Chapter 1

Chapter 1

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Chapter 1: Zhen Shiyin Dreams and Awakens to the Truth; Jia Yucun Cherishes a Beauty Amid the Dust

The author says: Having once passed through a dreamlike existence, I have therefore hidden away the true events and borrowed the tale of the Spiritual Stone to write this book, *The Story of the Stone*. Hence the line "Zhen Shiyin Dreams and Awakens to the Truth." But what events does this book record, and why was it written? The author further says: Now, amid the dust and toil of the world, having accomplished nothing in life, I suddenly think of all the women I knew in those days. Examining each one carefully, I find that their conduct and understanding surpassed my own. How is it that I, a man of such dignity, should have fallen short of those women in hairpins and skirts! Truly, I have more than enough cause for shame, and regret is of no avail—this is a time of utter helplessness beyond all remedy! At such a moment, I wish to set down the debt I have incurred: the favor of Heaven above, the virtue of my ancestors below, the days when I wore fine brocade and ate the choicest food, when I turned my back on my parents' teachings and failed to live up to my teachers' and brothers' guidance—all of which has led to my present state of accomplishing nothing and passing half my life in failure. I will compile this record to tell all the world. My faults indeed cannot be pardoned, but among women there have been those whose qualities were truly remarkable; I must not, on account of my own unworthiness, conceal my shortcomings and allow their merits to perish along with me. Though today I live under a thatched roof with rush-mat windows, cooking on a brick stove and sleeping on a rope bed, the winds of morning, the moonlit nights, the willows by the steps and flowers in the courtyard—none of these has diminished the spirit of my heart and brush. Though I am unlearned and my writing lacks polish, why not employ the language of pretense and rustic speech to weave a story that may delight the eyes and ears of others? Hence the line "Cherishes a Beauty Amid the Dust"—this is the true theme of the first chapter. The very opening speaks of "Cherishing a Beauty Amid the Dust," making it clear that the author's original intention was to record the friendship and sentiments of the women of those days, and that this is not a book that rails against the world or abuses the times. Though at times it touches upon the ways of the world, such passages are unavoidable and are not the book's main purpose. Let the reader keep this in mind. A poem says:

Why toil so hard through a floating life?

Grand feasts and splendid revels must end in parting.

Grief and joy alike dissolve into illusion;

Ancient and modern are equally a foolish dream.

They say the red-sleeved lady's tear-stains are heavy;

Still deeper is the lovesick one's endless regret.

Every word, seen clearly, is written in blood;

Ten years of bitter toil—how extraordinary!

Now, gentle reader, you may ask: from whence does this book come? The origin may seem far-fetched at first, but examine it closely and you will find it deeply intriguing. Allow me to set down this origin clearly, so that the reader may understand without confusion.

Long ago, when Nüwa smelted stones to repair the heavens, at the Great Waste Mountain and the Cliff of No Reliance, she smelted 36,501 huge stones, each twelve feet high and twenty-four feet square. The Goddess Nüwa used only 36,500 of them. One stone alone was left unused, and it was cast away at the foot of Blue Ridge Peak on this mountain. Who could have known that after being tempered, this stone had acquired spiritual awareness? When it saw that all the other stones had been used to mend the heavens, and that it alone lacked the material and was unfit for selection, it fell to lamenting and reproaching itself, weeping and grieving day and night.

One day, while it was still sighing and mourning, it suddenly saw a Buddhist monk and a Taoist priest approaching from afar. Their frames were extraordinary, their spirits strikingly refined. Talking and laughing, they came to the foot of the peak and sat down beside the stone, discoursing with great eloquence. First they spoke of cloud-shrouded mountains and misty seas, of immortals and the phantasmagoric, and then they moved on to the glory and wealth of the mortal world. When the stone heard this, it could not help but be stirred by worldly desires. It too wished to go down to the world of men and enjoy for a time this glory and wealth. But it cursed its own coarseness and stupidity. Having no choice, it opened its mouth and spoke human words, addressing the monk and priest: "Reverend masters, your disciple is a stupid creature and cannot properly greet you. But just now I heard the two of you speak of the splendor and glory of the human world, and my heart yearns for it. Though my substance is coarse and stupid, my nature is somewhat receptive. Moreover, I can see that the two masters possess immortal forms and Taoist bodies—you are surely no ordinary beings. You must possess the talent to mend heaven and save the world, and the virtue to benefit all things and aid mankind. If you would bestow a little of your compassion and take me into the mortal world, to dwell for a few years amid the fields of wealth and the villages of tenderness, I shall forever bear the weight of your great grace and never forget it through ten thousand kalpas." The two immortal masters, having heard this, laughed together and said: "Well said, well said! In the mortal world there are indeed some pleasures, but they cannot be relied upon forever. Moreover, there are the eight words 'beauty marred by a flaw' and 'fortune breeds misfortune' that are closely linked together. In the blink of an eye, extreme joy gives birth to sorrow, people change and things shift—in the end, it all comes down to a single dream, with all realms returning to emptiness. It would be better not to go." But the stone's worldly desires were already burning fiercely—how could it listen to such words? It begged again and again with great earnestness. The two immortals knew they could not force it, and sighed: "This too is the destiny that comes when stillness reaches its extreme and stirs into motion, when something arises from nothing. Very well then, we shall take you to enjoy yourself. But when things do not go as you wish, do not say you were not warned." The stone said: "Naturally, naturally." The monk then said: "If we speak of your spiritual nature, you are yet so coarse and stupid, and possess nothing particularly precious or remarkable. At best, you would only serve as a stepping-stone. No matter—I shall now exercise the great power of the Buddha's dharma to aid you. When the kalpyas end, I shall restore you to your original nature to settle this matter. What do you think of this?" The stone, upon hearing this, was overwhelmed with gratitude. The monk then recited mantras and inscribed talismans, deploying his great illusory arts. In an instant, he transformed the great stone into a piece of luminous, glistening jade, bright and pure, and moreover shrank it to the size of a fan pendant—small enough to be worn or held. The monk held it in his palm and laughed: "In form, you are indeed a treasure! But you still lack real merit. I must inscribe some characters upon you, so that anyone who sees you at once knows you are a wondrous object. Then I shall take you to a land of prosperity and splendor, a clan of poets and officials, a place of flowers and brocade, a village of tenderness and wealth, there to settle and take your pleasure." The stone, upon hearing this, was beside itself with joy and asked: "I do not know what wondrous qualities I possess, nor where you will take me. I beg you to make this clear, so that I may not be confused." The monk laughed: "Do not ask now. In time, you will naturally understand." With this, he put the stone in his sleeve, and together with the Taoist priest, drifted away on the breeze—no one knew to what place they went.

After that, who knows how many ages and kalpas passed, when a certain Daoist called Kongkong (the Empty Void) went wandering in search of the Way and immortality. Suddenly he came by the foot of Blue Ridge Peak on the Great Waste Mountain beyond the Bounds of Evidence, and noticed a large stone with clear writing on it, a complete narrative. Kongkong Daoist read it from the beginning. It turned out to be a story about a stone that had been unfit to mend Heaven, transformed into human form, and brought into the world of mortals by the Great Master Mangmang and the True Person Miaomiao, where it had gone through all manner of partings and reunions, joys and sorrows, the warmth and coldness of the human world. Behind the text was a gatha:

No talent had I to mend the azure sky,

Yet vainly I entered the world of men for all these years!

This is the story of my life before and after—

To whom can I entrust it to spread its fame?

After the verse came the tale of the stone's place of descent and its rebirth, a record of what it had personally experienced. The domestic trifles and boudoir affairs, as well as the leisurely moods and poetry, were all fully recorded—enough perhaps to amuse and divert. But the dynasty, the reign period, the geography and the states, alas, were nowhere to be found.

Kongkong Daoist then said to the Stone, "Stone Brother, your story, as you yourself say, has some interest, so you wrote it down here with the intention of making it known to the world. But in my view, first, there is no dynasty or reign period to verify it; second, there are no great worthies or loyal ministers who govern the court and reform customs. There are only a few unusual women in it, some passionate, some foolish, some with small talents or slight virtues, but none with the moral excellence of Ban Zhao or Cai Wenji. Even if I were to copy it out, I fear people in the world would not enjoy reading it."

The Stone replied with a laugh, "Master, how can you be so foolish! If you say there is no dynasty or reign period to verify it, would it be so hard for you to fabricate one from the Han or Tang dynasties and tack it on? But I think that all unofficial histories have followed the same beaten track. Better to discard that convention, as I have done—it would be far more novel and original. I only took the essential nature and logic of the events, so why be so rigid about dynasty and reign period! Besides, among ordinary townsfolk, very few enjoy reading books about moral governance, while many love amusing, entertaining texts. As for unofficial histories, some slander rulers and ministers, some disparage men's wives and daughters—licentious, vicious, and evil beyond counting. There is also a kind of 'wind and moon' writing, so lewd and foul, so poisonous to brush and ink, so corrupting to young people, again beyond counting. As for the tales of gifted scholars and beauties, they all follow the same pattern in a thousand volumes, and inevitably they cannot avoid lewdness—full of Pan An, Zijian, Xizi and Wenjun. It is only because the author wishes to show off a couple of his own love poems and rhapsodies that he invents the names of a man and a woman, and must also insert a little villain to stir up trouble, like the clown in a play. And when the maids open their mouths, it is all 'thus and so' and 'such and such'—nothing but literary allusions or moralizing. So as one reads through them, everything is self-contradictory and utterly unreasonable. In the end, they cannot compare with these women I witnessed and heard with my own eyes for half a lifetime. I dare not say they are superior to all the characters in previous books, but their deeds and circumstances can dispel sorrow and break through boredom. There are also a few crooked verses and amusing sayings to make one spit out one's wine. As for the partings and reunions, joys and sorrows, the rise and fall of fortunes, I have followed the actual traces and dared not embellish in the slightest, lest I merely cater to people's eyes but lose the true account. People nowadays—the poor are daily burdened by food and clothing, the rich are never satisfied; even when they have a moment's leisure, there is greed and lust, the pursuit of goods and the seeking of trouble. When would they have the time to read books on moral governance? So my story does not seek to have people marvel at its wonders, nor does it insist that people read it with delight. I only wish that when they are drunk or lying in bed full of lust, or when they wish to escape the world and dispel their sorrows, they might take it up and amuse themselves—wouldn't that save some of their life and strength? It would be better than chasing illusions and pursuing falsehoods, and it would also spare them the harm of gossip and slander, the toil of rushing about on their legs. Moreover, it would give the world a fresh pair of eyes, unlike those random, tangled tales of sudden partings and sudden reunions, full of gifted scholars and lovely ladies, Zijian and Wenjun, Hongniang and Xiaoyu—all those worn-out, familiar old plots. What does my master think?"

Kongkong Daoist, hearing these words, pondered for a long while. He reviewed the *Story of the Stone* once more and saw that although there were passages pointing out treachery, reproving flatterers, condemning evil and denouncing wickedness, they were not aimed at attacking the times or cursing the world. When it came to benevolent rulers, good ministers, kind fathers, and filial sons—all matters concerning proper human relations—the text praised virtue and merit with deep feeling, truly unlike other books. Although its main theme spoke of passion, it merely recorded actual events and did not falsely pretend or recklessly claim to be nothing but licentious invitations, amorous trysts, private engagements and secret oaths. Since it had no bearing on contemporary affairs, he copied it from beginning to end and brought it back to make it known to the world. From that time, Kongkong Daoist, having seen Form from Void, generated Passion from Form, transmitted Passion into Form, and awakened to Void through Form, changed his name to the Passionate Monk and renamed the *Story of the Stone* as the *Record of the Passionate Monk*. Wu Yufeng titled it *Dream of the Red Chamber*, and Kong Meiqi of Donglu titled it *The Mirror of the Amorous*. Later, Cao Xueqin, in the Studio of Mourning Red, spent ten years going through it, adding and deleting five times, compiling a table of contents and dividing it into chapters, and titled it *The Twelve Beauties of Jinling*, adding a quatrain:

Pages full of idle words,

A handful of bitter tears!

All say the author is foolish,

Who understands the flavor within?

In those days, when the earth sank in the southeast, in that corner of the southeast there was a place called Gusu, with a city gate called Changmen—the foremost place of wealth and fashion in the mortal world. Outside Changmen there was a Ten-Li Street, and on that street was the Lane of Humanity and Purity, and in that lane was an old temple. Because the place was cramped, people all called it Gourd Temple. Beside the temple lived a country gentleman of the Zhen family—his given name was Fei, his courtesy name Shiyin. His principal wife, of the Feng family, was virtuous and gentle, deeply versed in propriety and righteousness. Although the family was not especially wealthy, locally they were regarded as a distinguished clan. This Zhen Shiyin, by nature tranquil and indifferent, set his mind on nothing of fame and office; each day he took pleasure only in admiring flowers and tending bamboo, drinking wine and composing verse—truly a person of immortal quality. There was only one regret: he was already past fifty and had no son, only a daughter, whose milk name was Yinglian, just three years old.

One day, in the endless heat of summer, Shiyin was sitting idly in his study. His hands grew weary and he cast aside his book, resting his head on the desk for a brief respite. Before he knew it, he had drifted into a hazy slumber. He dreamed he had arrived at a place, but could not tell where it was. Suddenly he saw a Buddhist monk and a Taoist priest approaching from that direction, walking and talking as they came. He heard only the Taoist ask, "You carry this foolish object—where do you intend to take it?" The monk smiled and said, "Set your mind at rest. At present there is a romantic case that should be brought to a conclusion. These romantic wrongdoers have not yet been reincarnated into the world. Taking advantage of this opportunity, I shall have this foolish object smuggled in among them, so that he may go and experience the world." The Taoist said, "So the romantic wrongdoers of recent times are about to create calamities and undergo worldly experiences again? But I wonder in what quarter and in what place they will be born?" The monk laughed and said, "This affair, when told, is quite amusing—it is a rare thing never heard of since ancient times. On the bank of the Spiritual River in the Western Paradise, beside the Stone of Three Lives, there grows a plant called the Crimson Pearl Grass. At that time, the Divine Attendant of the Scarlet Jade Palace watered it daily with sweet dew, and so the Crimson Pearl Grass was able to prolong its years. Later, having received the essence of heaven and earth and further nourished by rain and dew, it finally shed its grassy and wooden nature, took on human form, and cultivated itself into nothing more than a female body. It wandered endlessly beyond the Sky of Separated Sorrows, eating the Green Honey Fruit when hungry and drinking the Sea of Sorrowful Water when thirsty. Because it had not yet repaid the kindness of the irrigation, its heart was bound up with an endless thread of tender feeling. It happened recently that this Divine Attendant's mortal heart was kindled, and taking advantage of this enlightened and peaceful age, he desired to descend into the world to undergo romantic adventures—he had already registered his name before the Fairy of Disenchantment. The Fairy of Disenchantment had also inquired about the matter: since the debt of irrigation remained unpaid, this would be an opportunity to settle it. The Crimson Pearl Fairy said, 'He gave me the kindness of sweet dew, but I have no such water to repay him. Since he is going down into the world as a human being, I too shall go down into the world as a human being, and repay him with all the tears of my life—that will more than settle the debt.' Because of this affair, it has drawn out many romantic wrongdoers to accompany them and bring this case to a conclusion." The Taoist said, "Truly a rare thing to hear. I have never in fact heard of such a thing as repaying with tears. I imagine this story must be more intricate and delicate than all the romantic tales of the past." The monk said, "The romantic figures of the ages have had only their general outlines and their poetry and prose handed down; the daily food and drink of family and women's quarters have never been recorded. Moreover, most romantic tales are nothing more than stealing fragrance and purloying jade, secret trysts and elopements—they have never given true expression to the genuine feelings of young men and women. I think when these people enter the world, their infatuated ghosts, their wise and foolish, their worthy and unworthy, will all differ from what has been transmitted by previous writers." The Taoist said, "Why don't you and I also take this opportunity to descend into the world and convert a few souls—wouldn't that be a meritorious deed?" The monk said, "That accords exactly with my own wishes. Come with me to the Fairy of Disenchantment's palace, and let us hand over this foolish object clearly. Once all these romantic wrongdoers have completed their descent into the world, we shall go as well. Although by now half of them have already fallen into the dust, the full company has not yet assembled." The Taoist said, "In that case, I shall follow you."

Now Shiyin had heard all this clearly, but did not know what this "foolish object" could be. He could not help stepping forward and bowing, smiling as he asked, "Greetings to you two immortal masters." The monk and the Taoist quickly returned his bow and inquired in turn. Shiyin then said, "I have just heard the immortal masters speak of cause and effect—truly a rare thing in the human world. But this disciple is dull and muddled and cannot fully comprehend it. If you would graciously open my foolish obstinacy and tell me in detail, this disciple will listen with attentive ears, and perhaps may be somewhat awakened, and so avoid the suffering of sinking into the abyss." The two immortals laughed and said, "This is a mystery that cannot be prematurely revealed. When the time comes, do not forget the two of us, and you will be able to leap out of the fiery pit." Shiyin, hearing this, did not venture to ask further. He smiled and said, "Since the mystery cannot be prematurely revealed, but you just spoke of a 'foolish object'—what might that be? Might I be permitted to see it?" The monk said, "If you ask about this object, we are indeed destined to meet it face to face." With that, he took it out and handed it to Shiyin. Shiyin received it and looked—it was actually a piece of lustrous, beautiful jade, with clear characters engraved upon it: four large characters reading "Spiritual Understanding Jade," and several lines of smaller characters behind. Just as he was about to examine it closely, the monk said they had already reached the illusionary realm and forcibly snatched it back from his hand. He and the Taoist then passed through a great stone archway, on which were inscribed four large characters: "Illusory Land of Great Void." On either side was a couplet that read:

When false is taken for true, true becomes false;

Where nothing is taken for something, something becomes nothing.

Shiyin wished to follow them, but just as he was about to step forward, he suddenly heard a thunderclap, as if mountains were collapsing and the earth was caving in. Shiyin cried out loudly. He fixed his eyes and saw only the blazing sun and the spreading plantain leaves—most of what he had dreamed was already forgotten. Then he saw his nursemaid carrying Yinglian. Shiyin saw that his daughter had grown even more lovely, like powder and jade, charming and delightful. He reached out his hands, took her, and held her in his arms. He played with her for a while, then carried her to the street to watch the excitement of the festival procession. Just as he was about to go back inside, he saw a Buddhist monk and a Taoist priest coming from that direction: the monk had a scabby head and went barefoot, the priest was lame and had disheveled hair. They came laughing and talking wildly, waving their hands. When they reached his gate and saw Shiyin holding Yinglian, the monk burst into loud weeping and said to Shiyin, "Sir, why do you hold in your arms this creature who has fate but no fortune, who will bring disaster upon her father and mother?" Shiyin, hearing this, knew it was the talk of a madman and paid him no heed. The monk went on, "Give her to me! Give her to me!" Shiyin, losing patience, turned to go inside with his daughter in his arms. The monk then pointed at him and laughed loudly, reciting four lines from his lips:

You laugh at me, pampered and foolish, for doting on her—

The hollow镜 of the water-chestnut flower faces the melting snow in vain.

Beware, after the Festival of Lanterns,

Comes the moment when smoke vanishes and fire is extinguished!

Shi-yin listened with a clear mind, yet his heart hesitated; he wished to ask about their origins. He then heard the Taoist say, "We need not travel together—let us part here and each pursue our own livelihood. After three kalpas, I will wait for you on Mount Mang North. We will meet there and go together to the Land of Illusion to close our accounts." The monk replied, "Splendid, splendid!" With that, the two departed at once, and not a trace of them was seen again. Shi-yin reflected to himself: these two men must have some remarkable background. I should have tried to question them; now it is too late for regret.

As Shi-yin stood lost in thought, he suddenly saw a poor scholar emerge from the Temple of the Gourd next door—one Jia Hua, styled Shi-fei, with the sobriquet Yu-cun. This Jia Yu-cun was originally a native of Huzhou, born into a family of scholars and officials. But having come into the world in its declining years, with his parents' and ancestors' fortunes exhausted and their kin having dwindled away, only he himself remained, alone and solitary. Finding no advantage in his native place, he had come to the capital seeking to obtain a degree and restore the family's fortunes. He had arrived there the year before last and had since been stranded, lodging temporarily in the temple for a living, supporting himself daily by selling his calligraphy and writing. Thus Shi-yin often associated with him.

Now Yu-cun, seeing Shi-yin, hurriedly bowed and said with an ingratiating smile, "The old gentleman stands gazing from his gate—could there be some news from the marketplace?" Shi-yin smiled and replied, "Not at all. It was only because my little daughter was crying that I brought her out to play. I was feeling exceedingly bored, and your arrival is most opportune. Please do come into my study for a chat—it will help us both while away this endless day." So saying, he ordered someone to take his daughter inside, then personally took Yu-cun by the hand and led him to the study. A young boy served tea. They had scarcely exchanged a few words when a servant came flying in with the report: "Honored Master Yan has come to pay his respects!" Shi-yin, flustered, rose hastily and apologized, "Forgive me for having misled you—do sit for a moment and I shall return presently to keep you company." Yu-cun also rose quickly and said, "Please go ahead, sir. Your humble visitor is a frequent guest here—a brief wait is no matter at all." With this, Shi-yin went out to the front hall.

Left alone, Yu-cun leafed through some books to pass the time. Suddenly he heard the sound of a woman coughing outside the window. He rose and looked out, and saw it was a maid picking flowers there. She had a pleasing appearance and clear, bright features—though not exceptionally beautiful, she had her own charm. Yu-cun could not tear his eyes away. The Zhen family's maid, having gathered her flowers, was about to leave when she suddenly raised her head and saw someone in the window—wearing a shabby kerchief and old clothes, poor and downcast in appearance, yet with a sturdy, broad-shouldered frame, a full face and wide mouth, bushy sword-like brows and starry eyes, a straight nose and prominent cheekbones. The maid quickly turned away, thinking to herself: "This man is so handsome in his ruggedness, yet so threadbare in his dress. He must be that Jia Yu-cun my master often speaks of—he has always wanted to help and support him but never had the chance. We have no such impoverished relatives or friends, so it must be him. No wonder my master also says he is not a man who will remain in obscurity for long." Thinking thus, she could not help but glance back twice more. Yu-cun, seeing her look back, concluded to himself that she must have feelings for him, and was beside himself with joy, convinced that she was a woman of great discernment—a kindred spirit in the rough world of men.

Presently a young boy entered, and Yu-cun learned that a feast was being served in the front of the house—he could not linger. He slipped out through a side passage. After Shi-yin had seen his guest off, knowing that Yu-cun had left on his own, he did not go to invite him again.

One day, the Mid-Autumn Festival arrived. After the family feast at Shi-yin's home, he set out another table in the study and walked himself, under the bright moon, to the temple to invite Yu-cun. Ever since that day when the Zhen family's maid had glanced back at him twice, Yu-cun had considered her a kindred spirit and kept her constantly in his thoughts. Now, with the Mid-Autumn Festival upon him, he could not help gazing at the moon with feeling, and spontaneously composed a five-character regulated verse:

I cannot yet foretell the fulfillment of my three-life wish,

Yet again a fresh layer of sorrow is added.

When vexed, I furrow my brow;

As I depart, I turn my head again and again.

I gaze at my own shadow before the wind—

Who could be my companion beneath the moon?

If the moonlight has a kindly thought,

Let it first shine upon the tower of my fair one.

Having finished reciting, Yu-cun reflected on his lifelong ambitions and lamented that he had yet to meet his opportunity. He scratched his head and heaved a long sigh to heaven, then loudly chanted a couplet:

A jade in a casket awaits a fair price;

A hairpin in a case waits for the hour of its flight.

Just then Shi-yin happened to arrive and heard him. He laughed and said, "Brother Yu-cun, your ambitions are truly no small matter!" Yu-cun quickly smiled and replied, "I was merely reciting lines from an earlier poet—how dare I be so presumptuous?" He then asked, "What brings the old gentleman here?" Shi-yin smiled and said, "Tonight is the Mid-Autumn Festival, what people call the 'Festival of Reunion.' I thought that you, sir, lodging in a temple as a traveler, might feel somewhat lonely, so I prepared a small repast and invite you to my humble studio for a cup of wine. I wonder if you will accept this simple offering?" Yu-cun, on hearing this, made no polite refusals but said with a smile, "Since you honor me with such kindness, how could I presume to decline your generous hospitality?" With that, he followed Shi-yin back across to the study. Tea was soon finished, and cups and dishes had already been laid out—needless to say, the wine was fine and the food exquisite. The two men took their seats and began by sipping slowly, then gradually warmed to their conversation, and before long they were passing the cups freely. At that moment, from every street and lane came the sound of pipes and flutes; from every household rose the strains of song. Above them hung a full moon, pouring down radiant splendor. The two men's spirits rose ever higher, and they drained each cup as it came. By now Yu-cun was already seven or eight parts drunk, and his wild excitement could no longer be contained. Gazing at the moon, he gave vent to his feelings and extemporized a quatrain:

When the fifteenth comes, reunion is complete;

The clear moonlight in full splendor guards the jade railing.

No sooner is the single orb raised above heaven

Than the myriad people of the world raise their heads to gaze.

When Scholar Yinzhen heard this, he cried out, "Splendid! I have always said that you, brother, are surely not one to remain beneath others for long. These lines you have just recited already show the omens of soaring flight — before long, you shall ascend to the heights above the clouds. This calls for congratulations!" And he personally poured a cup of wine to offer his congratulations.

Yucun, having already drunk, sighed and said, "This is not mere drunken boasting on my part. If we speak of fashionable learning, I suppose I might be counted among those who trade on reputation. But at present, I have no provisions whatsoever for the road or traveling expenses. The road to the Divine Capital is far — I cannot reach it merely by selling my calligraphy or writing essays."

Before he could finish, Scholar Yinzhen said, "Why did you not speak of this sooner? I have long had this thought, but whenever I met you, you never brought up the matter, so I did not dare to raise it abruptly. Now that you have mentioned it, though I am a man of no particular talent, I still understand the distinction between 'righteousness and profit.' Moreover, it is a happy circumstance that next year is the year of the Great Examination. You should make haste to go to the capital. One battle at the Spring Examination will not be unworthy of your learning. As for traveling expenses and the like, I will take care of everything on your behalf — this will not be unworthy of our acquaintance."

He immediately ordered a servant boy to go inside and quickly prepare fifty taels of silver and two sets of winter clothes. He also said, "The nineteenth is an auspicious day. You may at once hire a boat and travel west. When you soar aloft in grand flight, we shall meet again next winter — would that not be a great joy?"

Yucun accepted the silver and clothes, offered but a few words of thanks, showed no particular concern, and went on drinking and chatting as before. That night, it was already the third watch when the two men parted.

After seeing Yucun off, Scholar Yinzhen returned to his room and slept until the sun was three poles high the next morning. Reflecting on the events of the previous night, he intended to write two letters of recommendation for Yucun to carry to the Divine Capital, so that Yucun might call upon some official household as a place of temporary lodging. He therefore sent someone to invite Yucun, but the servant returned and said, "The monk says that Master Jia set out for the capital at the fifth watch today. He also left word with the monk to convey to Your Honor: 'A scholar pays no heed to auspicious or inauspicious days — the important thing is to attend to the demands of duty. I was unable to take my leave in person.'"

When Scholar Yinzhen heard this, he could do nothing but let the matter drop.

Truly, time passes easily in leisure — in the blink of an eye, the Lantern Festival had arrived. Scholar Yinzhen ordered his servant Huoqi to carry Yinglian out to watch the community fire and lanterns. In the middle of the night, Huoqi needed to relieve himself, so he set Yinglian down to sit on the threshold of a doorway. When he returned after relieving himself, Yinglian was nowhere to be found! Huoqi searched frantically for half the night, but even by dawn there was no trace of her. Huoqi did not dare return to face his master and fled to another place.

When Mr. and Mrs. Zhen saw that their daughter had not returned all night, they knew something was amiss. They sent several more people to search, but all returned saying they had found no trace of her. The couple had only this one daughter born to them in half a lifetime. Now that she was lost, how could they not long for her? They wept day and night, nearly driven to take their own lives.

Before a month had passed, Scholar Yinzhen fell ill. At that time, Madam Feng also fell sick from longing for their daughter, and doctors were summoned daily to treat them.

It so happened that on this day, the fifteenth of the third month, offerings were being fried in the Gourd Temple. The monks were careless, and the oil in the cauldron caught fire, which spread to the paper on the windows. The houses in this area were mostly built with bamboo fences and wooden walls — perhaps it was all due to fate — so the fire spread from one to another, linking five and connecting four, until the whole street burned like the Mountain of Fire. Although soldiers and civilians came to help, the fire had already gained such force that it could not be stopped. It burned all night before gradually dying out, and no one knew how many households had been destroyed.

Only the Zhen family, living next door, was reduced to a pile of rubble and tiles. Fortunately, the couple and a few servants escaped with their lives. Scholar Yinzhen had no choice but to stamp his feet and sigh in despair.

He consulted with his wife, and they decided to go to their country estate to settle. Unfortunately, in recent years there had been floods and droughts, and bandits had arisen everywhere, seizing land and robbing property, stealing and plundering, so that the people lived in unrest. Troops were sent to suppress them, and there was no peace to be found. Scholar Yinzhen had no choice but to convert all his estates into ready money. He then took his wife and two maidservants and went to the home of his father-in-law.

His father-in-law's name was Feng Su, a native of Daru Prefecture. Though he worked the land, his family was still well-off. When he saw his son-in-law arrive in such a wretched state, he was not pleased. Fortunately, Scholar Yinzhen still had some of the money from selling his land left over, and he entrusted Feng Su to use it to buy a modest piece of land and a house at a reasonable price, as a provision for future livelihood. But Feng Su cheated him out of most of it, giving him only some poor fields and a dilapidated house.

Scholar Yinzhen was a man of letters, unaccustomed to farming and the business of making a living. He struggled to get by for a year or two, and only grew poorer. Whenever Feng Su saw him, he would make sarcastic remarks, and behind his back he would complain to others that they did not know how to manage their affairs and were nothing but good-for-nothings who were lazy and loved their food.

Scholar Yinzhen knew he had thrown his lot in with the wrong man and could not help feeling regret. Added to this was the shock of the previous year, his anger, resentment, and grief — all these had taken their toll. A man of his years, beset by poverty and sickness, gradually began to show the signs of one whose days were numbered.

It happened that on this day, leaning on his staff, he had dragged himself to the street to take a walk and clear his mind when he saw coming from the other direction a lame Taoist priest, wild and disheveled, wearing hempen sandals and clothes patched like a quail's feathers, reciting these words:

All men long for immortality,

Yet fame and rank they cannot forget.

Where are the generals and ministers of old?

A mound of wild grass covers their graves.

All men long for immortality,

Yet silver and gold they cannot forget.

They grumble all day that they have not enough,

And when they have plenty, their eyes close in death.

All men long for immortality,

Yet their lovely wives they cannot forget.

On her lord's birthday she speaks of devotion,

But when he dies, she follows another.

All men long for immortality,

Yet their sons and grandsons they cannot forget.

Fond parents have been many since ancient times,

But filial descendants — who has ever seen them?

Zhiyin stepped forward and said, "What are you babbling about? All I can hear is 'good,' 'done,' 'good,' 'done.'" The Taoist laughed and replied, "If you can indeed hear the words 'good' and 'done,' then you may be said to understand. Know this: in all things under heaven, 'good' is 'done,' and 'done' is 'good.' If it is not done, then it is not good; if it is to be good, it must be done. That is why this song of mine is called the Song of 'Good' and 'Done.'" Zhiyin had long possessed a keen spiritual intuition, and upon hearing these words, enlightenment dawned in his heart. He laughed and said, "Wait! How about if I write an exegesis for your Song of 'Good' and 'Done'?" The Taoist laughed and said, "Go ahead, go ahead." Then Zhiyin spoke:

"A shabby, empty hall—once a bed strewn with ivory tablets; withered grass, dry willows—once a stage for song and dance. Cobwebs now drape the carved beams, and green gauze is pasted over the tattered window. What of the days when rouge was thick and powder sweet—how is it that both temples have turned to frost overnight? Only yesterday a white bone was laid to rest beneath a mound of yellow earth; tonight a mandarin duck sleeps beneath a crimson lantern in the bed curtains. Gold fills the coffers, silver fills the coffers—yet in the blink of an eye, one becomes a beggar, reviled by all. You sigh that another's life was short—little do you know that your own return is to a funeral. You instruct your sons with care—who can guarantee they will not become outlaws? You choose a nobleman for a son-in-law—who could have foreseen he would end up in a brothel? Because you thought your official cap too small, you ended up wearing canes and shackles; yesterday you pitied the thin, tattered coat for its chill, today you complain that the purple robe is too long. All is chaos—you step down from the stage and I step up, mistaking a foreign land for home. How absurd! In the end, it all comes down to sewing wedding garments for others."

The lame, mad Taoist clapped his hands upon hearing this and laughed. "A sharp exegesis! A sharp exegesis indeed!" Then Zhiyin said, "Let's go!" He snatched the Taoist's satchel from his shoulder, slung it over his own back, and without returning home, departed together with the mad Taoist, drifting away into the distance.

At once the neighborhood was set abuzz, and the people spread the tale as a piece of news. When Feng-shi heard the news, she wept until she nearly died. After much deliberation with her father, she sent people in every direction to search, but no news could be found. Having no alternative, she had no choice but to rely on her parents for their daily living. Fortunately, she still had two old maids who had served her in former days, and the three of them—mistress and maids—worked day and night sewing and selling needlework to help with her father's expenses. Though Feng Su complained daily, there was nothing he could do about it.

One day, the former Jia family's head maid was at the gate buying thread when suddenly she heard the sound of gongs clearing the way in the street. Everyone said the new magistrate had arrived to take up his post. The maid hid inside the gate to watch. She saw guards and runners passing in pairs, and then a great sedan chair carried past bearing an official in a black hat and scarlet robe. The maid was struck dumb with wonder. She thought to herself that the official looked remarkably familiar—she seemed to have seen him somewhere before. But she went back inside the house and put the matter out of her mind. That evening, just as she was about to rest, there came a sudden pounding at the door and a great clamor of voices. Many people were shouting, "The prefect of this prefecture has sent men to summon someone for questioning." When Feng Su heard this, he was so frightened he was struck dumb and wide-eyed, not knowing what calamity had befallen them.

But listen to the next chapter for the explanation.