beard dye. A certain wild student grated madder root and tricked him with it. At dawn they all looked at him; he looked like the heavenly general in a temple shrine. He was furious and had the student arrested; but the student had already fled during the night. Because of this, anger lodged in his chest, and he died a few months later. Examination of Misdeeds Wen Rensheng, a man of Henan. Having been ill for a day, he saw a xiucai enter, prostrate himself at the foot of his bed, and be extremely humble and courteous. Soon he asked Wen to walk a little, took his arm and spoke at length, chattering as they went; even after several li they still did not say goodbye. Wen stopped, cupped his hands, and spoke politely. The xiucai said: "I must trouble you to move further; I have a matter to beg of you." Wen asked what it was. He answered: "We all are under the jurisdiction of the Kaobisi. Its director is named the Xudu Ghost King. When first meeting him, by rule one must have a slice of flesh cut from the thigh; I beg you to put in a good word for me." Wen asked in alarm: "What crime warrants this?" He said: "No crime is necessary; this is the old rule. Those who are generous with bribes may redeem themselves; but I am poor." Wen said: "I have never been acquainted with the Ghost King; how can I be of use?" He said: "In your former life you were of his grandfather's generation; he should listen to you." While they were speaking, they had already entered the city wall. They came to a government office; the buildings were not very spacious, except for one hall that was tall and broad. Below the hall stood two stone tablets east and west, with green characters larger than a bushel basket; one read "Filial Piety, Fraternal Duty, Loyalty, Trustworthiness," and the other "Propriety, Righteousness, Integrity, Shame." They mounted the steps and entered, and saw above the hall a horizontal tablet bearing the large characters "Kaobisi." On the pillars was a carved couplet in green characters: "Called school, called order, called district school—two characters of virtue and conduct, secretly teaching; Upper scholar, middle scholar, lower scholar—one hall of rites and music, ghostly disciples." Before he had finished looking around, the official came out: curly-haired, with a back like a turtle, looking like a man of several hundred years; his nostrils turned up to the sky, his lips turned outward, not covering his teeth. He was followed by a registrar clerk with a tiger's head and human body. More than ten others stood in attendance, half of them ferocious like mountain spirits. The xiucai said: "This is the Ghost King." Wen was terrified and wanted to retreat. But the Ghost King had already seen him, descended the steps, bowed, and invited Wen up, then asked after his well-being. Wen merely assented. He then asked: "What brings you here?" Wen fully explained the xiucai's intention. The Ghost King's expression changed and he said: "There is an established rule for this; even if my father commanded it, I would not dare to comply!" His manner was stern and forbidding, as if no further word could be interposed. Wen dared not speak, rose abruptly, and took his leave; the Ghost King saw him out sideways, and only turned back after they reached the gate. Wen did not go home, but secretly entered again to observe the outcome. When he reached the bottom of the hall, the xiucai, along with several of his fellows, had their arms bound and fingers pressed together, manifestly in fetters. A ferocious man came with a knife, bared their thighs, and cut off a piece of flesh about the size of three fingers placed together. The xiucai howled loudly, almost losing his voice. Wen, being young and righteous, could not contain his indignation, and shouted: "Such cruelty—what kind of world is this!" The Ghost King started up, temporarily ordered the cutting to stop, and with lifted feet came out to meet Wen. But Wen had already left in anger, and went about telling all the market people that he would lodge a complaint with the Supreme Emperor. Some laughed and said: "How naive! The vast blue firmament—where can you find the Supreme Emperor to plead your grievance? These fellows are only close to King Yanluo; if you call upon him, perhaps he will respond." So they showed him the way. He hurried there and indeed saw a majestic hall and steps; King Yanluo was seated. He prostrated himself on the steps and cried out his wrongs. The King summoned him and heard his account, then immediately ordered various ghosts to take ropes and clubs and go. After a while, the Ghost King and the xiucai both arrived. After examining the facts and finding them true, the King was greatly angered and said: "I pitied your toil in former lives and temporarily entrusted you with this post, awaiting your rebirth into a noble family; now you dare to act thus! Remove his good sinews and increase his evil bones, and punish him so that in life after life he shall never rise to prominence!" The ghosts then beat him; he fell to the ground, and a tooth was knocked out. With a knife they cut his fingertip and drew out a sinew, bright white like silk. The Ghost King cried out in pain, like a pig being slaughtered. When both hands and feet had been thus drawn, two ghosts escorted him away. Wen bowed his head and came out. The xiucai followed behind, expressing profuse gratitude. He took Wen's arm and saw him through the market, where they passed a house with a red pearl curtain; within the curtain a woman showed half her face, her appearance and makeup extremely beautiful. Wen asked: "Whose house is that?" The xiucai said: "That is a pleasure quarter." After they passed, Wen lingered, unable to tear himself away, and firmly stopped the xiucai. The xiucai said: "You came for my sake, and now to leave you alone and go—how could my heart bear it?" Wen insisted on declining, and so he left. Wen watched the xiucai go far, then quickly entered within the curtain. The woman received him, her face beaming with joy. They entered the room and sat close together, exchanging names. The woman said: "My family name is Liu, my childhood name Qiuhua." An old woman came out and prepared wine and dishes. When the wine was finished, they entered the bedcurtains and enjoyed great intimacy, earnestly pledging marriage. At dawn, the old woman entered and said: "Our provisions are exhausted; we must spend the young gentleman's money—what is to be done?" Wen suddenly remembered that his purse was empty, and was so flustered and ashamed that he was speechless. After a long time, he said: "I truly did not bring a single coin; I should sign a promissory note and repay as soon as I get home." The old woman changed color and said: "Have you ever heard of a night-walking girl demanding payment of debts?" Qiuhua frowned and said nothing. Wen temporarily took off his clothes as a pledge. The old woman took them and laughed, saying: "These are not even enough to pay for the wine!" Grumbling discontentedly, she went inside with the girl. Wen remained. After a while, he still hoped that the girl would come out to bid him farewell and reaffirm their former agreement; but for a long time there was no sound. He stealthily entered to look, and saw the old woman and Qiuhua, from the shoulders upward transformed into ox-headed ghosts, with glaring eyes standing face to face. Greatly terrified, he rushed out. He wanted to go home, but a hundred roads branched off and he did not know which to take. He asked the market people, but none knew the name of his village. He wandered among the shops, passing two days and nights, filled with sorrow and bitterness, his stomach rumbling with hunger, unable to decide whether to advance or retreat. Suddenly the xiucai passed by; catching sight of him, he said in surprise: "Why have you not yet returned, and are so disheveled?" Wen was abashed and could not answer. The xiucai said: "I see! Could it be that you have been bewitched by the flower yaksha?" Then he went off in high dudgeon, saying: "Qiuhua and her mother, why so quickly refuse to show any decency?" After a short time, he returned with the clothes and gave them to Wen, saying: "The wanton wench was insolent; I have scolded her well." He escorted Wen home and then took his leave. Wen suddenly collapsed, and after three days revived, relating everything in detail. Yanluo Xu Xing of Yizhou said that at night he acted as King Yanluo. There was a Ma Sheng in the same prefecture who did the same. When Xu heard of it, he visited Ma's home and asked what matters Ma had disposed of in the underworld the previous night. Ma said: "Nothing else, but I saw Zuo Luoshi ascend to heaven. From heaven there fell lotus flowers, each as large as a house." Daren Changshan Li Zhijun, a licentiate of the second degree, went to Qingzhou. On the way he encountered six or seven men whose speech sounded like that of Yan. Looking closely at their cheeks, he saw that each had a scar as large as a copper coin. Finding this strange, he asked why they all had the same affliction. The guests said: "Last year we were traveling as guests in Yunnan, and as dusk fell we lost our way and entered a great mountain. There were sheer precipices and rugged cliffs, and we could find no way out. In the valley stood a great tree, its branches several feet long, trailing down softly, casting shade over more than an acre. We travelers had no idea where to go, so we tethered our horses, unloaded our baggage, and took shelter by the tree. Late in the night, tigers, leopards, owls, and screech owls began to howl and cry in succession, and we travelers sat with our arms around our knees, facing each other, unable to sleep. Suddenly we saw a great being come, standing over ten feet tall. We huddled together in terror, not daring to breathe. The great being came and seized our horses with its hands and ate them—six or seven were gone in an instant. Then it broke off long branches from the tree, seized us by the head, and pierced through our cheeks, stringing us like fish on a skewer. When it had finished stringing us, it lifted us and walked a few steps, the branches bending and creaking. The great being seemed afraid we would fall off, so it bent the two ends of the branches, pressed them down with boulders, and left. When we felt it had gone far away, we took out our knives, cut ourselves free from the branches, and fled in pain. We had not gone more than a few dozen paces when we saw the great being leading another person along. We were terrified and hid in the thick undergrowth. We saw that the one who came later was even larger. It reached the tree and walked back and forth, looking around as if searching for something it could not find. Then it made a chirping sound, like a great bird's cry, and seemed very angry—angry that the great being had deceived it. It slapped the great being across the face. The great being bent over and submitted, not daring to argue. Soon they both left. Only then did we travelers dare to come out in a panic. We fled wildly for a long time, and in the distance saw a light at the top of a ridge. We all hurried toward it. There we found a man living in a stone chamber. We entered and bowed to him in a circle, telling him of our suffering. The man pulled us to sit and said: 'These creatures are detestable indeed, but I cannot control them either. Wait until my younger sister returns, and we can plan together.' Before long, a woman came in from outside carrying two tigers on her shoulder, and asked where we travelers had come from. We kowtowed and prostrated ourselves, telling her the whole story. The woman said: 'I have long known that those two have been causing trouble, but I never imagined they would be so savage! I shall deal with them at once.' From the stone chamber she brought out a bronze hammer weighing three or four hundred catties, went out the door, and vanished. The man cooked tiger meat to feast us. Before the meat was done, the woman had already returned, saying: 'They saw me and tried to flee. I pursued them for several dozen li, cut off one finger, and came back.' She threw the finger to the ground—it was larger than a shinbone. We were all utterly terrified and asked her name, but she did not reply. After a while, the meat was cooked. We guests were in such pain from our wounds that we could not eat. The woman sprinkled powdered medicine over all of us, and the pain stopped at once. At daybreak, the woman saw us travelers to the tree, where our baggage was still there. We each shouldered our packs and walked over ten li. When we passed the place where the fight had occurred the night before, the woman pointed it out to us—there was still a basinful of congealed blood in a hollow in the rock. Only after we emerged from the mountains did the woman take her leave and return." Xiang Gao Xiang Gao, styled Chudan, was a man of Taiyuan. He and his elder half-brother Sheng were the most devoted of brothers. Sheng was intimate with a courtesan named Boshi, and they had made a pact to cut their arms in pledge; but because her mother demanded an exorbitant price, their agreement could not be fulfilled. Just then, her mother wished to leave the life of a courtesan and was willing to send Boshi away first. There was a certain Master Zhuang, who had always been fond of Boshi and offered to ransom her as a concubine. Boshi said to her mother: "Since you are willing to leave this life of fire and water together, that means you wish to escape hell and ascend to heaven. But if I become a concubine, how is that any different? If you will follow my wish, Xiang Sheng would be the one." Her mother agreed and conveyed this intention to Sheng. At the time Sheng had lost his wife and was not yet remarried. Overjoyed, he exhausted his means to betroth Boshi and brought her home. When Zhuang heard of this, he was enraged at having his favorite taken from him. Happening to meet them on the road, he heaped curses upon them. Sheng would not submit, so Zhuang incited his attendants to beat him with staves until he was near death, then left. When Gao heard of this he rushed to look, but his brother was already dead. Overcome with grief and anger, he filed a plaint and went to the prefectural court. Zhuang spread bribes far and wide, so that his grievance could not be heard. Gao nursed his hidden wrath, with no one to appeal to, and only thought of ambushing and assassinating Zhuang on the road. He carried a sharp knife daily and hid in the thickets of the mountain paths. After a long while, the scheme gradually leaked out. Zhuang learned of his plan and took strict precautions whenever he went out. Hearing that there was a man named Jiao Tong in Fenzhou who was brave and skilled in archery, he hired him as a guard with a large sum of money. Gao could think of no way to proceed, yet he still lay in wait daily. One day, as he was hiding, a violent rainstorm suddenly broke out, soaking him through, and he suffered bitterly from the cold. Then fierce winds arose on all sides, followed by hail, and his body suddenly became numb with pain and itching so that he could no longer feel anything. On the ridge there was an old shrine to the Mountain God. He forced himself to his feet and ran there. Once inside the shrine, he saw the Daoist priest he knew. Previously, the priest had often begged for alms in the village, and Gao always fed him, so the priest recognized Gao. Seeing Gao's clothes soaking wet, he handed him a cloth robe, saying, "Put this on for now." Gao changed clothes, endured the cold, and crouched like a dog. When he looked at himself, fur and hide had suddenly grown all over, and his body had turned into a tiger. The Daoist priest had already vanished. In his heart he was shocked and resentful. But then he thought: If I can get my enemy and eat his flesh, that would be a fine plan. He went down the mountain and hid in his old spot. Seeing his own corpse lying in the thick grass, he realized that his former body was already dead; still afraid that crows and kites would devour it, he kept watch over it constantly. The next day, Zhuang finally came by. The tiger sprang out fiercely, knocked Zhuang off his horse, bit off his head, and swallowed it. Jiao Tong wheeled his horse and shot, hitting the tiger in the belly, whereupon it fell and died. Gao, lying among the brambles, suddenly awoke as if from a dream. After another night, he was able to walk, and returned home in a languid state. His family, because he had not come back for several nights, had been filled with alarm and doubt. When they saw him, they joyfully greeted him with concern. Gao only lay down, unable to speak clearly. After a while, when news of Zhuang arrived, they all rushed to his bedside to congratulate him. Gao then said, "The tiger was me." And he related the strange affair. From then on, the story spread. Zhuang's son, grieving that his father had died so miserably, heard this and hated Gao, so he sued him. The authorities deemed the matter too bizarre and without evidence, and did not pursue it. The Historian of the Strange says: "When a brave man fulfills his vow, he will surely not return alive—this is what has been mourned through the ages. To borrow another's killing and thereby achieve life—the immortals' art is indeed wondrous! Yet there are many things in this world that make one's hair stand on end. If the aggrieved must always remain human, how I wish they could briefly become tigers!" Dong Gongzi Dong Shangshu of Qingzhou, named Kewei, maintained strict discipline in his household. Neither men nor women within or without dared exchange a single word. One day, a servant and a maid were flirting outside the inner gate. The young master saw them and angrily rebuked them, whereupon they each fled. That night, the young master lay in his study with his page. It was the height of summer, and the door of the room stood wide open. Deeper into the night, the page heard a loud, fierce sound from the bed and woke with a start. In the moonlight, he saw the servant from earlier carrying something out the door. Since he was a member of the household, the page did not think much of it and went back to sleep. Suddenly he heard the heavy sound of boots—a great man with a red face and long beard, resembling the image of Lord Guan, came in carrying a human head. The page, terrified, slithered under the bed like a snake. He heard a creaking and cracking sound from the bed, like shaking clothes or rubbing a belly; after a while it ceased. The sound of boots came again, and then it departed. The page slowly stretched out his neck and looked out. He saw light through the lattice window—dawn was breaking. He felt the bed with his hand; his hand came away wet. He smelled it—it was the stench of blood. He called out loudly to the young master. The young master awoke. The page told him and lit a lamp—the pillow and mat were covered in blood. Greatly alarmed, they did not know the cause. Suddenly an official runner knocked at the door. The young master went out to see him. The runner was astonished and only said, "A strange thing!" Asked what it was, he reported: "Just now before the yamen, a man with a dazed expression shouted loudly: 'I have killed my master!' Everyone saw bloodstains on his clothes, arrested him, and reported him to the magistrate. Upon interrogation, he was found to be a servant of your household. He said he had killed the young master and buried the head beside the shrine to Lord Guan. We went to investigate—the earth was newly dug, but there was no head." The young master was horrified and went hurriedly to the court. He saw that the man was the same servant who had flirting with the maid earlier. He then related the strange events. The magistrate was greatly perplexed, gave the man a severe flogging, and released him. The young master did not wish to bear a grudge against a petty man, so he married the servant to the maid and sent them away. After several days, the neighbor living next door heard a tremendous crash from the servant's room at night, like a collapse. He rose and called out, but there was no answer. Forcing the door open, he saw that the husband and wife and their bed had all been neatly split in two—both wood and flesh bore cutting marks, as if made by a single stroke of a blade. The manifestations of Lord Guan's spirit are many, but none is stranger than this. Zhou San Tai'an had a wealthy clerk named Zhang Taihua. His house was troubled by foxes, but the exorcists he sent were ineffective. He reported the matter to the prefect, who could also do nothing. At that time, to the east of the prefecture there was also a fox living in a villager's house, and people all saw it as a white-haired old man. The old man exchanged visits and condolences with the residents, following the etiquette of ordinary people. He said he was the second in his family, and everyone called him Master Hu the Second. It happened that a scholar called on the prefect and incidentally mentioned this strange being. The prefect advised the clerk to go ask the old man. At that time there was a man from the eastern village who served as a runner; the clerk inquired and found it true, so he went with him. They set up a feast at the runner's house to invite Hu. Hu arrived, bowed, yielded, and exchanged toasts like any ordinary man. The clerk told him what he sought. Hu said, "I already know all about it, but I cannot exert myself for you. My friend Zhou San, who is temporarily living at the Temple of the Eastern Peak, should be able to subdue them; I will go and ask him on your behalf." The clerk was delighted and expressed his thanks repeatedly. When Hu took leave, he made an appointment with the clerk to spread a feast east of the Temple of the Eastern Peak the next day. The clerk accepted the instruction. Hu indeed guided Zhou to come. Zhou had a curly beard and an iron face, wearing a short jacket and trousers. After several rounds of drinking, he said to the clerk, "Just now my younger brother Hu conveyed your wish; I am fully aware of the matter. But these creatures indeed have many associates; they cannot be persuaded by good words, so force will be unavoidable. Please allow me to borrow your house for a while; I will not decline the slight labor." The clerk then thought: getting rid of one fox and gaining another fox is just replacing violence with violence. He hesitated and did not dare to agree immediately. Zhou already knew this and said, "Do not fear; I am not like others, and moreover I have a happy connection with you; please do not doubt." The clerk assented. Zhou further instructed him that the next day he and his family should close the doors and sit indoors, and take care not to make any noise. The clerk returned and followed all his instructions. Soon they heard sounds of attacking and fighting in the courtyard; after some time it stopped. When they opened the door and went out to look, drops of blood covered the steps. In the courtyard there were several small fox heads, as big as bowls and cups. When they looked into the room that had been set aside, Zhou was sitting upright there; he cupped his hands and said with a smile, "Having received your grave commission, I have destroyed the demon kind." From then on he lodged in the clerk's house, and they treated each other as host and guest. The Wonder of Pigeons The varieties of pigeons are very numerous. In Jin there is Kunxing, in Lu Hexiu, in Qian Yedie, in Liang Fantiao, and in Yue Zhujian—all are unusual breeds. There are also Xuetou, Dianzi, Dabai, Heishi, Fufuque, Huagouyan, and the like, names too many to count with the fingers; only enthusiasts can distinguish them. Zhang Youliang, a young gentleman of Zouping, had a mania for them. He searched according to the classics and strove to obtain every variety. He raised them as if protecting infants: in cold he treated them with powdered licorice, in heat he gave them salt crystals. Pigeons are fond of sleeping; if they sleep too much, they may fall ill with paralysis and die. Zhang, while in Guangling, bought a pigeon for ten pieces of gold. It was extremely small and good at running; when placed on the ground, it would circle ceaselessly, never stopping until it died, so it always had to be held in hand. At night he placed it among the flock to startle the other pigeons, which could prevent leg paralysis—this breed was called "Night-roaming." Among pigeon fanciers in Qi and Lu, none surpassed the young gentleman; and he also prided himself on his pigeons. One night, as he sat in his study, suddenly a young man in white robes knocked and entered; he was completely unknown to Zhang. When asked, he replied, "I am a wanderer; what is there to tell of my name and surname? I heard from afar that you keep the finest pigeons, and this has also been my lifelong passion; I wish to feast my eyes on them." Zhang then brought out all he had, with all five colors complete, brilliant as brocaded clouds. The young man smiled and said, "Indeed the report is not false; you may be said to have exhausted the art of pigeon-keeping. I too have brought one or two; would you care to see them?" Zhang was delighted and followed the young man away. The moonlight was dim and the fields desolate; Zhang secretly felt uneasy and fearful. The young man pointed and said, "Please make the effort to walk a little further; my lodging is not far." After a few more steps, they saw a Daoist temple of only two bays. The young man took Zhang by the hand and entered; it was dark with no lamp. The young man stood in the courtyard and made pigeon calls from his mouth. Suddenly two pigeons emerged: they looked like ordinary pigeons, but their feathers were pure white; they flew level with the eaves, cooing and fighting; with each strike they turned a somersault. The young man waved them away with his arm, and they flew off together. Then he pursed his lips and made a strange sound, and two more pigeons emerged: the larger one was like a wild duck, the smaller only the size of a fist; they alighted on the steps and performed a crane dance. The larger one stretched its neck and stood, spreading its wings like a screen, twisting and calling and hopping as if leading; the smaller one flew up and down, cooing, sometimes perching on the other's head, its wings fluttering like a swallow landing on a cattail leaf, its voice fine and broken, like a small drum; the larger one stretched its neck and dared not move. The calls grew more urgent, the tone changing to sound like a chime stone; the two answered each other, interweaving in time. After a while the smaller one flew up, and the larger one again inverted itself and called to it. Zhang could not stop praising, feeling ashamed of his own inadequacy. He then bowed to the young man and begged for a share of his favor; the young man would not consent. He pressed him repeatedly. The young man then drove the pigeons away and again made the former sounds, summoning the two white pigeons, and took them in his hands, saying, "If you do not disdain them, take these to make up for your request." Zhang received and examined them: their eyes, reflecting the moon, were amber-colored, both eyes translucent as if without obstruction, with black pupils rounder than peppercorns; when he opened their wings, the flesh under the wings was crystalline, and the internal organs could be counted. Zhang found them most marvelous, yet his desire was still unsatisfied, and he kept on begging. The young man said, "There are still two kinds I have not shown; now I dare not ask you to see them further." While they were still disputing, Zhang's household came in with a torch of hemp stalks to look for their master. When he turned back to look at the young man, he had transformed into a white pigeon as large as a chicken, which soared up into the sky. Moreover, the temple and buildings before his eyes all vanished—it was only a small grave with two cypress trees. He and his servants carried the pigeon home, astonished and sighing. When he tried to make it fly, it was as tame and extraordinary as before. Though it was not the finest, it was still exceedingly rare in the human world. From then on he cherished it to the utmost. After two years, it had bred three males and three females. Even close relatives and friends who asked for them could not get any. An old friend of his father, a certain high official, once saw Zhang and asked, "How many pigeons do you keep?" Zhang murmured vaguely and withdrew. He suspected that the old man was fond of them, and thought of a way to repay him, but it was hard to part with his beloved birds. Yet he also reflected: the request of an elder should not be too strongly refused. Moreover, he dared not offer ordinary pigeons, so he chose two white pigeons, caged them, and sent them as a gift, considering it no less than a present of a thousand pieces of gold. Another day, when he saw the high official, he wore a look of self-congratulation, but the official did not utter a single word of thanks. Unable to contain himself, he asked, "Were those birds good?" The official answered, "They were indeed plump and tasty." Zhang started and said, "You cooked them?" "Yes," said the official. Zhang exclaimed in great surprise, "These were no ordinary pigeons; they are what common people call 'Dada'!" The official thought back and said, "The taste was not particularly unusual." Zhang sighed with regret and returned home. That night he dreamed that the white-robed young man came and reproached him, saying, "I entrusted my descendants to you because I believed you could love them. Why did you cast bright pearls into darkness, so that they ended in the cauldron and pot? Now I am taking my children away." Having spoken, he turned into a pigeon, and all the white pigeons Zhang kept followed him, flying off with cooing sounds. When morning came and Zhang looked, they were indeed all gone. He was deeply vexed, and then distributed all the pigeons he still had among his acquaintances; within a few days they were all gone. The Historian of the Strange remarks: "All things gather where there is love for them; thus Lord Ye loved dragons, and a real dragon came into his chamber—how much more so for scholars and their good friends, or wise rulers and their good ministers! Yet as for that stuff of money, more people love it, yet it gathers but sparsely. This also shows that ghosts and spirits are angered by greed, not by infatuation." Formerly a friend sent some red carp to Sun Yunian, a young gentleman. There was no clever servant in the household, so an old hireling was sent. When he arrived at the gate, he poured out the water to take out the fish, asked for a tray, and presented them. By the time they reached the master's place, the fish had dried up and died. The young gentleman smiled and said nothing, but rewarded the servant with wine and immediately had the fish cooked for the meal. After the servant returned, his master asked, "Was the young gentleman pleased with the fish?" He replied, "He was very pleased." Asked, "How do you know?" He said, "When the young gentleman saw the fish, he beamed with a happy smile and immediately ordered wine to be given to me, and moreover cooked several of them to reward me." The master was greatly shocked, thinking to himself that the gift he had sent was not at all coarse or inferior—how could it have been cooked and given to a servant? He then reproached the servant, saying, "Surely you were stupid and rude, so the young gentleman took his anger out on you." The servant raised his hand and protested vehemently, "I am indeed clumsy and dull, but do you take me for an inhuman creature? When I entered the young gentleman's gate, I was as careful as could be, still fearing the basket might not be refined enough; I respectfully asked for a tray, arranged the fish one by one evenly, and then presented them—what was not thorough about it?" The master scolded him and dismissed him. The monk of Lingyin Temple, who was renowned for his tea, kept his mortars and kettles all exquisite. Yet the tea he stored was of several grades, and he always regarded the rank of the guest to determine what he brewed and offered; the very finest he would not serve except to noble guests and those who knew flavor. One day, a high official arrived, and the monk prostrated himself in greeting with great deference, brought out fine tea, and brewed it with his own hands to present it, hoping to win praise. The high official remained silent. The monk was greatly perplexed, and again brewed the finest grade and presented it. When the tea was nearly finished, there was still not a word of commendation. The monk, unable to wait any longer, bowed and said, "How is the tea?" The high official took up the cup, made a slight bow, and said, "Very hot." These two anecdotes may be laughed at together with Master Zhang's gift of pigeons. Nie Zheng The Prince of Lu at Huaiqing was wanton and unvirtuous. He would often go among the people, and if he spied a fine woman, he would seize her. There was a wife of a certain Mr. Wang, whom the prince saw; he sent a carriage and horses straight into their home. The woman wept and cried out, refusing to submit, but they forced her into the carriage and bore her off. The prince departed and concealed himself by the tomb of Nie Zheng, hoping that as his wife passed by, he might take one final farewell from afar. Before long, his wife arrived, and seeing her husband, she threw herself to the ground weeping bitterly. The prince was moved with pity in his heart and could not help but cry out. The attendants recognized him as Mr. Wang and seized him, about to bind and beat him. Suddenly a man emerged from the tomb, grasping a white blade in his hand, with a fearsome and mighty bearing, and cried out in a stern voice: "I am Nie Zheng! How dare you forcibly take a daughter of a good family! Mindful that you are not free agents, I shall for the moment pardon you. Take word to that unprincipled prince: if he does not reform his ways, before many days I shall pluck off his head!" The crowd was terrified, abandoned the carriage, and fled; the man also entered the tomb and disappeared. The husband and wife kowtowed at the tomb and returned home, still fearing that the prince's order would come again. After more than ten days passed with no word, their hearts began to settle. From then on, the prince's wanton tyranny also somewhat abated. The Historian of the Strange says: "I have read the Biographies of Assassins, and my admiration goes only to the man of Zhishenjingli. In risking himself to requite one who knew him, he had the righteousness of Yu; in slaying ministers and nobles in broad daylight, he had the courage of Zhuan; in mutilating his own face to spare his kin, he had the wisdom of Cao. As for Jing Ke, his strength was insufficient to scheme against the unprincipled Qin, so that he tore his robe and went away, bringing destruction upon himself. He lightly borrowed General Fan's head—on what day could it ever be returned? This is what has been regretted through the ages, and what Nie Zheng scorned. I have heard in unofficial histories that his grave was dug up by the ghosts of Yang and Zuo. If so, then in life he won no fame, and in death he still lost righteousness—how does his worth as a man compare with Nie's, who embraced righteous indignation and punished depraved license? Alas! Nie's worthiness is all the more confirmed by this." Leng Sheng In Pingcheng there was a man named Leng Sheng, who in youth was extremely dull; past twenty, he could still not master a single classic. Suddenly a fox came and kept company with him. It was often heard that they talked all through the night, yet even when his brothers questioned him, he would not disclose anything. After many days of this, he suddenly contracted a mad affliction: whenever he was given a theme to write an essay, he would shut himself in his room and sit in silence; after a little while, he would burst into loud laughter. Peeping at him, they saw that his hand never stopped writing, and in a moment the piece was complete. When finished, the prose was exquisitely subtle. That year he entered the prefectural school, and the next year he received government rations. Whenever he was in the examination hall, he would burst out laughing, and the sound would fill the hall and echo off the walls; from this the name "Laughing Scholar" became widely known. Fortunately the educational commissioner was lenient and did not hear of it. Later, however, there came a commissioner of strict and severe discipline, who sat upright in the hall all day. Suddenly hearing laughter, he angrily seized him and was about to inflict punishment. The attendant officers interceded on his behalf, explaining his derangement. The commissioner's anger somewhat subsided; he released him but struck his name from the rolls. From then on, he feigned madness, devoting himself to poetry and wine. He composed four volumes of "Crazy Cursive Script," which are transcendent and worth reciting. The Historian of the Strange says: "That laugh in a closed room—how is it any different from the moment of sudden enlightenment in Buddhism? To complete an essay with great laughter is a joyful thing—why should it lead to deprivation of rank? Was not such an examiner utterly fatuous?" The school instructor Sun Jingxia once went to visit a friend. Coming to his window, he heard no human voices, only bursts of tittering laughter, occurring several times in a short while. He assumed the man was joking with someone. Entering, he found him sitting alone. Finding this strange, he asked. The man laughed loudly and said, "I had nothing to do just now, so I was silently rehearsing amusing conversations to myself." There was also a Mr. Gong of the county town who kept a donkey at home; it was stubborn and mean by nature. Whenever he met a pedestrian on the road, he would cup his hands in apology and say, "I am in a hurry and cannot dismount—pray forgive me!" Before he finished speaking, the donkey would already have fallen over on the road, and this happened without fail every time. Gong was deeply mortified and resentful, so he conspired with his wife to have her pretend to be a traveler. He then mounted the donkey and rode around the yard, cupped his hands to his wife, and spoke as if meeting a traveler. Sure enough, the donkey lay down. He then took a sharp awl and poisoned it. Just then a friend came to visit and was about to knock at the gate when he heard Gong say inside, "I am in a hurry and cannot dismount—pray forgive me!" After a moment, he said it again. Greatly puzzled, he knocked and asked the reason; when told the truth, they both burst out laughing. These two anecdotes may be appended to the story of Leng Sheng's laughter. The Fox Punishes Lewdness A certain scholar purchased a new house and was constantly plagued by foxes. All his clothes and belongings were often destroyed, and they would frequently put dust into his soup and cakes. One day, a friend came to visit, but the scholar was out and did not return until evening. His wife prepared a meal for the guest, and afterward ate the leftover food with her maid. The scholar had always been unrestrained and fond of keeping love potions; at some point the fox had put the potion into the congee. When the wife ate it, she noticed a musk-camphor smell. She asked the maid, who said she did not know. After eating, she felt her lustful fires blaze up, unbearable even for a moment; she forced herself to restrain it, but her dryness and thirst grew more urgent. Thinking that there was no one in the house she could turn to except the guest, she went and knocked at his study door. The guest asked who it was; she told him honestly. He asked what she wanted; she did not answer. The guest declined, saying, "I am bound by friendship and righteousness with your husband—I dare not commit such a beastly act." The woman still lingered. The guest scolded her, saying, "Brother so-and-so's literary character and conduct—you have utterly destroyed them!" and spat at her through the window. The woman, deeply ashamed, withdrew. Then she thought to herself: why am I acting like this? Suddenly recalling the fragrance in the bowl, she wondered: could it have been a love potion? She examined the packet of medicine and found it indeed scattered all over the table, with the jars and cups full of it. Knowing that cold water could counteract it, she drank some. In a moment her mind cleared, and she was overcome with shame and mortification, unable to face herself. She tossed and turned for a long time, until the night was nearly spent. The more she feared that at dawn she could not face anyone, the more she untied her sash and hanged herself. The maid noticed and saved her, but her breath was already nearly gone. Only after dawn did a faint breath return. The guest had fled during the night. The scholar returned in the late afternoon, and seeing his wife lying down, asked what was wrong; she did not speak, only shedding clear tears. The maid told him the situation. Greatly alarmed, he pressed her with questions. The wife sent the maid away and then told him the truth. The scholar sighed and said, "This is my own retribution for lewdness—how could it be your fault? Fortunately I have a good friend; otherwise, how could I face anyone?" From then on he reformed his former ways with great resolve, and the foxes ceased as well. The Historian of the Strange says: "People in their households warn one another against keeping arsenic and aconite, but no one ever warns against keeping love potions. It is like people who fear weapons yet are intimate with their beds. Who would know that their poison is worse than arsenic or aconite? Yet keeping them is merely to seduce one's own wife—how then can they incur the envy of ghosts and spirits? Still less when a man's indulgence in lewdness surpasses even keeping such drugs!" A certain scholar had gone for an examination and was returning from the prefectural city. It was already dusk when he entered his room, carrying lotus seeds,菱角, and lotus roots, which he placed on the table. There was also a certain fake phallic object, left soaking in a jar. His neighbors, hearing of his return, brought wine and came to call; the scholar hurriedly put the jar under the bed and went out, telling his wife to prepare food and drink for the guests, while he drank lightly with them. When the drinking was over, he went inside, quickly lit a candle, and looked under the bed—the water in the jar was empty. He asked his wife. She said, "I just took it out together with the菱角 and lotus roots to serve the guests—why are you still looking for it?" The scholar then recalled that among the dishes there had been black shreds mixed in, and no one at the table had known what they were. He laughed and said, "Silly woman! What kind of thing is this to serve to guests?" His wife also wondered, saying, "I was still complaining that you hadn't told me how to cook it—it looked ugly, and I didn't know its name, so I just hacked it up blindly." The scholar then told her, and they both laughed heartily. This scholar later rose to high rank, but those who were familiar with him still used this as a joke. The Mountain Market The mountain market at Huan Mountain was one of the eight scenic sights of the district. For several years it had not been seen even once. Master Sun Yu-nian, while drinking with companions in a pavilion, suddenly saw a solitary pagoda rise up from the mountain peak, thrusting high into the blue void. They looked at each other in astonishment and doubt, thinking there was no such Buddhist monastery in the vicinity. Before long, they saw several tens of palace buildings, with green tiles and soaring eaves, and only then did they realize it was the mountain market. Soon after, tall walls with crenellations stretched continuously for six or seven li, indeed forming a city wall. Among them were structures like pavilions, like halls, like market arches, all clearly visible in countless millions. Suddenly a great wind arose, the dust and air were vast and indistinct, and the city and market became faint and blurred. Then the wind settled and the sky cleared, and everything vanished; only a lofty pavilion remained, reaching straight up to the heavens. Its five bays of windows and doors were all wide open; in each row there were five bright spots, which were the sky outside the pavilion. Counting layer by layer: the higher the pavilion, the fewer the bright spots; when counting to the eighth layer, they were no more than star points; and above that, it was dim and ethereal, impossible to count its layers. And on the upper floors, people moved about busily, some leaning on the railings, some standing, in various postures. After some time, the pavilion gradually lowered, and its top could be seen; then it gradually became like an ordinary pavilion; then gradually like a tall house; suddenly it was like a fist, like a bean, and then could no longer be seen. It is also heard that there were early travelers who saw people, smoke, and market shops on the mountain, no different from the mundane world, hence it is also called the "Ghost Market." Jiangcheng Gao Fan, of Linjiang, was clever in youth and handsome in appearance. At fourteen he entered the district school. Wealthy families vied to marry their daughters to him; but he made his choices extremely fastidiously, repeatedly disobeying his father's wishes. His father, Gao Zhonghong, was sixty and had only this son; he doted on him and could not bear to cross him in the least. In the beginning, there was an old man named Fan in the eastern village who taught young children at the market, and brought his family to rent a house from the Gao family. Old Man Fan had a daughter, whose childhood name was Jiangcheng, of the same age as the young master. At that time they were both eight or nine, innocent and without suspicion, playing together daily. Later Old Man Fan moved away, and four or five years passed without further news. One day, while walking in a narrow lane, the young master saw a young lady of stunning beauty, beyond the ordinary. She was attended by a little maid of only six or seven. Not daring to stare openly, he only glanced sidelong at her. The young lady fixed her gaze on him, as if wishing to speak. Looking more closely, he recognized her—it was Jiangcheng. He was suddenly overcome with great joy and surprise. Neither spoke a word; they stared at each other in a daze, and it was some time before they parted, their feelings for each other lingering. The young master deliberately dropped his red kerchief on the ground and left. The little maid picked it up and happily gave it to the young lady. Jiangcheng put it in her sleeve, replaced it with her own kerchief, and pretended to say to the maid: "Master Gao is no stranger—do not conceal that he lost something; go and return it to him." The little maid indeed chased after him and gave it to him. The young master was overjoyed to receive the kerchief. He returned home and told his mother, asking her to propose marriage. His mother said: "We haven't even half a room to our name, drifting from place to place—how could we be a match for them?" The young master said: "I am the one who wants this, and I shall certainly have no regrets." His mother could not decide, and consulted Zhonghong; but Zhonghong firmly refused. Hearing this, the young master was despondent; his throat closed and he could not eat. His mother, worried, said to Gao: "Though the Fan family is poor, they are not to be compared with swindlers or scoundrels. I will go to their home; if their daughter is fit to marry, it should do no harm." Gao said: "Very well." His mother, pretending to go burn incense at the Black Emperor's shrine, called on them. She saw the young lady with bright eyes and fine teeth, delicate and lovely, and her heart was filled with affection. She therefore gave generous gifts of gold and silk, and frankly told them her intention. Old Madam Fan, after modesty and demurral, accepted the betrothal. Upon returning, she told the young master what had happened, and only then did he relax into smiles. After a year, an auspicious day was chosen and the young lady was wedded to him. The husband and wife got along most happily. But the young lady was quick to anger; when she turned her eyes away, it was as if she did not know him. Her tongue was sharp and teasing, constantly ringing in his ears. Out of love, the young master bore it all in silence. When the old couple heard of it, they were displeased and privately reproved their son. The young lady got wind of this and flew into a rage, her scolding redoubled. The young master began to retort with harsh words, and the young lady grew angrier still, beating him and driving him out the door, slamming it shut. The young master quaked outside the gate, not daring to knock, and crouched with his knees clasped, spending the night under the eaves. From then on, the young lady regarded him as an enemy. At first, kneeling at length could still placate her; gradually even kneeling proved useless, and the husband's plight grew worse. When his parents gently reproved her, the young lady answered back with words impossible to repeat. The old couple, furious, forced her to return to her parents' home. Old Man Fan, ashamed and afraid, begged well-connected friends to intercede with Zhonghong; but Zhonghong would not agree. After more than a year, the young master went out and met his father-in-law, who invited him to his home and apologized profusely. He had Jiangcheng dressed and brought out to meet him. The husband and wife looked at each other, unable to hold back their sorrow. Old Man Fan then bought wine to entertain his son-in-law, urging him to drink with great warmth. As dusk fell, he insisted he stay the night, prepared a separate bed, and made the couple sleep together. At dawn, the young master took his leave and returned home, not daring to tell his parents what had happened, covering it up and making amends as best he could. From then on, every three or five days, he would briefly lodge at his father-in-law's house for the night, while his parents remained unaware. One day Old Man Fan came to call on Zhonghong in person. At first Zhonghong would not see him, but after being pressed, he did. Old Man Fan knelt and pleaded with him. Gao would not agree, but referred the matter to his son. Old Man Fan said: "My son-in-law stayed at my house last night, and I heard no complaints from him." Gao asked in surprise: "When did he stay over?" Old Man Fan told him everything. Gao, red-faced, apologized and said: "I knew nothing of this. If he loves her, why should I bear any grudge?" After Old Man Fan had gone, Gao called his son and cursed him. The young master only hung his head, not daring to let out a breath. While he was speaking, Old Man Fan had already sent Jiangcheng over. Gao said: "I cannot bear responsibility for the children's faults. It would be better for them to set up their own household—I shall trouble you to preside over the division of the family." Old Man Fan tried to dissuade him, but he would not listen. So a separate courtyard was given to them to live in, and one maid was sent to serve them. For over a month, they got along fairly peacefully, and the old couple secretly took comfort in it. But before long, the young lady gradually grew more unrestrained, and scratch marks often appeared on the young master's face. His parents knew it well, but bore it and did not question him. One day, the young man could bear the flogging no longer, and fled to his father’s place, distraught like a bird harried by a hawk. The old couple were just wondering and asking when the girl had already burst in wielding a cudgel, and caught him right by his father’s side and thrashed him. The father-in-law and mother-in-law wept and cried out, but she gave them not a glance, and only after dozens of blows did she leave in high dudgeon. Gao drove his son out, saying: “I only parted you two to escape the uproar. Since you are so fond of this, where can you flee to?” The young man, driven out, wandered about with nowhere to go. His mother, fearing he would be broken and die, now let him live alone and gave him food. She also called Fan back and made him teach the girl. Fan entered the chamber and reasoned with her in every way, but the girl would not listen, and instead tormented him with vile words. Fan flicked his sleeves and left, swearing to break off relations. Not long after, Old Man Fan, in anger and distress, fell ill, and he and his wife died one after another. The girl hated them, and would not even go to offer condolences; she only shouted abuse next door every day, deliberately letting her in-laws hear. Gao paid it no heed whatever. The young man, living alone, felt as if he had escaped boiling water and fire, yet only dreariness and desolation remained. Secretly he bribed the old matchmaker Li with gold, and took a courtesan into his studio, all comings and goings at night. After a long while, the girl got wind of it, came to the studio, and reviled him. The young man strenuously denied the charge, swearing by the sun and sky, and only then did the girl go back. From then on she watched daily for his slip. Old Woman Li came out from the studio and happened to meet her; the girl urgently called her. The old woman’s expression changed, and the girl grew more suspicious. She said to the old woman: “If you tell me plainly what you have done, you may be forgiven; but if you still hide it, I shall pluck out every hair on you!” The old woman, trembling, told her: “For the past half-month, only the courtesan Li Yunniang has passed by here twice. Just now the young master said that at Yusi Mountain he had seen a certain wife of the Tao family, and loved her tiny feet, and charged me to invite her. Though she is not chaste, she is not willing to be a night-traveling lady, so whether it succeeds or not is uncertain.” The girl, seeing that her words were truthful, let her off with leniency for the time being. The old woman wanted to leave, but she forcibly detained her. When dusk fell, she ordered her: “Go ahead and put out his candle, and say that the Tao family lady has come.” The old woman did as she said. The girl then entered quickly. The young man was overjoyed, took her arm and pressed her to sit, telling her all his longing. The girl remained silent. The young man felt for her feet in the dark and said: “That one glimpse of your immortal countenance on the mountain has been the sole obsession of my heart.” The girl still said nothing. The young man said: “The wish of many days is now fulfilled—how can you meet me face to face and not recognize me?” He himself took a light and shone it—and it was Jiangcheng. He was terrified and turned pale, dropped the candle to the floor, and knelt long in trembling fear, as if a sword were at his neck. The girl seized his ear and dragged him home, pricked both his thighs all over with needles, then made him sleep on the lower bed, and scolded him whenever he woke. From then on the young man feared her like a tiger or wolf; even when she occasionally gave him a mild look, in bed he was so terrified he could not perform as a man. The girl slapped his face and drove him away, and grew ever more disgusted, not deigning to count him as a person. The young man, though dwelling in a realm of orchids and musk, felt like a prisoner in jail, looking up to the jailer’s authority. The girl had two elder sisters, both married to scholars. The eldest was kind and gentle, but tongue-tied, and often did not get along with the girl. The second married a Mr. Ge. She was crafty and sharp-tongued, fond of preening, and though not as beautiful as Jiangcheng, her jealousy and fierceness matched hers. When the sisters met, they had no other talk but each boasting of their domestic tyranny. Hence the two were closest. Whenever the young man visited relatives or friends, the girl would be angry; only if he went to Ge’s house did she know and not forbid it. One day, he was drinking at Ge’s house. When he was drunk, Ge mocked him: “Why are you so afraid of her?” The young man laughed and said: “There are many things in the world I do not understand: my fear is fear of her beauty; yet there are those whose wives are not as beautiful as mine, yet they fear even more than I—is that not all the more puzzling?” Ge was deeply embarrassed and could not answer. A maid heard this and told the second sister. The second sister flew into a rage, seized a staff, and came out at once. The young man, seeing her fury, tried to flee in his slippers. The staff rose and struck him in the flank; three blows made him fall three times, unable to rise. One blow miscarried and hit his skull, and blood flowed like thick juice. The second sister left, and he staggered home. His wife asked in alarm. At first, because he had offended his sister-in-law, he dared not tell directly; only after repeated pressing did he relate the whole matter. The girl bound his head with a cloth and said angrily: “Other people’s husbands—why should she have the trouble of beating him!” She then shortened her sleeves, tucked a wooden pestle in her bosom, took her maid, and went straight there. Arriving at Ge’s house, the second sister greeted her with smiles and pleasantries. The girl said nothing, but struck her with the pestle and knocked her down; then tore her trousers and gave her a painful thrashing. Her teeth were loosened, her lips split, and she lost control of her urine and excrement. When the girl returned, the second sister, humiliated and furious, sent her husband to complain to Gao. The young man came out and did his utmost to comfort and soothe him. Ge whispered to him: “I had to come on this errand. That shrew is unkind; luckily you lent her your hand to punish her—what ill feeling should there be between us two?” But the girl had already overheard, and rushed out, pointing and cursing: “You filthy rogue! While your wife suffers injury, you secretly side with an outsider! Shouldn’t such a man be beaten to death?” She shouted for a staff. Ge, greatly embarrassed, dashed out and fled. From then on the young man had no place to go. His schoolmate Wang Ziya came to visit him, and he detained him to drink. During the drinking, they joked about their wives and indulged in rather lewd banter. The girl happened to be spying on the guest, and heard everything while crouching; secretly she put croton seeds into the soup and served it. Before long, they vomited and purged so violently that they could barely keep any breath. The girl sent a maid to ask: “Will you dare to be rude again?” Only then did they realize the source of their illness, and groaning they begged for mercy. Then mung bean soup, already prepared, was given them. They drank it and recovered. From then on, all the companions warned each other not to drink at his house. Wang had a wine shop, and in the shop there were many red plum trees; he held a feast and invited his comrades. The young man pretended it was a literary society, informed his wife, and went. At dusk, when they were deep in drink, Wang said: “There is a famous courtesan from Nanchang staying here; we can call her to drink with us.” All were delighted. Only the young man rose from his seat and begged to leave. The others pulled him back, saying: “Though the watchful eyes and ears in your chamber may be long, they cannot see or hear as far as this.” And they swore to keep it secret. So the young man sat down again. After a while, the courtesan indeed appeared. She was seventeen or eighteen, with jade pendants tinkling and cloud-like tresses smoothly coiffed. When asked her surname, she said: “Xie, my childhood name is Fanglan.” Her words and manner were perfectly elegant, and the whole company was spellbound. Fanglan especially favored the young man, and cast amorous glances at him repeatedly. The others noticed, and deliberately made them sit shoulder to shoulder. Fanglan secretly took his hand and traced the character “su” (stay the night) in his palm. At that moment, the young man could neither bear to leave nor dared to stay; his heart was like tangled silk, inexpressible. And he leaned close to whisper, growing more drunkenly wanton, quite forgetting even the “rouge tiger” on the bed. After a little while, they heard the night watch already moving; the wine guests in the shop grew fewer. Only at a distant table sat a handsome youth, drinking alone by a candle, with a little servant attending him with a towel. The company secretly remarked on his refinement. Soon the youth finished drinking and went out. The servant turned back and said to the young man: “My master awaits a word with you.” The company was bewildered, but the young man’s face turned pale with dread; without time to take leave, he hurried away. For that handsome youth was Jiangcheng, and the servant was her own maid. The young man followed her home and lay prostrate to receive the whip. From then on his confinement grew even stricter; all social calls and congratulations were cut off. When the Educational Commissioner came down to the school, the young man, because of a mistake in his lecture, was demoted to the lowest grade. One day, while speaking with the maid, the girl suspected him of private intimacy, so she took a wine-jar, put it over the maid's head, and beat her. Then she bound the scholar and the maid together, took an embroidery scissors and cut flesh from their bellies, exchanged and patched them onto each other, then released the bonds and made them bind themselves. After a month or so, the patched places actually grew together into one. The girl would often step with her bare white feet on cakes in the dust, and shout at the scholar to pick them up and eat them. Such were the many things she did. Because the mother missed her son, she happened to come to their home, and seeing her son gaunt and emaciated, she returned and wept bitterly, wishing she were dead. That night she dreamed of an old man who told her: "Do not be anxious; this is a karmic debt from a former life. Jiangcheng was originally the long-life mouse raised by the monk Jingye; in a former life your son was a scholar who happened to wander there and accidentally killed it. Now it is retribution for evil; it cannot be changed by human effort. Every morning, rise early and devoutly recite the Guanyin Mantra one hundred times; it will surely take effect." When she awoke, she told this to Zhonghong, who found it strange, and the husband and wife followed the instruction. After devout recitation for over two months, the girl remained as violent as before, and became even more wild and unbridled. Whenever she heard drums and gongs outside the gate, she would seize her hair and rush out, foolishly gazing into the distance, with a thousand people pointing and staring, yet she remained calm and unbothered. Her father- and mother-in-law were both ashamed of her, but could not stop her. Suddenly an old monk outside the gate was preaching on Buddhist karmic retribution, and the onlookers crowded like a wall. The monk blew on the leather of a drum, producing a sound like a cow's bellow. The girl rushed out, and seeing the crowd with no gap, ordered the maid to bring out a portable bed, and she climbed up onto it, perching high. The crowd's eyes all focused on her, but the girl seemed not to notice. After a while, when the monk was about to finish his sermon, he asked for a bowl of clear water, held it toward the girl, and declaimed: "Do not be angry, do not be angry! The former life is not false, nor is this life true. Hah! Mouse, shrink your head away, lest the cat come to find you." Having declaimed, he took water in his mouth and sprayed it on the girl's face; her powder and rouge ran down, staining her lapels and sleeves. The crowd was greatly startled, expecting the girl to explode in fury, but she said nothing; she wiped her face and returned home on her own. The monk also departed. The girl entered the room and sat in a daze, as if lost, eating nothing all day; she swept the bed and immediately lay down. In the middle of the night, she suddenly called the scholar awake. He suspected she was about to leave a bed-wetting, so he brought in a chamber pot. The girl refused it. In the dark she took his arm and drew him into the bedclothes. He obeyed her command, his whole body trembling as if receiving an imperial edict. The girl said with deep feeling: "If you are like this, how can I be considered a person?" Then she stroked his body with her hand; whenever she came to a scar from knife or rod, she sobbed and whimpered, and would claw at herself with her nails, hating that she could not die immediately. Seeing her like this, the scholar could not bear it, and comforted her with great kindness. The girl said: "I think that monk must be an incarnation of a Bodhisattva. That single spray of clear water seemed to change my innards and bowels. Now when I recall my past deeds, they all seem like a former life. Was I not even human before? Having a husband yet unable to enjoy him, having in-laws yet unable to serve them—what sort of heart was that? Tomorrow we can move our household back, and live together with your parents, so that I may attend to them morning and evening." They talked through the night, as if speaking of a decade-long parting. At dawn she rose at once, folded clothes and packed utensils; the maid carried the baskets, while she herself wrapped the bedclothes, and urged the scholar to go ahead and knock on the door. The mother came out, startled, and asked; they told her their intent. The mother still hesitated, but the girl had already entered with the maid. The mother followed her in. The girl prostrated on the ground and wept piteously, begging only to be spared death. The mother, seeing that her intent was sincere, also wept and said: "My child, why are you suddenly like this?" The scholar then recounted the previous events in detail, and only then did they realize that the earlier dream had come true. Overjoyed, she called servants to clear out the old quarters. From then on, the girl attended to her in-laws with a compliant and agreeable manner, surpassing even a filial son. When meeting others, she acted like a new bride. If someone teased her about past events, her cheeks would flush red. Moreover, she was diligent and thrifty, and good at accumulating wealth; within three years, her father- and mother-in-law did not have to worry about household finances, and their fortune was said to be immense. That year the scholar passed the provincial examination. The girl often said to him: "That day when I first saw Fanglan, I still remember her now." The scholar, having been spared from torment, felt that his wishes were already more than fulfilled, and dared not harbor any improper thoughts; he merely assented. On one occasion, he went to the capital for the metropolitan examination and returned after several months. Entering the room, he saw Fanglan playing chess with Jiangcheng. Startled, he asked, and it turned out that the girl had used several hundred taels of silver to redeem her from servitude. This affair was related in great detail by Wang Ziya of Zhejiang. The Historian of the Strange comments: "In the retribution of one's deeds in life, even every morsel and drink must be repaid; but among karmic retributions, those within the bedchamber are like a bone-deep ulcer—their poison is especially cruel. I have often seen that among the world's virtuous wives, one in ten; among shrewish wives, nine in ten—this also shows how few in this world can cultivate good karma. Guanzizai's power of vow is vast and great; why not sprinkle the water from his bowl over the whole universe?" Sun Sheng Sun Sheng married a daughter of an old family, surname Xin. When she first entered the household, she wore a tight undergarment with many ties, wrapped about her body so closely that she refused to share the bed with her husband. At the head of the bed she always kept awls and hairpins to defend herself. Sun was repeatedly stabbed and pricked, and thus took to sleeping on a separate couch. After more than a month, he dared not approach her. Even when they met by day, she never gave him a word or a smile. A schoolmate who knew of this said to Sun privately, “Can your wife drink?” He answered, “A little.” The other jested, “I have a method of mediation—good and feasible.” Sun asked, “What method?” He said, “Put a stupefying drug in wine, give it to her to drink, and then you may do as you will.” Sun laughed at it, but secretly thought his plan excellent. He consulted a physician, and respectfully had monkshood boiled in wine, setting it on the table. At nightfall, Sun poured out a different wine, drank several goblets alone, and went to bed. He did this for three nights, but his wife never drank. One night, after Sun had lain for some time, he saw his wife still sitting silently. He made loud snoring sounds; then she got off the bed, took the wine, and warmed it on the stove. Sun secretly rejoiced. Then she filled a cup and drank it all; again she poured, drinking about half a cup more; the remainder she put back into the flask, smoothed the bed, and lay down. After a long while there was no sound, but the lamp was still brightly burning and not yet extinguished. Suspecting she was still awake, he called out loudly, “The tin candlestick is melting!” His wife did not answer; he called again, still no answer. Naked he went to look—she was lying dead drunk. He lifted the coverlet and stealthily entered, breaking layer after layer of her knotted ties. His wife was indeed aware, but could not move, nor could she speak; she let him have his wanton way and then he left. When she woke, she loathed it and hanged herself. Sun, in his dream, heard gasping and struggling; he rose and ran to look—her tongue was already protruding two inches. Greatly alarmed, he cut the rope and laid her on the bed; after some time she revived. From then on Sun felt extreme disgust and hatred toward her. Husband and wife avoided each other on the way; when they met, each hung the head. For four or five years they exchanged not a single word. If his wife was in the room laughing and joking with others, the moment she saw her husband coming, her expression would instantly change, cold as frost and snow. Sun often lodged in his study and did not return home for a whole year; even if forced to come back, he would face the wall for a while and then silently go to bed. His parents were deeply worried. One day, an old nun came to their house; seeing the wife, she praised her greatly. The mother said nothing, only sighed deeply. The nun asked the reason, and she told her the whole situation. The nun said, “That is an easy matter.” The mother was pleased and said, “If you can turn her heart back, I will not begrudge the reward.” The nun, seeing that no one was in the room, whispered, “Buy a picture of the spring palace; after three days I will perform the exorcism for you.” The nun left, and the mother bought it and waited. On the third day, the nun indeed came. She instructed, “This must be done in great secrecy—do not let the husband and wife know.” She then cut out the figures from the picture, along with three needles and a pinch of mugwort, wrapped them all securely in plain paper, drew several squiggles like earthworms on the outside, and told the mother to lure the wife out, secretly take her pillow, open the seam and put it in; then close it up again and return it to its place. The nun then departed. In the evening, the mother forced her son to come home to sleep. The old woman went to eavesdrop. When the second watch was nearly over, she heard the wife call out Sun’s childhood name, but Sun did not answer. After a little while, the wife spoke again; Sun responded with an angry, harsh tone. At dawn, the mother entered their room and saw the husband and wife with their backs to each other, and knew that the nun’s art had failed. She called her son to a private place and gently admonished him. As soon as Sun heard his wife’s name, he flew into a rage and gnashed his teeth. The mother scolded him angrily, but he ignored her and left. The next day, the nun came and was told that it had been of no effect. The nun was greatly puzzled. The old woman then recounted what she had overheard. The nun laughed and said, “Previously I said the wife hated the husband, so I performed the exorcism to turn her. Now the wife’s heart has already changed—what has not changed is the man’s. Let me apply a method that works on both sides; it will surely prove effective.” The mother followed her advice, took her son’s pillow and sealed it in the same way as before, then again called him home to sleep. After the first watch, they could still hear turning and shifting on both beds, with occasional coughing, as if neither could sleep. After a long while, they heard the two whispering together on one bed, though the words were indistinct. Toward dawn, they could still hear laughing and giggling, chattering without end. The old woman told the mother. The mother was overjoyed; when the nun came, she gave her rich presents. From then on, Sun and his wife were harmonious as lute and zither. They had one son and two daughters, and for over ten years there was never a quarrel. When acquaintances asked him privately why, he laughed and said, “Earlier I would grow angry at the sight of her; later I feel joy at the sound of her voice. I myself do not understand what was in my heart.” The Historian Extraordinary remarks: “To turn hatred into love—such arts are indeed miraculous. Yet he who can make one rejoice can also make one angry; the wonder of the artful man is precisely the fearsomeness of the artful man. The ancient sage said, ‘Let not the six old women enter the door.’ How true that is!” Eight Great Kings Lin Tao Feng Sheng was of a noble family, but had fallen into decline. There was a fisherman who caught turtles, and owing him a debt he could not repay, would present him with any turtle he caught. One day, he offered a huge turtle with a white spot on its forehead. Sheng, finding its appearance unusual, set it free. Later, returning from his wife’s family, he came to the bank of the Heng River as dusk was falling, and saw a drunken man, followed by two or three boys, staggering along. Seeing Sheng from afar, the man asked, “Who are you?” Sheng answered casually, “A wayfarer.” The drunkard angrily said, “Surely you have a name—why say ‘wayfarer’?” Sheng was anxious to press on and ignored him, passing straight by. The drunkard grew angrier, seized his sleeve and would not let him go; the stench of wine was overpowering. Sheng became even more impatient, yet though he tried to free himself, he could not break loose. He asked, “What is your name?” The other slurred in reply, “I am the former magistrate of the Southern Capital. What of it?” Sheng said, “If there be such magistrates in this world, they bring shame upon it! Fortunately you are the former magistrate; were you the present one, would you not have killed every passerby?” The drunkard flew into a rage and seemed about to come to blows. Sheng cried out, “I, Feng, am not one to suffer a beating!” Hearing this, the drunkard turned his anger to delight, staggered forward and bowed, saying, “You are my benefactor—pardon my rudeness!” He rose and bade his attendants go ahead to prepare a feast. Sheng could not decline. Hand in hand they walked several li until they saw a small village. Entering it, they found fine halls and chambers, like those of a wealthy family. The drunkard’s intoxication somewhat abated, and Sheng then asked his name and surname. He replied, “Do not be startled when I tell you: I am the Eight Great King of Taoshui. I had just been invited to drink by the Green Lad of the Western Mountains, and drank too much, offending you—I am truly ashamed and fearful.” Sheng knew he was a spirit, but as his words were so warm and earnest, he felt no fear. Soon a sumptuous feast was laid out, and they sat close together, drinking merrily. The Eight Great King was most unrestrained, raising several goblets in succession. Sheng, fearing he would become drunk again and cause trouble, pretended to be drunk and asked to retire. The Eight Great King understood his intent and laughed, saying, “Are you not afraid I might go wild? But pray do not fear. As for drunkards’ misconduct, to say that they forget it the next day is but to deceive others. Among tipplers, nine out of ten transgress deliberately. Though I am beneath the notice of my peers, I have never dared to behave like a scoundrel toward an elder—why do you shun me so?” Sheng then resumed his seat, composed his countenance, and remonstrated, “Since you know this yourself, why not mend your ways?” The Eight Great King said, “When I was magistrate, I was even more given to drunkenness than today. I incurred the Heavenly Emperor’s wrath and was banished back to my island isle. I have striven to turn back from my former course for more than ten years. Now I am old and nearing the end; I am too worn out to soar aloft, so my old habits return—I myself do not understand why. But now I respectfully heed your instruction.” As they talked, the distant temple bell had already sounded. The Eight Great King rose, took Sheng’s arm, and said, “Our time together is short. I have kept a certain thing, which I offer in return for your great kindness. This cannot be worn long; after your wish is fulfilled, you must return it to me.” From his mouth he spat out a tiny man, only an inch or so in size. He then pinched Sheng’s arm with his nails, causing pain as if the skin were torn; quickly he pressed the little man onto the spot, and when he let go, it had entered the flesh. The nail marks remained, but the skin swelled up like a kernel of phlegm. Sheng asked in alarm, but the other only smiled and did not answer. He merely said, “You should go now.” He escorted Sheng out and returned himself. Looking back, Sheng saw that the village had utterly vanished—only a huge turtle was clumsily entering the water and disappearing. He stood stunned for a long while. He thought to himself that what he had received must surely be the turtle-gem. From then on his eyes became extremely sharp; wherever there were jewels and treasures, even beneath the yellow springs, he could see them; and even things he had never known before, he could name at once. In his bedroom he dug up several hundred strings of hidden cash, and his expenses were quite ample. Later, when someone offered an old residence for sale, Sheng saw that within it lay countless hidden treasures, so he bought it at a great price. Thus he became as rich as the dukes and princes. He collected all sorts of things like fire-pearls and wood-difficulty gems. He obtained a mirror, on the back of which was a phoenix knob, and around it were engraved pictures of water, clouds, and the Goddess of the Xiang River. Its light shone for over a li, and even the hairs of one’s eyebrows and beard could be counted. When a beautiful woman looked into it, her image would remain in it and could not be rubbed away; but if she changed her makeup and looked again, or if another beauty looked, the former image would vanish. At that time, the Third Princess of the Su Mansion was extremely lovely, and Sheng greatly admired her name. When the princess happened to visit Kongtong Mountain, he went and hid in the hills, waited until she descended from her palanquin, took a reflection of her in the mirror, and returned home. He set it on his desk. Examining it closely, he saw the beauty within, holding her handkerchief and smiling, her lips as if about to speak and her eyes as if about to move with emotion. Delighted, he hid it away. After more than a year, his wife revealed the matter, and it came to the ears of the Su Mansion. They were greatly enraged, arrested him, seized the mirror, and intended to behead him. Sheng bribed the eunuchs heavily and had them speak to the prince, saying, “If Your Highness pardons him, the most precious treasures under heaven will not be hard to obtain. Otherwise, he will only die, which would truly bring no benefit to Your Highness.” The prince wanted to confiscate his property and banish him. The Third Princess said, “He has already spied upon me; even ten deaths would not atone for this disgrace—better to marry him.” The prince would not consent. The princess locked herself in her chamber and would not eat. The princess’s mother was deeply worried and pleaded strongly with the prince. The prince then released Sheng from prison and sent an eunuch to convey his intent to Sheng. Sheng declined, saying, “The wife of one’s youth should not be cast down from the hall; I would rather die than dare to accept this command. If Your Highness will allow me to ransom myself, I will give all my wealth.” The prince was angry and had him rearrested. The princess’s mother summoned Sheng’s wife to the palace, intending to poison her. When she saw her, the wife presented a coral mirror-stand to the princess’s mother, and her words were gentle and moving. The mother was pleased and had her meet the princess. The princess also took a liking to her, and they pledged to be sisters; she then sent word to Sheng. Sheng told his wife, “A princess’s daughter cannot be ranked by order of first and second wife.” His wife would not listen, and she returned home to prepare betrothal gifts and presented them at the prince’s residence. Those who accompanied the gifts numbered nearly a thousand. Of the precious stones and jades and the like, even the prince’s household could not name them. The prince was greatly pleased, released Sheng, and married the princess to him. The princess still took the mirror back with her. One night, Sheng was sleeping alone when he dreamed that the Eight Great King entered grandly and said, “The thing I gave you must now be returned. If you keep it too long, it will consume your vital essences and blood, and shorten your life.” Sheng agreed, and then invited him to stay for a feast. The Eight Great King declined, saying, “Since I heard your salutary admonitions, I have abstained from wine for three years.” Then he bit Sheng’s arm with his teeth. The pain was extreme, and Sheng woke up. He looked and saw that the kernel-like swelling had disappeared. After this, he became just like an ordinary man. The Strange Historian says: "When sober, they are still human; when drunk, they are like turtles—this is the general state of tipplers. Yet although the turtle may daily indulge in drunken madness, it dares not forget kindness, nor dare it be discourteous to elders—is the turtle not far superior to man? As for that certain fellow, sober he is not as good as a man, and drunk he is not as good as a turtle. The ancients had a turtle mirror; why not take it as a turtle mirror? Therefore I compose the 'Rhapsody on Tipplers.' The rhapsody says: 'There is a substance that delights the spirit and pleases the palate; drink it and one becomes muddled and reeling—its name is "wine." Its names are many, and its merits have long been established: to feast worthy guests, to speed the father and uncle, to make merry in close conversation, to unite in the nuptial cup and become a pair; some call it the "hook for fishing poems," and also the "broom for sweeping sorrow." Hence when the yeast-master often comes, he is the sworn friend of the poet; in the deep haunts of drunkenness, one finds the fugitive refuge of the sorrowful. Once the terrace of lees is completed, the merit of the wine-skin is imperishable. A minister of Qi could down a stone, and a scholar also claims five pecks. Thus wine is indeed transmitted by men, yet men may by wine become ugly. Consider Meng Jia who lost his hat, Bo Lun who carried his spade, Duke Shan who wore his scarf reversed, and the magistrate of Pengze who strained his wine with a linen headcloth. One may sleep soundly beside a beauty—some might detect his lack of intent; one may plunge his head into ink—yet deems himself inspired. The man who lies in the well is taken for a boat passenger; the minister with jade earrings is bound by the vat. Even to mimic the turtle-prisoner and mock the world—it is still not harmful to things nor unkind. Then come rainy nights and snowy evenings, moonlit mornings and flowery dawns, when the wind settles and dust is low, old guests and new courtesans, shoes and clogs intermingled, musk and orchids sinking in fragrance; fine criticism and light reproach, low singing and shallow toasting; suddenly a clear shang tune is played—and all is silent as if no one were there. Refined jests make flowers bloom from teeth; lofty chanting rings like jade and gold. In total intoxication, yet the spirit is clear and dreams are true. If so, then even one drunken bout a day should not be condemned by the teachings of fame and propriety. But then there are noisy, unmelodious ones, with vulgar words all together; they rise and sit with clamor, a hubbub of shouting. They quarrel over a single drop, their fury ready to draw blades; they stretch their necks and knit their brows, raising cups as if drinking poison; they spill the dregs and smash the goblets, snuff out lamps and extinguish embers. Green wines and grapes lie in disarray, squandered without regret; blighted leaves and mad flowers—these are forbidden by the rules of drinking. With such sentiments, better not drink at all. There are also those whose wine lodges at the throat, less than an inch away; they stammer and mumble, yet still mock the host for stinginess; they sit but do not leave, and again cannot hold their drink—of all the graceless drinkers, these are the worst. Even worse are those who, under the maddening draught, become rude and boorish; they bulge their eyes, bristle their beards; bare their backs, and kick their feet. Dust covers their faces; vomit splashes down their robes; they yelp like dogs, their hair tangled like slaves. Their cries to earth and heaven are like Li Lang vomiting his very liver; their flailing arms and legs are like Minister Su being torn apart by ox-carts. Even those who can make lotus flowers sprout from their tongues cannot exhaust their appearances; even those who can capture shadows before the lamp cannot draw them. They offend their parents to their faces; their wives and children are weak and cannot support them. Sometimes a friend of one's father, a good friend, is unreasonably cursed at by Guan Fu. Gentle words to warn them only increase their daze. These are called "wine-furies" and cannot be saved. There is only one method to cure their intoxication. What is that method? Only a stick. Bind their hands and feet, just like butchering a pig. Only beat their buttocks, do not injure their heads; beat them over a hundred times, and they will suddenly wake up.'" Playful Hanging A certain man of the county was frivolous and roguish. Once he wandered outside the village and saw a young woman riding on a horse. He said to his companions, "I can make her laugh." They did not believe him and made a wager that he would treat them to a feast. He immediately ran over, went before the horse, and shouted repeatedly, "I want to die!..." Then he pulled down a stalk of sorghum from the wall, about a foot long, untied his belt and hung it on it, stretching his neck as if hanging himself. The woman indeed passed by and laughed at him, and the others also burst out laughing. After the woman had gone far off, he still did not move; the others laughed even more. On closer inspection, they saw his tongue sticking out and his eyes closed—his breath was truly gone. To hang oneself with a sorghum stalk—is that not strange? This can serve as a warning to the frivolous.