Volume 8

Volume 8

**The Painted Horse**

A certain Cui, of Linqing, lived in abject poverty. The walls surrounding his house were in disrepair. Each morning when he rose, he would see a horse lying in the dew-drenched grass—a black coat with white markings, save that its tail was singed and ragged, as though scorched by fire. He would drive it away, but it returned each night, and he could not tell whence it came. Cui had a good friend serving as an official in Jin, and wished to go to him, but lacked a mount. He therefore caught the horse, fitted it with a bridle, and rode it off. He instructed his family, saying, "If anyone comes looking for the horse, tell them I have gone to Jin." Once on the road, the horse galloped with such speed that it covered a hundred *li* in the blink of an eye. It did not feed much on fodder at night, and Cui suspected it was ill. The next day he kept the bit tight to restrain it, yet the horse snorted and foamed at the mouth, as fierce as before. He let it run free again, and by noon they had reached Jin. When he rode into the marketplace, all who saw the horse praised it. The Prince of Jin heard of it and sought to purchase it at a high price. Cui, fearing the original owner might come looking, dared not sell it. After half a year, there was still no news, and so he sold the horse for eight hundred taels of gold to the Prince's household, then bought himself a sturdy mule for the journey home.

Later, the Prince, on urgent business, dispatched a military officer riding the horse to Linqing. The horse bolted and was pursued to Cui's eastern neighbor, where it entered a gate and vanished. The officer demanded it of the master of the house, a certain Master Zeng, who swore he had never seen it. Going inside, they found hanging on the wall a painting of a horse by Ziang. One of the horses in the painting was of exactly the exact coloring, and its tail was singed where a joss stick had burned it. Only then did they realize the horse had been a demon born of a painting. The officer could not report back to the Prince, so he brought a lawsuit against Zeng. By this time Cui, with the proceeds from the horse, had amassed a fortune of ten thousand taels. He volunteered to advance the sum to Zeng, and the officer departed. Zeng was deeply grateful, not knowing that Cui was the very man who had sold the horse.

**A Swindling Scheme**

A certain retainer of a censor happened to be standing in the marketplace when a man in fine clothes approached and struck up a conversation. Gradually he inquired of the master's surname, name, and official standing, and the retainer told him everything. The man said, "My surname is Wang; I am an inner servant in the household of a noble lady." As their talk grew warmer, he remarked, "The official world is perilous; all who hold high office attach themselves to the gates of the powerful and the imperial kin. To whom, may I ask, does your master entrust his interests?" The retainer answered, "To no one." Wang said, "That is what I call stinting on small costs while courting great calamity." The retainer asked, "To whom should he entrust them?" Wang said, "The Princess treats men with courtesy and can shelter and protect them. A certain Vice Minister rose through my patronage. If your master does not begrudge a thousand taels as a presentation gift, gaining an audience with the Princess should not be difficult." The retainer was pleased and asked where he lived. Wang pointed to a gate and said, "We share the same lane—do you not know me?" The retainer returned and reported this to the censor, who was delighted. He at once laid a grand banquet and sent the retainer to invite Wang. Wang came with pleasure. At the feast, he spoke in great detail of the Princess's temperament and daily habits, and added, "Were it not for the bond of our shared neighborhood, even a hundred taels in reward would not make me serve like an ox or a horse." The censor esteemed him all the more. At parting, they made an appointment. Wang said, "You need only prepare the goods; I shall find an opportunity to speak on your behalf, and you shall have an answer by morning or evening."

Several days passed before Wang finally arrived, riding a splendid horse of fine appearance. He told the censor, "Make haste with your preparations and go. The Princess is overwhelmed with affairs, and those seeking audience follow one upon another from morning till night—there is not a moment to be had. Now a small gap has opened; you must go at once, or you may never have another chance to see her." The censor then produced heavy gold and rich gifts and followed Wang. They wound their way for more than ten *li* until they reached the Princess's mansion, where they dismounted and waited. Wang entered first with the presentation gifts. After a long while, he emerged and announced, "The Princess summons the censor." Several attendants relayed the summons in succession. The censor entered in a humble crouch. He saw, seated on a high dais, a beautiful woman of immortal countenance, her garments blazing with splendor; her handmaidens, all dressed in brocade and silk, stood in rows. The censor prostrated himself and performed all due rites. He was commanded to be seated beneath the eaves, and a golden bowl of tea was served. The Princess spoke a few gracious words, and the censor withdrew with solemn respect. From within were bestowed upon him a gift of satin boots and a marten-fur hat.

After returning home, the censor was deeply grateful to Wang and went with a calling card to thank him, but the gate was shut and no one was there. He supposed Wang had not yet returned from attending his mistress. He visited three times over three days, but never saw him. He sent someone to inquire at the gates of the noble household, but found the high doors bolted and sealed. When he asked the residents, they all said, "There has never been a noble lady here. Some people rented the house for a few days, but they departed three days ago." The messenger returned with this news, and master and servant could only sigh in despair.

A certain deputy general, carrying substantial funds, went to the capital seeking to obtain a military commission, but found no means to do so. One day, a man dressed in fine furs and riding a splendid horse came to pay him his respects. He said, "My brother-in-law serves as an attendant close to the Son of Heaven." After tea had been served, he asked to speak in private and said, "At present there is a vacancy for a general in such-and-such a place. If you are not reluctant to part with a considerable sum, I will ask my brother-in-law to speak favorably of you before the Sacred Sovereign. The appointment can be secured, and no man of great influence will be able to take it from you." The general suspected he was speaking wildly. The man said, "There is no need to hesitate. I merely wish to extract a small share for my brother-in-law; from you, sir, I expect not a single coin. Agree on a certain sum, draw up a promissory note as proof. After the audience is granted, then you make the real payment. If it fails, your gold is still in your possession—who could snatch it from your bosom?" The general was delighted and agreed. The following day, the man returned and led the general to meet his brother-in-law, whose surname, he said, was Tian. He was as imposing and magnificent as a noble of the highest rank. The general paid his respects, but Tian looked upon him with great arrogance and showed him scant courtesy. The man held up the promissory note and said to the general, "I have just discussed the matter with my brother-in-law; nothing less than ten thousand taels will do. Please sign at the bottom at once." The general complied. Tian said, "The human heart is unpredictable; I fear there may be a reversal afterward." The man laughed and said, "Brother, you worry too much. If he can grant it, surely he can also take it away. Moreover, among the generals and ministers at court, there are those who would gladly seek his friendship but cannot obtain it. The general's prospects are still far-reaching; surely he would not lose his heart to such a degree." The general also swore earnestly and departed. The man escorted him out and said, "In three days I shall give you a reply."

Before two days had passed, the sun was still in the west when several men came rushing in with a great clamor, saying, "The Emperor awaits you!" The general was greatly alarmed and hastened to enter the palace. He saw the Son of Heaven seated upon the throne, his guards standing in fierce array. The general performed his obeisance. The Emperor commanded that he be seated and spoke to him with warm solicitude. Glancing at those around him, he said, "I have heard that this man's martial valor is extraordinary; now that I see him, he is truly the talent of a general!" He then said, "Such-and-such a place is a strategic point; I now entrust it to you. Do not betray my trust, and a marquisate shall be yours before long." The General thanked the favor and withdrew. Immediately the man in fine furs from the previous day followed him to his lodging and departed after receiving the payment according to the promissory note. Thereupon the general lay upon his high pillow awaiting his commission, daily boasting of his glory to his friends and relatives. After several days, he made inquiries and learned that the vacancy had already been filled by another. Fiercely enraged, he stormed into the Ministry of War and protested, "I received the Emperor's own commission—how could it be given to another?" The Minister of War was astonished. When the general recounted the imperial favor he had received, it sounded half like a dream. The Minister of War was furious and had him arrested and handed over to the Court of Judicial Review. Only then did he reveal the name of the man who had arranged the audience—but no such person existed at court. After squandering a further ten thousand taels, he was at last dismissed from his post and allowed to leave.

How strange! Though military officers may be dull-witted, can the imperial gates be counterfeited as well? I suspect that some form of sorcery was at work here—an instance of what is called "the great brigand needs no spear or bow."

# The Liao Zhai Zhi Yi, Volume 8

## The Qin

There was a Mr. Li of Jiaxiang who was skilled at playing the qin. One day, while visiting the eastern suburbs, he happened to see a laborer digging up earth and unearthing an old qin. He purchased it for a pittance. When he wiped it clean, it emitted an unusual luster; he strummed its strings and found its tone extraordinarily clear and piercing. Overjoyed, he treasured it as though he had obtained a great jade disc, storing it in a brocade pouch and hiding it in a secret room — not even his closest relatives were permitted to see it.

The county magistrate, Cheng, had just arrived in office and sent his calling card to pay a visit to Li. Li was by nature unsociable, but since Cheng had taken the initiative, he returned the courtesy. A few days later, Cheng invited him to a feast; Li declined repeatedly but finally went. Cheng was a man of supreme elegance and refinement, his conversation free and spirited, and Li was delighted. The following day, Li reciprocated with an invitation of his own, and their friendship grew ever closer. From then on, on moonlit evenings and flowery mornings, they were scarcely ever apart.

More than a year passed. One day, Li happened to see a brocade pouch containing a qin placed on a table in the magistrate's office. Li unrolled it and examined it. Cheng asked, "Are you also versed in this art?" Li replied, "It is my lifelong favorite." Cheng said in surprise, "We have been close friends for more than a day — why have I never heard your extraordinary skill?" He stirred the brazier, burned al沉香, and asked Li to play a short piece. Li complied respectfully as bidden. Cheng said, "A true master! Allow me to offer my humble skill — do not laugh at the lesser witch." He then played the "Riding the Wind" melody; its notes were crystalline and pure, conveying a sense of transcending the mortal world. Li was utterly captivated and wished to become his disciple. From then on, the two men bonded through the qin, and their affection deepened. After more than a year, Cheng had taught him all his techniques. Yet whenever Cheng visited Li, Li provided only an ordinary qin and never revealed the one he had hidden.

One evening, after drinking lightly, the magistrate said, "I have recently practiced a new piece — would you perhaps like to hear it?" He played "The Xiang River Consorts," its notes mournful as weeping. Li praised it profusely. Cheng said, "My only regret is the lack of a fine qin; if I had a superior instrument, the tonal quality would be even more remarkable." Li said eagerly, "I have a qin in my collection that is quite unlike ordinary pieces. Now that I have met my Zhong Zhi, how could I keep it hidden forever?" He opened the chest, shouldered the pouch, and brought it out. Cheng brushed the dust away with his sleeve, leaned on the table, and played again — firm and yielding in perfect measure, the craftsmanship divine and sublime. Li beat time in unending appreciation. Cheng said, "My meager skill does not do justice to this fine qin. If I could hear a master from Jing play, there might be one or two notes worth listening to." Li asked in astonishment, "Is someone in your household also skilled in this art?" Cheng smiled and said, "This piece I just played was actually taught to me by my wife." Li said, "What a pity she is in the women's quarters — this young man cannot hear her." Cheng said, "We are family friends — there should be no barriers between us. Tomorrow, please bring your qin, and I will have her play for you from behind the curtain." Li was pleased. The next day, he carried his qin and went. Cheng immediately prepared a feast and they drank joyfully. After a while, he took the qin inside, then came out and sat down. Soon they saw the shadow of an elegant figure behind the curtain; moments later, fragrance drifted outside the door. Shortly after, the faint sound of strings was heard — they could not tell what melody it was, but it stirred the heart and enchanted the bones, making one's very soul soar. When the piece ended, she came to peer through the curtain — she was in truth one of the twenty most beautiful women of the age. Cheng urged Li to drain his large cup, and from within she changed the strings and played the "Ridle of Leisurely Passions"; Li's body and spirit were even more entranced. He drank to excess, rose from his seat, and took his leave, asking for his qin. Cheng said, "After drinking, one must be careful of mishaps. Come again tomorrow, and I will have the lady in my household display all her abilities." Li returned home. The next day he went to visit, but the magistrate's office was silent and desolate, with only an old gatekeeper answering the door. When asked, the man said, "He left at the fifth watch with his family — no one knows why. He said he would be gone about three days." Li went at the appointed time to wait for him, but by evening there was still no word. The clerks and servants all grew suspicious and reported to the magistrate, who ordered the door broken open to inspect the room. The room was completely empty — only the tables and couches remained. The matter was reported to higher authorities, but no one could determine what had happened. Li lost his qin and could neither sleep nor eat. He traveled no less than a thousand li to seek out Cheng's family. — Cheng was originally from Hubei. Three years earlier, he had purchased an appointment as magistrate of Jiaxiang. — Li took his name and inquired about his residence, but no such person existed in Hubei. Someone said, "There was a Daoist priest named Cheng who was skilled at playing the qin; it was also said he possessed the art of turning base metal into gold. Three years ago, he suddenly left and was never seen again." Li suspected this was the same man. Upon carefully examining his age and appearance, they matched without error. Thus he understood that the priest had taken office solely for the sake of the qin. After more than a year of friendship, he never once mentioned music; gradually he revealed the qin, gradually he demonstrated his skill, and gradually he enticed Li with a beautiful woman. After three years of slow infiltration, he obtained the qin and departed. The priest's obsession was even greater than Li's own. The world's schemes of deception are manifold, but this priest was among the most elegant of deceivers.

## Releasing Butterflies

When Wang Minsheng, a jinshi of Changshan, served as magistrate, whenever he heard cases, he would impose penalties according to the severity of the law, ordering the guilty to pay a fine in butterflies to redeem themselves; hundreds and thousands were released together in the hall, like wind-tossed fragments of brocade, and Wang would slap the table and laugh heartily. One night, he dreamed of a woman, magnificently dressed, who entered gracefully and said, "Under your cruel administration, many of my sisters have perished. I shall make you suffer a small punishment befitting your romantic ways." Having spoken, she transformed into a butterfly and fluttered away. The next day, he was drinking alone in his office when suddenly a messenger arrived announcing the arrival of the imperial inspector. Wang rushed out in alarm, and his wife, as a joke, stuck a white flower in his hat, which he forgot to remove. The inspector saw it and took it as disrespect, berated him severely, and left. From then on, the order to pay fines in butterflies was stopped.

Yu Chongyin of Qingcheng was by nature unrestrained and eccentric. While serving as a judicial official, during the Lantern Festival, he tied firecrackers and fireworks all over a donkey, head and tail, and led it to the prefect's gate, beating a watchman's rattle and announcing, "I present a fire donkey — I hope you will come out and view it." At the time, the prefect's beloved son was suffering from smallpox, and his spirits were low, so he declined. Yu insisted. The prefect had no choice but to order the gatekeeper to unlock the door. The moment the gate opened, Yu set off the fuse and pushed the donkey inside. The explosions startled the donkey, which kicked and bolted in a mad gallop; flying sparks also shot at the people, and no one dared approach. The donkey charged through halls and into rooms, smashing jars and rice pots; wherever the fire touched, things turned to dust, and the window screens were all burned to ashes. The household erupted in uproar. The smallpox-stricken child was so frightened that he sank into a coma and died that night. The prefect was filled with hatred and was about to submit an impeachment. Yu begged various officials to intercede, went to the prefect's hall, and bared his back with thorns as a sign of penance, and was thereby pardoned.

## A Man Gives Birth to Sons

Yang Fu, a regional commander of Fujian, had a beautiful boy in his household whose belly began to move. After ten months had passed, he dreamed of a divine being who cut open his two flanks. When he awoke, two baby boys were crying on either side of him. He looked at his flanks and found the incision marks clearly visible. He named the boys Heaven's Gift and Earth's Gift.

The Historian of the Strange remarks: "This concerns events that occurred before the rebellion of the Wu vassal. When Wu had already rebelled, the Fujian Governor, Cai, suspected Yang of plotting against him and feared he might foment disorder, so he summoned him on a pretext. Yang's wife was by nature wise and brave; she sensed something amiss and tried to dissuade Yang from going. Yang would not listen. His wife saw him off with tears. Upon returning, she rallied all the generals, donned armor, and sharpened weapons, awaiting news. Before long, word arrived that her husband had been put to death. She then turned her forces against Cai. Cai, in panic, did not know what to do. Fortunately, the garrison troops held firm, and she withdrew when she could not prevail. Only after she had gone a great distance did Cai finally emerge in full armor and lead his men in a great clamor. People passed the story around as a joke. Several years later, the rebels finally submitted to pacification. Shortly thereafter, Cai died suddenly. As he lay dying, he saw Yang leading soldiers in through the doorway, and those at his side saw it as well. Alas! Though his ghost was formidable, his head could never be reattached! Was the birth of that monstrous child an omen of this very thing?"

Zhong Sheng

# From *Liaozhai*, Volume 8

Zhong Qingyu was a renowned scholar of Liaodong. He went to Jinan to sit for the provincial examination. He heard that there was a Daoist at the princely mansion who could foretell fortune and misfortune, and his heart was drawn to him. After the second session, he went to Baotu Spring, where he happened to encounter the man. The Daoist was over sixty, with a beard that reached past his chest—a white-haired, venerable priest. A crowd of people gathered around him asking about calamities and blessings, and the Daoist answered them all with subtle words. Catching sight of Qingyu among the throng, he grasped his hand with delight and said, "Your moral character and conduct are most admirable!" He led him up into a pavilion, dismissed those around them, and asked, "Would you like to know your future?" "Yes," said Qingyu. "Your fortune is exceedingly thin, yet this year you may hope for success in the provincial examination. But after your glorious return, I fear you will not see your honored mother again." Qingyu was a man of utmost filial piety; upon hearing this, he wept and resolved to abandon the examination and go home. The Daoist said, "If you pass up this opportunity, you will not even obtain a single place on the list." Qingyu replied, "If my mother dies and I do not see her, I cannot even be called a man. What good would it do me to become a high minister?" The Daoist said, "I have been connected with you by fate in a former life. Today I must do all in my power to help you." He then gave him a pill and said, "Have someone take it through the night. If she takes it, her life can be extended by seven days. After the examination is over and you set out, you will still be able to see her." Qingyu hid the pill and hurried out, his mind in turmoil. He reckoned that since the end of her days was fixed, returning one day earlier would mean one more day of caring for her. He took his servant, hired a donkey, and set off at once toward the east. After they had gone about a *li*, the donkey suddenly turned and bolted back. When he dismounted, it would not be controlled; when he tried to guide it, it kicked. Qingyu was at his wits' end, sweating profusely. The servant urged him to stop, but Qingyu would not listen. He hired another donkey, but it behaved the same way. The sun was already sinking behind the mountains, and he did not know what to do. The servant urged him again, saying, "Tomorrow the examination will be finished. Why struggle over a single day or night? Let us go ahead as planned—that would be a wise course." Having no choice, he followed this advice. The next day, he hastily completed the examination and set out immediately, without pausing even to drink or rest, racing home like a star. His mother's illness was critical, but after taking the medicine, she gradually recovered. He went in to see her and wept by her bedside. She shook her head to stop him, took his hand, and said joyfully, "Just now I dreamed I was in the underworld and saw the King, whose countenance was mild and serene. He said that upon reviewing my life, I had committed no great sins; and now, moved by your pure filial devotion, he has granted me twelve more years of life." Qingyu was overjoyed. After several days, she was indeed restored to her former health. Before long, word came that he had passed the examination. He took leave of his mother and went to Jinan. He bribed a palace eunuch to convey his regards to the Daoist. The Daoist came out gladly, and Qingyu prostrated himself before him. The Daoist said, "You have achieved high success, and your mother has been granted additional years of life—all this is due to your great virtue. What power does a mere priest have in such matters?" Qingyu was also astonished by his foreknowledge and asked about the rest of his life. The Daoist said, "You will not attain great eminence, but you will live to a ripe old age. In a former life, you and I were fellow monks. You threw a stone at a dog and accidentally killed a frog. The frog has now been reborn as a donkey. By the reckoning of fate, you should have met with a violent death. But now your filial virtue has moved the gods, and a star of deliverance has entered your destiny, so you will be safe. However, your wife was unfaithful as a woman in her former life, and by fate she should have been widowed young. Now that you have extended your own life through virtue, she is no longer your proper match, and I fear that within a year her terrace of jade will collapse." Qingyu was deeply moved for a long time and asked where his future second wife was. "In Zhongzhou," said the Daoist. "She is fourteen years now." As Qingyu was about to leave, the Daoist admonished him, "If you encounter a crisis, flee toward the southeast."

More than a year later, his wife fell ill and died as predicted. Qingyu's uncle was an official in Xijiang, and his mother sent him to visit his uncle, so that on the way he could pass through Zhongzhou to fulfill the prophecy about his second wife. He happened to come to a village where an opera performance was being held by the river, with a great crowd of men and women. He was about to gather his reins and ride past when an unbridled male donkey followed alongside him, causing his mule to stumble. Qingyu turned and struck the donkey's ear with his whip. The donkey panicked and bolted. At that moment, a young prince of about six or seven years old was being held in his nursemaid's arms, sitting on the embankment. The donkey charged past; the attendants were unable to prevent it, and the child was knocked into the river. There was a great uproar, and they tried to seize Qingyu. He spurred his mule and galloped away. Suddenly remembering the Daoist's words, he rode with all his might toward the southeast. After about twenty *li*, he came to a mountain village. An old man was at the gate. Qingyu dismounted and bowed to him. The old man invited him in, gave his surname as Fang, and asked where he had come from. Qingyu knelt and told him everything. The old man said, "It is no matter. Please stay here for now; I will send someone to find out what has happened." When news came that evening, he learned that the child was the prince. The old man was greatly alarmed and said, "In an ordinary family, something could be done, but in this case, truly there is no help!" Qingyu wept without cease. The old man pondered and said, "Nothing can be done. Stay the night, and we shall see how things develop—perhaps there may be another plan." Qingyu was filled with grief and terror and did not sleep all night. The next day he made inquiries and learned that an order had been issued for a strict search, and anyone who harbored the fugitive would be executed in the marketplace. The old man looked troubled and went inside without a word. Qingyu was suspicious and frightened, unable to find peace. In the middle of the night, the old man came, sat down, and asked, "How old is your wife?" Qingyu told him he was a widower. The old man was pleased and said, "My plan will succeed!" When asked about it, he replied, "My brother-in-law is devoted to the Dao and has taken up residence as a monk on South Mountain. My sister has also passed away. She left behind an orphan daughter, raised by servants, who is quite clever. How would she do as a wife?" Qingyu was delighted that this matched the Daoist's words, and moreover hoped that having a close relative nearby might help him devise a plan. He said, "I would indeed be most fortunate. But a fugitive from afar—I deeply fear I would bring trouble upon you, sir." The old man said, "This plan is for your sake. My brother-in-law's Daoist arts are quite extraordinary, but he has long withdrawn from worldly affairs. After the wedding, you and my niece can discuss the matter together—surely a plan will be found." Qingyu was overjoyed and became a live-in son-in-law. The girl was sixteen, of unrivaled beauty. Qingyu often sighed when he looked at her. The girl said, "Though I am plain, why do you show such immediate dislike?" Qingyu apologized and said, "You are an immortal, and to be matched with you is my fortune. But I have troubles that I fear may lead to our separation." He then told her the truth. The girl was angry and said, "My uncle is no man! This is a catastrophe as vast as the sky—nothing can be done about it. And yet he did not speak plainly, but cast me into this pit!" Qingyu knelt and said, "It was I who begged your uncle for my life, and he, in his compassion but at the end of his resources, knew that you could raise the dead and flesh dead bones. I am truly not worthy of a fine match, but my family is not without honor. If I am granted life again, I will offer incense and flowers in your honor for the rest of my days." The girl sighed and said, "Since things have come to this, what more is there to say? But my father has shaved his head and entered the monastery—his love for his children is already severed. Still, let us go together together and plead with him. I fear we will not escape humiliation, however." That night she did not sleep. She made thick knee pads from felt and cotton, and each of them concealed them on their persons.

**Under the Garment**

……Then he called a sedan-chair and entered the South Mountains for about ten li. The mountain path was twisted and perilous, and they could no longer ride. They alighted from the chair. The woman found every step difficult; the man took her arm and pulled her along, stumbling and struggling before they finally reached the top. Not far off they saw the temple gate, and sat together to rest a little. The woman was panting and streaming with sweat, her powder and kohl running down her face. The man could not bear to see it and said, "Because of me, I have brought you through such suffering!" The woman said gravely, "I fear this is not yet suffering!" When her fatigue had somewhat eased, they went together into the Buddhist monastery, paid their respects to the Buddha, and proceeded further. Winding their way into the meditation hall, they saw an old monk sitting cross-legged, his eyes as if closed, a boy holding a fly-whisk attending him. The abbot's quarters were swept and spotless, but spread before the seat was gravel, thick as the stars. The woman dared not choose her steps and knelt upon it; the man followed and knelt behind her. The monk opened his eyes, glanced once, and closed them again. The woman said in salutation, "I have not visited for a long time. Now my daughter is married, so I have come with her husband." After a long while, the monk opened his eyes and said, "This girl has been a great trouble to people!" and spoke no more. The husband and wife knelt for a long time, their strength nearly exhausted, the gravel pressing into their bones, the pain unbearable. After some time had passed, he said, "Has the mule been brought?" The woman replied, "Not yet." He said, "The husband and wife may leave, but bring it quickly at once." The two rose from their bows and set off in a wretched state. When they returned, they did as commanded, not understanding the meaning, but submitting to his will. After several days, word came that the guilty man had been captured and executed. The husband and wife congratulated each other. Before long, a boy from the mountain came and gave the man a broken staff, saying, "The one who died in your place—this is he." He instructed them to bury it and offer sacrifice, to appease the grievance of the bamboo and wood. The man looked and saw where it had been broken there were bloodstains. He prayed over it and buried it. The husband and wife dared not stay long; they returned to Liaoyang by night.

**Ghost Wife**

Nie Pengyun of Taian and his wife lived in the greatest harmony. His wife fell ill and died. Nie sat and lay down in grief, bereft and lost. One evening, as he sat alone, his wife suddenly pushed the door open and entered. Nie asked in alarm, "Where have you come from?" She smiled and said, "I am already a ghost. Moved by your mourning, I tearfully petitioned the lord of the underworld and obtained permission to meet you in secret." Nie was overjoyed and led her to the bed, and everything was no different as before. From then on, they met when the stars parted and the moon waned, and this went on for over a year. Nie no longer spoke of taking a wife. His uncles, brothers, and cousins, fearing the line would end, privately urged him to remarry; Nie agreed and became betrothed to a woman of good family. But fearing his wife would not approve, he kept it secret. Before long, the wedding day drew near. The ghost learned of it and reproached him: "Because of your righteousness, I braved the punishment of the underworld. Now you break your pledge—is this how a man of feeling behaves?" Nie explained the wishes of his clan. The ghost was displeased to the end and departed. Nie pitied her, but considered his plan justified. On the wedding night, as husband and wife lay in bed together, the ghost suddenly arrived and struck the new wife on the bed, shouting furiously, "How dare you take my bed!" The new wife rose and tried to resist. Nie crouched in terror, not daring to take either side. Before long, the cock crowed, and the ghost departed. The new wife suspected that Nie's first wife had not in fact died and had deceived her, and she tried to hang herself. Nie explained at length, and the new wife then knew it was a ghost. The ghost came again at dusk. The new wife fled in fear. The ghost also did not sleep with Nie, but only pinched their flesh with her fingers; then she sat facing him by the candle, glaring angrily in silence. This went on for several nights. Nie was troubled. In a nearby village there was a man skilled in sorcery. He cut peach wood into pegs and drove them into the four corners of the grave, and the strange occurrences ceased.

**General Huang**

When Huang Jingnan—later known as De Gong—was still of low station, he set out for the capital with two provincial graduates. On the road they encountered bandits. The graduates were terrified and knelt, offering their money. Huang was furious. Having no weapon, he seized a mule with both hands by its hooves and hurled it at them. The bandits were caught off guard; their horses fell and they tumbled from their saddles. Huang beat them until their arms were broken, retrieved the money pouch, and returned the graduates. The graduates admired his courage and urged him to join the army. He later distinguished himself many times over and eventually wore the jade belt of high rank.

**Three-Dynasties Grand Minister**

A certain Grand Minister had been a prime minister under the previous dynasty. He had surrendered to the rebel bandits, and the world condemned him. In his old age he retired to the countryside. When his memorial hall was completed, several men kept watch in it overnight. At dawn, they saw a plaque above the hall reading "Three-Dynasties Grand Minister," with a couplet reading: "One two three four five six seven; filial piety, fraternal duty, loyalty, trust, propriety, righteousness, integrity." No one knew when it had been hung. They were puzzled and could not understand its meaning. Someone interpreted it: "The first line conceals 'lost eight' [wang ba—a pun on 'traitor']; the second line conceals 'without shame' [wu chi]." When the Commander-in-Chief Hong returned triumphant from his southern campaign and reached Jinling, he performed rites to offer sacrifices to the fallen soldiers. A former disciple came to pay his respects. After bowing, he presented a literary composition. Hong had long wearied of literary matters and declined, pleading failing eyesight. The man said, "Please just sit and listen. Allow me to read it aloud for your hearing." He then drew the composition from his sleeve and read it aloud in a loud voice—it was a sacrifice text composed by the Chongzhen Emperor of the former Ming dynasty, honoring those who had died for Hong at Liaoyang. When he finished reading, he wept loudly and departed.

**Medical Skill**

**Zhang the Physician**

A man surnamed Zhang was a poor commoner of Yi. On the road he met a Daoist priest skilled in physiognomy, who examined his face and said, "You should be able to make a fortune through a profession." Zhang asked, "What should I pursue?" The Daoist looked him over again and said, "Medicine would do." Zhang said, "I can barely recognize a handful of characters—how could I manage that?" The Daoist smiled and said, "How narrow-minded! What need has a famous doctor for literacy? Just go ahead and practice." After returning home, too poor to make a living, he gathered together various folk remedies from the coastal regions. He then cleared a space in the marketplace to set up a shop, arranging fish-gall and honeycomb displays, hoping to earn a meager living by his wares—yet no people thought anything remarkable of him.

It happened that the prefect of Qingzhou was ill with a cough and issued orders to his subordinate districts to seek out physicians. Yi was a remote mountain district with few medical practitioners. The magistrate, anxious that he might have no one to send and thus fail in his duty, pressured the village headmen to report someone on their own. Together they put forward Zhang. The magistrate summoned him immediately. Zhang himself was suffering from phlegm and wheezing and could not even cure himself; when he received the order, he was greatly frightened and firmly declined. The magistrate would not listen and eventually sent him off by post carriage.

His route passed through deep mountains. He was desperately thirsty and his cough grew worse. He entered a village to beg for water, but the villagers valued their water as highly as jade liquor; he begged everywhere, but no one would give him any. He saw a woman straining wild vegetables—there were many vegetables but little water, and the liquid in her jar was thick and turbid like phlegm. Zhang, parched and at his wit's end, begged to drink the dregs. Shortly after, his thirst was relieved and his cough stopped at once. He thought to himself in secret: this must be a fine remedy!

By the time he reached the prefecture, physicians from various counties had already tried their treatments with no improvement. Zhang entered and asked for a private room, then fabricated a list of medicines which he circulated to those inside and outside. He also sent people to gather various coarse greens from among the common folk, processed them according to the method he had discovered, and presented the resulting juice to the prefect. After one dose, the illness was completely cured. The prefect was overjoyed, bestowed rich rewards upon him, and honored him with a gilded plaque. From this his name became greatly renowned; his gate was constantly like a marketplace, and every treatment he administered proved effective.

A man suffering from a cold damage disorder came and asked for a prescription based on his symptoms. Zhang happened to be drunk and mistakenly gave him a remedy for malarial fever. When he sobered up and realized his error, he dared not tell anyone. Three days later, a man arrived in grand style at his gate to offer thanks. Upon inquiry, it turned out to be the cold damage patient, who had vomited and purged greatly and recovered. There were many cases of this kind. Zhang thus became a man of independent means and, valuing his reputation all the more highly, would not accept any engagement unless accompanied by a generous fee and a comfortable sedan chair.

**Han the Physician of Yidu**

An old man surnamed Han of Yidu was a famous physician. Before he had made his name, he peddled medicines in all four directions. One evening he had nowhere to lodge and sought shelter at a household, only to find that the family's son was dying of a cold damage disorder. He was asked to administer treatment. Han thought that if he did not treat the boy, there was nowhere else he could go, yet he truly had no method to cure him. He paced back and forth in agitation, rubbing his hands over his body; the grime came off in flakes, which he rolled into a pill. It suddenly occurred to him that he could deceive them with this—it would do no harm at any rate. Even if the boy did not recover by morning, at least he would have earned a good night's sleep and a full meal. So he gave the pill to the patient.

In the middle of the night, the household master pounded on the door urgently. Han supposed the son had died and feared he would be accused and abused; in a panic he rose, vaulted the wall, and fled swiftly. The master pursued him for several li. Han had nowhere to escape and finally stopped. Only then did he learn that the patient had sweated and recovered. The master brought him back and entertained him with a lavish feast; at his departure, he gave him generous gifts.

**The Hidden Lice**

A certain villager was once sitting beneath a tree when he caught a louse. He wrapped it in a scrap of paper, stuffed it into a hole in the tree, and went on his way. Two or three years later, he passed that place again and suddenly remembered it. He looked and found the paper wrapping in the hole just as before. He opened it to examine the louse, which was thin as wheat bran. He placed it in his palm and inspected it closely. After a while, his palm itched unbearably, and the louse's belly gradually swelled. He put it down and went home. The itching spot grew into a hard lump; it swelled for several days, and he died.

**The Wolves in the Dream**

Old Bai was a man of Zhili Province. His eldest son, Jia, had taken up an official post in the south, and for three years no word had come from him. It happened that a certain Ding, a distant relation by marriage, came to pay a call, and Old Bai entertained him. Ding was in the habit of journeying to the world of the dead. During their conversation, Old Bai kept asking him about matters of the underworld, and Ding's replies were full of phantasmagoria; Old Bai did not put much faith in them, but merely smiled faintly. Several days after their parting, Old Bai was lying down when he saw Ding come again, inviting him to go out together. He followed him and they entered a walled city. After a while, Ding pointed to a gate and said, "Your sister's son is here." Now Old Bai had a nephew who was serving as a magistrate in Jin, and he said in surprise, "What is he doing here?" Ding said, "If you don't believe me, go in and you will know." Old Bai went in and indeed saw his nephew, wearing his official cap and embroidered robe, seated upon the hall, with halberds and banners arrayed in rows, and no one who could gain admittance. Ding pulled him out and said, "The young master's yamen is not far from this place. Would you like to see it too?" Old Bai agreed. Shortly afterward, they arrived at a mansion, and Ding said, "Go in." Peering through the gate, Old Bai saw a great wolf blocking the road ahead. Terrified, he dared not advance. Ding said again, "Go in." He entered another gate and saw that those seated and lying about, both above and below the hall, were all wolves. He then looked at the courtyard and saw a mountain of white bones. His fear grew even greater. Ding then shielded Old Bai with his own body and urged him forward. His son Jia came out from within and was overjoyed to see his father and Ding. After sitting for a while, he summoned his servants to prepare food and dishes. Suddenly a great wolf came in, carrying a dead person in its mouth. Old Bai trembled with fright and rose to his feet, saying, "What is this for?" Jia said, "It will do for the kitchen." Old Bai urgently forbade it. His heart pounding with anxiety, he wished to leave, but a pack of wolves blocked the road. Caught between advance and retreat, with no idea what to do, he suddenly saw all the wolves howling and fleeing in confusion—some darting under the bed, some hiding beneath the table. He was bewildered and could not understand the cause. Presently, two fierce warriors in golden armor strode in with blazing eyes, produced black ropes, and bound Jia. Jia threw himself to the ground and transformed into a tiger, his teeth jagged and sharp. One of the men drew a keen sword and was about to behead him. The other said, "Wait, wait—this is a matter for the fourth month of next year. For now, let us simply knock out his teeth." He then produced a great hammer and struck the tiger's teeth, which fell scattered to the ground. The tiger roared with a sound that shook the mountains. Old Bai was greatly frightened and suddenly awoke—it had been a dream. He was troubled in mind by it and sent someone to summon Ding, but Ding declined to come. Old Bai recorded his dream and dispatched his second son to visit Jia, sending with him a letter of admonition filled with grief and earnestness. When the younger brother arrived, he found that his elder brother had lost all his front teeth. Shocked, he asked what had happened, and learned that Jia had fallen from a horse while drunk and broken them. He checked the date and found it was the very day of their father's dream. He was even more alarmed. He presented his father's letter. Jia read it and changed countenance, but after a moment said, "It is merely a chance coincidence with a fanciful dream—nothing to wonder about." At that time he was bribing those in power and had obtained the highest recommendation, so he paid no heed to the ominous dream. The younger brother stayed for several days and saw that corrupt clerks filled the halls, and those offering bribes and interceding on behalf of others came ceaselessly through the night. He wept and remonstrated with Jia to stop. Jia said, "You live all day in a humble thatched cottage, so you do not understand the workings of an official career. The power of promotion and demotion lies with the high authorities, not with the common people. If the high authorities are pleased, one is a good official; but what method is there to make the high authorities love the people?" Knowing that he could not persuade or stop him, the younger brother returned home and told their father. Old Bai heard this and wept bitterly. There was nothing he could do; he could only give away his family's wealth to relieve the poor and pray to the gods every day, begging only that the retribution for his unfilial son would not extend to his wife and children. The following year, word came that Jia had been recommended for appointment to the Ministry of Personnel, and those offering congratulations filled the door. Old Bai only sighed and took to his bed, feigning illness and refusing to receive visitors. Before long, he heard that his son had been set upon by bandits on his journey home, and both master and servants had lost their lives. Old Bai then rose and said to others, "The wrath of the ghosts and gods reached only his own person—the protection shown to the rest of our family cannot be called anything but profound." Thereupon he burned incense and gave thanks. Those who tried to comfort Old Bai all believed the report to be a rumor spread along the road, but Old Bai was utterly convinced and set a date to prepare a grave for him.—But Jia was not in fact dead. Earlier, in the fourth month, Jia had relinquished his post and had just left the district when he was set upon by bandits. Jia offered them all his baggage and valuables. The bandits said, "We have come to vent the grievances of the people of this entire county—did we come only for this?" And they cut off his head. They then asked his household, "Who is Si Dacheng?"—Si had been Jia's trusted aide, one who had helped the tyrant in his cruelties.—The household members all pointed him out. The bandits killed him too. There were also four corrupt clerks—Jia's ministers of extortion, whom he had been bringing with him to the capital.—They searched them out, executed them all, divided the spoils among themselves, and galloped away. Jia's spirit crouched by the roadside and saw a high official passing by. The official asked, "Who is the one who was killed?" The advance guard replied, "The magistrate Bai of a certain county." The official said, "This is the son of a certain Bai. It would not be right to let an old man see such a gruesome end—his head should be reattached." Immediately someone took the head and placed it upon the neck, saying, "A wicked man should not be made whole; let it rest upon the shoulder." And they departed. After a while, Jia revived. His wife and children went to collect his body and found that he still had a faint breath, so they carried him with them. They carefully gave him liquid to drink, and he was able to swallow. But they lodged only at an inn, being too poor to return home. About half a year later, Old Bai at last received definite news and sent his second son to bring Jia home. Though Jia lived again, his eyes could see only his own back, and he was no longer counted among men. Old Bai's nephew, who had a reputation for good governance, was summoned to court that same year and appointed as an investigating censor—exactly as the dream had foretold.

The Historian of the Strange remarks: "I sigh in secret to think that officials who are tigers and clerks who are wolves are found everywhere in this world.—Even if the officials are not tigers, the clerks will become tigers, to say nothing of those fiercer than tigers! The trouble with men is simply that they cannot see their own backs; that after revival they are made to see them—subtle indeed is the teaching of the ghosts and gods!"

Li Jinkuang of Zouping, a presented scholar, was known for his integrity and discernment as an official. A wealthy man was once framed by enemies. The gate servant of the magistrate's office intimidated him: "The magistrate demands two hundred taels of silver from you. You had best prepare them quickly, or you are ruined!" The wealthy man, terrified, promised to provide half the sum. The servant shook his head—unacceptable. The wealthy man pleaded piteously. The servant said, "I shall certainly do my utmost, but I fear the magistrate will not consent. When you are brought for questioning, you will see me plead your case before him. Whether he agrees or not will make clear that my intentions are entirely honest." Presently, the magistrate took up the case. The servant, knowing that Li abstained from smoking, approached and asked: "Will you have a smoke?" Li shook his head. The servant then hastened back and said: "I just stated your offer, and the magistrate shook his head in refusal—did you not see?" The wealthy man believed him and, in terror, agreed to the full sum. The servant, knowing that Li was fond of tea, again approached and asked: "Will you have some tea?" Li nodded. The servant, on the pretext of brewing tea, hastened back and said: "It is settled! He just nodded his assent—did you not see?" When the case was concluded, the wealthy man was indeed acquitted. The servant thereupon pocketed his bribe and demanded a further reward. Alas! The magistrate thought himself upright, yet those who reviled his greed filled the road. Here was one who unleashed wolves and knew it not. There are many such cases in the world—let them serve as a mirror for all who hold office.

---

**Night Illumination**

A merchant was sailing upon the South Sea. At the third watch, the boat grew brilliantly bright as dawn. He rose to look and saw a great creature, its upper half rising from the water like a mountain peak. Its eyes were like two suns newly risen, their radiance shooting in every direction, illuminating the whole earth. He asked the boatmen in terror, but none knew what it was. They all crouched and watched. After a time, it gradually shrank back into the water, and darkness returned. Later, when they reached Minzhong, all spoke of a certain night that had grown bright and then dim again, passing it around as a marvel. Calculating the time, it was the very night the strange sight had appeared on the boat.

---

**Summer Snow**

On the sixth day of the seventh month in the year Dinghai, heavy snow fell in Suzhou. The people were alarmed and terrified, and together they prayed in the temple of the Great King. The Great King suddenly possessed a man and spoke: "Nowadays, those who call others 'Master' all add the character 'Great.' Do they think my deity is too small to merit a 'Great'?" The crowd was awestruck and cried out in unison, "Great Master!" The snow stopped at once. From this we may see that even gods flatter themselves—no wonder those who govern the lower regions have so many carriages.

The Historian of the Strange says: "In the transformation of the ways of the world, those below grow ever more obsequious, and those above ever more arrogant. Even within the more than forty years of the Kangxi reign, the impropriety of forms of address has become most laughable. Addressing a presented scholar as 'Master' began only twenty years ago; addressing a 'jinshi' as 'Old Master' began only thirty years ago; addressing a commissioner or inspector as 'Great Old Master' began only twenty-five years ago. In former days, when a district magistrate called upon a provincial governor, he would stop at 'Great Sir,' but now this form has long been abandoned. Even if a gentleman of integrity exists, he too follows the obsequious in their obsequiousness, and no one dares to dissent. As for the wives of officials being addressed as 'Madame,' that is only a few years old. In former days, only the mothers of officials bore this title; for a wife to receive it, one finds only Lin Qiao in licentious histories—no other instance. In the Tang dynasty, the emperor wished to appoint Zhang Yue as Grand Scholar. Zhang declined, saying: 'The title of Scholar has never borne a "Great"; I dare not accept it.' Now, who made it "Great"? It began with the flattery of petty men, which pleased the proud and powerful, who adopted it without hesitation, and soon it spread throughout the realm. I suspect that in a few years, those called 'Master' will advance to 'Old,' and those called 'Old' will advance to 'Great'—only I do not know what exalted title will be fashioned beyond 'Great.' It defies all expectation!"

On the third day of the sixth month in the year Dinghai, heavy snow fell to more than a foot in Guide Prefecture, Henan, and all the crops froze to death. Alas, they did not know the art of flattering the Great King! How pitiable!

---

**Transformed into a Male**

In the town of Mudu, Suzhou, a commoner's daughter was sitting in the courtyard at night when a falling star struck her on the head, and she fell to the ground dead. Her parents were old and childless, with only this one daughter. They wept and cried out, rushing to her aid. After a time, she revived and said with a smile: "I am now a man!" Upon examination, it was indeed so. Her family did not consider it an evil omen but secretly rejoiced that they had suddenly gained a son. Most extraordinary! This also occurred during the Dinghai period.

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**The Avenging Birds**

In a temple in Tianjin, storks had built their nests upon the chiwei roof ornaments. Above the ceiling of the hall was hidden a great serpent, large as a basin, which would emerge each time the stork chicks had grown their wings and devour them all without exception. The storks mourned for several days and then departed. This happened for three years. People supposed they would certainly never return, yet the next year they nested there again. When the chicks were nearly grown, the storks left directly and did not return for three days. Upon returning, they clucked softly in the nest and fed their young as before. The serpent again wound its way upward. Just as it approached the nest, both storks were alarmed, flying up with anguished cries straight into the blue heavens. Suddenly a booming wind was heard, and in an instant the sky and earth seemed to darken. All were astonished and looked up together. A great bird, its wings blotting out the sun and sky, descended from the empty air with the suddenness of wind and rain. It struck the serpent with its claws, and the serpent's head fell at once. It battered the corner of the hall several feet, then shook its wings and departed. The storks followed behind, as if escorting it. The nest had been overturned, and both chicks had fallen—one alive, one dead. The monk took the living one and placed it atop the bell tower. Before long, the stork returned and fed it as before, and when its wings were grown, departed.

The Historian of the Strange says: "That they returned the following year, they did not expect disaster to strike again. That they nested in the same place for three years showed that their plan for vengeance was already fixed. That they did not return for three days—it can be known that they went to weep in the courtyard of Qin, begging for aid. The great bird must have been a swordsman among the feathered race—sweeping in on the wind and departing after a single strike. What could even the peerless Kong'er do to surpass this?"

In Jinan, a soldier in the garrison saw a stork fly past and shot it; it fell at the sound of the bowstring. In its beak it held a fish, on the point of feeding its young. Someone urged him to pull out the arrow and release it, but the soldier would not listen. Shortly after, the stork flew away with the arrow still in it. It came and went among the suburbs for over two years, the arrow still embedded. One day, the soldier sat beneath the gatehouse when the stork passed overhead, and the arrow fell to the ground. The soldier picked it up and examined it: "Is the arrow still intact?" His ear happened to itch, and he used the arrow to scratch it. Suddenly a great wind battered the gate, which slammed shut violently, driving the arrow through his skull, and he died.

A hunter in Tianjin caught a wild goose. Its mate followed him to his home, crying mournfully and circling overhead, not departing until dusk. The next day, when the hunter went out early, the goose was already there, flying and calling after him; then it alighted at his feet. The hunter was about to catch it as well. He saw it stretch its neck up and down, and from its mouth came half a bar of gold. The hunter understood its intention and said, "This is to ransom your mate." He then released the female. The two geese lingered, as if moved by mingled sorrow and joy, then flew away together. The hunter weighed the gold and found it was slightly over two ounces and six cents. Ah! What understanding can birds possess, yet how deeply they feel! There is no sorrow greater than parting in life—do even creatures feel this?

**Xiang**

In Guangdong there was a hunter who went into the mountains carrying his bow and arrows. He lay down to rest and, without realizing it, fell fast asleep. An elephant came and carried him off with its trunk. He thought himself certain to meet with cruel harm. Before long, it set him down beneath a tree, bowed its head, and trumpeted once. A herd of elephants gathered from all sides, circling around him, as if making some request. The first elephant knelt beneath the tree, looking up at the tree and down at the man, as if wishing him to climb. The hunter understood its meaning and, stepping on the elephant's back, climbed up. Though he reached the crown of the tree, he still did not know what the elephant intended. Shortly after, a lion came, and all the elephants prostrated themselves. The lion selected a fat one, apparently meaning to seize and devour it. The elephants trembled; none dared to flee. They merely gazed up at the tree together, as if begging for mercy and rescue. The hunter understood and shot an arrow at the lion, which dropped dead on the spot. The elephants gazed skyward, their manner as if bowing and dancing in worship. The hunter then descended. The elephant knelt again and, tugging at his robe with its trunk, seemed to wish him to ride. The hunter mounted its back, and the elephant set off. Arriving at a certain place, it dug the ground with its hooves and unearthed countless tusks. The hunter dismounted, bundled them, and loaded them on the elephant's back. The elephant then carried him out of the mountains and returned.

**The Corpse on the Back**

A woodcutter was returning from the market carrying his staff when he suddenly felt a heavy weight on its end. He looked back and saw a headless man hanging from it. Terrified, he threw down the staff and struck wildly at it, and it vanished. He fled in panic to a village. It was already dusk, and several people were searching the ground by torchlight, as if looking for something. He approached and asked, and learned that the group had been sitting together when a human head suddenly fell from the air, its hair and beard disheveled, and in an instant it was gone. The woodcutter also told what he had seen, and together the accounts made up a complete person, though no one could explain where it had come from. Later, a man carrying a basket suddenly found a human head inside it. Others questioned him in surprise, and he was greatly frightened. He poured it onto the ground, where it wriggled and disappeared.

**The Purple-Flower Monk**

A young man of Zhucheng, a grandson of Yehé, was a celebrated scholar who fell gravely ill and died. The next day he revived and said, "I have attained enlightenment." There was at that time a monk skilled in Buddhist metaphysics, so someone was sent to invite him. He came and expounded the *Śūraṅgama Sūtra* at the youth's bedside. The young man listened to each section and said it was all wrong. He said, "If my disease were cured, what difficulty would there be in proving the Way? Only a certain person can heal my illness—you must earnestly invite him." It happened that in the county there was a certain man skilled in medicine but who did not practice it. After three invitations he finally came, prescribed a formula, and administered medicine, and the illness was cured. After the physician returned home, a woman entered from outside and said, "I was a maid in Minister Dong's household. The Purple-Flower Monk and I had a karmic grievance from a former life. Now I have been able to pursue my revenge, and yet you have saved him? If you go again, disaster will befall you." Having spoken, she vanished. The physician was frightened and declined to visit Ding again. Ding's illness returned, and he urgently insisted on seeing him, so the physician told him the truth. Ding sighed and said, "This karma is from a former life; my death is my fate." He died shortly afterward. Later inquiries revealed that there had indeed been a Purple-Flower Monk, a highly virtuated monk whom the wife of Minister Dong of Qingzhou had supported in her household; but no one knew the origin of the grievance between them.

**Zhou Kechang**

Zhou Tianyi, a tribute scholar from Huai, was fifty years old and had only one son, named Kechang, whom he doted upon. By the time the boy was thirteen or fourteen, his appearance grew ever more handsome, but he disliked studying and would run away from school to play with other children, often not returning all day. Zhou let him be. One evening he did not return, and they began to search for him, but he had utterly vanished. The couple wailed as if they wished to die. More than a year later, Kechang suddenly appeared. He said, "A Taoist deluded me and took me away, but fortunately I came to no harm. When he went out on other business, I was able to escape and return." Zhou was overjoyed and asked no further questions. When he taught the boy to read, his comprehension was far greater than before. Within a year his literary ability advanced greatly, and when he entered the prefectural examination, he became well known. Prominent families vied to arrange marriages with him, but Keshang was reluctant. The daughter of a provincial graduate surnamed Zhao was beautiful, and Zhou insisted on marrying him to her. After she entered the household, the couple joked together very happily; yet Kechang always slept alone, as if there were nothing between them. After a year, he passed the autumn provincial examination triumphantly. Zhou was even more gratified. But as the years advanced, he longed for a grandson and would hint at this to Kechang. Kechang remained indifferent, as if he did not understand. His mother could not endure it and spoke of it constantly, morning and evening. Keshang changed color and left the room, saying, "I have long wished to leave this world. The only reason I did not do so hastily is the bond of parental care. But I truly cannot engage in marital relations to fulfill your hopes. Let me go; the one who will satisfy your wishes will return." His mother ran after him and pulled him, but he had already fallen, his clothes and hat left behind like a shed skin. She was greatly terrified, suspecting that Kechang had died and that this must be his ghost. She could only grieve and sigh. The next day, Kechang suddenly arrived on horseback, and the whole household was alarmed. When they questioned him closely, he also said he had been kidnapped and sold to a wealthy merchant. The merchant had no son and adopted him. After obtaining Keshang, the merchant unexpectedly fathered a son. Keshang missed his family, so the merchant sent him home. When they asked about his studies, he was as dull as before. They then realized that this was the real Keshang; the one who had passed the examinations was a ghost who had taken his place. Yet they were secretly glad the matter had not been exposed, so they let him assume the name of the graduate. He entered the bedroom, and his wife was very familiar with him; but Keshang blushed with embarrassment, like a newly wed man. Within a year, a son was born.

The Historian of the Strange remarks: "It is said of old that a man destined for mediocre fortune must have something mediocre in his nose, mouth, eyebrows, or eyes, and then fortune follows him; those whose spiritual brilliance is dazzling are abandoned by ghosts. Where mediocrity is present, one may pass the examinations without entering the examination hall and obtain a beautiful bride without going in person to fetch her—how much more so when one has a little help and adds to it by cunning and stealth!"

**Chang'e**

Zong Zimei of Taiyuan went on a study tour with his father and settled in Guangling. His father was acquainted with an old woman who lived under the Red Bridge. One day, as father and son were passing the Red Bridge, they ran into her, and she insisted they come to her home. She brewed tea and they talked together. A girl stood nearby of surpassing beauty. The old man praised her profusely. The old woman turned to Zong and said, "Your young gentleman is gentle and mild as a maiden—a face full of fortune. If he does not think me beneath him, may I have him take this girl as his wife?" The old man laughingly urged his son to rise from his seat and bow to the old woman, saying, "These words are worth a thousand pieces of gold!" Before this, the old woman had lived alone when a girl suddenly came to her, telling her tale of being orphaned and alone. When asked her name, she said it was Chang'e. The old woman loved her and kept her, in truth intending to keep her as merchandise to sell. At the time Zong was fourteen. He glanced at the girl and was secretly pleased, thinking his father would surely arrange a betrothal. But his father returned home as if he had forgotten. Zong's heart burned; he told his mother in secret. When his father heard of it, he laughed and said, "That was merely a jest with a greedy old woman. She has no idea how much gold she could sell her for—how could such a thing be so easily spoken of!" A year later, both the old man and the old woman died. Zong Zimei could not forget Chang'e. When his mourning period was nearly over, he sent someone to make his feelings known to the old woman Lin. At first the old woman would not admit to any agreement. Zong said angrily, "In my whole life I have not lightly bowed to anyone. Does the old woman think I am not worth a single coin? If she breaks the old promise, she must return what was given!" The old woman then said, "Perhaps I did make a jesting agreement with your father, it may be so. But there were no formal words, and so it was entirely forgotten. Now that you say this, would I keep a girl to marry a king of heaven? Day after day I dressed her up, truly hoping to exchange her for a thousand pieces of gold. Now take half—would that do?" Zong reckoned he could not manage it and let the matter drop. It happened that a widowed woman had taken a house as a neighbor to the west. She had a girl who had reached marriageable age, with the small name Diandang. Zong caught a glimpse of her by chance—her elegance and beauty were no less than Chang'e's. He admired her and used gifts as a means of approach; in time they grew familiar, and often he conveyed his feelings with his eyes, yet had no opportunity to speak. One evening she climbed over the wall to borrow fire. Zong was delighted and pulled her close; they lay together. He promised to marry her, but she declined on the ground that her brother had not yet returned from trading. From then on they slipped away to see each other, their movements carefully concealed. One day Zong happened to pass the Red Bridge and saw Chang'e just inside the gate. He hurried past, but Chang'e saw him and beckoned with her hand. Zong stopped; the girl beckoned again, and so he went in. The girl reproached him for breaking his promise. Zong explained the circumstances. She then went inside and brought out a gold ingot and gave it to him. Zong refused it and said, "I had decided to be parted from you forever and so made another promise. To accept gold on your behalf and scheme for you would be to betray another; to accept gold and not scheme for you would be to betray you: I truly dare not betray anyone." The girl was silent for a long time and then said, "The one you have promised, I know about it well. That affair will surely come to nothing; even if it succeeds, I will not resent your heartlessness. Go quickly—the old woman will be here soon." Zong, flustered and unable to decide for himself, accepted the gold and left. After a night he told Diandang. Diandang deeply agreed with his words but urged Zong to set his heart on Chang'e alone. Zong said nothing; only when Diandang yielded did Zong become happy. He then sent a matchmaker to present gold to the old woman Lin. The old woman could find no objection, and gave Chang'e to Zong. After she entered his door, Zong told her everything Diandang had said. Chang'e smiled and outwardly encouraged him. Zong was overjoyed and eager to inform Diandang at once, but Diandang had long since stopped coming. Chang'e knew it was on her account and so temporarily returned to her mother's home, deliberately giving Zong an opportunity, instructing him to steal Diandang's purse. Before long Diandang did come, and they discussed their plans, but she said only, not to be hasty. When she unbuttoned her robe and smiled playfully, he saw a purple pouch at her waist and was about to snatch it. Diandang turned pale and rose, saying, "You are one person with her but another with me! Heartless man! Let us part from this moment." Zong humbly tried to placate her, but she would not listen and left straightaway. One day Zong passed her house to investigate; it was now occupied by a traveling merchant from Wu, and Diandang and her mother had moved away long ago. She had vanished without a trace, and there was no way to inquire. After Zong married Chang'e, his family grew suddenly wealthy—connected pavilions and long corridors stretched across the street. Chang'e was good at jesting. One day she saw a painting of a beautiful woman. Zong said, "I used to think that in all the world there were not two like you, but I have never seen Fei Yang or Consort Yang." The woman laughed and said, "If you wish to see them, what difficulty is there?" She took the scroll and examined it closely, then hurried inside and, facing the mirror, made herself up. She imitated Fei Yang dancing in the wind and then imitated Consort Yang flushed with wine. In height, plumpness, and thinness she changed from moment to moment; her charm and bearing matched the scroll with lifelike fidelity. While she was performing, a maid came in from outside and could not recognize her, and in alarm asked her fellow servants; only after staring closely did she realize who it was and laugh with surprise. Zong said joyfully, "I have obtained one beauty, and all the beauties of antiquity are now within my bedchamber!" One night, when they were fast asleep, several men pried open the door and entered, their torches lighting the walls. The woman rose quickly and cried out, "Thieves have come!" Zong was just waking and was about to shout, but one man put a blade to his neck, and he was too frightened to breathe. Another man seized Chang'e and carried her on his back, and they all went off with a clamor. Zong began to wail. The servants gathered, but not a single precious object in the house was missing. Zong was overcome with grief, bewildered and at a loss, with no heart left for anything. He reported the crime to the authorities and ordered a pursuit, but there was no news at all. Three or four years passed in gloom and tedium. Zong then went to the capital on the pretext of sitting for examinations. He stayed half a year, trying every method of divination and inquiry, but to no avail. By chance he passed Yao Lane and came upon a girl with a grimy face and tattered clothes, tottering like a beggar. He stopped and stared—it was Diandang. He said in horror, "How have you come to such a wretched state?" She replied, "After we parted I moved south, and my mother died. I was seized by evil men and sold into a banner household. The beatings, the cold, the hunger—words cannot bear to speak of it." Zong wept and asked, "Can you be ransomed?" She said, "It would be difficult. The cost would be too great; I cannot manage it." Zong said, "I will tell you truly: these past years I have become moderately wealthy. Unfortunately, my funds as a traveler are limited, but I would not hesitate to sell everything I own and my horse. If the sum required is too great, I will return home to raise it." The girl asked him to go the next day to the western city wall to meet her beneath the cluster of willows. She told him to come alone and bring no attendants. Zong said, "I agree." The next day he went early and found the girl already there, dressed in bright and clean clothes, quite different from her former appearance. He asked in surprise, and she laughed and said, "I was testing your heart, and I am glad your old kindness has not been forgotten. Please come to my humble dwelling—I will surely find a way to repay you." They walked a few paces north and arrived at her home. She brought out food and wine, and they sat together and talked. Zong asked her to return with him. The girl said, "I have too many worldly ties and cannot go. But I have indeed heard news of Chang'e." Zong asked urgently where she was. The girl said, "Her whereabouts

"Piao miao is all I know about her. There is an old nun on West Mountain who is blind in one eye. Ask her, and you shall know for yourself." He therefore stayed the night at her house. At daybreak she showed him the path. When Zong reached the place, there was an old temple whose surrounding walls had all collapsed. Inside a thicket of bamboo was a thatched hut, half a room in size, where the old nun was mending her kasaya. Seeing a visitor arrive, she paid no heed to the proprieties. Zong bowed to her, and only then did she raise her head and return the greeting. He stated his name and then stated his purpose.

The nun said, "This old blind woman of eighty has long been cut off from the world. How would I know news of a beauty?" Zong pressed her. She then said, "I truly do not know. A few relatives are coming tomorrow evening. Perhaps the young women among them will recognize the name—it is possible. You may come tomorrow evening." Zong then left. When he came again the next day, the nun had gone elsewhere, and the ruined door was bolted. He waited a long time; the water clock had advanced, the bright moon hung high. He paced about with no plan, when in the distance he saw several young women entering from outside—and among them was Chang'e. Overjoyed, Zong sprang up suddenly and hastily seized her sleeve.

Chang'e said, "Rude fellow! You've frightened me to death! That hateful Dian Dang and her chattering—she's the one who taught desire to plague a man." Zong pulled her down to sit, took her hand, and spoke with tender intimacy, recounting all his hardships. Before he knew it, tears of sorrow were flowing. The woman said, "I will tell you plainly: I am indeed Heng'e, banished to the mortal world, drifting among the common folk. My term is now complete. I allowed myself to be taken by bandits solely to extinguish your hopes. The nun is one of the keepers of the Queen Mother's household. When I was first banished, she showed me kindness and shelter, so when I have leisure I visit her from time to time. If you will release me, I will speak to Dian Dang on your behalf."

Zong would not listen; he lowered his head and wept. The woman looked into the distance and said, "The sisters are coming." Zong had barely begun to look around when Chang'e had vanished. Zong cried aloud in anguish, wishing only to die, and so he loosened his sash to hang himself.

In a daze he felt his soul had left his body, wandering lost with no place to go. Soon Chang'e arrived, seized him, and lifted him—his feet left the ground. She entered the temple, took the corpse from the tree, and pressed it back into him, calling, "Foolish man, foolish man! Chang'e is here." Suddenly he awoke as from a dream. When he had somewhat composed himself, the woman said angrily, "That low maid Dian Dang! She injured me and killed my man—I will not forgive her!" She went down the mountain, hired a sedan chair, and returned home.

After ordering her household to pack, she went back out through the west gate of the city to thank Dian Dang. But when she arrived, the dwelling was completely different from before. She sighed in astonishment and returned, secretly glad that Chang'e knew nothing. When she entered, Chang'e came forward smiling and said, "Have you seen Dian Dang?" Zong was too stunned to answer. The woman said, "You betrayed Chang'e—how could you get Dian Dang? Sit and wait here; she will come on her own."

Before long, Dian Dang indeed arrived and hastily hid herself under the bed. Chang'e rapped her fingers at her and said, "Little imp, you've led a man into a deep pit!" Dian Dang knocked her head on the ground, begging only for a reprieve from death. Chang'e said, "You push a man into a pit and expect to escape beyond the heavens? The Eleventh Lady of Guanghan Palace is to be married shortly. I need a hundred embroidered pillows and a hundred pairs of shoes. You may come with me and work alongside me." Dian Dang respectfully replied, "Only let me divide the work and deliver it on time." The woman refused and said to Zong, "If you intercede for her, I will let her go."

Dian Dang looked at Zong. Zong smiled and said nothing. Dian Dang glared at him angrily. She then asked permission to return and inform her family, which was granted, and she left. Zong asked about her background and learned that she was the fox of West Mountain. He bought a sedan chair and waited for her. The next day she indeed came, and they returned together.

Yet after Chang'e's return, she was always grave and seldom engaged in light banter. Zong forced her to intimacy, but she secretly taught Dian Dang to do it instead. Dian Dang was supremely clever and skilled at allurement. Chang'e preferred to sleep alone and often refused to spend the night with him. One night, at the third watch of the night, laughter could still be heard from Dian Dang's room, ceaseless and suppressed. She sent a maid to eavesdrop. The maid returned but did not report what she had heard, only suggesting that the lady go and see for herself. She crouched by the window and peered in, and saw Dian Dang adorned in full makeup to look like herself. Zong embraced her and called her Chang'e. The woman smiled and withdrew.

Soon after, Dian Dang felt a sudden sharp pain in her heart. She hastily threw on her clothes and dragged Zong to Chang'e's chamber, falling to the ground as soon as she entered. Chang'e said, "Am I a shaman or a sorceress? You simply want to imitate Xizi holding her heart." Dian Dang knocked her head on the ground, saying only that she knew her fault. The woman said, "It is healed." She then rose and left, unable to suppress a laugh.

Dian Dang said privately to Zong, "I can make our lady imitate Guanyin." Zong did not believe her, so they made a wager. Chang'e sat cross-legged, her eyes half closed as if in meditation. Dian Dang quietly took a jade vase, placed a willow branch in it, and set it on the table. She then let down her hair, pressed her palms together, and stood at Chang'e's side. Her cherry lips were slightly parted, her melon-seed teeth faintly visible, her eyes never blinking. Zong laughed. Chang'e opened her eyes and asked what was happening. Dian Dang said, "I am imitating the Dragon Maiden attending upon Guanyin." Chang'e laughed and scolded her, then punished her by making her imitate a novice monk paying homage. Dian Dang bound up her hair and bowed to her from all four sides, prostrating herself and turning about, displaying every contortion—bending left and right, her stockings rubbing against her ears. Chang'e burst out laughing and kicked her as she sat. Dian Dang raised her head, took a phoenix-shaped slipper in her mouth, and lightly touched it with her teeth.

While Chang'e was still laughing and playing, she suddenly felt a thread of seductive feeling rise from her toes upward, straight to her heart. Her thoughts grew lascivious, and she felt she could not control herself. She hastily gathered her spirit and scolded, "The fox slave deserves death! Have you no scruples about whom you bewitch?" Dian Dang, terrified, released her mouth and threw herself to the ground. Chang'e rebuked her sharply again, and the others did not understand. Chang'e said to Zong, "Dian Dang's fox nature has not changed; just now I nearly had been bewitched by her. If my roots of virtue were not deep, how easily I might have fallen!" From then on, whenever she saw Dian Dang, she treated her with strict severity.

Dian Dang, ashamed and afraid, said to Zong, "I love every limb and every part of my lady; loving her so deeply, I could not help but bewitch her so thoroughly. To say I had an ulterior motive—I would not dare, and I would not bear to." Zong therefore told Chang'e, and Chang'e treated Dian Dang as before. Yet because the playful intimacies had grown excessive, she admonished Zong several times, but he would not listen. As a result, the maids and women of all ranks competed in playful dalliance.

One day, two people supported a maid, imitating the scene of Yang Guifei. The two exchanged glances, tricked the maid into relaxing into a drunken posture, and suddenly released their hands. The maid fell violently from the terrace, with a sound like a collapsing wall. The crowd raised a great uproar. They rushed to attend to her, but the Imperial Consort had already died at Mawei. Everyone was terrified and hastily reported it to the master. Chang'e, alarmed, said, "Disaster has struck! What did I say!" She went to examine her, but there was no saving her. She sent word to her father. The father, one Mou Jia, a man of no principle, arrived running at full speed, carried the corpse into the main hall, and raged with a thousand curses. Zong shut the door in fearful anxiety, not knowing what to do. Chang'e went out herself.

He reproached him, saying, "Even if a master abuses a maidservant to death, the law presides no penalty for it. Moreover, she died suddenly from a chance encounter—how do you know she won't revive?" Jia clamored, "Her four limbs are already cold—what hope of life could there be!" Chang'e said, "Do not make a racket. Even if she cannot be revived, the officials are still here." She then entered into the hall to attend to the corpse, but the maidservant had already revived and rose up at her touch. Chang'e turned back in anger and said, "The maidservant is fortunate to be alive. How dare this thieving slave behave so outrageously! Bind him with a rope of straw and send him to the authorities!" Jia had nothing to say and knelt for a long time, begging for mercy. Chang'e said, "Since you now know your guilt, I will let you off this time. But a petty man is a scoundrel—how constant can his whims be? Keeping your daughter will ultimately be a seed of disaster. You should take her away at once. Whatever the original price was, you must arrange to pay it quickly." She sent people to escort him out and had him request two or three village elders to sign and seal the contract. After this, she summoned the maidservant forward and had Jia himself ask her, "Are you unharmed?" She replied, "I am unharmed." He was then released and went on his way. Afterward, she summoned all the maidservants, rebuking and beating each one of them. She then called Dian Dang and issued a stern prohibition to her. She said to Zong, "Now you should know that for one in a position of authority, even a single smile or frown must not be taken lightly. The jest began with me, but the resulting harm became impossible to stop. Sorrow belongs to yin, and joy belongs to yang. When yang reaches its extreme, yin is born—this is the fixed law of cyclical change. The calamity that befell the maidservant was a warning from the spirits and ghosts, delivered by degrees. If one remains blind and unenlightened, ruin will overtake him." Zong listened with reverence. Dian Dang wept and begged to be released from servitude. Chang'e then pinched her ear; after a moment she let go, and Dian Dang sat in a daze for a while, then suddenly as if waking from a dream, prostrated herself on the ground, and was so joyful she wanted to dance. From then on, the inner quarters were quiet and orderly, and no one dared to make a disturbance. When the maidservant reached her home, she died suddenly of no apparent illness. Jia, unable to repay the ransom, asked the village elders to plead for mercy on his behalf, and she granted it. In consideration of her years of service, she gave him a coffin and sent him away. Zong was long distressed at having no son. Suddenly a child's cry was heard from within Chang'e's womb. She then cut open her left flank with a blade and brought forth the child—indeed a boy. Before long, she was with child again, and she cut open her right flank and brought forth a girl. The boy greatly resembled his father, and the girl greatly resembled her mother. Both were later betrothed to families of high standing.

The Historian of Strange Phenomena says: "When yang reaches its extreme, yin is born—how true these words are! Yet when one's household has an immortal, it is fortunate indeed that she can maximize my joy, dispel my calamities, prolong my life, and not cause my death. In such a place of delight, one could grow old—so why should the immortal herself worry? The cyclical law of heaven's operation is indeed so by principle; but what explanation can there be for those in the world who are long beset with hardship and never prosper? In former times, there was a man of Song who sought immortality in vain, and he would often say, 'If I could be an immortal for a single day, I would die without regret.' I can no longer laugh at him."

Ju Le Ru

Ju Le Ru was a native of Qingzhou. When his wife died, he abandoned his home and left. Several years later, he returned in the robes of a Taoist, carrying a rush cushion on his back. After spending the night, he wished to leave, but his relatives and clansmen forcibly detained his robes and staff. Ju asked to take a stroll outside the village, and the robes and implements in the house all floated out slowly, following him as he departed.

Chu Sheng

Chen Xiaolian of Shuntian, when he was sixteen or seven years of age, once studied under a private tutor in a Buddhist temple, where the number of fellow students was very large. Among them was a certain Chu, who said he was from Shandong. He applied himself with such bitter diligence to his studies that he scarcely allowed himself a moment's rest. He also lodged in the dormitory and had never once been seen to return home. Chen was on the best terms with him and therefore questioned him. Chu replied: "My family is poor, and it is not easy to raise the fees for a tutor. If I cannot afford to waste an inch of shadow, then by adding the hours of night to those of day, my two days can equal another man's three." Chen was moved by these words and wished to bring his own bed to share quarters with Chu. Chu stopped him, saying: "Not yet, not yet! In my view, our present teacher is not one I should learn from. There is a certain Lü at Fucheng Gate—though he is old, he is worthy of being a teacher. I beg you to move there with me."—For in the capital, most tutors who kept a school were paid by the month; at the end of each month, once the fees were paid in full, they let the students stay or go as they pleased. Thereupon the two students went together to Lü. Lü was a seasoned scholar from Yue, who had fallen on hard times and could not return home; he taught mere children, though this was not at all his ambition. He was delighted to have the two students, and Chu was remarkably intelligent—whatever he read once, he understood at a glance—so Lü prized him especially. The two students were on intimate terms: they shared the same desk by day and the same bed by night. When the month ended, Chu suddenly took leave to go home and did not return for more than ten days. They both grew suspicious. One day, Chen happened to go to Tianning Temple on some business and encountered Chu in the corridor, where he was splitting hemp and preparing sulphur to make fire-making tools. Seeing Chu, Chen felt uneasy and embarrassed. Chen asked: "Why have you so suddenly abandoned your studies?" Chu took his hand and asked to speak in private, saying sorrowfully: "I am too poor to pay the tutor's fees. I must trade for half a month before I can afford to study for a full month." Chen was deeply moved for a long time, then said: "Just go on studying—I shall do everything in my power to help." He ordered his servant to pack up Chu's belongings and brought him back to the school. He warned Chen not to let the matter out but to make some excuse to tell the tutor. Chen's father was a merchant who had grown wealthy by hoarding goods. Chen repeatedly stole his father's money to pay Chu's fees on his behalf. The father, finding money missing, reproached Chen, and Chen told him the truth. The father thought him a fool and made him abandon his studies. Chu was greatly ashamed and wished to leave the tutor. Lü, learning the reason, reproached him: "Since you are poor, why did you not tell me sooner?" He then returned all the money to Chen's father, kept Chu on as before, and shared his own meals with him, treating him as a son. Though Chen no longer attended the school, he often invited Chu to drink with him at a wine house. Chu firmly declined, wishing to avoid any appearance of impropriety; but Chen pressed him more and more insistently, often weeping, and Chu could not bear to refuse him, so there was no longer any distance between them. After two years, Chen's father died, and Chen again sought to resume his studies. Lü, moved by his sincerity, took him back; but having been away from his books for so long, he was now far inferior to Chu. After six months, Lü's eldest son arrived from Yue, begging for food as he searched for his father. His fellow students all contributed money to help him with traveling expenses, while Chu could only weep and cling to him in parting. Before Lü left, he instructed Chen to treat Chu as his teacher. Chen obeyed and kept Chu as a tutor in his home. Before long, he entered the county school as a student and sat for the examination as a "remaining talent." Chen was worried that he could not finish the paper, and Chu offered to take it for him. On the day, Chu arrived with a man, who he said was his cousin Liu Tianruo, and asked Chen to go away with him for the time being. Just as Chen was leaving, Chu suddenly pulled him from behind; Chen nearly fell, and Liu quickly helped him away. They toured the scenery for a while and then lodged together at Liu's house. There were no women in the household, so the guest was lodged in the inner quarters. After several days, it was suddenly the Mid-Autumn Festival. Liu said: "Today at the garden of Imperial Relative Li, there are many sightseers. We should go to relieve our pent-up spirits, and I will take the opportunity to see you home." He sent someone to carry a tea stove and wine vessels. They saw only water-side pavilions and plum-tree kiosks, all so noisy and crowded that they could not enter. Passing through the water gate, they found a painted skiff moored beneath an old willow tree, and they boarded the boat together. After several rounds of wine, the company was rather dull. Liu turned to his servant and said: "The Plum Blossom Pavilion has recently acquired a new singing girl—I wonder if she is at home?" The servant was gone a short while and returned with the girl. It was Li Yun, known as E'yun, from the pleasure quarter. Li was a famous courtesan in the capital, skilled in poetry and song. Chen had once drunk at her house with a friend, so he recognized her. They met and exchanged a few polite words. The girl wore a look of sorrow. Liu told her to sing, and she sang "Haoli" (The Mound of Weeds). Chen was displeased and said: "If the host and guest do not please you, why sing a song of the dead before living people?" The girl rose to apologize, forced a smile, and then sang a love song. Chen was delighted and seized her wrist, saying: "You used to read 'Washing Creek Sands' over and over—have you forgotten it all now?" She chanted:

"With tear-filled eyes I face the mirror stand;

I open the curtain and suddenly see my little sister come.

I turn my head and look down at my bow-shaped shoes.

I force my dark brows to unfold in a smile,

Again and again wiping my fragrant cheeks with my red sleeve,

Fearing all the while that someone might suspect my heart."

Chen repeated it several times. Soon the boat moored, and they passed through a long corridor, where they saw many inscriptions on the wall. Liu told him to note down the verses on paper. The sun was already sinking, and Liu said: "The examination candidates will soon be coming out." He then escorted Chen home. At the door, they parted. Chen found the room dark with no one about. After a moment, Chu entered—but on closer inspection, it was not the real Chu. Just as he was wondering, the visitor suddenly drew near and collapsed. His family said: "The young master is exhausted!" and together they helped him up. But then he felt that the one who had collapsed was not another person—it was himself. When he rose, he saw Chu standing beside him, as if in a dream. He dismissed the others and questioned him closely. Chu said: "I tell you this, but do not be alarmed: I am in truth a ghost. I should have been reborn long ago, but I have lingered here because I cannot forget your great kindness. Therefore I attached myself to your body to take the examination in your stead. Now that the three sessions are finished, my wish is fulfilled." Chen again asked to sit for the spring examination. Chu said: "Your ancestors' fortune was thin—with bones of miserliness, you cannot bear an imperial commendation." Chen asked: "Where will you go?" Chu said: "Master Lü and I share the bond of father and son; my thoughts of him are ever-present. My cousin is a registrar in the underworld; I will ask him to petition the Lord of the Earthly Court, and perhaps something can be done." Then he took his leave. Chen thought this strange. At daybreak, he visited the singing girl Li to ask about their boat trip—only to learn that she had been dead for several days. He also went to the Imperial Relative's garden and found that the verses he had inscribed were still there, but the ink was faint and barely visible, as if about to fade away. Only then did he realize that the one who had inscribed them was a soul, and the one who had written them was a ghost. That evening, Chu came joyfully and said: "Our plan has succeeded. I take my leave of you." He then held out both palms and told Chen to write the character "Chu" on them as a mark. Chen was about to prepare a farewell feast, but Chu shook his head and said: "There is no need. If you do not forget our old friendship, after the results are posted, do not fear the long journey." Chen wept as he saw him off. He saw a man waiting by the gate. Chu was still lingering with reluctance when the man pressed his hand on the top of Chu's head, and Chu flattened out in an instant, was scooped up into a bag, and carried away on the man's back. A few days later, Chen indeed passed the examination. He then made preparations to travel to Yue. Lü's wife had been barren for several

**Chu Sheng**

Lü, a man of over fifty, suddenly had a son whose two fists were clenched tight and could not be opened. Chen came to visit and asked to see the child. He declared that the boy's palms would bear the character "Chu." Lü was not entirely convinced. When the infant saw Chen, his ten fingers opened of their own accord, and sure enough, the characters were there. Astonished, Lü asked how this could be, and Chen told him everything. They marveled together with great delight. Chen bestowed generous gifts upon them and then returned home.

Later, Lü was sent to the capital as a tribute student for the court examination and lodged with Chen. By then the boy was thirteen and had already entered the county school.

The Historian of the Strange remarks: "Lü, in his old age, taught his disciples but did not know how to teach his own son. Alas! To do good to others and to receive blessings in return—how narrow is the gap between them! As for Chu Sheng, he did not repay his teacher with his body first, but repaid his friend with his soul. His resolve and his conduct could pierce through the sun and moon. Is it merely because he was a ghost that we find him wondrous?"

**The Robber Households**

During the Shunzhi era, in the Teng and Yi districts, seven out of every ten men were robbers, and the officials dared not arrest them. After they were pacified, the county magistrate distinguished them as "robber households." Whenever they came into conflict with honest commoners, the magistrate would deliberately show them partiality, for fear they might rebel again. Later, litigants would falsely claim to be robber households, while their adversaries would vigorously attack the falsity of such claims. Each time both parties presented their cases, the magistrate would set aside the question of right and wrong and instead first exhaustively dispute the authenticity of the robber status, troubling the officials to consult the registers. It happened that the yamen was plagued by foxes, and the magistrate's daughter was bewitched by one. The magistrate hired a sorcerer, who used a charm to capture the fox in a bottle and was about to burn it with fire. The fox shouted from inside the bottle, "I am a robber household!" All who heard it could not help but stifle their laughter.

The Historian of the Strange remarks: "Today there are those who openly plunder others by force, yet the officials do not call them robbers but rather fornicators; there are those who climb walls to commit lewd acts, yet they never admit to fornication but instead confess to robbery: the ways of the world have changed once again. If there were foxes in the yamen today, they too would undoubtedly shout, 'I am a robber!' without hesitation."

In Zhangqiu, the grain transport corvée and the collection of meltage fees were several times heavier for commoners than for gentry, so those with land eagerly sought to have their property registered under gentry names. Although this did not harm the state's revenue, it did diminish the magistrate's private income. Magistrate Zhong petitioned to rectify this abuse and received permission. At first he ordered voluntary confession; but soon unscrupulous people used this as leverage against their superiors, and properties sold off over decades were all fraudulently claimed as falsely registered under gentry names, with lawsuits brought against the original owners. The magistrate showed partiality to all of them, so many honest and weak people lost their property. There was a certain Licheng who was sued by a man named Jia, and they went together to the court for questioning. Jia addressed him as "Xiucai" (a county school student). Licheng argued vehemently in a stern voice, refusing to accept the title of Xiucai. The clamor did not cease. The magistrate asked his attendants, and they all confirmed that he was a genuine Xiucai. The magistrate asked, "Why do you not acknowledge it?" Licheng replied, "Let the Xiucai be set aside on a high shelf for now; after we have contested the land, I can take it up again without delay." Alas! When it comes to the name of "robber," people vie to claim it; when it comes to the name of "Xiucai," people vie to reject it: how strange the transformations have become! Someone submitted an anonymous complaint that read: "The plaintiff is Yuan Rang, filing a case of unlawful seizure of property. Being old and unable to perform corvée labor, I had fifty mu of suburban farmland, which in the first year of Duke Yin of Lu I temporarily registered under the name of the wicked gentry student Yan Yuan. Now the laws are strict, and I ought to confess voluntarily. Who would have expected the wicked man to keep what he borrowed and never return it, claiming it as his own? I went to reason with him, but he led his teacher and seventy-two wicked partisans to beat me with poisoned staffs, mangling my shins and limbs. They also locked me in a squalid alley, giving me only matting to sleep on, food in a basket, and water in a gourd, imprisoning me until I nearly died. The witnesses of Huxiang beg that his degree be stripped and he be strictly investigated, so that my blood-earned property may be returned to its rightful owner. I appeal to the higher court." This may well follow Liu Zhi's complaint against Yi and Qi.

**Mou Yi**

In the western part of the county there was a certain Mou Yi, formerly a "gentleman on the rafter"—a burglar. His wife was deeply afraid and repeatedly urged him to stop; Yi thereupon reformed himself completely. After two or three years, he was so impoverished that he could barely sustain himself, and he thought he would play the role of Feng Fu just once more and then be done with it. So he entrusted himself to a trading venture and went to a skilled diviner to ask which direction would be auspicious. The diviner cast a hexagram and said, "The southeast is lucky—profitable for petty men, unlucky for gentlemen." The omen secretly matched his inner thoughts, and he was secretly pleased. He then traveled south, reaching the area around Suzhou and Songjiang, wandering through villages and towns every day for several months. By chance he entered a temple and saw two or three stones piled in a corner of the wall. He knew at once there was something strange about them and tossed a stone of his own onto the pile. He then went straight to the back of the shrine and lay down. When it was already dark, people gathered and talked in the temple, seemingly more than ten of them. Suddenly one of them counted the stones and was surprised that there were so many. They searched behind the shrine together and found Yi. They asked, "Was it you who threw the stone?" Yi admitted it. They questioned him about his hometown and name, and Yi gave false answers. They then gave him a weapon and led him away with them. They arrived at a large mansion, produced a soft ladder, and climbed over the wall to enter. Since Yi had come from afar and was unfamiliar with the route, they had him hide outside the wall, to handle the passing of goods and guard the bags. After a while, a bundle was thrown down; after another while, a chest was lowered on a rope. Yi lifted the chest and knew it contained things. He broke it open and felt inside with his hands, putting all the heavy items into one bag. He carried it and fled swiftly, taking the road home. From then on he built pavilions and towers, bought good farmland, and purchased a stipendiary student status for his son. The county magistrate hung a plaque on his gate reading "Good Gentleman." Later a major case was uncovered and all the bandits were apprehended; but Yi's name was not on the roster, so he could not be traced or questioned, and he escaped punishment. After the matter had long subsided, Yi sometimes recounted the story himself when drunk.

There was a great bandit in Cao who returned home with a great fortune and slept in perfect peace. Two or three small burglars climbed over the wall, seized him, and demanded his gold. He refused; they applied both beatings and burning, took everything he had, and then left. The man said to others, "I did not know the agony of the heated pillar was so terrible!" He then came to deeply hate robbers, enlisted as a mounted constable, and arrested nearly all the bandits in the county. When he captured his former assailants, he inflicted upon them exactly what they had inflicted upon him.

**Huo's Daughter**

Zhu Daxing was a native of Zhangde. His family was wealthy, yet he was exceedingly miserly; unless it was a son or daughter's wedding, no guests were entertained and no meat was served in the kitchen. However, he was a dissolute fellow who delighted in pursuing women. Wherever a beauty was to be found, he spared no expense, no matter how extravagant. Every night he would scale walls and pass through villages to sleep with loose women. One night he encountered a young woman walking alone. Knowing she was a ghost, he forcibly coerced her and led her back home. When he lit the candle and looked at her, she was of surpassing beauty. She gave her name as "Huo." He questioned her closely and meticulously. The woman said displeasingly, "Since you have already accepted me, why must you interrogate me further? If you fear I will be a burden, you would do better to send me away at once." Zhu dared not ask more and kept her to sleep with him. He noticed that she could not tolerate coarse food and was averse to seeing meat stews; she required only bird's nest, chicken hearts, or fish maw prepared as soup before she could be satisfied. Zhu had no choice but to strain every nerve to provide for her. She was also prone to illness and required a bowl of ginseng soup each day. Zhu was at first unwilling. The woman moaned as if at the point of death, and he had no choice but to give it to her, whereupon her illness vanished as if by magic. This then became routine. She insisted on wearing brocade and silk garments, and after a few days would grow tired of the old ones. After more than a month of this, the expenses were incalculable, and Zhu gradually failed to provide. The woman wept and refused to eat, asking to leave. Zhu was afraid and again humored and indulged her. Whenever she was distressed, she would summon actors to perform a play a dozen or so days at a time. During the performances, Zhu would set up a stool outside the curtain and sit holding his child to watch. The woman too showed no pleasure; she repeatedly scolded and reproached him, and Zhu made little effort to defend himself. After two years, the family gradually declined. Zhu spoke gently to the woman, asking her to reduce expenses somewhat. She agreed, and their expenditures were all cut in half. After some time, he still could not provide, and the woman made do with meat porridge. Then gradually even delicacies were dispensed with. Zhu secretly rejoiced. But one night she opened the back door and vanished. Zhu was overcome with grief and loss. He searched for her everywhere and learned that she was in the home of the He family in a neighboring village. The Hes were a great clan, scions of an old family, who were extravagant and hospitable, with lanterns and candles burning until dawn. Suddenly this beautiful woman entered their bedchamber in the middle of the night. When questioned, she turned out to be the concubine who had fled from the Zhu household. Zhu was a man whom He had always despised; but delighting in the woman's beauty, He took her in anyway. After several days of intimacy, he was utterly bewitched by her and indulged her every extravagant desire, providing for her just as Zhu had. When Zhu learned of this, he went to demand her return, but He paid him no mind at all. Zhu brought the matter before the magistrate. The magistrate, finding her name and origins unclear, refused to hear the case. Zhu then sold off his property to bribe the officials, and only then was a warrant issued for her detention and the case heard. The woman said to He, "When I was in the Zhu household, I was never formally betrothed through a matchmaker or bride-price. Why should you fear him?" He was delighted and prepared to contest the case. A guest named Gu remonstrated: "To harbor a fugitive is already to violate the laws of the land. Moreover, since this woman entered your household, her daily expenses have been limitless. Even a family with a thousand pieces of gold—how long could it sustain this?" He was greatly enlightened and dropped the lawsuit, returning the woman to Zhu. After a day or two, the woman fled again.

There was a man named Huang, a scholar who had long been poor and had no wife. The woman knocked on his door and entered, telling him whence she had come. Huang, seeing this dazzling beauty suddenly throw herself at him, was alarmed and frightened, not knowing what to do. Huang was by nature mindful of the law and firmly refused to keep her. The woman would not leave. As they conversed, she was so charming and lovely that he could not resist. His heart was moved, and he kept her, though he worried she could not endure poverty. The woman rose early and personally undertook the hard work of the household, toiling more diligently than a former wife. Huang was a man of refined and easy grace, skilled in the arts of pleasing, and he regretted that they had not met sooner. His only fear was that word would leak out and their happiness would not last. Meanwhile, after his lawsuit, Zhu's household had grown still poorer. He also reckoned that the woman could never be content and so let the matter drop.

The woman lived with Huang for several years, and their affection was deep and sincere. One day she suddenly wished to visit her parents and asked Huang to escort her. Huang said, "You told me before that you had no family. Why this contradiction?" She said, "I spoke carelessly before. I am a native of Zhenjiang. In the past I followed a dissolute man and drifted about the rivers and lakes, and so I came to be here. My family is quite well off. If you exhaust your resources to go there, you will certainly not be treated unfairly." Huang followed her words and hired a carriage to go with her. When they reached the region of Yangzhou, they moored the boat by the riverbank. The woman happened to be leaning by the window when a wealthy merchant's son passed by. Startled by her beauty, he turned his boat around to follow her, though Huang knew nothing of this. The woman suddenly said, "Your family is extremely poor. Now I have a cure for poverty—I wonder whether you can follow it?" Huang asked what it was. The woman said, "I have been with you for several years and have not been able to bear you children—that is one matter left unresolved. Though I am humble, I am not yet old and decrepit. If someone were to offer a thousand pieces of gold, I would sell myself to him. With that, a wife, a house, and farmland would all be provided for you here. What do you think of this plan?" Huang turned pale, not understanding why. The woman smiled and said, "Do not be hasty. There are many fine women in the world—who would be willing to buy me for a thousand pieces of gold? I am merely making a jest abroad to see whether such a person exists. Whether I am sold or not rests entirely with you." Huang refused. The woman herself spoke to the boatman's wife about it. The wife looked at Huang, and Huang gave a careless reply. The wife had not been gone long when she returned and said, "A merchant's son in a neighboring boat is willing to pay eight hundred." Huang deliberately shook his head to make it seem difficult. Before long she came back again and said the man would agree to the full amount and asked that the exchange be made on his boat. Huang gave a faint smile. The woman said, "Tell him to wait a moment. I will instruct Huang Lang and then let him go." The woman said to Huang, "I have given myself to you these many years with a body worth a thousand pieces of gold—do you only realize it now?" Huang asked, "With what words shall I send him away?" The woman said, "Go at once and draw up the contract. Whether I go or not will be for me to decide." Huang would not. The woman pressed him urgently, and Huang had no choice but to go. The payment was made on the spot. Huang had the money sealed and marked, saying, "It is precisely because of poverty that things have come to this, and I must make this painful sacrifice. If my wife absolutely refuses to accept this, I will return the gold intact." Just as he was carrying the gold to the boat, the woman had already followed the boatman's wife and climbed up from the stern onto the merchant's boat. She looked back from afar to bid him farewell, showing no trace of sorrow or attachment. Huang's soul seemed to leave his body, and he could not speak. Soon the merchant's boat cast off its mooring ropes and departed like a speeding arrow. Huang cried out loudly and wanted to pursue alongside it, but the boatman refused, and the boat set off across the river to the south. In the blink of an eye they reached Zhenjiang, and the gold was carried ashore. The boatman hastily untied his boat and left. Huang sat among his luggage in dejection, not knowing where to go. He gazed at the surging river waters as though a myriad of arrows were piercing his body. Just as he was covering his face and weeping, he suddenly heard a lovely voice calling "Huang Lang." He looked around in astonishment, and the woman was already before him on the road. Overjoyed, he shouldered his luggage and followed her. He asked, "How did you manage to get here so quickly?" The woman smiled and said, "Had I delayed a few moments longer, you would have begun to suspect." Huang then suspected she was no ordinary person and pressed her for the truth. The woman smiled and said, "All my life, with the miserly I have ruined them, and with the wicked I have deceived them. If I had truly plotted this with you, you would never have agreed—where else could we have obtained a thousand pieces of gold? The bags are full and the pearls have returned from Hepu. You are fortunate enough—stop your prying."

"What is this about?" he asked. He then hired servants to carry their baggage, and together they set off. Arriving inside the water gate, they headed toward a house facing south and entered directly. Soon old men and women, boys and girls, came flocking out to welcome them, all exclaiming, "Young Master Huang has arrived!" Huang went in to pay his respects to his parents-in-law. Two young men bowed, sat down, and spoke with him—these were the woman's elder brothers, the First and Third Brothers. The dishes at the banquet were not many, but four jade platters filled the square table completely. Chicken, crab, goose, and fish were all cut into pieces. The young men poured wine in enormous cups and spoke in a bold, uninhibited manner. Afterward, they led Huang to a separate courtyard, where the husband and wife were to dwell together. The bedding was smooth and soft, and the bed was made of cured leather rather than the usual rattan. Every day, servant women brought three meals, and the woman sometimes stayed in all day without coming out. Huang lived alone in misery and repeatedly asked to return home, but the woman firmly stopped him.

One day, she said to Huang, "I have a plan for you: let us buy someone as a means of securing an heir. But buying a concubine would be too expensive. We should pretend I have a brother and have my father arrange a marriage; a girl from a good family would not be hard to obtain." Huang disagreed, but the woman would not listen. A Mr. Zhang's daughter had recently been widowed, and a bride-price of a hundred strings of cash was negotiated. The woman insisted on marrying her. The new bride's childhood name was A'mei, and she was rather graceful and lovely. The woman called her "sister-in-law." Huang trembled with unease, but the woman remained perfectly composed. One day, she said to Huang, "I am going with my eldest aunt to visit my aunt in the South Seas. We will return in a little over a month. Please, husband and wife, live peacefully here." Then she departed.

The husband and wife lived alone in one courtyard. Meals were provided punctually and were quite generous. Yet since their arrival, not a single person had come to their room again. Every morning, A'mei went to pay respects to the mother-in-law and left after only a word or two. The sisters-in-law standing nearby merely exchanged glances and smiles. Even when she lingered for a long time, no one was warm toward her. When Huang saw his father-in-law, it was the same. Occasionally, when the various brothers were gathered in conversation and Huang arrived, they all fell silent at once. Huang was bewildered and had no one to confide in.

A'mei sensed this and asked, "You are the brothers' sworn brother, so why have you been treated as a stranger for the past month?" Huang was caught off guard and could not answer. Stammering, he said, "I have been away for ten years and only just returned." A'mei then carefully examined the family's background and the sisters-in-law's origins. Huang was greatly distressed and could no longer conceal the truth—everything came to light. The woman wept and said, "Though my family is poor, we have never been lowly concubines. No wonder they look down on us with contempt!" Huang was terrified and did not know what to do; he could only kneel at full length and await the woman's decision. A'mei wiped away her tears and helped him up, then asked what they should do. Huang said, "How dare I make any other plan? My only thought is to leave alone." The woman said, "Having married and then returning home—how can that be borne? Though she came before me, it was a private arrangement; though I came after, it is official. Better to wait for her return and ask: since she made this plan, what does she intend to do with me?"

Several months passed, and the woman still did not return. One night, Huang heard sounds of feasting in the guest quarters. He went quietly to look and saw two guests in military attire seated at the upper end: one wrapped in a leopard-skin turban, awe-inspiring as a god; the other, seated to the east, wore a helmet made of tiger-head leather, with the tiger's mouth covering his forehead, and its nose and ears all intact. Startled and amazed, he returned and told A'mei, but they could not guess who the Huo father and son really were.

The husband and wife were suspicious and fearful. They planned to rent lodgings elsewhere but feared this would arouse suspicion. Huang said, "I will tell you the truth: even if someone from the South Seas returns, the matter is already settled—I cannot remain here. Now I wish to take you with me, but I fear your father may object. Better to part for now; within two years I will return. If you can wait, wait; if you wish to marry another, that is your choice." A'mei wished to inform her parents and go with him, but Huang would not allow it. A'mei shed tears and extracted a solemn oath from him, then parted and returned home.

Huang went to take leave of his parents-in-law. At that moment, all the brothers were away. The father-in-law urged him to stay and wait for their return, but Huang refused and left. As he boarded the boat, he felt desolate, his spirit shattered. When he reached Guazhou, he suddenly looked back and saw a sail approaching at full speed. As it drew nearer, he saw that the figure sitting at the prow with a hand on his sword was none other than Huo the First Brother. From a distance, he called out, "You wish to return in haste—why did you not consult me? You have left your wife behind. For two or three years, who would wait for you?" Even as he spoke, the boat had already pulled close. A'mei emerged from the boat. The First Brother helped her aboard Huang's vessel, then leaped away and was gone.

Earlier, after A'mei had returned home, she was just beginning to weep and explain to her parents when the First Brother arrived in a sedan chair at the door. He drew his sword and threatened them, forcing the woman to flee like the wind. The whole family cowered in terror and dared not intervene. When A'mei recounted what had happened, Huang did not understand the meaning of it, but he was overjoyed to have A'mei back, and they set sail at once.

After reaching home, Huang used his capital to go into business and became quite prosperous. A'mei often worried about her parents and wished Huang to visit them, but she feared that if the Huo woman came, there would again be friction between wife and concubine. Before long, old Mr. Zhang came to visit. Seeing the house well maintained, he was greatly comforted. He said to his daughter, "After you left, I went to the Huo family to inquire. I found their gate locked and the landlord knew nothing. For half a year there was no news at all. Your mother wept day and night, saying you had been tricked by villains and did not know where you had been scattered. Now, fortunately, you are safe!" Huang told him the truth of the matter, and they concluded she must have been aided by a divine being.

Later, A'mei gave birth to a son, whom they named Xianci. When the boy was over ten years old, his mother sent him to Zhenjiang. Reaching the borders of Yangzhou, he rested at an inn while his attendants went out. A woman came, took the boy into another room, lowered the curtain, sat him on her knee, and asked with a smile what his name was. The boy told her. She asked, "What is the meaning of this name?" He replied, "I don't know." The woman said, "Go home and ask your father—he will know." She then did up his hair, plucked a flower from her own topknot and pinned it in his hair, and placed a gold bracelet on his wrist. She also put gold inside his sleeve and said, "Take this and go buy books to read." The boy asked who she was. She said, "Don't you know you have another mother? Go home and tell your father: Zhu Daxing died without a coffin. Help him—do not forget." The old servant returned to the inn and found his young master missing. He searched in another room and heard him speaking with someone. Peering in, he saw his former mistress. He coughed softly outside the curtain, intending to speak. The woman pushed the boy onto the bed, and in an instant she had vanished. He asked the innkeeper, but no one knew anything. Several days later, returning from Zhenjiang, the boy told Huang and presented the gifts he had received. Huang sighed endlessly. When he inquired about Zhu, he learned that he had died only three days before, his body exposed and unburied, so Huang generously provided for his burial.

The Historian of the Strange said: "Was she a goddess? She changed her masters three times, yet was not chaste. But she broke the miser's stinginess and hastened the libertine's debauchery—surely she was not without purpose. Yet to break them was not necessarily to pity them. What pity is due to the bones of the greedy, lewd, and base? Let them rot in the ditch—why should they be mourned?"

The Literary Judge

# From *Liaozhai Zhiyi*, Volume 8

Wang Pingzi of Pingyang went to sit for the provincial examination in the north and took lodgings at the Baoguo Temple. A certain Mr. Yuhang was already staying there. Wang, finding they were neighbors, paid him a call with his card. The man did not respond. Day after day they would encounter each other, and the fellow's behavior was often outrageous. Wang was enraged by his insolence and broke off all relations with him.

One day, a young man came strolling through the temple grounds, wearing white robes and a skirt-like cap, looking remarkably handsome and distinguished. Wang drew near and struck up a conversation with him, finding his speech witty and delightful. He was much taken with the young man and came to admire him. On asking where he was from, the young man replied: "My surname is Song, from Dengzhou." Wang thereupon ordered a servant to set out a seat, and the two sat facing each other, exchanging humorous remarks. It happened that Mr. Yuhang passed by at that moment, and both men rose and offered him a seat with due courtesy. Yuhang took the seat of honor without the slightest show of modesty. Abruptly he asked Song: "Are you also here for the examination?" Song replied: "No. A talentless hack like myself has long since abandoned any ambition to soar aloft." Yuhang asked again: "From which province?" Song told him. Yuhang said: "That you do not even attempt to advance yourself only proves how lofty your understanding is. In all of Shandong, not a single man has a single word worth reading." Song replied: "It is true that northerners have fewer men of talent, but those who lack talent are not necessarily me. It is true that southerners have more men of talent, but those who possess talent are not necessarily you." When he had finished, he clapped his hands. Wang echoed him, and the whole company burst into laughter. Yuhang, mortified and furious, raised his eyebrows, rolled up his sleeves, and declared in a loud voice: "Dare you face me in a literary contest, right here and now?" Song glanced away and smiled. "What is there to be afraid of?" He then went straight to his lodgings, brought out a classic, and handed it to Wang. Wang opened it at random and pointed to a passage: "'The youth of Dang was given a charge.'" Yuhang rose, looking for a brush and paper. Song pulled him back. "You may compose it orally. I have already set the theme: 'In a place where guests come and go, one encounters a man who knows nothing at all.'" Wang doubled over with laughter. Yuhang fumed: "You cannot write at all—you merely trade insults. How can you call yourself a man!" Wang tried to mediate and asked Song to choose another, better topic. Wang turned the pages again and pointed: "'In Yin there were three men of benevolence.'" Song answered at once: "The three men followed different paths, but their destination was the same. What was that destination? It was benevolence. The gentleman seeks only benevolence—why must they all be alike?" Yuhang then fell silent, rose to his feet, and said: "He is a man of petty talent." And with that he left.

Wang came to esteem Song all the more. He invited him into his rooms, and they talked for hours on end. Wang brought out all his own compositions for Song's judgment. Song read them with astonishing speed—in the space of a few moments he had gone through a hundred pieces. He said: "You are indeed deeply immersed in this art. But when you set your mind to writing, you lack the determination to achieve what you must, and you still harbor a hope of gaining success by luck. On this point alone, you have fallen to the lower rank." He then went through each piece Wang had shown him and explained them one by one. Wang was overjoyed and took Song as his teacher. He had his cook prepare dumplings with sugar filling. Song ate them and found them delicious, saying: "I have never tasted anything like this in my life. I hope you will have them made again another day." From then on the two became the closest of friends. Song would visit every two or three days, and Wang would always have the sugar dumplings prepared for him. Mr. Yuhang would occasionally run into them; though he did not engage in much conversation, his air of arrogance diminished markedly.

One day, Yuhang showed his examination essays to Song. Song saw that his friends had already covered them with circles and marks of praise, glanced through them once, pushed them aside onto the desk, and said nothing. Yuhang suspected he had not actually read them and asked him again. Song replied that he had finished reading them. Yuhang then suspected he had not understood them. Song said: "What is so difficult to understand? They are simply not good!" Yuhang said: "You merely glanced at the red and yellow annotations—how could you know they are not good?" Song then recited his essays from memory as though he had read them long before, and as he recited, he criticized them. Yuhang stood there cramped and sweating, and left without a word. After some time, Song departed, and Yuhang came in and begged Wang to write something for him. Wang refused. Yuhang searched by force and found the manuscript, covered with circles and dots. He laughed and said: "This is very much like those sugar dumplings!" Wang was by nature simple and tongue-tied, and could only blush in embarrassment.

The next day, when Song arrived, Wang told him everything. Song was furious. "I said that 'the southerners will never rebel again'—how dare this boor behave so outrageously! I must find a way to repay him!" Wang earnestly counseled him against the dangers of frivolous mockery, and Song was deeply grateful for the advice.

After the examination, Wang showed his essays to Song, who praised them highly. The two happened to stroll through the palace halls when they came upon a blind monk sitting in the corridor, dispensing medicine and practicing medicine. Song exclaimed in surprise: "This is a remarkable man! He is the best judge of writing—we must not miss the chance to consult him." He sent someone back to the lodgings to fetch the essays. On the way, the servant encountered Mr. Yuhang, and the two came together. Wang addressed the monk as "Master" and bowed to him. The monk, supposing they had come about a medical matter, asked what their symptoms were. Wang explained that they wished to seek his literary counsel. The monk laughed. "Who has such a loose tongue? How can a man without eyes judge writing?" Wang asked him to use his ears instead of his eyes. The monk said: "Three essays of over two thousand characters—who could endure listening to all that? Better to burn them. I will judge them with my nose." Wang complied. After each essay was burned, the monk sniffed and nodded. "Your early work follows the great masters. Though not yet a perfect likeness, it is close enough. I received it through my spleen." Wang asked: "Will it pass?" The monk said: "It will pass too." Yuhang was not yet fully convinced. He first burned a piece by an ancient master as a test. The monk sniffed it a second time and said: "Splendid! This essay was received by my heart—only a Gui or a Hu could have produced such work!" Yuhang was greatly astonished and now burned his own essay. The monk said: "I have just received one piece and have not yet seen the whole leopard—why do you suddenly switch to another person?" Yuhang made an excuse: "That was a friend's work, and he had only this one piece. This one is mine." The monk sniffed the remaining ashes, coughed and choked several times, and said: "Do not submit any more! It will not go down—it is utterly indigestible. I was forced to receive it through my diaphragm. If you burn another, it will make me sick." Yuhang withdrew in shame.

Several days later the results were posted. Yuhang had passed; Wang had failed. Yuhang and Wang went together to tell the monk. The monk sighed: "Though I am blind in my eyes, I am not blind in my nose. Those examiners behind the curtain are all blind in their noses." Presently Yuhang arrived, strutting with self-satisfaction. "Blind monk, do you also eat people's sugar dumplings? How does it look now?" The monk said: "I judged writing—I did not set out to judge your fate. You might seek out the essays written by each of the examiners, take one from each, and burn them. Then I will know who your teacher is." Yuhang and Wang searched together and found essays from only eight or nine men. Yuhang said: "If you are wrong, what is the penalty?" The monk said angrily: "You may gouge out my blind eyes!" Yuhang burned the essays. For each one, the monk said it was not the right one. When the sixth essay was burned, the monk suddenly turned to the wall and vomited violently, with a sound like thunder. Everyone burst into laughter. The monk opened his eyes wide and said to Yuhang: "This is truly your teacher! I did not know at first and sniffed it too abruptly—it pierced my nose, stabbed my belly, my bladder could not contain it, and it came straight out from below!"

The scholar flew into a rage and left, saying, "Tomorrow you shall see for yourselves — do not regret it! Do not regret it!" Two or three days passed, and he never came. When they went to look, he had already moved away. — Then they realized it was the very same former pupil of Song's.

Song comforted Wang, saying: "We who read books ought not to blame others, but only to master ourselves. If we blame not others, our virtue grows ever greater; if we can master ourselves, our learning advances ever further. Your present setback is indeed a matter of ill fortune; but if we judge fairly, your writing has not yet reached its peak. Let this be a whetstone for you — in this world there are those who are not blind."

Wang was deeply moved with respect. Hearing that the provincial examinations would be held again the following year, he did not return home but stayed to receive Song's instruction.

Song said, "In the capital, firewood is dear as cassia and rice as pearls — do not worry about expenses. Behind the house there is a buried store of silver; you may use it." He showed him the place.

Wang declined, saying: "In former times, Dou and Fan were poor yet remained incorruptible. Now I am fortunate enough to support myself; how dare I soil myself?"

One day, Wang fell into a drunken sleep, and his servant and cook secretly went to open the cache. Wang suddenly awoke and heard sounds behind the house. He crept out to look and saw gold piled upon the matter exposed, both men cowered in terror. As he was about to reprimand them, he noticed golden goblets, many of them engraved with inscriptions. On closer examination, they all bore his grandfather's name and style. — It turned out that Wang's grandfather had once served as a functionary in the southern ministry, had lodged in the capital while on official business, and had died suddenly of illness there. The gold was what he had left behind.

Wang was overjoyed and reckoned he had obtained more than eight hundred taels of gold. The next day he told Song, showing him the goblets, and wished to share the treasure with him. Song firmly refused, and the matter was dropped. Wang took a hundred taels to give to the blind monk as a gift, but the monk had already departed.

Months passed, and Wang applied himself to his studies with ever greater rigor. When the examination drew near, Song said, "If this battle goes unfavorably, then truly it is fate!"

Soon after, Wang was disqualified for violating the regulations. Wang said nothing; Song wept bitterly and could not stop. Wang instead comforted and consoled him.

Song said, "I am one cursed by Heaven, frustrated and thwarted all my life, and now I have dragged down a worthy friend as well. Such is fate! Such is fate!"

Wang said, "All things are governed by destiny. But a gentleman who lacks the will to advance — that is not fate."

Song wiped his eyes and said, "I have long wished to speak but feared you would be alarmed. I am not a living man — I am a wandering, drifting soul. In my youth I had some literary reputation but met with no success in the examinations. I feigned madness and came to the capital, hoping to find one who understood me and would transmit my name through his writings. In the year jiashen I met with calamity and perished. Year after year I have drifted like tumbleweed. Happily we have come to know and care for one another, so I have done all in my power to be the 'other mountain' that grinds the stone — the unfulfilled wish of my life has truly been to borrow a worthy friend to give me one moment of triumph. Now that the literary ordeal has come to this, who could remain unmoved?"

Wang also shed tears.

He asked, "What keeps you lingering here?"

Song replied, "Last year the Supreme Sovereign issued a command entrusting the Sage of Culture and the King of Hell to examine the ghosts who had perished in the catastrophe. Those of the highest caliber were assigned posts in the various bureaus; the rest were sent to be reborn. My name has already been registered. Those not yet assigned posts wish to witness one last moment of glory before departing. Now I must take my leave."

Wang asked, "What post were you examined for?"

Song said, "In the Zitong Prefecture there was a vacancy for a Director of Literature. A deaf servant has been temporarily acting in the post, and that is why the fortunes of letters have been so turned upside down. Should I by some chance obtain this rank, I would see to it that the sacred teachings flourish."

The next day, Song came in high spirits and said, "My wish has been granted! The Sage of Culture ordered me to compose an essay on 'The Nature and the Way.' He read it with a pleased expression and said I could oversee literature. The King of Hell reviewed my record and wished to reject me on account of 'verbal sins.' The Sage of Culture argued on my behalf, and so the appointment was secured. I have already expressed my thanks. He also summoned me near the desk and instructed me: 'Now out of compassion for talent, I am elevating you to a pure and important office. You must cleanse your heart and fulfill your duties; do not repeat your former transgressions.' From this one can see that in the underworld, moral conduct is valued far more than literary skill. You, sir, must not yet have attained sufficient cultivation — only accumulate goodness and do not slacken."

Wang said, "If that is so, wherein lies the moral merit of the man from Yuhang?"

Song said, "That I do not know. But in the netherworld's rewards and punishments, there is never the slightest error. Even the blind monk from the other day was also a ghost — a famous writer of the former dynasty. Because in his lifetime he had discarded too many written pages, he was punished with blindness. He himself wished to heal the sufferings of others to atone for his former transgression, and so wandered through the marketplace in disguise."

Wang ordered wine to be served.

Song said, "No need. The vexations of an entire year are all gathered in this one moment. If you would set out water and dumplings for me once more, that would suffice."

Wang, filled with grief, could not eat. He sat and watched Song eat alone. In a moment, Song had consumed three bowls full. He patted his belly and said, "This meal will keep me full for three days — I take it to mark your virtue. What I ate before, behind the house, has already turned into fungi. Store them as medicine — they can sharpen a child's intelligence."

Wang asked when they would meet again.

Song said, "Now that I have official duties, I must avoid suspicion."

Wang also asked, "If I offer a libation and a prayer at the Zitong Temple, would it reach you?"

Song said, "That is of all no use. The highest heavens are very far away. Only keep your person pure and act with vigor — the earthly bureaus will send their reports, and I will surely learn of them."

With that, he took his leave and vanished.

Wang looked behind the house and indeed found purple fungi growing, which he gathered and stored. Nearby, a mound of fresh earth had risen — and there the dumplings lay, as if still there.

Wang returned home and redoubled his efforts at self-discipline. One night he dreamed that Song arrived in a carriage with an canopied sedan and said: "Because in the past you slew a maidservant in a petty fit of anger, your name was struck from the register of office. Now through your devoted conduct, the penalty has been reduced. Yet your fate is too thin to sustain a career in officialdom."

That year, Wang passed the provincial examination. The following year, he passed the metropolitan examination as well. But he never took office. He had two sons; one of them was exceedingly dull, but after eating the fungi, he became greatly intelligent. Later, on business in Jinling, Wang met the man from Yuhang at an inn. The man spoke at length of their long separation and treated Wang with deep humility, though his temples were streaked with gray.

The Historian of the Strange remarks: "The man from Yuhang openly boasted of himself; in his writings, there was perhaps not entirely nothing worth looking at. Yet the expression of arrogance and deceit upon his face made a man unable to bear him for even a moment. Heaven and mankind had long since grown weary of him, so that even ghosts and spirits made sport of him. Had he been able to cultivate and improve his virtue, the 'sharp-thorned, heart-piercing' examination essays behind the curtain would have come easily to him — why did he meet with so little?"

**Lv Wusheng**

Mu Sheng was a man of Changsha. His household was poor, and in winter he had no padded garments. One evening, sitting alone in desolation, a woman entered, gorgeously dressed but dark and ugly in appearance. She said with a smile, "Are you cold?" Startled, he asked who she was. She said, "I am a fox spirit. Pitying your lonely desolation, I have come to share your cold couch with you." He feared that she was a fox and detested her ugliness, and he began to shout loudly. She placed a silver ingot on the table and said, "If you will be agreeable, I will give you this." He was pleased and yielded. The bed had no mattress or bedding, but she used her robe in their place. As dawn approached, she rose and instructed him, "With what I have given you, quickly buy soft silk to make bedding; with the remainder, buy padded garments and food, and you will be well provided for. If we remain constant in our affection, do not worry about poverty." Then he left. Mu told his wife, and she too was glad, and they at once bought silk and sewed it. The woman came at night, and seeing the new bedding, she said happily, "Your wife has indeed labored diligently!" She left gold to reward her. From then on she missed no evening. Each time she departed, she always left something behind. In little over a year, his house was repaired and kept clean, and all within and without wore brocade and embroidered silk—he had become a man of substance. The woman's gifts gradually grew fewer, and Mu came to feel aversion toward her. He engaged a sorcerer, who drew charms on the gate. When the woman came, she bit through them and cast them aside. She entered, pointed at Mu, and said, "Ingratitude and a faithless heart—you have reached the utmost! But what can this do to me? If you despise me, I will leave of my own accord. But since our bond is severed, what you have received from me must be repaid!" She departed in fury. Mu was frightened and told the sorcerer. The sorcerer set up an altar, but before the preparations were complete, he suddenly fell to the ground, blood streaming over his face; upon examination, one of his ears had been cut off. The crowd was terrified and scattered; the sorcerer too fled, covering his ear. Stones the size of basins were hurled into the room; doors, windows, cauldrons, and pots—none remained whole. Mu hid beneath the bed, cowering in sweat and terror. Presently he saw the woman enter carrying a creature with a cat's head and a *wo* dog's tail. She placed it before the bed and urged it, saying, "Xi xi! You may chew the scoundrel's feet." The creature bit at his shoes, its teeth sharper than blades. Mu was greatly frightened and tried to curl up and hide, but his limbs would not move. The creature chewed his fingers, making a crisp, crunching sound. Mu was in extreme pain and begged for mercy. The woman said, "Bring out all your gold and pearls—hide nothing." Mu complied. The woman said, "He he!" and the creature stopped. Mu could not rise, but told her where things were. She searched the house herself; beyond pearls, hairpins, and clothing, she found only some two hundred taels of gold. She thought this too little and said again, "Xi xi!" The creature resumed chewing. Mu cried out piteously, begging forgiveness. The woman set a limit of ten days to repay six hundred taels of gold. Mu agreed, and she took the creature and left. After some time, his family gradually gathered and pulled him from under the bed. His feet were drenched in blood, and he had lost two fingers. Looking about the room, he found all his possessions gone, save only the tattered quilt of former years. They covered him with it and had him lie down. Fearing her return in ten days, he sold his servant girl and pawned his clothes to make up the sum. When the day came, the woman arrived; he hastily paid her and she left without a word. From then on she never returned. Mu's foot wounds took half a year of medicine to heal, and his household was as poor as before.

The fox then went to live near the village with the Yu family. Yu was a farmer of modest means; within three years, through contributions and the purchase of grain, his family rose to prosperity, with a grand house and connected buildings, and wore fine garments—half of them Mu's former possessions. Mu saw this but dared not inquire. Once, happening to be in the fields, he met the woman on the road and knelt at the roadside. The woman said nothing, but wrapped five or six taels of gold in a white cloth and tossed it to him from a distance, then turned and went straight away. Later, Yu died young, and the woman still came to his home from time to time, and gold and silk would vanish. Yu's son, seeing her come, bowed and prayed from afar, saying, "Our father has passed on, and we his sons are like your own children. Even if you will not care for us, how can you bear to sit by and let us be poor?" After she left, she never came again.

The historian of strange tales says: "When evil creatures come, to slay them is also a bold act; but having once received their kindness, even ghostly beings must not be betrayed. When one has risen to honor and then slays Zhao Meng, even the worthy and heroic condemn it. If a thing is not what the heart desires, even a salary of ten thousand *zhong* will not move it. Observing how she rejoiced at the sight of gold, was she not one for whom profit was paramount, who would sacrifice body and disgrace conduct without pity? Alas for the greedy man, who in the end meets only ruin and defeat!"

In Luoyang there was a young gentleman named Sun Qi, who married the daughter of Prefect Jiang. The couple were deeply devoted to each other, but she died at the age of twenty, and he was overcome with grief. He left his home and went to live in a mountain retreat.

One day, as rain fell steadily, he lay down in his room during the daytime. There was no one about. Suddenly he saw a woman's foot beneath the curtain of an inner chamber. Suspicious, he called out to ask who was there. A woman lifted the curtain and entered—she appeared to be about eighteen or nineteen, simply and neatly dressed, though somewhat dark-skinned and freckled, like a girl from a poor family. He assumed she must be someone renting a room in the village and scolded her: "If you need anything, you should speak to the family. How dare you enter so freely!"

The woman smiled and said, "I am not from the village. My ancestral home is in Shandong. My surname is Lü. My father is a scholar. My childhood name is Wubing. I moved here with my father when he took up a position as a guest official, and I lost him early, with no one to care for me. I have long admired you, sir, as a man of distinguished family and reputation. I wish to become your household's cultured handmaid."

Sun laughed and said, "Your intention is admirable. But with so many people living here, it would truly be inconvenient. When I return to my hometown, I will send a sedan chair to fetch you."

The woman hesitated and said, "I know my own humble station—how dare I aspire to be your equal? Let me serve before you as a humble attendant; I trust I will not drop the books and scrolls upside down."

Sun said, "Even taking a concubine requires an auspicious day." He pointed to a bookshelf and told her to fetch the fourth volume of the almanac—this was to test her. She ruffled through the volumes and found it. She glanced through it herself first, then brought it to him, smiling. "Today the River Chief is not in the chamber," she said.

Sun's heart was slightly moved, and he kept her in the room. With nothing else to do, she dusted his desk, straightened his books, burned incense, and wiped the tripods—the whole room gleamed with cleanliness, and he was pleased. That evening, he sent his servants to sleep elsewhere. She lowered her brows and lifted her lashes, serving him with the utmost devotion. Only when he told her to retire did she take the lamp and leave.

In the middle of the night, Sun woke and sensed someone lying beside him on the bed. He reached out and knew it was the woman. He grabbed and shook her. She started up and stood beside the bed.

Sun said, "Why don't you sleep elsewhere? Is this the place for you to lie?"

The woman said, "I am easily frightened."

Sun took pity on her and told her to place her pillow on the inner side of the bed. Suddenly he noticed her breath—pure as a lotus bud—and was struck by its strangeness. He called her to share his pillow, and before he knew it, his heart was stirred. Gradually they lay under the same cover, and he was overjoyed.

He thought hiding her was no solution, and he feared that bringing her home together would invite gossip. Sun had an aunt—his mother's sister—who lived only a dozen doors away. He devised a plan to send the woman to her house first, and then fetch her later. The woman agreed and said, "I know your aunt well. There is no need to announce me in advance. Please let me go at once."

Sun escorted her, and she climbed over the wall and left.

Sun's aunt was a widow. Early the next morning, as she opened her door, the woman slipped inside. The aunt questioned her. She replied, "Your nephew sent me to inquire after you. The young gentleman wishes to return home, but the road is long and he lacks a horse. He has left me here temporarily." The aunt believed her and let her stay.

Sun returned and pretended that his aunt's household had a maid she wished to give away. He sent people to carry her back, and from then on she accompanied him in all his comings and goings. In time he grew ever more devoted to her and took her as a concubine. When prominent families proposed marriages for him, he refused them all—he seemed determined to remain with her for life.

The woman knew this and earnestly urged him to marry. So he married a woman from the Xu family, yet his love and devotion to Wubing never diminished. The Xu woman was very virtuous and never competed with her for his attentions. Wubing served the Xu woman with ever greater deference, and so the principal wife and concubine lived in harmony.

The Xu woman bore a son named A'jian, and Wubing loved and doted on him as if he were her own. When the child was barely three, he left the wet nurse to sleep with Wubing. When the Xu woman called him, he would not go.

Before long, the Xu woman fell ill and died. On her deathbed, she entrusted Sun with these words: "Wubing loves the child most. You may let her raise him as her own—you may even install her as principal wife."

After the funeral, Sun intended to honor her words. He informed the clan elders, but they all said it could not be done. The woman herself firmly refused, and so the matter was dropped.

In the county there was a daughter of Wang Tianguan, a high official, who had recently been widowed. She came to propose marriage. Sun had no wish to marry her, but Wang pressed the matter again. The matchmaker extolled her beauty, and the clan, coveting her family's influence, urged him on all sides. Sun was swayed and married her.

She was indeed beautiful, but exceedingly arrogant. She found fault with his clothes and household goods, criticizing and discarding them. Sun, out of love and respect, could not bring himself to oppose her. Within months of her arrival, she monopolized his favor entirely. Whenever Wubing appeared, whether smiling or weeping, it was counted as a fault. She frequently vented her anger on her husband, and they quarreled repeatedly. Sun suffered greatly and for this reason often slept alone.

The new wife was furious. Sun could not bear it and made an excuse to go to the capital, fleeing from his wife's difficulties.

The wife blamed Wubing for his long journey. Wubing bowed and held her breath, watching for her mood, but the wife remained displeased. At night she made Wubing stand guard beneath the bed, and the child ran to join her. Whenever she called for service, the child would cry. The wife cursed and scolded him. Wubing urgently called the wet nurse to take him away, but he would not go; when she forced him, he cried even louder. The wife rose in fury and beat him mercilessly, until at last he went with the wet nurse.

The child fell ill from the fright and would not eat. The wife forbade Wubing to see him. The child wept all day. The wife shouted at the wet nurse to throw him on the ground. The child's breath was spent and his voice hoarse; he called out begging for water, but the wife forbade anyone to give him any.

As evening fell, Wubing, seeing the wife was absent, secretly gave the child water. The child saw her, threw down the water, and seized her garment, wailing without cease. The wife heard this and stormed out in a rage. The child, hearing her voice, stopped crying—and with a single leap, he died.

Wubing wept loudly.

The wife said angrily, "Shameless slave, you wretched creature! Do you think you can threaten me with the child's death? Never mind that he was a mere infant of the Sun family—even if you had killed a prince of the Wang household, the daughter of Wang Tianguan could bear the consequences!"

Wubing choked back her sobs and tears and begged to prepare a burial. The wife refused and ordered the child thrown away at once.

When the wife had gone, Wubing secretly stroked the child—his limbs were still warm. She whispered to the wet nurse, "Take him away quickly. Wait for me in the countryside; I will follow. If he is dead, we will bury him together; if he lives, we will care for him together."

The wet nurse said, "Very well."

Wubing went inside, brought out her hairpins and earrings, and caught up with the wet nurse. Together they examined the child—he had revived. Overjoyed, they planned to make for the mountain retreat and seek refuge with the aunt.

The wet nurse feared that Wubing's small feet would slow them down, but Wubing ran ahead to wait for her, swift as the wind, and the wet nurse had to exert all her strength to keep up.

Around the second watch of the night, the child's condition worsened and they could no longer go on. They turned aside into a village and came to an old farmer's house. They leaned against the door and waited for dawn, then knocked to borrow a room. Wubing traded her hairpins and earrings for money and summoned both doctors and shamans, but the illness could not be cured.

The woman wept and said, "Take good care of the child. I am going to find his father."

The wet nurse thought this absurd, but the woman had already vanished. The wet nurse was astonished beyond words.

That day, Sun was in the capital, resting on his bed, when the woman quietly entered. Sun started up and said, "Have I only just fallen asleep and already entered a dream?"

The woman took his hand, choked with sobs, and stamped her foot, unable to speak. After a long, long while, she cried out and said, "I have endured a thousand hardships, fleeing with the child to Yang—" Before she could finish the sentence, she burst into loud weeping, fell to the ground, and vanished.

Sun was utterly horrified, still suspecting it might be a dream. He called his servants to look at it together, and the clothes and shoes were clearly there. He was greatly perplexed and could not understand it. He immediately prepared his baggage and raced back like a shooting star.

When he heard that his son had died and his concubine had fled, he beat his breast in great grief. He spoke harshly to his wife, and she talked back to him. Sun, enraged, drew a white blade. The maids and old women tried to shield and save her, preventing him from getting close. He threw the knife from a distance. The back of the blade struck her forehead; her forehead was broken and blood flowed. She burst out howling, hair disheveled, and ran out, intending to go complain to her family. Sun dragged her back and beat her countless times. Her clothes were all in shreds, and her injuries made it impossible for her to turn over. Sun ordered her carried into a room to be nursed and cared for, intending to wait until she had recovered before sending her out.

The wife's brothers, hearing of this, were furious. They led many mounted men to the gate. Sun also gathered sturdy armed servants to defend against them. Both sides shouted insults at each other and only dispersed at the end of the day.

Wang was still not satisfied and filed a lawsuit. Sun fought his way into the city and went in person to present himself for trial, lodging a complaint about his wife's evil behavior. The magistrate could not browbeat him and sent him to the school instructor to be disciplined, in order to placate Wang. The school instructor, Mr. Zhu, was from a family of good standing, upright and unyielding. He learned the truth of the matter and said angrily, "Does the magistrate on his official bench take me for the most sordid of instructors in the world, extorting money that offends heaven and violates reason, to suck at people's boils and hemorrhoids? Such beggarly behavior, I cannot do!" He flatly refused to accept the order, and Sun returned openly.

Wang, having no recourse, then gave hints to his friends to mediate on his behalf, wanting Wang to apologize and make amends at his house. Sun refused, and after ten rounds of negotiation they still could not reach a decision.

The wife's wounds gradually healed. Sun wanted to send her out, but feared the Wang family would not accept her, so he let things drift and kept her there.

With his concubine gone and his son dead, Sun grieved day and night. He wished to find the wet nurse to ask her about what had happened. He recalled that Wu Bing had said "fled to Yang," and that nearby there was a village called Yang Family Tuan; he suspected she was there. He went to ask, but no one knew anything. Someone said that fifty li away there was a Yang Valley, so he sent a mounted messenger to inquire, and indeed he found her there. The son was gradually recovering. When they met, each was glad, and they carried him back together.

When the son saw his father from a distance, he wailed loudly, and Sun also shed tears. The wife, hearing that the son was still alive, stormed out with blazing anger, intending to berate him. The son was just crying when he opened his eyes and saw the wife. Startled, he threw himself into his father's arms as if seeking to hide. Sun picked him up and looked at him—his breath had stopped. He called out to him urgently, and only after some time did he revive.

Sun said angrily, "I don't know how you could have been so cruel as to bring my son to this!" He then immediately wrote a divorce document and sent the wife back. Wang indeed would not accept her and carried her back to Sun again. Sun, having no choice, set up the father and son to live in a separate courtyard, having no contact with the wife.

The wet nurse then recounted in full Wu Bing's condition before she died. Sun then realized she had been a ghost. Moved by her righteousness, he buried her clothes and shoes and inscribed a tombstone reading "The Grave of Ghost Wife Lü Wu Bing."

Before long, the wife gave birth to a boy. She crossed his hands around his neck and killed him. Sun, even more furious, sent her out again. Wang carried her back again.

Sun then prepared a formal complaint and submitted it to the higher authorities. All of them, because of the influence of the Heavenly Official (Wang's relative), set it aside and took no action. Later the Heavenly Official died. Sun continued to press his complaint without cease, and then a ruling was issued ordering the wife to be sent back to her family.

From this point Sun did not remarry but took a concubine instead.

Once the wife had returned home, her reputation for fierceness spread widely. After three or four years, no one came to propose marriage. The wife was suddenly filled with regret, but it could not be reversed. An old woman who had formerly served the Sun family happened to visit her house. The wife treated her generously and wept before her. Guessing her feelings, it seemed she was thinking of her former husband. The old woman returned and told Sun, who smiled and paid no attention to it.

Another year or so later, the wife's mother also died. She was alone with no one to rely on, and her sisters-in-law were rather disgusted and jealous of her. She was even more at a loss and wept every day.

A poor scholar had lost his wife, and her brother proposed to give her a generous dowry and send her off to him, but the wife refused. She frequently secretly asked those who came and went to convey her feelings to Sun, weeping and telling him of her regret, but Sun would not listen.

One day, the wife led a maid, secretly mounted a donkey, and rode straight to Sun's house. Sun had just come out from inside. She knelt on the steps to greet him, weeping uncontrollably. Sun wanted to leave her. She grabbed his robe and knelt again. Sun firmly refused, saying, "If we are to be together again, it will be fine only if there is no gossip between us as before. But if anything happens one day, your brothers are like tigers and wolves—if you ask to be separated again, how could it be possible?"

The wife said, "I have come fleeing in secret; there is absolutely no question of returning. Keep me, or I will die! Moreover, I followed you at the age of twenty-one and was sent away at twenty-three. Even if I was thoroughly wicked, is there not a fraction of affection left?" She then removed a bracelet from her wrist and bound both her feet together with it, covering it with her sleeve, saying, "Do you not remember the vow made before the incense and candles at that time?"

Sun's eyes were brimming with tears. He had people help her up and lead her inside. But he still suspected the Wang family of some deception and wanted to obtain a word from her brothers as proof.

The wife said, "I left in private—what face do I have to ask my brothers again? If you don't believe me, I have a tool for death with me here. Let me cut off a finger to prove myself." She then drew a sharp blade from her waist, reached for her left hand by the bedside, and cut off a finger. Blood gushed out like a fountain. Sun was greatly frightened and quickly bandaged it. The wife's expression changed with pain, but she did not moan. She smiled and said, "Today my dream of the yellow millet is already over. I only borrow this small room to make a plan to become a nun. Why do you still suspect me?"

Sun then had his son and concubine live in a separate residence, while he himself came and went between the two places morning and evening. He also sought good medicine daily to heal her finger wound, and after a little over a month it healed.

From this point the wife ate no meat or alcohol and only sat behind closed doors reciting Buddha's name.

After living there for a long time, she saw that the household management was falling into disrepair and said to Sun, "When I came, I originally intended to put aside all other matters and not ask about them. But now seeing such expenditures, I fear that among your descendants there will be those who starve to death. If there is no other way, I must once again put on a thick face and manage it." She gathered the maids and old women and daily demanded their output in weaving and spinning. The family members, because she had come of her own accord, looked down on her and secretly mocked and ridiculed her, but the wife acted as if she had not heard.

Afterward, when she inspected the work, the lazy ones were flogged without mercy, and the masses began to fear her. She also hung a curtain and supervised the steward who kept the accounts, managing everything with precision and thoroughness. Sun was then greatly pleased and had his son and concubine both pay their respects to her.

A Jian was already nine years old. The wife took special care to treat him warmly. When he went to school in the morning, she often kept sweet treats to await his return. The boy also gradually grew close and affectionate toward her.

One day, the boy threw a stone at a sparrow. The wife happened to pass by. It struck her forehead, and she fell. For a quarter of an hour she did not speak. Sun was furious and beat the boy. The wife revived and forcefully stopped him. She even said happily, "When I abused the boy in the past, I could never release the guilt in my heart. Now I have fortunately wiped out one count of my sins." Sun cherished her even more. The wife always refused him, sending him to sleep with the concubine.

After several years, she gave birth repeatedly but each child died young. She said, "This is the retribution for the children I killed in the past."

After A Jian married, she entrusted external affairs to the son and internal affairs to the daughter-in-law. One day she said, "I will die on a certain day." Sun did not believe her. The wife prepared her own burial implements. On the appointed day, she changed her clothes, entered the coffin, and died. Her complexion was like...

Sheng's birth filled the room with a strange fragrance; only after he was laid in his coffin did the scent gradually fade.

The Historian of Records of the Strange remarks: "What the heart truly desires does not depend on beauty or ugliness. How do we know that Mao Qiang and Xi Shi were not beautified by those who admired them? Yet had she not encountered a fierce and jealous woman, her virtue would never have been revealed—and she would nearly have been laughed at alongside those who relish sores. As for the person of Jinping, her karmic roots were originally deep, so with one sudden awakening she immediately attained Bodhi. Those in the way of Hell, on the other hand, are all wealthy folk who have never known hardship."

Qian the Diviner

Xia Shang was a person of Hejian. His father, Dongling, was extravagantly wealthy and wasteful. Every time he ate a steamed bun, he would discard the corners, leaving them strewn all over the floor. Because of his corpulence, people called him "the Duke Who Throws Away Corners." In his old age, the family grew extremely poor, with not enough food for a single day. His two arms grew thin, with flaps of skin hanging down like pouches, and people then called him "the Monk of the Begging Bag"—referring to the way his skin hung. On his deathbed, he said to Shang: "In my life I recklessly squandered Heaven's bounty, provoking Heaven's wrath, and so I have come to die of cold and hunger. You must cherish blessings and practice diligent virtue to atone for your father's sins." Shang strictly obeyed this dying charge, remaining honest and simple without duplicity, tilling the fields to support himself. The villagers all loved and respected him. A certain wealthy old man took pity on his poverty and lent him capital to learn the peddling trade, but Shang always lost even the principal. Ashamed that he could no longer repay, he asked to become the old man's hired servant. The old man refused. Shang was deeply unsettled and anxious, so he sold all his land and houses to repay the old man. The old man, having learned the truth, pitied him even more and forcibly redeemed his former property, then lent him additional funds to engage in commerce. Shang declined, saying: "Even a few dozen taels I could not repay—how then could I incur the debt of a donkey or horse in my next life?" The old man therefore invited another merchant to accompany him. After several months they returned, barely breaking even. The old man waived the interest and sent him back to trade. After a year or so, his profits filled an entire cart, but returning by river they encountered a hurricane. The boat nearly capsized, and half his goods were lost. Calculating what remained, he could just about repay his creditor. He therefore said to the merchant: "Who can save one whom Heaven impoverishes? I have only burdened you!" He then checked the accounts, settled with the merchant, and withdrew empty-handed. The old man pressed him again, but he absolutely refused, returning instead to till the fields as before. He often sighed to himself: "Every person in this world has several years of enjoyment coming to them—why have I fallen so low?" There happened to be a diviner from elsewhere who told fortunes by coins and knew a person's destiny completely. Shang respectfully went to see her. The diviner was an old woman. Her lodgings were neat and clean, with a shrine in the middle and the air always fragrant with incense. After Shang had made his morning obeisance, she asked for his eyes—meaning his money. Shang gave her a hundred cash, which she placed entirely into a wooden tube. She held it and knelt beneath the seat, shaking it like drawing a fortune stick. After a while she rose, poured the coins into her hand, then arranged them one by one on the table. Her method was: heads meant obstruction, tails meant prosperity. She counted to fifty-eight, all heads; after that they were all tails. She then asked: "What is your age?" He answered: "Twenty-eight." The old woman shook her head: "Too early! Sir, you are now running your ancestors' fortune, not your own. At fifty-eight you will enter your own fortune, and only then will there be no more entanglements." He asked: "What is meant by ancestors' fortune?" She said: "If your ancestors did good, and their blessings are not yet exhausted, then their descendants enjoy them. If your ancestors did evil, and their misfortune is not yet exhausted, then their descendants also bear it." Shang counted on his fingers: "Thirty more years and I will be toothless and decrepit, ready for the coffin." She said: "Before fifty-eight, there will be five years of slight improvement, enough to manage a livelihood—but only to escape cold and hunger. In your fifty-eight year, a great sum of silver will come of itself; you need not strive for it. Sir, you have committed no faults in this life—your blessings will not be exhausted even across two lifetimes." He parted from the diviner and returned, half believing and half doubting. Yet he accepted his poverty and kept to himself, daring not to seek anything improperly. Later, at fifty-three, he paid attention to test the prediction. It was the spring plowing season, and he fell ill with malaria and could not farm. After he recovered, there was a great drought and the early crops all withered. It rained only near autumn, and having no other seed, he planted several acres entirely with millet. Then drought came again—the buckwheat and beans were half dead, but the millet was unharmed. When rain finally came, it sprouted vigorously, yielding double the usual harvest. The following spring brought a great famine, but he managed to go without hunger. Shang now believed the diviner. He borrowed capital from the old man and engaged in modest trade for small profit, gaining a little. Some urged him to become a great merchant, but he refused. When he reached fifty-seven, while repairing a wall, he dug into the ground and found an iron cauldron. Lifting the lid, he saw white vapor like cotton floss and was afraid to open it further. After a while the vapor cleared, and the jar was full of silver ingots. Husband and wife carried it together and weighed it: one thousand three hundred and twenty-five taels. They privately reckoned that the diviner's art was slightly off. A neighbor's wife came to Shang's house, saw this, and returned to tell her husband. The neighbor was envious and secretly reported it to the county magistrate. The magistrate was extremely greedy and had Shang seized to demand the silver. His wife wanted to hide half of it. Shang said: "What we were not meant to obtain will only invite disaster if kept." He handed it all over. The magistrate, having received the gold, feared he might have concealed more, so he also confiscated Shang's storage vessels, filling them with the silver until they were full, and only then released him. Before long, the magistrate was promoted to assistant prefect of Nanchang. A year later, Shang traveled to Nanchang on business and found that the magistrate had already died. His wife and children were preparing to return home, selling off bulky goods. There were several baskets of tung oil, which Shang bought cheaply because the price was low, and brought home. When he arrived home, he found that the containers were leaking, and when he poured the oil into other vessels, he found two silver ingots inside; this was true of every container. When he exchanged them, the amount was exactly equal to the silver he had dug up earlier. Shang thereby became suddenly wealthy, and he gave generously to the poor without stinting. His wife urged him to accumulate wealth for their descendants. Shang said: "This is precisely how I bequeath to my descendants." A neighbor had fallen into such abject poverty that he had become a beggar. He wished to ask for something but was too ashamed. Shang heard of it and told him: "That affair in the past—it was simply that my destined time had not yet come, so the spirits used your hands to spoil it. How is that your fault?" He then gave him generous assistance. The neighbor wept with gratitude. Shang lived to the age of eighty, and his descendants carried on his legacy, flourishing for generations without decline.

The Historian of Records of the Strange remarks: "Extravagance and waste carried to excess—even kings and marquises cannot escape it, let alone commoners! To squander Heaven's bounty in life and to die without even a mouthful of rice for burial—how tragic! Happily, the bird dies crying in sorrow, and the son was able to mend his father's faults. After seventy years of poverty and ruin, he at last rose again in the middle of his life. Otherwise, the father's sins would have burdened the son, and the son's would have burdened the grandson, until they became nothing but a family of beggars passing it down forever. What manner of old witch was she, to reveal Heaven's secret? Ah! How strange!"

Yao An

**Yao An**

Yao An was a native of Lintao, a man of handsome bearing. In the same village lived a certain Gong family, who had a daughter named Lü'e, beautiful and well-read, who refused every suitor in choosing a husband. Her mother said to others, "Only a man of Yao's family standing and looks shall I give my daughter to." When Yao heard this, he tricked his wife into peering over a well and pushed her in, causing her to fall to her death. He then married Lü'e. He was most tender and devoted to her. But precisely because of her beauty, he was suspicious of her: he kept the doors shut and stayed by her side, following her every step whenever she moved. When she wished to visit her parents, he would support the skirts of his robe with both elbows and spread them like wings to shield her as she emerged, then seal the sedan with a marker before galloping after it. After one night, he would urge her to return with him. Lü'e's heart could not bear it, and she said in anger, "If I had a secret rendezvous at Sangzhong, could all your petty measures stop me?" When Yao went away on other business, he would lock her in her chamber. She grew still more resentful. When he left, she deliberately placed another lock outside the door to arouse his suspicion. Yao flew into a great rage and demanded to know where it had come from. She said angrily, "I don't know!" Yao grew still more suspicious and watched her with ever greater vigilance. One day, returning from outside, he listened for a long time, then carefully unlocked the door and opened the panel, taking care to make no sound as he slipped in stealthily. He saw a man in a marten-fur cap lying on the bed. In fury, he seized a knife and rushed forward to strike with all his force. On closer look, it was only his wife sleeping in the daytime, cold, with a marten-fur covering her face. He was greatly startled and stamped his foot in self-reproach. Old Man Gong angrily brought the matter before the magistrate. The magistrate arrested Yao, stripped him of his scholar's gown, and subjected him to harsh shackles. Yao exhausted his fortune to bribe officials high and low with gold, and so escaped death. From this time his spirit became confused, as though something had been lost. Sitting alone one day, he saw his wife and a bearded man engaged in intimate dalliance on the couch. Filled with loathing, he seized a knife and went toward them—but they vanished. He sat down again, and once more he saw them. In great rage, he struck the couch with his knife, splitting the mat and coverings. Grasping his blade in fury, he drew near the couch and waited. He saw his woman standing before him, looking at him and smiling. He slashed at her at once and severed her head. But when he sat down again, the woman had not moved from her place, and smiled as before. At night, when the lamp was extinguished, he heard sounds of lewd coupling, too obscene to describe. It was like this every day, until he could bear it no more. He sold his fields and house, intending to move elsewhere. That night, a thief broke through the wall and made off with his gold. From then on he was too poor to stand on a single awl's point of land, and he died in fury and resentment. The villagers wrapped him in straw and buried him.

The Historian of the Strange says: "To love the new and slay the old—how could he be so cruel! People know only that new ghosts cause calamity, but they do not know that old ghosts can seize a man's soul. Alas! To cut off one's finger to fit one's shoe—what else could await but ruin!"

**Caiwei Weng**

When the Ming dynasty fell and warfare swarmed like bees, Liu Zhisheng of Yuling gathered a force of tens of thousands, preparing to cross southward. Suddenly a stout man came to the camp gate, with open clothes and bare belly, requesting an interview with the commander. Liu invited him in and spoke with him, and was greatly pleased. He asked the man's name; he called himself Caiwei Weng. Liu kept him as a counselor in his tent and presented him with a blade. Weng said, "I have my own effective weapons—I have no need of spears and halberds." Liu asked where his weapons were. Weng then pulled open his clothes and bared his belly; his navel was large enough to hold a chicken's egg. He held his breath and puffed out, and suddenly something plugged the skin of his navel and burst forth with a hiss—a sword hilt. He grasped it and drew it out: a white blade like frost. Liu was greatly startled and asked, "Is that all?" Smiling, he pointed to his belly and said, "This is my arsenal—what is not to be found here?" Liu ordered him to produce a bow and arrows. As before, Weng produced a carved bow. After a brief holding of breath, an arrow flew out, and they came without end. Afterward he inserted the sword back into his navel, and both vanished completely. Liu regarded him as divine, slept and lived together with him, and treated him with the utmost respect and courtesy. At this time, though orders in the camp were strict, the rabble of an ill-disciplined force often went out to plunder. Weng said, "What matters in an army is discipline. Now you command tens of thousands but cannot keep the hearts of men in awe—this is the road to ruin." Liu was pleased with this and therefore inspected the ranks; those who plundered women and property were beheaded as a warning to the troops. The army grew somewhat more orderly, but the abuses could not be entirely stopped. Weng would sometimes ride out and wander among the units, and the fierce generals and arrogant soldiers of the army would find their own heads falling to the ground, with no one knowing why. They all grew suspicious of Weng. The soldiers had already come to fear and resent him because of the strict measures he had proposed earlier; now their grievances grew still greater. The various unit leaders slandered Weng to Liu, saying, "Caiwei Weng uses sorcery. Since ancient times, famous generals have been known for their wisdom, not for their arts. Men like Baique and Fuyun met their destruction in the end. Now innocent officers and soldiers are constantly losing their own heads; the people are in an uproar of fear. For you to associate with him is also a dangerous course—it would be better to do away with him." Liu followed their counsel and plotted to kill Weng while he slept. He sent men to spy on Weng. Weng lay on his back with his belly exposed, snoring like thunder. They were overjoyed. They surrounded the house with soldiers, and two men entered with knives and severed his head. But as they raised their blades, the head had already rejoined his body, and his snoring continued as before. They were greatly alarmed. They then hacked at his belly. It split open without blood, and inside were spears and halberds clustered thickly, all showing their tips. The men were still more terrified and dared not approach. They prodded from a distance with lances, and a great volley of iron crossbow bolts flew out, striking several men. The soldiers scattered in alarm and reported to Liu. Liu hurried to the place, but Weng had already vanished without a trace.

**Cui Meng**

# From *Liaozhai Zhiyi*, Volume 8

**Cui Meng**

Cui Meng, styled Wu Meng, was the son of an old family of Jianchang. He had a fierce and unyielding disposition. When still a boy in the village school, if any of the other children offended him in the slightest, he would fly at them with his fists. His teacher admonished him time and again, but he would not reform. Both his given name and his style were bestowed upon him by his teacher. By the time he was sixteen or seventeen, his strength and martial prowess were unrivaled. He could also vault to the roof of a tall house carrying a long pole. He delighted in avenging every wrong, and for this reason the people of the neighborhood all held him in awe. Those who came seeking justice or lodging complaints filled his halls and overflowed into his chambers. Cui suppressed the strong and upheld the weak, making no effort to avoid enmity or resentment. If anyone crossed him so much as slightly, stones and clubs would rain down upon them, leaving their bodies maimed. When he was in the grip of his wrath, no one dared to intervene. He was, however, devotedly filial to his mother; her mere presence was enough to calm him. When his mother upbraided him roundly, Cui would assent meekly and obey her every word, but the moment he walked out the door, he would forget it all.

There was a fierce woman in a neighboring household who abused her mother-in-law daily. The old woman, starved and near death, was fed in secret by her son. When the wife learned of it, she cursed and reviled him in a thousand ways, and her cries carried to every courtyard around. Cui was enraged. He vaulted over the wall, cut off the woman's nose, ears, lips, and tongue, and she died on the spot. His mother, hearing of it, was greatly alarmed. She called the neighbor's son to her, comforted him with the warmest words, and gave him a young maidservant as a wife. The matter was then laid to rest.

Cui's mother wept in anger and refused to eat. Cui, frightened, knelt and begged her to beat him, swearing that he repented. His mother wept and paid him no heed. His wife, Zhou, knelt beside him as well. His mother then beat her son, and furthermore pricked his arm with a needle, tracing the pattern of a cross, which she then painted in vermilion so that it would never fade. Cui submitted to all of it, and only then did his mother consent to eat.

Cui's mother was fond of feeding Buddhist monks and Daoist priests, and she would always see that they were well satisfied. One day, a Daoist priest was passing the gate, and Cui walked by him. The priest looked at him and said, "Young sir, you carry an aura of great violence. I fear you will not die a natural death. A family that has accumulated goodness ought not to harbor such a one." Cui had lately received his mother's admonition, and upon hearing these words, he was struck with reverence. "I know this myself," he said. "But whenever I see injustice, I find it unbearable to restrain myself. If I make a great effort to reform, might I be spared?" The priest smiled and said, "Let us not ask whether you can be spared or not. First ask yourself whether you can reform or not. You must exert the sternest self-control. If there is the slightest chance of a fraction of success, I will tell you the art of escaping death." Cui had never believed in prayers or incantations, and he smiled without answering. The priest said, "I knew you would not believe. But what I tell you is not the business of a shaman. To follow it is itself a great virtue; even if it does no good, it can do no harm." Cui asked to be instructed, and the priest said, "There is a young man just outside the gate. You should cultivate a deep friendship with him. Even if you commit a capital crime, he will be able to save your life." He called Cui out and pointed the man out to him. It was the son of the Zhao family, named Seng Ge. Zhao was a man of Nanchang, who, because of a year of blight and famine, had taken up residence as a sojourner in Jianchang. From then on, Cui cultivated a close friendship with him and invited Zhao to lodge in his home, supplying him with generous provisions. Seng Ge was twelve years old at the time; he ascended the hall and bowed to Cui's mother, and the two agreed to be as brothers. When the following year the spring plowing began, Zhao took his family and left, and from then on no word passed between them.

After the death of the neighbor woman, Cui's mother admonished her son ever more strictly. If anyone came to lodge a complaint, she would drive them away. One day, Cui's mother's younger brother died, and Cui accompanied his mother to the funeral. On the way, they encountered several men who were dragging a bound man along, berating him and hastening his steps, beating and piling blows upon him. The spectators blocked the road, and the carriage could not advance. Cui asked what was happening. Those who recognized him eagerly pressed forward to tell him.

There was a son of a powerful gentry family, one Mou Jia, who tyrannized the entire district. He had noticed that Li Shen's wife was beautiful and desired to take her for himself, but there was no pretext. He therefore ordered his servants to lure her husband into gambling, lending him money at exorbitant interest, and insisting that he pledge his wife as security for the loan. When the money was exhausted, they would lend him more. In a single night, Li ran up a debt of several thousand. Over the course of half a year, the principal and interest amounted to more than thirty thousand. Unable to repay, Li was seized by a gang of men who wrested his wife from him. Li wept at Mou Jia's gate. Mou was enraged, dragged Li to a tree and tied him there, and beat and stabbed him savagely, forcing him to sign a statement swearing he would make no further complaint.

When Cui heard of this, his fury surged like a mountain. He whipped his horse forward, intent on resorting to force. His mother drew back the carriage curtain and called out, "Ha! Are you at it again?" Cui then stopped.

Having paid his respects at the funeral and returned home, Cui neither spoke nor ate. He sat bolt upright, staring straight ahead, as though nursing some grievance. His wife questioned him, but he did not answer. That night, he lay down fully clothed on the bed and tossed and turned until dawn. The second night, the same. Then suddenly he opened the door and went out, but presently came back and lay down again. This happened three or four times. His wife dared not question him but listened in trembling silence. After a long while he returned and, closing the door, fell into a deep sleep.

That night, someone killed Mou Jia in his bed, cutting open his belly and spilling his entrails. Li Shen's wife was also found, naked, dead beneath the bed. The authorities suspected Li Shen and arrested and tortured him. He was subjected to savage shackles, and the bones of his ankles were visible, yet he had no words to say in his defense. After more than a year, unable to endure the torture, he falsely confessed and was sentenced to death. It happened that Cui's mother died at this time. After the funeral, Cui said to his wife, "It was I who killed Mou Jia. I kept silent only because of my mother. Now that the great matter is settled, how can I let one man's crime bring calamity upon another? I shall go to the authorities and die for it!" His wife seized him in alarm and tried to hold him back, but he broke free from her grasp and went to the magistrate's office to confess.

The magistrate was astonished and sent him in shackles to prison, releasing Li Shen. Li refused, insisting that he himself was guilty. The magistrate could not decide and had both men detained. Li's relatives all reproached him. Li said, "What Lord Cui did was what I wished to do but could not. He did it for me—how can I sit by and watch him die? Today, one might as well say that Lord Cui never came out." He held to his words without wavering and stubbornly contended with Cui over the guilt. After a long time, the entire yamen came to know the truth. They forced Li out and substituted Cui to bear the punishment, and Cui was on the verge of execution.

It happened that the official reviewing the cases was Vice-Director Zhao, who came to examine the prisoners. When he reached Cui's name, he dismissed the others and summoned him. Cui entered and looked up at the hall—it was Seng Ge. In mingled grief and joy, he told his whole story. Zhao paced for a long time, then sent him back to prison, instructing the jailers to treat him well. Soon, on the ground that he had voluntarily surrendered, the sentence was commuted, and Cui was sent as a military exile to Yunnan. Li Shen went with him as a servant. Before a year had passed, a pardon was issued and they both returned—all through Zhao's efforts.

After their return, Li Shen never left Cui's side. He managed Cui's business affairs on his behalf. Cui offered him money, but he would not accept it. He was greatly skilled in the arts of pole-vaulting and combat, and Cui took a keen interest in this. Cui treated him handsomely, buying him a wife and granting him land.

From this time on, Cui strove mightily to reform his former ways. Whenever he touched the tattooed scar on his arm, tears would stream down his face. Because of this, when the people of the neighborhood had a dispute, Li Shen would always issue orders to mediate and settle it, without consulting Cui.

There was a man named Wang Jiansheng, a man of great wealth. Scoundrels and men without conscience from every quarter passed in and out of his gate. Many well-to-do families in the county had been robbed by them; if anyone crossed them, they would send bandits to kill him on the road. Wang's son was likewise licentious and violent. Wang had a widowed aunt, and both father and son had relations with her. The son's wife, Qiu, repeatedly opposed Wang, and so Wang hanged her. Qiu's brothers brought the matter before the magistrate, but Wang bribed the officials, and the accusers were charged with false accusation. The brothers' righteous anger had no outlet, so they went to Cui to seek redress. Li Shen turned them away and sent them off.

Some days later, a guest arrived. There happened to be no servant at hand, so Cui ordered Li Shen to brew tea. Li Shen walked out in silence and told someone, "I..."

He was merely a friend of Cui Meng, yet he followed him into exile ten thousand li away—this could not be called lacking in devotion! But Cui never provided him for his upkeep, and treated him no better than a menial servant—this he could not bear!" Thereupon he left in anger. Someone reported this to Cui. Cui was surprised that Li Shen had changed his conduct, but thought nothing more of it. Then Li Shen suddenly brought a lawsuit before the magistrate, claiming that Cui had not paid his wages for three years. Cui was greatly astonished. He went in person to confront Li Shen, and the two argued heatedly. The magistrate ruled against Li Shen and had him driven from the court. Several days later, Li Shen entered the Wang household at night and killed the father, son, their wives, and all within. He pasted a paper on the wall, writing his own name upon it. When they went to arrest him, he had fled without a trace. The Wang family suspected that Cui had instigated the crime, but the magistrate did not believe it. Only then did Cui realize that the earlier lawsuit had been filed because Li Shen feared that the murder would implicate him. Orders were sent to the surrounding prefectures and counties, and the pursuit was pressed with great urgency. But then the rebel Li Zicheng rose against the throne, and the matter was set aside. After the fall of the Ming and the change of dynasty, Li Shen returned with his family and was as friendly with Cui as before.

At that time, local bandits gathered in great numbers. Wang You, a nephew of the Wang family, collected the ruffians his uncle had once recruited and occupied a mountain as a stronghold, burning and plundering the villages. One night they came in full force, claiming to seek revenge. Cui happened to be away. Li Shen, breaking down the door, roused the household and then vaulted over the wall to hide in the darkness. The bandits searched for Cui and Li Shen but could not find them. They seized Cui's wife and plundered his household goods before departing. When Li Shen returned, he had only one servant with him. Burning with fury, he cut several dozen lengths of rope, giving the shorter pieces to the servant and keeping the longer ones himself. He instructed the servant to pass by the bandits' lair, climb halfway up the mountain, set fire to the ropes, and hang them scattered among the thorns, then turn back without looking. The servant obeyed and went. Li Shen observed that all the bandits wore red sashes at their waists and red silk tied to their caps, and he dressed himself in the same manner. There was an old mare that had just given birth to a foal, which the bandits had discarded outside the gate. Li Shen tied the foal, mounted the mare, and rode out with a bit in his mouth, going straight to the bandits' stronghold. The bandits occupied a large village. Li Shen tethered the horse outside the village and climbed over the wall. He saw the bandits milling about, weapons still in hand. He quietly asked one of them and learned that Cui's wife was in Wang You's quarters. Soon an order was passed for the men to rest, and they responded with a great shout. Suddenly someone reported that there was a fire on the eastern hill, and all the bandits turned to look. At first there were only one or two points of light, but soon they multiplied like stars. Li Shen, panting heavily, cried out that the eastern hill was in danger. Wang You was greatly alarmed, gathered his things, and led his men out. Li Shen seized the moment to slip past on the right and turned back inside. He found two bandits guarding the tent and deceived them, saying, "General Wang has left behind his sword." The two bandits scrambled to search for it. Li Shen struck from behind, and one bandit fell; the other turned around, and Li Shen cut him down as well. He then carried Cui's wife on his back and vaulted over the wall. He untied the horse and handed her the reins, saying, "You do not know the way, my lady—simply let the horse go where it will." The mare, longing for her foal, galloped swiftly, and Li Shen followed. When they emerged from a narrow pass, Li Shen set fire to the ropes and hung them all about, then returned.

The next day, Cui came home. He regarded the incident as a great humiliation, and his spirit was so agitated that he wished to ride out alone to destroy the bandits. Li Shen persuaded him otherwise. He gathered the villagers to plan together, but they were all timid and none dared to respond. After much exhortation, he obtained some twenty-odd men willing to go, but they had no weapons. It happened that two spies were captured from the clan of Wang You. Cui wished to kill them, but Li Shen would not allow it. He ordered the twenty men each to take a white staff and stand in a line before them, then cut off the spies' ears and released them. The men complained, "With such a force as this, we should fear the bandits learning of it—yet instead we reveal ourselves. If they come in full strength, the whole village will be lost!" Li Shen said, "It is precisely my wish that they come." He seized those who had harbored the bandits and put them to death. He sent men in all directions to borrow bows, arrows, and firearms, and went to the county seat to borrow two large cannons. At dusk, he led the brave men to the narrow pass and placed the cannon at its mouth, stationing two men to conceal themselves with the fuse, instructing them to fire only when they saw the bandits. He then went to the eastern mouth of the valley and felled trees, placing them on the cliff above. Afterward, he and Cui each led some ten men and lay in ambush on opposite banks. As the first watch was drawing to a close, they heard the distant neighing of horses. The bandits indeed arrived in great numbers, an unbroken stream. When they had all entered the valley, the trees were pushed down to cut off their retreat. Soon the cannon fired, and the clamor and shouting shook the mountains. The bandits fell back in confusion, trampling one another. Reaching the eastern mouth, they could find no way out, and the ground was packed with no room to move. From both banks, firearms and arrows struck like a storm of wind and rain; those with severed heads and broken limbs lay piled in the gullies. Some twenty-odd men remained, kneeling with clasped hands and begging for their lives. Li Shen sent men to bind them and bring them back. They pressed on straight to the bandits' stronghold. Those guarding the lair fled at the news, and the army seized their baggage and returned.

Cui was overjoyed and asked about the strategy of setting the fires. Li Shen said, "I set the fire on the east to prevent their pursuing westward. I used short ropes so they would burn out quickly, fearing that scouts would discover no one was there. Then I set the ropes at the valley mouth—the mouth is so narrow that one man could block it. Even if they pursued, seeing the fire they would surely be afraid. These were all desperate measures taken in a moment of peril." They interrogated the captured bandits, and indeed they had pursued into the valley and retreated in fright at the sight of the fire. The twenty-odd bandits had their noses and feet cut off and were released. From this, Li Shen's reputation spread far and wide. Those fleeing turmoil from near and far flocked to him as to a market, and he obtained a local militia of over three hundred men. No powerful bandit dared to invade the region, and the area relied upon him for peace.

The Historian of Marvels says: "A swift ox will surely break a cart—does this not describe Cui Meng? His spirit was generous and bold, such as is rarely matched. Yet to wish that there be no unjust matters under heaven—is this not a mind that overreaches its understanding? Li Shen was but a commoner, yet he was able to accomplish such excellence. Scaling the pole and flying in, he slew the beasts from the inner chambers; blocking the road and attacking from both sides, he annihilated the demons in the narrow valley. Had he been given a five-zhang banner and allowed his strength in service to the state, who could say he might not have ruled as a king facing south!"

A Poem on Judgment

Qingzhou Fan Xiaoshan made his living selling brushes and was away on business. In the fourth month, his wife, née He, was living alone when she was killed by a burglar at night. That evening there had been a light rain, and left in the mud was a single poetry fan — one that Wang Sheng had given Wu Feiqing. Wang Sheng was unknown to anyone; Wu, a wealthy man of Yidu, was a fellow villager of the Fans and had long been known for wanton behavior, so the neighborhood all believed it was he. The prefecture and county arrested and interrogated him, but he steadfastly refused to confess. Subjected to cruel shackles and fetters, he was wrongfully convicted. The case was sent back and reviewed repeatedly, passing through more than ten officials, none of whom dissented. Wu now reckoned he would certainly die, and he instructed his wife to exhaust all their resources to provide for the widowed and orphaned. Those who came to his door reciting Buddha's name a thousand times were given padded trousers; those who recited it ten thousand times were given padded jackets. Beggars flocked to his door like a marketplace, and the sound of Buddha's name was heard for ten li. As a result, his family rapidly grew poor, selling off property day by day to fund his defense. In secret he bribed his jailer to buy him poison. That night a divine being appeared to him in a dream and said, "Do not die. In days past it was 'danger without'; now at present it is 'good fortune within.'" When he fell asleep again, the divine being repeated these words, and so Wu did not go through with killing himself.

Before long, Mr. Zhou Yuanliang was assigned to oversee the circuit and reviewed the cases of prisoners, reaching Wu's. Zhou seemed lost in thought. He asked, "What certain evidence is there that Wu committed the murder?" Fan Xiaoshan presented the fan. Mr. Zhou examined it closely, then asked, "Who is Wang Sheng?" and was told no one knew. He then read through the case file carefully, and at once ordered Wu shackled of his death restraints and moved him from the jail to the granary. Fan Xiaoshan protested vigorously. Zhou angrily said, "Do you want to recklessly kill one man and be done with it? Or do you want to find your enemy and satisfy your heart?" Everyone suspected Mr. Zhou of privately favoring Wu, but no one dared speak. Mr. Zhou affixed a red tag and summoned the owner of a shop on the southern outskirts. The terrified owner had no idea why. Upon arrival, Zhou asked, "There is a poem by Li Xiu of Dongguan on your shop wall. When was it inscribed?" The owner replied, "Last year when the education inspector came through, two or three scholars from Rizhao got drunk and left the poem. I don't know which village they lived in." Zhou then sent constables to Rizhao to arrest Li Xiu. After several days, Li arrived. Zhou angrily said, "You are a scholar — how could you plot murder?" Li kowtowed in bewilderment and said, "I did not!" Mr. Zhou threw the fan down and told him to look at it himself. "Clearly this was composed by you. Why falsely attribute it to Wang Sheng?" Li examined it and said, "The poem is indeed mine, but the calligraphy is not my hand." Zhou said, "Since it is your poem, the writer must be your friend. Who wrote it?" Li said, "The hand looks like that of Wang Zhuo of Yizhou." Constables were then sent to summon Wang Zhuo under warrant. When Wang arrived, he was interrogated just as Li had been. Wang confessed: "This was written at the request of Zhang Cheng, an iron merchant of Yidu, who said Wang Sheng was his cousin." Mr. Zhou said, "The burglar is here." He had Zhang Cheng brought in and questioned, and at once Zhang confessed. Earlier, Zhang Cheng had seen that Madam He was beautiful and wished to seduce her, but feared she would not comply. He reckoned that if he framed Wu, everyone would believe it, so he forged Wu's fan and went to her house carrying it. If things went well, he would reveal himself; if not, he would lay the blame on Wu — he never actually intended to kill. He climbed over the wall and forced himself on the woman. Because she lived alone, she habitually kept a knife for self-defense. When she woke, she seized Zhang's clothing, grabbed the knife, and rose. Zhang panicked and snatched the knife away. She struggled fiercely, refusing to let go, and cried out. Zhang, in even greater desperation, killed her, then left the fan behind and fled.

A three-year injustice was cleared in a single morning, and all praised Zhou as divine. Wu now understood that "good fortune within" was the character Zhou. Yet no one could fathom the reason. Later, a local gentleman took the opportunity to ask him. Zhou smiled and said, "This is the easiest thing to know. On careful reading of the case file, Madam He was killed in early April. That night it was overcast and rainy, the weather still cold — a fan is hardly an urgent item. Who, in a moment of haste, would carry such a thing to burden himself? That it was a frame-up was obvious. When I took shelter from the rain at the southern outskirts, I saw the poem on the wall and the writing on the fan — their style was similar, so I made a guess about Li Xiu, and indeed through this I caught the true burglar." All who heard this sighed in admiration.

The Tale-Strange Historian says: "In all affairs of the world, those who penetrate deeply find use where others see none. Poetry and literary composition are the adornment of a nation, and yet the gentleman used them to judge the scholars of the land, earning comparison to Sun Yang. Was this not penetrating deeply? And who would have thought that the way of judging men could be applied to adjudicating cases? The Book of Changes says: 'To know the subtle — that is divine.' The gentleman possessed this."

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**The Deer-Taken Herb**

In the mountains beyond the passes, there are many deer. The locals wear deer heads and lie hidden in the grass, rolling leaves to make sounds, and the deer come in herds. However, there are few males and many females. A single male mates with all the females in the group — hundreds or thousands, without exception — and after mating them all, it dies. The females sniff it, know it is dead, and scatter into the valley to fetch a strange grass, which they place by its mouth to fumigate it. In an instant it revives. The locals beat gongs and fire guns, and the herd of deer scatters in alarm. The grass, taken, can restore the dead to life.

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**The Small Coffins**

A boatman in Tianjin dreamed one night that a man told him, "Tomorrow someone will come to hire your boat carrying bamboo chests. Demand a thousand taels of silver; if not, do not ferry him across." The boatman woke and did not believe it. He fell asleep again and dreamed the same thing, and the man also wrote three characters — , 𠫍,  — on the wall, instructing him: "If he begrudges the price, show him these characters at once." The boatman thought this strange, but he did not recognize the characters nor understand their meaning. The next day, he watched the travelers carefully. As the sun moved west, indeed a man came driving a donkey loaded with chests, asking for a boat. The boatman demanded the price as in his dream. The man laughed. After much back and forth, the boatman took his hand and traced the earlier characters with his finger. The man was greatly startled, and in an instant vanished. Searching his cargo, the boatman found tens of thousands of small coffins, each only as long as a finger, each containing a drop of blood. The boatman showed the three characters far and wide, but no one recognized them. Before long, the rebel plot of Wu was exposed, his followers were all executed, and the bodies displayed were almost as numerous as the coffins. Told by Xu Baishan.

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**Xing Ziyi**

Teng County had a certain Yang, who had been a follower of the White Lotus Sect and acquired the arts of sorcery. After Xu Hongru was executed, Yang fortunately escaped the net and thereafter roamed about, wielding his arts. His farmland, gardens, and pavilions made him quite wealthy. On one occasion, at the home of a certain gentleman in Sizhou, he performed illusions as entertainment, and the women of the household came out to watch. Yang noticed that the gentleman's daughter was beautiful and, upon returning home, plotted to abduct her. His second wife, Zhu, was also a woman of charm. He dressed her in splendid attire, disguising her as an immortal maiden, and gave her a wooden bird, teaching her how to operate it. Then he pushed her from the top of the tower. Zhu felt her body become light as a leaf, floating and soaring among the clouds. Before long, she arrived at a place where the cloud stopped and would go no further; she knew she had reached her destination. That night, the moon was bright and clear, and she could see distinctly below. She took the wooden bird and cast it down. The bird fluttered its wings and flew straight into the maiden's chamber. The maiden saw a colorful bird fly in and called her maid to catch it; the bird had already dashed through the curtain and out. The maiden chased it, and the bird fell to the ground making a fluttering sound; as she drew close, it darted beneath her skirt. In the twinkling of an eye, the bird bore her aloft, soaring straight into the sky. The maid cried out in alarm. Zhu, up in the clouds, said: "People below need not be frightened. I am Chang'e of the Moon Palace. She is the Ninth Daughter of the Queen Mother of the West, banished to the mortal world for a time. The Queen Mother misses her dearly every day and has summoned her for a brief reunion; she will be sent back shortly." Then the two women joined hands and traveled on. Just as they reached the borders of the Si River, someone happened to be setting off fireworks, which grazed the bird's wing at an angle. The bird, startled, plummeted, dragging Zhu down with it, and they fell into the courtyard of a scholar's house. The scholar was Xing Ziyi, a man of great poverty and rigid moral principle. Once a neighboring woman had come to him at night seeking to elope, and he had refused to admit her. The woman left in bitter resentment and slandered him to her husband, accusing Xing of having made advances. The husband was indeed a scoundrel, who came to curse and humiliate Xing morning and night. Xing therefore sold his property and rented lodgings in another village. There was a physiognomist named Gu who was skilled in determining a person's fortune and longevity. Xing went to his door and consulted him. Gu looked at him and laughed, saying: "You possess wealth sufficient to fill a thousand measures, yet why do you come before me in tattered cotton rags? Do you think I have no eyes?" Xing scoffed at the absurdity. Gu examined him more closely and said: "So it is. Nevertheless, the gold vault is not far off." Xing again dismissed it as nonsense. Gu said: "Not only will you gain sudden wealth, but you will also obtain a beautiful woman." Xing still did not believe him. Gu pushed him out the door, saying: "Go, go—you will come to thank me after it is proved." That night, Xing sat alone under the moon when suddenly two women descended from the sky. He looked at them and found both to be beauties. Suspecting they were demons, he questioned them sharply, but at first they would not speak. Xing was about to summon the neighbors; Zhu, alarmed, finally told him the truth, and begged him not to reveal it, offering to remain with him forever. Xing considered that a daughter of a good family was not to be equated with the wife of a sorcerer, so he sent word to her family. Her parents, who had been weeping in bewilderment ever since their daughter's flight into the sky, received the letter with overwhelming joy and immediately dispatched carriages and horses in haste. They rewarded Xing with a hundred taels of silver and took their daughter home. Xing had gained a beautiful wife but was worried about his bare walls; the silver was a great comfort. He went to thank Gu. Gu examined him again and said: "Not yet, not yet. Your great fortune has already begun—what is a hundred taels worth mentioning?" So he declined the thanks. Earlier, the gentleman had returned home and petitioned the authorities to arrest Yang. Yang had fled beforehand and was nowhere to be found; his property was therefore confiscated, and a warrant was issued for Zhu's arrest. Zhu, frightened, clung to Xing and wept. Xing, at his wits' end, finally bribed the warrant officer, hired a carriage and horses, and brought Zhu to the gentleman, begging to be released from entanglement. The gentleman was moved by his sense of duty and exerted himself on their behalf, securing her pardon. He kept the couple in a separate residence, treating them with the affection of kinsfolk. The gentleman's daughter had been betrothed in childhood to a man surnamed Liu, who held a high-ranking office. When Liu heard that the maiden had spent the night at the Xing household, he considered it a disgrace, returned the betrothal document, and severed the engagement. The gentleman was about to arrange a marriage with another family, but the daughter told her parents that she was resolved to follow Xing. Xing was overjoyed to hear this. Zhu too was pleased and willingly took the inferior position. The gentleman, concerned that Xing had no home, purchased Yang's former residence from the government, which had sold it, and bought it on their behalf. The couple then returned home, took out their previous silver, provided themselves with basic furnishings, and kept servants and maids; within ten days, the money had all been spent. They could only hope that when the maiden arrived, they would receive further financial support. One evening, Zhu said to Xing: "My former husband Yang once buried a thousand taels of gold beneath the tower; only I know of it. I have just looked at the place, and the bricks and stones are as before—perhaps the hoard is intact." They went together to dig it up and indeed found the gold. Thereupon they believed in the extraordinary skill of the physiognomist Gu and richly rewarded him. Later, when the maiden came to the marriage, her dowry was abundant; within a few years, they became the wealthiest family in the entire prefecture.

The Historian of Strange Tales says: "When the White Lotus was annihilated, Yang alone survived, and even prospered—one might almost suspect that Heaven's net is coarse and lets things slip through. But who knew that Heaven preserved him, all for Xing's sake? Otherwise, even if Xing had passed from extremity to prosperity, how could he have suddenly raised mansions and amassed great wealth? He did not yield to the temptation of a single beauty, and Heaven rewarded him with two. Alas! The Creator does not speak, yet His intent may be known."

Li Sheng

In Shanghe there was a certain Li Sheng who was fond of the Dao. About a li beyond the village there was a Buddhist temple; he built a small retreat of three rooms there and sat in meditation within it. Wandering monks who came to lodge would talk with him freely, and he never tired of providing for them. One day, in heavy snow and bitter cold, an old monk carrying a bag came to borrow a couch, and his words were profound. After two nights, when he was about to leave, Li earnestly urged him to stay, and he remained several more days. It happened that Li returned home on other business, and the monk instructed him to come early the next morning, intending to take his leave. Li went at cockcrow but, knocking on the gate, received no answer. He climbed over the wall and entered, seeing a flickering lamp in the room. Suspecting the monk was up to something, he peered in secretly. The monk was packing; a thin donkey was tied to the lamp-stand. Li examined it closely and decided it was not a real donkey but rather resembled something made for burial sacrifice; yet its ears and tail moved from time to time, and it panted with warm breath. Soon the packing was complete, and the monk opened the door and led the beast out. Li followed stealthily. Outside was a large pond; the monk tied the donkey to a tree by the pond, stripped, and entered the water, washing himself all over. He dressed, led the donkey in, and washed it too. Then he loaded it, mounted, and rode away at tremendous speed. Li then called out to him. The monk merely raised his hands in a distant salute by way of thanks; his words were inaudible, and he was already far away. Wang Meiwu said: Li was a friend of his. He had visited his house and seen a plaque over the hall reading "Hall of Awaiting Death"—he too was a man who had attained understanding.

Lu Yaguan

Zhao Gong was a man of Wuling in Huguang. He had served as an Imperial Household Supervisor, and upon his retirement returned home. A young man presented himself at his gate, seeking employment as a clerk. Zhao summoned him in and found him refined and elegant. On being asked his name, the young man gave his as Lu Yaguan. He asked no wages. Zhao kept him on, and he proved more clever than any ordinary servant. Whenever correspondence and official documents were to be drafted, he composed and answered them with complete freedom, and all his writing was exquisite. When the master was playing chess with a guest, Lu would glance at the board, and at his suggestion they always won. Zhao treated him with increasing favor. The other servants and clerks, seeing how he had won their master's regard, jokingly demanded that he give them a feast. Lu agreed. "How many colleagues are there?" he asked. It happened that the stewards from other estates had all gathered together—some thirty-odd people in all—and they told him the number, thinking to make things difficult. Lu said, "This is easy enough. But with so many guests, I can't prepare everything at short notice—let's go to a wine shop." He then invited them all to a shop by the road. They all sat down. The wine had barely been poured when one man, grasping his cup, stood up and said, "Gentlemen, let me ask you not to drink yet. Who is hosting today? He should put up a deposit first; only then may we eat and drink to our hearts' content. Otherwise, if we spend several thousand cash and then scatter in an uproar, how will the bill be settled?" All eyes turned to Lu. Lu smiled and said, "You don't think I have no money, do you? I do have money." He then stood up, pinched a piece of wet dough from a basin the size of a fist, and broke it into small pieces on the table. As he tossed each piece, it turned into a rat that scurried across the table. Lu casually caught one, tore it open—with a squeak its belly split, revealing a small piece of gold. He caught another, and the same happened. In an instant all the rats were gone, and broken pieces of gold lay piled before them. Lu said to the company, "Is this not enough to pay for our drinking?" Astonished, they all drank freely. When the meal was over, the bill came to three taels and a few mace. They weighed the gold, and it matched the amount exactly. One man pocketed a piece to show the marvel to his master. The master ordered the gold to be produced, but on searching, it had vanished. He went back to question the shopkeeper, and found that the deposit had turned into caltrops. He reported this to Zhao, who interrogated Lu. Lu said, "My friends pressed me for food and wine, and my purse was empty. I learned a little trick when I was young, and I was just trying it out." The others again demanded repayment. Lu said, "I did not swindle anyone out of food or wine. In a certain village, in the wheat chaff, if you winnow once more, you can get two bushels of wheat—more than enough to pay for the wine." He asked one man to go with him. A steward from that village was about to return home, so they went together. When they arrived, several bushels of clean wheat were already piled in the courtyard. All were even more amazed at Lu.

One day, Zhao attended a feast at a friend's house. In the hall there was a pot of orchids in splendid bloom, which he admired greatly. On returning home, he still praised them. Lu said, "If you truly love these orchids, they are not hard to obtain." Zhao was still skeptical. At dawn, when he reached his study, he suddenly smelled a rich, strange fragrance. There stood a pot of orchids, with just as many shoots and leaves as the ones he had seen. Suspecting theft, Zhao questioned him. Lu said, "I have thousands of orchids at home—why would I need to steal?" Zhao did not believe him. Just then a friend arrived, and seeing the orchids, exclaimed in surprise, "How remarkably like the ones from my house!" Zhao said, "I just bought these, but I don't know where they came from. When you left, were the orchids still there?" The friend said, "I never went to your study—whether they were there or not I cannot say. But how did they get here?" Zhao looked at Lu. Lu said, "This is easy to settle: your pot is broken and has mended cracks; this pot has none." On inspection, they believed him. That night Lu said to his master, "I mentioned before that a certain household has many flowers. Now I invite you to honor them with your presence and view them by moonlight. But the others must not come—only Aya will do no harm." Aya was the Supervisor's page boy. Zhao did accordingly. When he emerged, four men carrying a sedan chair were already waiting by the road. Zhao mounted it, and it moved faster than a galloping horse. Soon they entered the mountains, where a strange fragrance penetrated to the bones. They arrived at a grotto mansion, where the buildings were splendid and radiant, utterly unlike the mortal world. Everywhere flowers and rocks were arranged; exquisite pots and fine plants shed light and fragrance. Of orchids alone there were several dozen pots, all luxuriously grown. When he had finished viewing, he ordered the carriage as before and returned. Lu attended Zhao for more than ten years. Later Zhao died without illness, and Lu left with Aya; where they went, no one knows.

Jiang Taishi

Jiang Taishi, whose name was Chao, remembered that in a previous life he had been a monk of Mount Emei. He often dreamed of going to his old hermitage and washing his feet at the pool in front. He was deeply devoted to the Buddhist scriptures, with his whole mind on the Tiantai school. Though he had early entered the Imperial Academy, he constantly harbored thoughts of leaving the world. On a leave of residence in the south, he reached Qinyou and did not wish to return home. His son wept and tried to detain him, but he would not listen. He then entered Shu and lived at Jinsha Temple in Chengdu. After some time, he went again to Mount Emei and lived at Fuhu Temple, where he showed signs of illness and passed away in peace. He wrote his own gatha: "At ease, the cranes and apes come naturally to befriend me—this old monk has fallen into the dust of karma for no reason. In vain I seek to escape the heat from the cauldron—how can I turn myself over from the sea of suffering? Wife and children are but skeletons in the procession. Only my sovereign and my parents go unrewarded—in life after life I pray constantly to the Benevolent One."

Shao Shimei

Shao Jinshi, whose name was Shimei, was a man of Jining. He was first appointed Professor of Dengzhou. Two old scholars presented their cards, and when he saw their names, they seemed very familiar. After thinking for a long time, he suddenly remembered his previous life. He asked the college servant, "Does so-and-so live in such-and-such a village?" He also described their appearance, and everything matched. Soon the two scholars entered, and they clasped hands and talked together as if they had known each other all their lives. In the course of conversation, they asked about Gao Donghai. The two scholars said, "He died in prison more than twenty years ago; he still has one son alive. He was a humble man in this district—how did you know of him?" Shao smiled and said, "He was an old relation of mine." Previously, Gao Donghai had been a rascal by nature, but he was bold and generous, and he valued righteousness above money. When someone defaulted on rent and sold his daughter, Gao emptied his purse to redeem her privately. He kept a mistress, and she was convicted of concealing stolen goods. The authorities pursued her urgently, and she fled and hid in Gao's house. The officials learned of this and arrested Gao, torturing him severely, but he never confessed, and he died in prison. The day he died was the day Shao was born. Later, when Shao went to the village, he provided for Gao's wife and son, and everyone far and near knew of the marvel. This was related by Gao Shaizai—that is, Gao Jiliang, Shao's classmate in the same year.

Gu Sheng

A man named Gu from Jiangnan was sojourning in Jixia when his eyes suddenly swelled up, causing him to moan and groan day and night. He sought no medical treatment. After more than ten days, the pain somewhat subsided. Whenever he closed his eyes, he would see a grand mansion with four or five courtyards, their gates all thrown wide open. In the innermost depths, people could be seen coming and going, but they were too distant to make out clearly. One day, as he was focusing his attention on this, he suddenly found himself inside the mansion. He passed through three gateways, but not a single soul was in sight. There were halls to the south and north, their floors covered with red felt. Glancing in, he saw the rooms filled with infants—sitting, lying down, crawling on their knees—beyond counting. Just as he was standing there bewildered and suspicious, a man emerged from behind the building, saw him, and said, "The Young Master said there was a visitor at the gate—so there is!" He then invited him in. Gu dared not enter, but after being urged, he went in. He asked, "What is this place?"

"This is the residence of the Ninth Prince's heir," came the reply. "The heir has just recovered from malarial fever, and today his relatives and friends are congratulating him. You, sir, have your share of good fortune in this." Before he had finished speaking, someone came running up, urging them to hurry along. Soon they arrived at a place with carved pavilions and painted railings—a hall facing north with nine columns. Ascending the steps, he found the seats already filled with guests. He saw a young man seated facing north and knew this must be the Prince, so he prostrated himself below the hall. Everyone in the hall rose to their feet. The Prince pulled Gu to a seat facing east. Wine was served, and suddenly drums and music burst forth. The entertainers ascended the hall and performed *The Three Blessings of Huafeng*. They had barely passed three acts when the innkeeper and Gu's servant called him for lunch, repeatedly shouting at his bedside. He heard it very clearly, but fearing the Prince might notice, he excused himself to change his clothes and stepped out. Looking up, he saw the sun high in the sky, and there was his servant standing before the bed. Only then did he realize he had never left the inn. Eager to return, he ordered his servant to close the door and leave. The moment his eyelids closed, he saw the palace as before and hastily followed his old path back in. Passing by the place where the infants had been, he found no infants—instead, there were several dozen old women with disheveled hair and hunched backs, sitting and lying about. Seeing Gu, they shouted in harsh tones: "What rascal from which family has come here to spy on us?" Startled and frightened, Gu dared not utter a word in his own defense. He hurried to the rear courtyard, ascended the hall, and took his seat. He saw that the Prince had grown a beard more than a foot long beneath his chin. Seeing Gu, the Prince smiled and asked, "Where have you been? The play has passed seven acts." He then presented a huge goblet as a penalty. After some time, the performance ended, and the program of acts was presented again. Gu selected *The Ancestor of Drums Takes a Wife*. The entertainers immediately circulated the wine in coconut-shell ladles, each holding about five pecks. Gu rose from his seat and declined, saying, "Your subject suffers from an eye ailment and dares not drink to excess."

The Prince said, "Since you have an eye ailment, there is a royal physician here—he should examine you at once." A guest seated to the east rose and came over. With two fingers, he opened Gu's eyelids and applied a white salve, as creamy as lard, with a jade hairpin, instructing him to close his eyes and rest a while. The Prince ordered a serving girl to lead Gu into an inner chamber and let him lie down. After a short while, he felt the bed curtains fragrant and soft, and so he fell into a deep sleep.

Before long, he suddenly heard the clamoring din of gongs and was startled awake. He suspected the play was not yet finished, but when he opened his eyes, he saw it was merely the inn's dog licking the oil pot. His eye ailment, however, had vanished. He closed his eyes once more and saw nothing at all.

Chen Xijiu

Chen Xijiu was a man of Pi. His father, Chen Yan, was a renowned scholar in the county. A wealthy man named Zhou, admiring Chen Yan's reputation, arranged a marriage between his daughter and Xijiu. But Xijiu repeatedly failed the imperial examinations, and his family's fortunes dwindled. He traveled to Qin to continue his studies, and for years no word came from him. Zhou secretly began to regret the match. He married his younger daughter to a man named Wang, a presented scholar, as a second wife; Wang's betrothal gifts were lavish, his servants and horses splendid. This only deepened Zhou's contempt for Xijiu's poverty, and he resolved to break off the engagement. He asked his daughter's opinion, but she refused. Enraged, he sent her back to the Chens in coarse clothing. The family had not a meal to eat, and Zhou showed no concern at all.

One day, he sent a serving woman with food to the daughter. The woman entered and said to the mother, "My master sent me to see whether the young missus has starved to death." The daughter, fearing her mother would be shamed, forced a smile and tried to change the subject. She brought out food from a box and set it before her mother. The woman stopped her, saying, "No need for that! Since the young missus entered our household, has she ever so much as offered a cup of warm or cool water in return? Our family's provisions—I doubt the old lady has the face to eat them." The mother was furious, her expression and voice both changed. The woman was not cowed and hurled abuse at her. In the midst of the commotion, Xijiu entered from outside. When he learned what had happened, he flew into a rage, seized the woman by the hair, slapped her face, and drove her from the house.

The next day, Zhou came to take his daughter back, but she refused to go. The day after, he came again with a larger company, all clamoring as if looking for a fight. The mother urged the daughter to go. The daughter tearfully bowed to her mother and departed in the carriage. Several days later, he sent people again, demanding a letter of divorce. The mother pressed Xijiu to give it. She only hoped that Chen Yan would return, so they could make other plans.

Someone from the Zhou household arrived from Xi'an with the news that Chen Yan had died. The Chen mother, grief-stricken and enraged, fell ill and died. In the midst of his anguish, Xijiu still hoped his wife would return. But as time passed with no word, his grief and bitterness grew sharper. He sold his few acres of poor land to pay for burial supplies. After the funeral, he set out for Xi'an as a beggar, seeking his father's bones.

Arriving in Xi'an, he questioned residents everywhere. Some said that a scholar had died years ago at an inn and been buried on the eastern outskirts, but the grave was now lost. Xijiu was at a loss. He begged in the marketplace by day and slept in country temples by night, hoping someone would know. One evening, passing through a burial ground, several men blocked his way and demanded payment for meals. Xijiu said, "I am a stranger begging in the city—where do I owe anyone meal money?" Enraged, they threw him to the ground and stuffed his mouth with rotting cotton from a buried child. His strength spent and his voice failing, he was nearing death when suddenly they cried out in alarm, "Where has an official come from?" They released him and vanished.

Soon a carriage arrived. Someone asked, "Who is this man lying here?" Several men helped him to the carriage. The person inside said, "This is my son. What dare these accursed spirits do! Bind them all—let none escape." Xijiu felt someone remove the stuffing from his mouth. After a moment, he looked closely and recognized his father. He wept loudly, "I have suffered terribly seeking your bones. Are you truly still among the living?" His father said, "I am not among the living. I am the Chief Administrator of Mount Taihang. I have come for your sake." Xijiu wept even more bitterly. His father comforted him. Xijiu tearfully recounted his father-in-law's breaking of the marriage. His father said, "Do not worry. Your new wife is also with your mother. Your mother misses you greatly. You may visit briefly." They rode together in the carriage, swift as wind and rain.

After a time, they arrived at an official residence. They dismounted and passed through many gates, and there was his mother. Xijiu was overcome with grief, but his father restrained him. He sobbed and obeyed. He saw his wife at his mother's side and asked, "My wife is here—is she also among the dead?" His mother said, "No. Your father brought her here. She awaits you to return home, and will be sent back then." Xijiu said, "I will serve my parents and do not wish to return." His mother said, "You came here through bitter hardship for your father's bones. If you not return, what was your original purpose? Moreover, your filial devotion has reached the Emperor of Heaven, who has bestowed upon you ten thousand catties of gold. You and your wife have long years of enjoyment ahead—how can you speak of not returning?" Xijiu wept. His father repeatedly urged him to depart, and Xijiu broke down in sobs. His father said angrily, "Will you not go?" Xijiu, frightened, stifled his tears and asked about the burial place. His father took his arm and said, "When you go, I will tell you: about a hundred paces from the burial ground, there are a mother and child white elm tree." He pulled him urgently, and Xijiu had no time even to bid his mother farewell. Outside, a strong servant held a horse ready. Xijiu mounted, and his father instructed him, "At the place you stayed last night, there is some money. Quickly prepare your baggage and return. Demand your wife from your father-in-law. Do not rest until you have her." Xijiu agreed and departed.

The horse galloped with incredible speed, and by cockcrow they reached Xi'an. The servant helped him down. He was about to bow and send word to his parents, but the man and horse had already vanished. He went to his old lodging place and leaned against the wall to rest until dawn. There was a stone pressing against his thigh; when he examined it in the morning, it was silver. He bought a coffin and hired a cart, found the twin elm trees, recovered his father's bones, and returned home.

After the joint burial was completed, the family was left with nothing but bare walls. Fortunately, the neighbors pitied his filial devotion and fed him. He went to demand his wife back, but knowing he could not use force, he went with his kinsman brother Shijiu. Arriving at the gate, the gatekeeper refused them entry. Shijiu was a rascal by nature and spoke obscenely. Zhou sent someone to persuade Xijiu to leave, promising to send the daughter over, and Xijiu returned home.

Earlier, when the daughter had returned, Zhou berated her husband and mother-in-law before her. She said nothing but wept facing the wall. When the Chen mother died, he did not let her know. Upon receiving the divorce letter, he threw it at her and said, "The Chen family has cast you out!" She said, "I have never been disobedient or wicked—why have you cast me out?" She wished to return home to demand an explanation, but he kept her confined. Later, when Xijiu went to Xi'an, Zhou fabricated the false news of his death to sever her resolve. Once this word spread, a man named Du, a senior scholar, came to propose marriage, and Zhou agreed.

When the wedding day was set, the daughter learned of it. She wept and refused to eat, covering her face with a quilt, her breath faint as a thread. Zhou was at his wits' end when suddenly he heard that Xijiu had arrived. He spoke harshly, expecting the daughter would surely die, and so had her carried back to Xijiu, intending to let her die to vent his anger. When Xijiu returned, the people delivering his wife had already arrived. They feared Xijiu would see her illness and refuse to take her in, so as soon as they entered the gate, they set her down and left. The neighbors worried on his behalf and planned to carry her back, but Xijiu would not hear of it. He helped her onto the couch, but she had already stopped breathing. He was seized with terror.

In the midst of his panic, Zhou's son led several men armed with weapons through the door, smashing windows and doors. Xijiu fled and hid, but they searched for him relentlessly. The townspeople were all indignant. Shijiu gathered over ten men to rush to his aid, and Zhou's sons were all wounded before they fled like rats. Zhou, even more enraged, brought a lawsuit before the magistrate, and Xijiu and Shijiu were arrested. As Xijiu was about to be taken away, he entrusted his wife's body to a neighbor woman. Suddenly, from the couch, he heard—

The passage above, upon closer inspection, had fallen into a faint. Drawing near to look, he saw her eyelids flutter faintly. Before long, she was already able to turn her body. Overjoyed, he went to the magistrate to report the matter himself. The magistrate was furious at Zhou's false accusation. In mortal fear, Zhou offered a heavy bribe and thus escaped punishment.

When Xijiu returned home, husband and wife met, mingling grief with joy. Earlier, the woman had refused food and lay in a deathlike state, having vowed to die. Suddenly someone seized her and said: "I am of the Chen household. Come quickly with me, and husband and wife may meet again; otherwise, it will be too late!" Before she knew it, her body had already left the gate. Two people helped her into a sedan chair. In an instant she arrived at the magistrate's yamaen, where she saw both her father-in-law and mother-in-law present. She asked: "What place is this?" Her mother-in-law said: "Do not ask. In due time we will send you home." One day, when she saw Xijiu arrive, she was overjoyed. But they parted the moment they met, and her heart was filled with suspicion. Her father-in-law, she knew not for what reason, had often been absent for days at a time. The previous night he had suddenly returned and said: "I was at Wuyi and came back two days late—it has been hard on Ba'er. You must send the child home at once." He then sent the woman back by carriage and horse. Suddenly she saw her own home, and it was as if waking from a dream.

The woman and Xijiu recounted the events of the past to each other, sharing their wonder and joy. From then on the husband and wife were reunited, but from dawn to dusk they had no means to support themselves. Xijiu set up a school for village children and at the same time applied himself to his own studies with great diligence. Often he would say to himself in private: "My father said Heaven bestowed gold upon us, yet these four walls are bare—how can book-learning alone bring about our rise?"

One day, returning from school, he met two men, who asked him: "Are you Master Chen?" Xijiu said: "I am." The two men immediately produced iron chains and bound him. Xijiu did not understand why. Before long, all the villagers had gathered and questioned the matter. It then came to light that he had been implicated by a bandit from the prefecture. The crowd pitied his innocence and pooled money to bribe the escorts, so that he suffered no hardship on the road. Arriving at the prefecture, he appeared before the prefect and recounted his family history in detail. The prefect was astonished and said: "This is the son of a distinguished gentleman—cultured and refined. How could he possibly be a thief?" He ordered the chains removed and the real bandit placed in heavy fetters, who then confessed that he had been bribed by a certain Zhou. Xijiu further explained the reason for the rupture with his father-in-law, which enraged the prefect even more, and he issued an immediate summons. He then invited Xijiu to the yamaen and spoke with him of their families' old friendship, for the prefect was the son of the former Pizai magistrate Lord Han—that is, he had been a pupil of Zhiyan. He presented Xijiu with a hundred taels of gold for lamp and fuel expenses, and moreover gave him two mules to ride, so that he might come to the prefecture from time to time to have his literary compositions examined. He also spoke of Xijiu's filial piety to all his superiors, so that from the Governor-General down, all sent him gifts.

Xijiu rode the mules home, and husband and wife were greatly comforted. One day, his wife's mother came weeping. She saw the woman prostrate on the ground and would not rise. The woman asked in alarm, and only then learned that Zhou had already been clapped in irons and thrown into prison. The woman wept bitterly, blaming herself, and wished only to find death. Xijiu had no choice but to go to the prefecture and plead on her behalf. The prefect released Zhou on condition of self-redemption, imposing a fine of one hundred bushels of grain, with a written commendation bestowed upon the filial son Chen Xijiu. When Zhou was released and went to take grain from the granary, he mixed it with chaff and husks before loading it for transport. Xijiu said to his wife: "Your father measured a gentleman's heart with a petty man's. Did he think I would accept such a gift and trouble myself with mixing in chaff and husks?" He laughed and refused it.

Though Xijiu's household was now somewhat better off, his walls and fences were humble and dilapidated. One night, a band of robbers broke in. The servant awoke and raised a great shout, but the robbers made off with only the two mules. More than half a year later, Xijiu was reading at night when he heard a knocking at the gate. He asked who it was, but received no reply. He called the servant to get up and look, and found the gate had opened slightly and the two mules leaping in—the very ones that had been lost. They rushed straight to the manger, panting and sweating. When he examined them by candlelight, each was carrying a leather bag. He opened them and found them full of silver ingots. Greatly astonished, he had no idea where it had come from. Later he heard that on that very night the great bandit had robbed Zhou, and when his loaded goods were being carried out, the pursuing garrison soldiers pressed him closely, so he abandoned his bundled cargo and fled. The mules recognized their former master and made straight for home.

When Zhou returned from prison, his wounds from the punishment were still severe, and having been robbed as well, he fell gravely ill and died. The woman dreamed one night that her father came to her in chains and said: "What I did in my lifetime—I regret it, but it is too late. Now I suffer punishment in the underworld, and only your father-in-law can secure my release. On my behalf, beg your husband to send a letter for me." She woke weeping. When questioned, she told everything. Xijiu had long wished to visit the Taihang Mountains, and that very day he set out. Upon arrival, he prepared sacrificial animals and wine and made his prayers, then slept in the open at that spot, hoping for some sign. But through the whole night nothing unusual occurred, and he returned home.

After Zhou's death, his mother and son grew ever more destitute and depended on the second son-in-law for support. The Provincial Graduate Wang had passed the examination and been appointed county magistrate, but was dismissed for corruption, and the whole family was exiled to Shenyang, leaving them with nowhere to turn. From time to time, Xijiu looked after and assisted them.

The Historian of the Strange says: "No virtue is greater than filial piety. That ghosts and spirits are moved by it is only natural and right. If one were a man of true moral cultivation, even if he remained poor to the end, he would still be sought after—to say nothing of the prosperity that might follow thereafter. But some people give their tender young daughter to a white-haired old man, and strut about saying proudly: 'So-and-so, a high official, is my son-in-law on the east couch!' Alas! The frail little maiden remains as she ever was, while the 'golden-tortoise son-in-law' returns only for the funeral—that is already grievous enough. And what of sending a young wife off to follow the army?"