Volume 11

Volume 11

**Feng the Carpenter**

Zhou Youde, the Grand Commander, was converting a former princely mansion into the headquarters of the provincial administration. At the time, construction was underway, and a carpenter by the name of Feng Minghuan was keeping night watch on the premises. One night, just as he was about to fall asleep, he noticed that the lattice window was half open and the moonlight was bright as day. Gazing into the distance, he saw a red hen standing on a low wall. As he watched, the hen swooped down to the ground. Presently, a young woman appeared, half her body visible, peering in. Feng suspected she was the secret lover of one of his fellow workers. He listened quietly, but all the others were fast asleep. His heart beat with secret agitation, and he secretly hoped she might come to him by mistake. Before long, the woman climbed through the window and walked straight into his arms. Feng was overjoyed and said not a word. After their union, she left. From then on, she came every night. At first she kept it secret; later she told him openly. "I did not come by mistake," she said. "I came deliberately, to give myself to you." The two grew ever closer in affection. When the work was completed, Feng wished to return home, and the woman was already waiting for him in the open fields. Feng's village was not far from the prefecture, so she went with him. Once inside his house, none of his family could see her, and Feng then knew she was not human. After several months, his vitality gradually waned, and his fear grew. He engaged a master to exorcise her, but it proved utterly ineffective. One night, the woman came to him richly dressed and said, "All worldly ties are governed by fate: what is meant to come cannot be pushed away, and what is meant to leave cannot be held back. Today, I part from you." And she was gone.

**Huang Ying**

Ma Zicai was a native of Shuntian. His family had long been fond of chrysanthemums, and with him the passion was especially keen. If he heard of a fine variety, he would purchase it without hesitation, no matter how great the distance. One day, a guest from Jinling lodged at his home and told him that a cousin of his possessed one or two varieties unknown in the north. Ma was delighted and at once packed his bags, following the guest to Jinling. The guest made every effort to procure them for him, and Ma obtained two sprouts, which he wrapped and treasured as though they were jewels. On the way back, he encountered a young man riding a donkey and following an oil-green carriage, his bearing graceful and refined. As they drew near, Ma struck up a conversation. The young man said his surname was Tao. His speech was cultured and elegant. When asked where Ma had come from, Ma told him the truth. The young man said, "No variety is inherently poor; it all depends in the cultivation." He then discussed with Ma the art of growing chrysanthemums. Ma was overjoyed and asked, "Where are you headed?" The young man replied, "My elder sister has grown weary of Jinling and wishes to settle in Hebei." Ma said gladly, "Though I am indeed poor, my humble cottage can offer you lodging. If you do not mind its shabbiness, there is no need to seek elsewhere." Tao went to the front of the carriage to consult his sister. A woman pushed aside the curtain and spoke—she was an incomparably beautiful woman of about twenty. She said to her brother, "The house need not be tall, but the garden should be spacious." Ma promised on their behalf, and they all returned together. To the south of his property was an abandoned garden with only three or four small rooms. Tao was pleased and took up residence there. Each day he would come to the north garden to tend Ma's chrysanthemums. When the plants had withered, he would pull them up and replant them, and none failed to revive. However, the family was poor, and Tao shared Ma's meals daily, yet it seemed his own household never lit a cooking fire. Ma's wife, Lü, also grew fond of Tao's sister and from time to time sent her small measures of grain to help. Tao's sister, whose pet name was Huangying, was a gifted conversationalist and would often visit Lü to sew and weave with her. One day Tao said to Ma, "Your household is certainly not wealthy, and I daily burden my friend with the cost of my keep—this cannot go on. For the present, selling chrysanthemums would be enough to make a living." Ma, who had always been scrupulous, was deeply offended by these words. He said, "I took you for a man of refinement and noble character, one who could be content in poverty. Now that you speak thus, you treat the eastern fence as a marketplace and bring disgrace upon the yellow flowers." Tao smiled and said, "To earn one's own bread is not greed; to trade in flowers is not vulgarity. One certainly should not seek wealth improperly, but neither is it necessary to insist on poverty." Ma said nothing, and Tao rose and left. From then on, the broken stalks and inferior varieties that Ma discarded, Tao gathered up all of them. After this, he no longer came to share Ma's meals, and came only when summoned. Before long, as the chrysanthemums were about to bloom, Ma heard a clamor at Tao's gate like that of a marketplace. Surprised, he went to look and saw buyers coming and going by cart and on shoulder-poles, in an unbroken stream along the road. The flowers were all strange varieties he had never seen before. Disgusted by Tao's greed, he wished to break with him, yet he resented that Tao had kept the finest specimens secret. So he knocked at the door, intending to reproach him. Tao came out, took his hand, and drew him inside. He saw that half an acre of the once-desolate courtyard was now all chrysanthemum beds, with not an inch of wasted ground beyond the few rooms. Where plants had been dug up, he had broken off branches from elsewhere to replace them. The buds in the beds were all exquisite, yet upon closer inspection, they were all the ones Ma had previously discarded. Tao went inside and brought out wine and food, setting a table beside the flower beds. He said, "I am too poor to keep to pure precepts; these past mornings I have had the luck to earn a little money, enough to provide for some drinking." Shortly after, a voice from the inner room called "Third Brother," and Tao answered and went in. He soon returned with fine dishes, exquisitely prepared. Ma asked, "Why has your elder sister not married?" Tao replied, "The time has not yet come." "When will it be?" "Forty-three months." When pressed for an explanation, Tao only smiled and said nothing. They drank until the festivities ended. After spending the night, Ma visited again and found the newly planted shoots had already grown a foot tall. Amazed, he begged to learn the technique. Tao said, "This truly cannot be taught by words. Besides, you do not seek to make a living—what use would it be to you?" Several days later, the bustle at his gate had somewhat subsided. Tao then wrapped the chrysanthemums in reed mats and loaded several carts with them. A year later, when spring was half spent, he returned carrying rare plants from the south. He set up a flower shop in the capital and sold everything within ten days, then returned to cultivating chrysanthemums. Those who had bought flowers the previous year had kept the roots, but the next year they all degenerated and grew inferior, so they bought from Tao again. Tao grew wealthy from this. In one year he added rooms; in the second he built summer pavilions. He built as he pleased, no longer consulting his host. Gradually the old flower beds were all converted into corridors and halls. He also bought a plot of land outside the wall, built a fence around it on all sides, and planted it entirely with chrysanthemums. In autumn he would carry the flowers away and not return until spring was over. Meanwhile, Ma's wife Lü had fallen ill and died. He had feelings for Huangying and sent someone to hint at this gently. Huangying smiled, her manner seeming to consent, but she would wait only for Tao's return. More than a year passed, and Tao still did not come. Huangying directed the servants to grow chrysanthemums, just as Tao had done. With the money she increasingly engaged in trade, and beyond the village she managed fertile fields of twenty qing, her estate growing ever more imposing. Suddenly a visitor arrived from Eastern Yueh bearing a letter from Tao Sheng. When opened, it instructed his sister to return to Ma. Checking the date the letter had been sent, it was the very day his wife had died. Recalling the drinking in the garden, it was exactly forty-three months—most extraordinary. He showed the letter to Ying and asked what betrothal gifts she required. Ying declined to accept any. Ma also felt his old home was too humble and wished her to live in the southern estate, as though he were the one marrying into her family. Ma would not consent, and he chose a day to perform the wedding rites. After Huangying married Ma, she opened a door in the adjoining wall connecting to the southern estate and each day came over to direct his servants. Ma was ashamed of his wife's wealth and constantly instructed Huangying to keep separate northern and southern accounts to prevent confusion. Yet whatever the household needed, Huangying would fetch from the southern estate. In less than half a year, everything in the house was from the Tao household. Ma at once sent people to return every item, warning them not to take anything again. Before ten days had passed, the goods were mixed together once more. After several such exchanges, Ma was exhausted by the trouble. Huangying smiled and said, "Is Master Chen Zhongzi not overworking himself?" Ma was ashamed and no longer checked, leaving everything to Huangying. She gathered workmen and materials and undertook great building works, which Ma could not prevent. After several months, the buildings of the two estates were connected, and the two properties had merged into one, with no boundary between them. However, following Ma's instruction, they closed their doors and no longer traded in chrysanthemums, yet their comfort surpassed that of noble families. Ma was uneasy and said, "For thirty years I have preserved my clean reputation, and now I have been compromised by you. I linger in this world, living off my wife's connections—truly not a shred of manly spirit remains in me. Others pray for wealth; I alone pray for poverty!" Huangying said, "I am not greedy or base. But if I do not bring a measure of prosperity, then people for a thousand years to come will say that Yuanming had the bones of the poor and humble, and that even after a hundred generations he could not rise. So I am merely offering a little defense of my family's Pengze. Yet for the poor to wish for wealth is difficult; for the wealthy to seek poverty is, on the contrary, very easy. The

"Use the money as you wish, dear—I won't begrudge it," she said.

But Ma protested: "Spending another man's money—that would be rather disgraceful."

"I won't be wealthy, and you won't be poor. If you can't accept it, then let us live separately: the pure shall remain pure, the turbid shall remain turbid—what harm is there?"

So she built a thatched cottage in the garden and chose a beautiful maid to attend Ma, who settled in there contentedly. But after a few days, he grew wretched with longing for Huang Ying. He summoned her, but she would not come; in the end, he had no choice but to go to her instead. After a night apart, he would return to her, and this became the regular pattern.

Huang Ying laughed and said: "Eating in the east and lodging in the west—a man of integrity would not behave so."

Ma laughed at himself too, having no reply, and they resumed living together as before.

It happened that Ma traveled to Jinling on business, arriving just as the chrysanthemums were in autumn bloom. Early one morning he passed a flower shop and saw an extraordinary abundance of potted chrysanthemums, their blooms exquisite and surpassing. His heart was moved, and he suspected they were of Tao's making. Presently the shopkeeper came out—and it was indeed Tao. Overjoyed, Ma told him all that had happened since they parted, and took up lodging there. He urged Tao to return home with him. Tao said: "Jinling is my native place, and I intend to marry here. I have saved a little money—please entrust it to my elder sister. I shall come briefly at year's end."

Ma would not listen and pressed him even harder, saying: "Our household is prosperous enough now—you can simply enjoy the fruits of it without any need to trade again." He sat in the shop and had his servants haggle over prices, selling off the stock cheaply, and in a few days everything was gone. He hurried Tao's luggage, hired a boat, and they headed north.

When they arrived home, the elder sister had already cleared rooms for them—beds, mattresses, and quilts all laid out, as if she had known her brother was returning. Once Tao came back, he unpacked and oversaw the work, renovating the pavilions and gardens on a grand scale. From then on he spent his days only in chess and wine with Ma, and received no more visitors.

The elder sister tried to arrange a marriage for him, but he declined, saying he had no wish for one. She sent two maids to attend his sleeping and living quarters. After three or four years, a daughter was born.

Tao had always been a prodigious drinker, yet he was never seen to become truly intoxicated. There was a friend, Zeng, whose capacity was equally unmatched. Happening to pass by Ma's house, Ma had him drink in competition with Tao. The two of them drank freely and joyfully, each regretting they had not met sooner. From morning until the fourth watch of night, they reckoned each had consumed a hundred pots. Zeng collapsed in a sodden stupor, fast asleep where he sat. Tao rose to go to bed, but as he stepped out the door he trampled upon a chrysanthemum bed, toppled like a falling jade mountain, his clothes slipping off to the side—and where he lay on the ground he transformed into a chrysanthemum, as tall as a man, with more than ten blooms, each larger than a fist.

Ma was utterly horrified and went to tell Huang Ying. She rushed over, pulled the plant up and set it on the ground, exclaiming: "How could he drink himself into this!" She covered it with the clothes, took Ma away with her, and warned him not to look. When they returned in the morning, Tao was lying beside the chrysanthemum bed.

Ma then understood that brother and sister were chrysanthemum spirits, and he loved and respected them all the more. But since Tao had revealed his true nature, he drank even more freely, regularly sending invitations to Zeng, and the two became the closest of friends.

On the Flower-Visiting Festival, Zeng came to call, carried by two servants bearing a vat of medicinal-infused white wine, proposing they finish it together. When the vat was nearly empty, neither of them was yet very drunk. Ma secretly slipped in an additional pitcherful, and they drank that up too. Zeng, thoroughly spent, was carried away by his servants. Tao lay down on the ground and once again turned into a chrysanthemum.

Ma, now accustomed to this, was no longer startled. He pulled it up as before and sat beside it watching for the transformation to reverse. But as time passed, the leaves grew ever more withered. Greatly alarmed, he finally went to tell Huang Ying. She was horrified when she heard: "You have killed my brother!" She rushed to look—the roots and stem were already dead. Grief-stricken beyond measure, she snapped off the stem, buried it in a pot, and carried it into her chamber, watering it every day.

Ma was racked with remorse and bitter resentment toward Zeng. Several days later, he heard that Zeng had drunk himself to death.

The flower in the pot gradually sprouted. By the ninth month it bloomed—short stem, pink blossoms, and when one sniffed it, there was the fragrance of wine. They named it "Drunken Tao," and watering it with wine made it flourish.

In time the daughter grew up and married into a distinguished family. Huang Ying lived to old age and showed no further strangeness.

The Chronicler of the Strange remarks: "A man of green mountains and white clouds—and so he dies of drunkenness. The world regrets it deeply, yet he himself may well have found no greater joy. Plant this flower in your courtyard, and it is as meeting a true friend, as standing before a beautiful woman—one must not fail to seek it out."

Lang Yuzhu of Pengcheng — his grandfather had risen to the post of Prefect. He served with integrity, took no salary to build up his estate, and left behind a house overflowing with books. By the time of Yuzhu, the family had grown bitterly poor. He sold everything he had, but his father's books — not a single volume would he part with. While his father lived, he had written the "Exhortation to Study" and pasted it to Yuzhu's desk as a reminder. Lang recited it daily, covering it with plain silk for fear it might wear away. Not that he sought office — he truly believed that houses of gold and granaries of grain lay within those pages. He studied day and night, without pause through winter or summer. Past twenty, he sought no bride, hoping the beauty in the books would come to him of her own accord. When guests called, he knew no small talk; after a few words, his chanting would rise in full force, and the visitors would drift away of their own accord. When the examination commissioner held tests, Lang always placed first, yet he could never pass.

One day, as he was reading, a great wind suddenly snatched a volume away. He chased it in haste, and his foot broke through the ground. He reached down and found a hole filled with rotted straw. He dug further and discovered an ancient grain cache, long since decayed into dust. Though it could not be eaten, he was all the more convinced that the promise of "a thousand measures of grain" was no empty boast, and he studied harder than ever.

Another day, climbing a tall shelf, he found among the disordered volumes a golden carriage a foot across. Overjoyed, he took it as proof of the "golden house." But when he showed it to others, it turned out to be gilded, not true gold. In his heart he resented the ancients for deceiving him.

Not long after, a man who had passed the examinations in the same year as Lang's father became an official in the region, a man devoted to the Buddha. Someone urged Lang to present the carriage as a shrine for Buddhist images. The official was delighted and rewarded him with three hundred taels of gold and two horses. Lang was overjoyed, believing that both the golden house and the carriage-and-horses had been confirmed, and he applied himself with even greater rigor. But by now he was already thirty.

Someone urged him to marry. He replied, "The books say there is a face like jade within them — why should I worry about finding a beautiful wife?" He read for another two or three years, but to no effect. Everyone mocked him.

At that time a rumor spread among the people that the Weaving Maiden of heaven had fled in secret. Someone teased Lang: "The celestial granddaughter has run away — surely it was for your sake." Lang knew it was a joke and made not a word in reply.

One evening, reading the *Book of Han* through eight volumes, he was halfway through when he found a beauty cut from silk gauze tucked between the pages. He cried out in alarm: "Could this be the 'face like jade' the books promised?" His heart was filled with a strange, hollow loss. But examining the figure closely, he saw that her brows and eyes seemed alive, and on her back, barely visible, were tiny characters: "The Weaving Maiden." He was deeply astonished. He placed her on the page and gazed at her again and again, forgetting food and sleep.

One day, as he was staring at her, the beauty suddenly bent at her waist, rose up, and sat smiling upon the page. Lang was thunderstruck and prostrated himself before the desk. When he raised his head, she was already a foot tall. More astonished still, he kowtowed to her. She stepped down from the desk, graceful and poised — a beauty for the ages.

He bowed and asked: "What spirit are you?"

The beauty smiled. "My surname is Yan, my name is Youru. You have known me long. You have looked upon me with favor day after day; had I not come at all, I feared that a thousand years hence no one would ever again have faith in the words of the ancients."

Lang was delighted and took her as his companion. In the intimacy of pillow and mat he loved her deeply, yet he did not know how to be with her as a man. Whenever he read, he insisted she sit beside her. She warned him not to read, but he would not listen. She said: "The reason you cannot rise in the world is precisely because you read. Look at the list of successful candidates — how many read as you do? If you will not listen, I will leave."

Lang obeyed for a time. But in a moment he forgot her teaching, and his chanting rose again. Before long he looked for her — she was nowhere to be found. Distraught, he searched and prayed, but there was no trace. Then he remembered where she had hidden herself. He took the *Book of Han* and examined it carefully, going all the way to the old place, and found her. He called to her, but she would not move. He prostrated himself and pleaded. She then came down and said: "If you disobey me again, we shall be parted forever!"

She had him prepare a chessboard and dice, and each day they played together. But Lang's heart was not in it. When he saw she was not watching, he would secretly pull out a volume and read. Fearing she would notice, he quietly took the eighth volume of the *Book of Han* and hid it among the other books to confuse her. One day, reading with great absorption, the girl came to him and he did not notice. Suddenly he saw her and hastily covered the book — but she had already vanished.

Terrified, he searched through every volume, but she was nowhere. At last he found her again in the eighth volume of the *Book of Han*, on the exact same leaf. He bowed twice and swore he would read no more. She came down and played chess with him. "If in three days you have not mastered the game," she said, "I shall leave again." On the third day, he won two pieces from her in a single match. She was pleased and gave him a stringed instrument, setting him five days to master one melody. Lang bent his hands and eyes to the task, leaving no time for anything else. After a long while, his fingers found the rhythm of their own accord, and he swayed and danced without realizing it.

The girl now drank and gambled with him daily, and Lang forgot all about reading. She also encouraged him to go out and make friends, and his reputation for gallantry spread far and wide. "Now you may go out and sit for the examinations," she said.

One night Lang said to her: "When a man and woman live together, they have children. I have lived with you a long time — why has nothing happened?"

She smiled. "You read all day, and I always said it was useless. Now even the chapter on husband and wife you have not understood. The words 'pillow and mat' hold the secret."

Lang asked in surprise: "What secret?"

She smiled and said nothing. After a while, she drew him close. Lang was transported with joy. "I never knew that the joy of husband and wife could be so beyond words!" He told everyone he met, and none could hear it without covering their mouths.

The girl learned of it and reproached him. Lang said: "What happens through stolen glances and secret meetings — that one cannot speak of. The joys of the household are shared by all. Why should I hide them?"

After eight or nine months, the girl bore him a son, and he bought a nursemaid to raise him.

One day she said to Lang: "I have been with you two years and have borne you a child. Now we must part. If I stay longer, I will bring disaster upon you, and it will be too late for regret."

At her words, Lang wept and prostrated himself, rising no more. "Do you have no thought for the child at the breast?"

The girl too was moved to sorrow. After a long silence she said: "If you insist that I stay, you must scatter every book on the shelves."

Lang said: "Those books are your homeland — and the very life of me. How can you say such a thing!"

She did not press him. "I too know that fate has its reckoning. I could only warn you in advance."

Before this, some of his kinsmen had caught glimpses of the girl, and all were struck with amazement. Yet no one had heard whose family she had married into, and they questioned him together. Lang could not bring himself to lie, so he said nothing. People grew more suspicious. The rumor spread by post until it reached the ears of the county magistrate, Master Shi.

Shi was a young man from Fujian, a recent *jinshi* degree holder. The report stirred him deeply. He secretly longed to see the beauty's face, and so he arrested Lang and the girl. When the girl learned of it, she fled without a trace. The magistrate was furious. He seized Lang, stripped him of his scholar's status, and subjected him to every manner of shackle and torture, determined to learn where the girl had gone. Lang was near death but would not speak a word.

# From Chapter 11 of *Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio*

His maidservant could give a vague account of what had happened. The magistrate, believing it to be the work of a demon, ordered his carriage and went in person to the house. He found the rooms overflowing with books and scrolls, too many to search through, so he set them ablaze. The smoke gathered in the courtyard and would not disperse, darkening the sky like a gloomy overcast. Once Lang was released, he traveled far to seek out his father's family and entered the books, thereby securing his reinstatement. That autumn he passed the provincial examination, and the following year he became a *jinshi*. Yet his hatred was etched deeper than bone and marrow. He set up a memorial tablet for Yan Ruyu and morning and evening offered this prayer: "If you have any spirit, you shall bless me with an office in Min." In due course he was appointed as an Investigating Censor on circuit in Min. After three months there, he investigated the crimes of Shi and confiscated his household property. At that time a cousin of his served as a Judicial Secretary and forced him to accept a beloved concubine, claiming she was a purchased maidservant to be lodged in the yamen. Once the case was concluded, Lang submitted his own impeachment that very day and took the concubine home.

The Historian of the Strange says: "In this world, accumulation invites envy, and attachment gives birth to demons: the woman was the demon, the books were the demon. The matter bordered on the bizarre, and destroying them was not without justification; yet the cruelty of the First Emperor—was it not even more terrible! His selfish heart deserved to receive retribution born of resentment and venom. Alas! What is so strange about this?"

# The Great Sage, Equal of Heaven

Xu Sheng was a native of Yan. His elder brother Cheng was a merchant in Min, his goods not yet accumulated. A guest told him the Great Sage was renowned for his spiritual efficacy and urged him to pray at his temple. Sheng did not know who the Great Sage was, so he went with his brother. When they arrived, they found halls and pavilions stretching in an unbroken chain, of the most magnificent splendor. Entering the main hall to look up in reverence, they saw a divine figure with the head of a monkey and the body of a man—it was the Great Sage Equal of Heaven, Sun Wukong. The visitors rose with solemn respect; none dared show a negligent expression. Sheng had always been forthright and unyielding, and he secretly laughed at the vulgarity of the common folk. While the others burned offerings and kowtowed in prayer, Sheng slipped away. When they returned, his brother reproached him for his disrespect. Sheng said, "Sun Wukong is merely an allegory invented by the Old Man Qiu—why do you believe in him with such sincerity? If he truly has divine power, let him send swords, spears, and thunderbolts upon me—I will bear them myself!" The innkeeper, hearing the Great Sage's name invoked, shook his hands and turned pale with fright, as though fearing the Great Sage might hear. Seeing their reaction, Sheng grew even more clamorous in his arguments; his listeners covered their ears and fled.

That night, Sheng indeed fell ill, with a terrible headache. Someone urged him to go to the temple and offer an apology, but Sheng refused. Before long, his headache slightly improved, but then his thigh began to hurt, and overnight a massive ulcer grew, his entire foot swelling so that he could neither sleep nor eat. His brother offered prayers on his behalf, but to no effect. Someone said: the god's punishment could only be averted by one's own prayer. Sheng adamantly refused to believe this. After more than a month, the sore gradually healed, but then another ulcer grew, its pain twice as excruciating. A physician came and cut away the rotten flesh with a knife; blood overflowed an entire bowl. Fearing that people would exaggerate his tale, Sheng endured the agony without crying out. Another month passed before he finally recovered. Then his elder brother fell gravely ill. Sheng said, "So this is how it is! Those who revere the gods fare no more favorably—this proves that my illness had nothing to do with Wukong!" His brother, hearing these words, grew even more enraged, saying the god had transferred his anger and blaming his brother for not praying on his behalf. Sheng said: "Brothers are like hands and feet. When my own limbs were rotting, I did not pray; now should I abandon my principles merely because my hands and feet are ailing?" He merely hired a physician and prepared medicine for his brother, but would not follow the path of prayer. After the medicine was administered, his brother died suddenly. Sheng's grief and anguish knotted in his heart and belly. He purchased a coffin and laid his brother to rest, then went to the temple, pointed at the god, and enumerated his grievances: "My brother fell ill, and you say the god transferred his anger, leaving me unable to clear myself. If you truly have divine power, let the dead come back to life this very moment. I will then face north and call myself your disciple, uttering no word of dissent; if not, I shall treat you by the same method you use against the Three Pure Ones, and return it upon your own body, to dispel my brother's confusion in the underworld."

That night, he dreamed that someone summoned him away. He entered the Great Sage's temple and looked up to see the Great Sage wearing an expression of anger. He reproached Sheng: "Because of your unseemly conduct, I pierced your shins and thighs with the Bodhisattva's blade; yet you do not repent, but instead babble complaints. I ought to send you to the Tongue-Ripping Hell, but in consideration of your stubborn integrity, I shall grant you clemency and pardon. Your brother's illness was caused by your employing a mediocre physician who cut short his allotted lifespan—what blame lies with me? If I now exert but a little divine power, it will only give the arrogant grounds for further slander." He then ordered a servant in blue robes to petition the King of Hell. The blue-robed servant said: "In three days, the register of the dead will already have been reported to the Heavenly Court; I fear it may be difficult to intervene." The god took up a square tablet, commanded a brush, and wrote something—no one knew what words—and sent the blue-roed servant off with it. After a long while, the servant returned. Cheng came with him, and both knelt before the hall. The god asked: "Why the delay?" The blue-robed servant explained: "The King of Hell did not dare act on his own authority; he also brought the Great Sage's decree to consult the Dipper Constellation, which is why we were late." Sheng hastened forward and bowed in gratitude for the god's mercy. The god said: "You may quickly return with your brother. If you can turn to goodness, I shall bestow blessings upon you." The brothers, moved by sorrow and joy, returned together. Sheng awoke and marveled at the experience. He rose in haste, opened the coffin to look, and found that his brother had indeed revived. He helped him out and was profoundly grateful for the Great Sage's power. From then on, Sheng believed sincerely and worshipped with even greater devotion than the common folk.

Moreover, the brothers' capital had been halved by illness during the elder brother's sickness; and the elder brother still had not recovered, so they faced each other in constant sorrow. One day, Sheng happened to wander on the outskirts of the city, when a man in coarse hemp clothing looked at him and said, "Why are you so troubled?" Sheng was just then in distress with no one to confide in, and so he related everything that had befallen him in full. The man in hemp clothing said, "There is a wondrous place; if you go and take a look for a while, it would be enough to dispel your gloom." Sheng asked, "Where is it?" The man only said, "Not far." Sheng followed him. After traveling about half a league outside the city wall, the man in hemp clothing said, "I have a small art—we can arrive in an instant." He then told Sheng to embrace his waist with both hands, gave a slight nod, and at once Sheng felt clouds forming beneath his feet, soaring upward, he knew not how many yojanas. Sheng was greatly frightened and closed his eyes, not daring to open them even a little. After a moment, the man said, "We have arrived." Suddenly Sheng saw a world of lapis lazuli, shining with extraordinary radiance. He asked in surprise, "Where is this?" The man said, "The Celestial Palace." They walked at ease, rising ever higher. In the distance they saw an old man, and the hemp-clad man said with delight, "To chance upon this old gentleman is your good fortune!" He raised his hand in greeting. The old man invited them to his dwelling, where he brewed tea and offered it to his guests—but only two cups, and none for Sheng. The man in hemp clothing said, "This is my disciple, who has traveled a thousand leagues to trade. He has respectfully come to the immortal's abode and begs for a small gift." The old man ordered a servant to bring out a plate of white stones, shaped like sparrow's eggs, glistening and clear as ice, and told Sheng to take some himself. Sheng thought that if he brought them home they could be used as counters for wine, so he took six. The man in hemp clothing thought this was too modest and took six more on his behalf, handing them to Sheng and wrapping them together. He told him to put them in his waist pouch, then bowed and said, "That is enough." They took leave of the old man and came out, and the man again had Sheng cling to him as they descended. In moments they were back on the ground. Sheng kowtowed and asked to know the immortal's name. The man laughed and said: "What I just used is what they call the Somersault Cloud." Sheng suddenly understood and realized he was the Great Sage. He then sought his blessing and protection. The man said: "The Star of Wealth you just met has granted you twelve parts of profit—what more need you ask for?" Sheng bowed again, but when he rose and looked, the man had already vanished.

When he returned home, he joyfully told his brother. They unwrapped the stones to look at them together, but they had merged into the waist pouch. Later, when he transported his goods and returned, his profits were many times over. From then on, whenever he went to Min, he would invariably pray to the Great Sage. Others' prayers were not always effective; but whatever Sheng requested was always granted.

The Historian of the Strange says: "In former days, a scholar passed by a temple and painted a pipa on the wall before leaving; when he returned, its spirit had become greatly renowned, and incense offerings followed one after another. In this world, it is not necessary that a person truly exist—once people enshrine his spirit, then he becomes spirit. Why is this? It is because where people's hearts gather, things may take lodging there. As for Sheng, who was upright and firm, it was fitting that he should receive divine blessing. But was it truly a golden needle hidden in the ear, able to transform into anything? Was it truly a somersault beneath the feet, able to ascend to the azure sky? That he was ultimately deluded by wickedness was because his perception was not true."

In the region between the Han and the Jiang, the local custom of worshipping the Frog God was most devout. In the temple, there were countless frogs, numbering in the hundreds, thousands, and tens of thousands, some as large as a cage. If someone offended the god's wrath, strange omens would appear in their home: frogs would crawl over tables and beds, or even climb slippery walls without falling. The signs varied, but such families were sure to suffer misfortune. People were greatly frightened, slaughtering animals and offering prayers to appease the god, and when the god was pleased, the matter would end.

In Chu, there was one Xue Kunsheng, who was clever from childhood and handsome in appearance. When he was six or seven years old, an old woman in blue garments came to his family, claiming to be a divine messenger. She conveyed the god's wishes, offering the god's daughter in marriage to Kunsheng. Old Master Xue was simple and honest, and did not desire this, declining on the grounds that his son was too young. Although he firmly refused, he did not dare to arrange a marriage with another family. Several years passed, and Kunsheng gradually grew older. He sent betrothal gifts to the Jiang family. The god then told Madam Jiang, "Xue Kunsheng is my son-in-law. How dare you approach what is forbidden!" Madam Jiang was frightened and returned the betrothal gifts. Old Master Xue was troubled and went to the temple with clean sacrificial offerings to pray, saying, "I dare not match my family with the divine." After the prayer, he saw large maggots floating up in the food and wine, squirming about. He poured it all out, apologized, and returned home. His heart grew even more fearful, and he decided to let matters rest.

One day, Kunsheng was on the road when a messenger came to welcome him and convey the divine command, urgently inviting him to come. Having no choice, he followed. They entered a vermillion gate to find splendid pavilions. An old man sat in the hall, looking to be about seventy or eighty years old. Kunsheng prostrated himself and paid his respects. The old man ordered him to be raised and gave him a seat beside the table. Shortly after, maids and old women gathered to look, filling the sides. The old man turned and said, "I hear that Master Xue has arrived." Several maids ran off. After a while, an old woman led out a young lady, sixteen or seven years old, of matchless beauty. The old man pointed and said, "This is my young daughter Shiniang. She believes she and you would make a fine match. Your father rejected us on the ground that we are of a different kind. This is a matter of a lifetime—parents decide only half; the rest is up to you." Kunsheng gazed at Shiniang, his heart filled with admiration, but he said nothing. The old woman said, "I can see your intentions are good. Please return home first, and I will send Shiniang along shortly." Kunsheng said, "Agreed," and hurried home to tell his father. Old Master Xue was flustered and at a loss, so he gave Kunsheng words to return and decline, but Kunsheng refused to go. While they were still arguing, a carriage was already at the door, accompanied by a crowd of attendants in blue, and Shiniang entered. She came to the hall and bowed in greeting. Both her father-in-law and mother-in-law were pleased. That very night they shared the wedding cup, and their harmony was complete. From then on, the divine father and mother would sometimes descend to their home. If they wore red clothes, it meant joy; white meant wealth—this was always the case, and so the family grew more prosperous day by day.

Since the marriage to the divine, frogs were everywhere in the courtyards and privies, and no one dared to curse or kick them. Only Kunsheng, young and willful, would ignore them when pleased and trample them to death when angry, showing little care for them. Though Shiniang was gentle and obedient, she had a temper and greatly disapproved of Kunsheng's behavior. But Kunsheng did not restrain himself on Shiniang's account. Shiniang spoke sharply to Kunsheng. Kunsheng angrily said, "Do you think your divine father and mother can bring disaster upon people? What does a man have to fear from frogs!" Shiniang abhorred the word "frog" and was furious to hear it. She said, "Since I entered your family, I have increased your harvests and raised your profits—no small amount! Now that old and young are all well-fed and clothed, you are like an owl that has grown wings and wants to peck out its mother's eyes!" Kunsheng grew even angrier and said, "I am disgusted by the filth you have brought, unworthy to be left to my descendants. Better that we part early." And so he drove Shiniang away.

The divine father and mother heard of this, and by then Shiniang had already left. They rebuked Kunsheng and told him to go quickly and bring her back. Kunsheng remained defiant. That night, both mother and son fell ill, feverish and unable to eat. Old Master Xue was frightened and went to the temple with a bundle of thorns on his back to beg forgiveness, his words earnest and sincere. After three days, the illness gradually healed. Shiniang also came on her own, and husband and wife were as happy as before.

Shiniang would sit each day in full makeup and never do needlework. Kunsheng's clothes and shoes were entirely left to his mother. One day, his mother said in anger, "Since my son married, he still burdens me! In other families, the daughter-in-law serves the mother-in-law; in our family, the mother-in-law serves the daughter-in-law!" Shiniang happened to overhear this and went to the hall in a huff, saying, "Your daughter-in-law serves food in the morning and asks after your rest in the evening—how else should a daughter-in-law serve her mother-in-law? The only shortcoming is that she cannot be stingy with wages and do the hard work herself!" The mother had no reply and wept in shame and distress. Kunsheng entered, saw his mother's tear-stained face, and learned what had happened. He angrily reproached Shiniang. Shiniang argued back and would not yield. Kunsheng said, "A wife who cannot bring joy to her parents is better not had! Even if the old Frog God is angered, it would be no more than dying in a disaster!" And he drove Shiniang out again. Shiniang was also angry and left straightaway.

The next day, fire broke out in their dwelling, spreading to several rooms. Tables, couches, and beds were all reduced to ashes. Kunsheng was furious and went to the temple to accuse the god: "You raised a daughter who cannot serve her father-in-law and mother-in-law, with no family discipline, and yet you make excuses for her faults! A god is supposed to be supremely just—is there a god who teaches people to fear their wives! Besides, the clashes are all my doing and have nothing to do with her parents. If you want to punish me with knives, saws, axes, and halberds, bring them on—otherwise, I will burn down your temple in return!" Having said this, he piled firewood beneath the hall and was about to set it alight. The neighbors gathered and pleaded with him, and only then did he reluctantly go home in anger. His parents heard of this and were terrified.

That night, the god appeared in a dream to someone in a nearby village, instructing him to build a house for his son-in-law's family. By morning, materials were brought and workers assembled to build for Kunsheng, who tried to refuse, but in vain. Several hundred people lined the road each day, and in a few days the house was entirely renewed, with curtains, bedding, and utensils all provided. The repairs had barely been completed when Shiniang arrived. She came to the hall to apologize, her words gentle and gracious. She turned to Kunsheng with a smile, and the whole family's resentment turned to joy. From then on, Shiniang's temper grew even milder. They lived for two years without a single harsh word.

Shiniang most hated snakes. Kunsheng once playfully placed a small snake in a box and tricked her into opening it. Shiniang changed color and cursed him. Kunsheng, who had been laughing, turned angry in return, and the two exchanged harsh words. Shiniang said, "This time I won't wait to be driven out—let us part forever!" And she walked out the door. Old Master Xue was greatly frightened, beat Kunsheng, and begged the god for forgiveness. Fortunately, no disaster followed, but there was no reply either. More than a year passed. Kunsheng missed Shiniang and deeply regretted his actions. He secretly went to the god's temple to plead for Shiniang, but there was no response. Before long, he heard that the god had betrothed Shiniang to the Yuan family. His heart filled with disappointment, and so he sought marriage with other families. But after meeting several, none could compare to Shiniang, and his longing for her only grew. He went to inquire at the Yuan household and found that they had already whitewashed the walls and cleaned the courtyard, awaiting the bridal carriage. His heart burned with shame and indignation beyond control, and he fell ill from refusing food. His parents were anxious and at a loss. Suddenly, in a state of delirium, there was—

Someone comforted him, saying, "A grown man keeps trying to sever ties, and yet behaves like this!" He opened his eyes, and it was Shiniang. Overjoyed, he leaped up and said, "How did you come here?" Shiniang said: "Given the way that frivolous man treated me, I should have obeyed my father's command and left to marry another. I had long since accepted the betrothal gifts from the Yuan family, but after a thousand and ten thousand thoughts, I could not bear to do it. The auspicious day was set for this evening, and my father had no face left to return the gifts, so I brought them here myself. Just as I was leaving the door, my father came running after me and said, 'Foolish girl! You would not listen to me. Later, when you suffer abuse from the Xue family, do not come back even if you die!'" Kunsheng was moved by her loyalty and wept for her. The whole household was overjoyed and ran to tell the old couple. When the old woman heard, she did not wait for morning but rushed into her son's quarters, took his hand, and sobbed. From then on, Kunsheng also grew mature and made no more coarse jokes, and their affection for each other deepened. Shiniang said: "I had thought, because you were frivolous and shallow, that you would probably not stay with me to the end, so I dared not leave a child in this world. But now my heart is fixed, and I shall bear you a son." Before long, the Divine Old Man and Divine Old Woman, wearing red robes, descended to their home. The next day, Shiniang went into labor and gave birth to twin boys. From then on, the two families visited each other without interruption. When the local residents incurred the god's wrath, they would first seek out Kunsheng, who would then have the women of the household dress in their finest and enter the inner chamber to bow before Shiniang; if Shiniang smiled, the matter was resolved. The descendants of the Xue family were very numerous, and people called them the "Xue Frog Family." Those nearby did not dare say it, but those far away did.

The Frog God often spoke through shamans. The shamans could discern the god's pleasure or displeasure. They would tell the faithful, "He is pleased," and the god would come; "He is angry," and the women and children sat sighing in sorrow, some even forgetting to eat. Is this merely vulgar custom? Or is the god truly efficacious, and not all of it mere delusion? There was a wealthy merchant named Zhou, who was miserly by nature. When the local people pooled money to repair the temple of Lord Guan, rich and poor alike contributed, but Zhou would not pull out a single hair. After a long time, the work was not completed, and those in charge had no plan. It happened that the people were holding a festival for the Frog God, and the shaman suddenly said: "General Zhou has commanded this minor deity to oversee the collection of funds. Bring the ledger here." The crowd complied. The shaman said: "Those who have already donated will not be pressed further; those who have not yet donated, note down what you can afford." The crowd assented respectfully and each wrote down his amount. The shaman looked and said: "Is Zhou here?" Zhou had been lurking at the back, fearing the god would know. Hearing this, he turned pale and shuffled forward reluctantly. The shaman pointed to the ledger and said: "Note down a hundred taels of gold." Zhou was even more distressed. The shaman said angrily: "You still paid two hundred to settle your lechery—how much more for a good cause!" For Zhou had had relations with a woman, been caught by her husband, and ransomed himself with two hundred taels of gold, so the shaman exposed him. Zhou was even more ashamed and afraid, and had no choice but to note down the amount as commanded. When he returned home, he told his wife. His wife said: "This is the shaman's trickery." The shaman pressed him repeatedly, but in the end Zhou did not pay. One day, he was napping in broad daylight when he heard outside the door a sound like a bull panting. He looked and saw a giant frog; the door was barely wide enough for its body. It walked with difficulty and squeezed through both doors. Once inside, it turned around and lay down, resting its chin on its threshold. The whole household was terrified. Zhou said: "It must be coming to demand the donation." He burned incense and prayed, offering to pay thirty taels first and the rest in installments, but the frog did not move. He offered fifty, and the frog's body suddenly shrank by a foot or so. He added twenty more, and it shrank further, to the size of a dou measure. He offered the full amount, and it shrank to the size of a fist, then calmly went out through a crack in the wall. Zhou hastily sent fifty taels to the construction office. Everyone was astonished, but Zhou did not explain why. Several days later, the shaman said again: "Zhou still owes fifty taels of gold. Why not press him to pay it all?" Zhou heard this and was afraid, so he sent another ten taels, thinking this would settle the matter. One day, the couple were eating when the frog came again, as before, its eyes showing anger. After a moment, it climbed onto the bed, which shook and seemed about to collapse. It laid its snout on the pillow and went to sleep, its belly rising like a recumbent ox, filling all four corners. Zhou was terrified and immediately paid the full hundred taels. He checked, and the frog still did not move. Within half a day, small frogs gradually gathered, and the next day there were even more. They burrowed into the granary and climbed onto the bed—there was nowhere they did not reach. Those larger than a bowl climbed onto the stove and sipped at flies, fouling the cooking pot so that the food was too filthy to eat. By the third day, the courtyard was seething with wriggling frogs, with no empty space left. The whole household was in a panic, not knowing what to do. They had no choice but to consult the shaman. The shaman said: "You must have shortchanged him." So they prayed and added twenty taels, and the frog's head finally lifted. They added more, and it raised one foot. Only when they reached a hundred taels did all four feet rise, and it got off the bed and walked out the door, lumbering a few steps before turning back to lie down inside the threshold. Zhou was frightened and asked the shaman. The shaman guessed its meaning—it wanted Zhou to pay on the spot. Zhou had no choice but to hand over the full amount to the shaman. The frog then walked away; a few steps outside, its body suddenly shrank, and it mingled among the mass of frogs, impossible to distinguish. The rest gradually dispersed as well. When the temple was completed and the consecration ceremony was held, further funds were needed. The shaman suddenly pointed to those in charge and said: "So-and-so should pay such-and-such an amount." There were fifteen men in all, and only two were left out. The crowd prayed, saying: "We and so-and-so have already donated together." The shaman said: "I do not judge by whether you are rich or poor, but by the amount each of you has embezzled. This money cannot be used to enrich yourselves—I fear sudden calamity and disaster will strike. In consideration of your hard work as organizers, I will clear this on your behalf. Except for so-and-so, who is honest and above reproach, even my own family shaman—I will not show him the least favor. Let him pay first, to set an example for the rest." He rushed into his own home, ransacking chests and boxes. His wife asked him what he was doing, but he did not answer, taking all the money he had stored and bringing it out. He told the crowd: "So-and-so embezzled eight taels of silver. Now I will empty my purse." They weighed it together and found it came to a little over six taels, so they noted the shortfall. The crowd was dumbfared and dared not argue, and each paid the full amount. The shaman, after all this, was utterly unaware of what had happened. When someone told him, he was deeply ashamed and pawned his clothes to make up the shortfall. As for the two men whose accounts were short, after the matter was settled, one fell ill for over a month, and the other developed a malignant sore. The cost of medicine exceeded what they owed, and people said this was the retribution for embezzlement.

The Historian of Strange Tales says: "The old frog overseeing collections—there is no one with whom he cannot do good. Is he not far better than those who use nails, prods, and ropes? Moreover, he exposed those who stole from what was under their watch and averted their disasters. Thus his display of awesome power was in truth an act of compassion."

Ren Jianzhi, of Yutai, made his living trading felt and fur garments. He spent all his resources traveling to Shaanxi. On the way he met a man who said, "I am Shen Zhuting, from Suqian." They found each other agreeable and pledged themselves as brothers, traveling together thereafter.

Upon reaching Shaanxi, Ren fell gravely ill and could not rise. Shen cared for him devotedly. More than ten days passed, and his condition grew critical. He said to Shen, "My family has never had fixed property; the food and clothing of eight dependents all relied on one man braving the frost and dew. Now, unhappily, I shall perish in a foreign land. You are my own flesh and bone—beyond two thousand *li*, who else is there? I have a little over two hundred taels of silver. Half you may take for yourself, to provide me with simple burial furnishings, and the remainder can help defray your travel expenses. The other half send to my wife and children, so that they may bring my coffin home. If you would be willing to carry my remains back to my homeland, then do not worry about the cost of transport." He then propped himself on his pillow and wrote a letter, which he entrusted to Shen. That evening he died.

Shen spent five or six taels to purchase a thin coffin and prepared the body. The landlord urged him to move the coffin, but Shen made excuses, saying he was looking for a Buddhist or Daoist temple, and ultimately fled without returning.

More than a year later, Ren's family at last received confirmed news of his death. Ren's son, Xiu, was then seventeen and studying under a teacher; from this point he abandoned his studies and wished to go in search of his father's coffin. His mother pitied his youth, but Xiu wept with grief as though he wished to die. She then raised funds by pawning assets and made preparations, sending an old servant to accompany him. He returned half a year later. After the funeral, the family was as poor as if everything had been washed away.

Fortunately, Xiu was intelligent. After the mourning period ended, he entered the county school at Yutai. But he was frivolous and fond of gambling, and his mother's admonitions were extremely strict—yet in the end he did not reform.

One day, the provincial education commissioner arrived and placed him in the fourth grade. His mother wept in anger and refused food. Xiu, ashamed and afraid, swore an oath before his mother. He then shut himself away for over a year, and eventually received a stipend for outstanding scholarship. His mother encouraged him to open a school, but people continued to think him dissolute and unrestrained, and all mocked and looked down upon him.

A maternal uncle, a certain Mr. Zhang, who was a merchant in the capital, urged him to go to Beijing, offering to take him along and bear the expenses himself. Xiu was delighted and went with him. They reached Linqing and moored the boat outside the customs barrier. At that time, salt boats were gathered in great numbers, their sails and masts standing like a forest.

After retiring for the night, Xiu heard the sound of water and voices, so noisy he could not sleep. When the night watches had grown quiet, he suddenly heard the clear, ringing sound of dice from a neighboring boat. It entered his ears and lingered in his heart; before he knew it, his old craving itched again. Listening secretly, he found all the other passengers had fallen fast asleep. He had a thousand copper cash of his own in his purse and thought of crossing to the other boat to have a game. He rose quietly, loosened his purse, and clutched the money, hesitating. Recalling his mother's teachings, he tied it up again. He lay down but his heart palpitated, and he could not sleep. He rose again and loosened the purse once more—this time a third time. His excitement surged and could no longer be restrained; he took the money and went directly over.

Arriving at the neighboring boat, he saw two men gambling against each other, with lavish piles of cash on the table. He placed his money on the table and asked to join. The two men were pleased and immediately played with him. Xiu won heavily. When one man's money was exhausted, he pawned a large sum with the boat owner, and gradually wagered over ten thousand cash as a single stake. The game was at its height when another man boarded the boat, watched intently for a long time, then emptied his purse and pawned a hundred taels with the owner, joining the game.

Zhang woke in the middle of the night and realized Xiu was not in the boat. Hearing the dice, he understood what was happening and went to the neighboring boat, intending to interfere and stop him. When he arrived, he saw a pile of cash like a mountain at Xiu's hip, so he said nothing more, and returned carrying several thousand cash.

He roused all the other passengers and they carried the money back and forth; there were still over ten thousand cash remaining. Before long, all three opponents had lost, and the money on the whole boat was exhausted. The other passengers wanted to gamble for silver, but Xiu's appetite was already sated, so he made the excuse that he would not gamble without cash to put them off. Zhang, standing at his side, also urged him to return. The three men grew agitated. The boat owner, eager for his commission, borrowed from another boat and obtained over a hundred thousand cash. The passengers got their money and gambled even more recklessly; soon it all went to Xiu again.

Dawn had broken; the morning customs barrier was being opened. They carried the money back together and returned. The three passengers also departed. The boat owner examined the more than two hundred taels that had been pawned with him and found them nothing but ash and foil. Greatly alarmed, he went to Xiu's boat, explained the situation, and demanded repayment from Xiu. When he asked his name and hometown, he learned he was the son of Ren Jianzhi, and withdrew in shame, his neck shrinking with sweat.

He inquired of the boatmen and learned that the owner was none other than Shen Zhuting. When Xiu had arrived in Shaanxi, he had already heard something of this man's name. By now, the ghost had already taken its revenge, so he no longer pursued the old grievance. He then joined his capital with Mr. Zhang's and went into business together, heading north. At year's end, their profits were severalfold. He subsequently purchased a degree through contribution. Increasingly skilled in the art of usury, within ten years his wealth dominated the region.

On the fifth day of the fifth month, the regions of Wu and Yue hold a dragon-boat contest: wood is hollowed out to form a dragon, painted with scales and armor, adorned with gold and jade; above are carved roof-ridge and red railings; the sails and pennants are all of brocade and embroidery; at the stern is a dragon's tail, over a zhang high; a rope is used to pull a wooden board hanging down, on which a child sits, tumbling and rolling, performing all manner of clever tricks. Below lies the river water, perilous and on the verge of falling. Therefore, when purchasing such a child, they first give gold to his parents, train him in advance, and agree that if he falls into the water and dies, there shall be no regret. In Suzhou, they carry beautiful courtesans instead—a different practice. In Zhenjiang there was a child of the Jiang family, called Aduan, who at the age of seven was nimble and wonderfully clever, surpassing all others. His reputation and price rose, and he was still employed at the age of sixteen. At the foot of Jinshan Mountain, he fell into the water and died. Old Mother Jiang had only this one son; she could only wail in grief. Aduan himself did not know he was dead. Two men led him away, and he saw that within the water there was another world. Looking back, he saw waves flowing all around, standing firm like walls. Soon he entered a palace hall and saw a man wearing a helmet seated there. The two men said, "This is the Dragon Nest Lord." They made him bow and prostrate himself. The Dragon Nest Lord's countenance was mild and serene. He said, "Aduan's skills are fit for the Willow Branch Company." He then led him to a place, a large hall enclosed on four sides. They hastened up the eastern corridor, where several youths came out to greet him, all around thirteen or fourteen years old. Then an old woman came, and everyone called her Granny Jie. She sat and asked him to perform his skills. Afterward, she taught him the Dance of the Soaring Thunder over Qiantang and the Music of the Gentle Breeze over Dongting. They heard only the booming of drums and cymbals, resounding through all the courtyards. Then all the courtyards fell silent. Granny Jie feared that Aduan could not master it quickly, and fussed over him with repeated instruction; but Aduan, after a single hearing, already understood perfectly. Granny Jie was delighted and said, "With this child, we need not yield to Sunset Glow!"

The next day, the Dragon Nest Lord reviewed his companies, and all assembled. First he reviewed the Yaksha Company, with faces like ghosts and garments like fish, beating a great cymbal some four chi in circumference; the drum could be embraced by four men, and its sound was like a great thunderclap, so loud that shouting could no longer be heard. When the dance began, great surging waves rushed across the void, and from time to time a point of starlight fell and vanished upon touching the ground. The Dragon Nest Lord hastily stopped them and ordered the Oriole Nursemaid Company to advance. They were all lovely maidens of sixteen years, playing delicate music on sheng pipes. At once a gentle breeze wafted by, the sound of waves grew still, and the water gradually congealed into a crystal world, transparent above and below. When the review was finished, they all withdrew and stood below the western steps. Next came the Swallow Company, all with hanging locks. Among them was a young lady, about fourteen or fifteen, who shook her sleeves and let down her hair, performing the Dance of Scattered Flowers. She rose fluttering and soaring, and from her collar, sleeves, stockings, and shoes emerged flowers of five colors, drifting down with the wind, floating and filling the courtyard. When the dance was done, she too descended to the western steps with her company. Aduan gazed sidelong at her, deeply admiring her. He asked his fellow company members and learned that she was Sunset Glow.

Before long, the Willow Branch Company was called. The Dragon Nest Lord specially tested Aduan. Aduan performed the earlier dance, his joy and anger following the melody, his rising and falling matching the rhythm. The Dragon Nest Lord praised his intelligence and bestowed upon him a five-patterned robe and jacket, a golden fish-whisker hairpin, and on his head a luminous pearl. Aduan received the gifts with thanks and also hastened to the western steps, each keeping to his own company. Aduan gazed at Sunset Glow from afar among the crowd, and Sunset Glow gazed back at him from afar. After a while, Aduan slipped out of his company and went north, and Sunset Glow also gradually slipped out of her company and went south. They were several paces apart, but the rules were strict and they dared not violate company order; they could only gaze at each other, their spirits racing.

When the Butterfly Company was reviewed, the boys and girls all danced in pairs, their heights, ages, and the colors of their garments all matched. When all companies had been reviewed, they filed out in order. The Willow Branch Company came after the Swallow Company. Aduan hurried out ahead of his company, while Sunset Glow lingered behind. She turned her head and saw Aduan, and deliberately let fall a coral hairpin. Aduan quickly tucked it into his sleeve. After returning, he fell into pining thought and became ill, unable to sleep or eat. Granny Jie would bring him delicacies, visiting three or four times a day, caressing him with deep concern, but his illness did not improve. Granny Jie worried and could think of no plan. She said, "The King of Wujiang's birthday is approaching, and what can be done?"

At dusk, a young boy came and sat on the couch, speaking with him. He said he belonged to the Butterfly Company. He asked casually, "Is your illness for Sunset Glow?" Aduan asked in surprise, "How do you know?" The boy smiled and said, "Sunset Glow is just like you." Aduan rose from his couch in sorrow and begged for a plan. The boy asked, "Can you still walk?" Aduan replied, "With effort, I can still manage." The boy led him out, opened a door to the south, turned west, and opened a double door. They saw dozens of mu of lotus flowers, all growing on level ground; the leaves were large as mats, the flowers large as canopies, and fallen petals piled a chi deep beneath the stems. The boy led him inside and said, "Sit here for now." Then he left. After a while, a beautiful woman parted the lotus flowers and entered—it was Sunset Glow. They met with joy and surprise, each speaking of their longing and briefly recounting their lives. They then pressed a stone against a lotus canopy to tilt it, nicely providing cover, and evenly spread lotus petals to lie upon, delighted to lie together in intimacy. Having made their future trysts, they agreed to meet at sunset, and then parted. Aduan returned, and his illness soon healed. From then on, the two met once a day among the lotus fields.

After several days, they accompanied the Dragon Nest Lord to celebrate the birthday of the King of Wujiang. When the congratulations were finished, all companies returned, but Sunset Glow and one person from the Oriole Nursemaid Company were kept in the palace to teach dance. For several months there was no news at all, and Aduan was lost in melancholy. Only Granny Jie came and went daily to the Wujiang palace. Aduan asked Granny Jie to take him as Sunset Glow's cousin, hoping to see her. He stayed at the Wujiang gate for several days, but the palace was strictly guarded, and Sunset Glow could not come out, so he returned in dejection. More than a month passed, and his lovesick thoughts nearly broke him.

One day, Granny Jie entered and mournfully said, "Alas! Sunset Glow has thrown herself into the river!" Aduan was greatly shocked and wept uncontrollably. He tore his cap and robes, hid the gold and pearls, and went out, intending to follow her in death. But he saw the water standing like a wall, and though he struck it with his head, he could not enter. Thinking of returning, he feared that the loss of his cap and robes would only increase his crime. His mind was exhausted, and sweat flowed down to his heels. Suddenly he saw a large tree below the wall. He climbed up like a monkey, gradually reaching the tip; then he leaped down with all his luckily without getting wet, and found himself floating on the water. In an instant, he seemed to glimpse the human world, and swam away lightly. After some time, he reached the shore. He sat briefly by the river, then thought of his old mother and caught a boat home. Arriving at his village, he looked around at his dwelling as if it were a different world. He hesitated on his way home, when suddenly he heard a woman's voice from the window saying, "Your son has come." The voice was very much like Sunset Glow. Soon she came out with his mother—it was indeed Sunset Glow. At this moment, their joy surpassed their grief; and

The old woman was overcome with grief, suspicion, joy, and astonishment—every emotion at once. Earlier, when Wanxia was in Wujiang, she felt a stirring in her belly. The Dragon Palace's laws were strict, and she feared that at any moment she would give birth and be flogged for it. Unable to see Aduan and wishing only for death, she secretly threw herself into the river. Her body floated up and drifted among the waves until a passing boat rescued her. They asked where she lived. Wanxia had been a famous courtesan in Wu, and since her body had not been recovered after the drowning, she thought she could no longer return to the pleasure quarter. So she said, "I am the daughter-in-law of the Jiang family of Zhenjiang." The passenger hired a small boat for her and sent her to their house. Old Mrs. Jiang suspected a mistake, but the woman insisted there was none and told the old woman her story in full. The old woman, impressed by her grace and charm, grew quite fond of her. Yet she worried that the girl was too young and would surely not remain a widow. But the woman was filial and diligent, and seeing that the family was poor, she removed her precious ornaments and sold them for tens of thousands. The old woman, perceiving that her intentions were pure, was greatly pleased. However, having no son, she feared that when the time came to give birth, the relatives would not believe her, and so she consulted the woman. The woman said, "Mother, if only you obtain a true grandson, why must others know?" The old woman was reassured. When Aduan arrived, the woman was overjoyed. The old woman also suspected that her son had not truly died. She secretly opened his tomb and found the bones still intact. She confronted Aduan with this. Aduan then realized with sudden clarity. But he feared that Wanxia would recoil from him for being no longer human, and he urged his mother not to speak of it again. She agreed. She then told the neighbors that the body recovered that day had not been her son's. Still, she worried that the woman could not bear children. Before long, she gave birth to a boy, and when they examined him, he was no different from an ordinary child. Only then was she happy. After some time, the woman gradually sensed that Aduan was no longer human. She said, "Why didn't you tell me sooner! If a ghost wears the garments of the Dragon Palace for forty-nine days, his soul and spirit become as solid as a living person's. If only we had obtained the Dragon Horn Glue from the palace—it could have joined his bones and grown flesh for him. What a pity we did not procure it earlier!" Aduan sold his pearls, and a foreign merchant offered a million for them. The family thereby became immensely wealthy. On the old woman's birthday, the couple performed songs and dances and raised cups in celebration, and word of it reached the prince's court. The prince wished to seize Wanxia by force. Aduan, in fear, went before the prince and declared, "Both my wife and I are ghosts." They tested him and found he cast no shadow, and so they believed him and did not take her. But the prince sent palace women to a separate courtyard to learn her art. Wanxia smeared her face with turtle urine to disfigure herself before receiving them. After three months of instruction, the women departed without having fully mastered her skills.

Bai Qiulian

There was a young man named Chan Gong, the son of the merchant Mu Xiaohuan, in Zhili Province. He was intelligent and fond of reading. At the age of sixteen, his father considered literary pursuits impractical and sent him to learn commerce. He accompanied his father to Chu. Whenever he had nothing to do on the boat, he would recite poetry. Upon reaching Wuchang, his father stayed at an inn to guard their stored goods. Chan Gong took advantage of his father's absence to chant poems aloud, his voice ringing clear and strong. He often saw a shadow flicker past the window, as though someone were eavesdropping, but thought nothing of it. One evening, his father went out drinking and did not return for a long time. Chan Gong chanted with even greater fervor. Someone lingered outside the window, clearly visible in the moonlight. Startled, he rushed out to look and found a girl of fifteen or sixteen, of devastating beauty. Seeing him, she hurried away. Two or three days later, having loaded their goods, they sailed north and moored by a lake at dusk. His father happened to be away when an old woman entered the boat and said, "Young master, you have killed my daughter!" Chan Gong was shocked and asked her what she meant. She replied, "My surname is Bai. I have a daughter named Qiulian, who is somewhat literate. She says that in the city she heard your pure chanting, and ever since she has thought of you so obsessively that she can neither sleep nor eat. I wish to offer her in marriage to you—you must not refuse." Chan Gong was genuinely taken with her, but feared his father's displeasure, so he told her the truth. The old woman was not satisfied and insisted on a formal pledge. Chan Gong refused, and the old woman grew angry. "In this world, there are men who send betrothal gifts and are refused. Now this old woman has proposed the match myself, and you reject me—what greater shame could there be? Do not expect to cross the river north!" With that she left. A short while later, his father returned. Chan Gong told him the story in favorable terms, secretly hoping his father would consent. But his father thought the journey too far and dismissed the girl's infatuation as mere youthful fancy, laughing it off. Where they had moored, the water was deep enough to submerge the rudder. That night, sand suddenly piled up around the boat, and it was stranded, unable to move. Every year on the lake, some merchant boats were detained to guard the islets; when the spring floods came the following year and other goods had not yet arrived, the cargo in those boats would sell for a hundred times its original value. For this reason, his father was not particularly worried. He only calculated that if he came south the next year, he would need to raise capital, so he left his son behind and returned home alone. Chan Gong was secretly pleased but regretted not having asked the old woman where she lived. At dusk, the old woman arrived with a maid, supporting the young lady. They laid her on the bed and arranged her clothes. The old woman said to Chan Gong, "She is ill to this degree—do not lie there as though nothing is wrong!" Then she left. Chan Gong was at first alarmed. He moved the lamp to look at the girl and found her sickly yet charming, her eyes brimming with liquid light. He asked her a few questions, and she smiled sweetly. He pressed her to speak, and she said, "'I have wasted away for you, yet I am ashamed to face you'—you may recite that for me." Chan Gong was overjoyed and drew close, but pitied her frailty. He reached out and embraced her playfully. She could not help but laugh and jest, then said, "Recite for me three times Wang Jian's poem 'The rustling silk of my robes,' and my illness will be cured." Chan Gong did as she asked. After only two recitations, she gathered her clothes and sat up. "I am cured!" He read once more, and she responded with a delicate, trembling voice. Chan Gong's spirits soared, and they extinguished the candle and lay together. Before dawn, she rose and said, "My mother will be here soon." Presently, the old woman arrived. Seeing the girl dressed and sitting happily, she was visibly pleased. She invited her daughter to leave, but the girl kept her head down and said nothing. The old woman left on her own, saying, "If you are happy playing with the young master, that is your own affair." Only then did Chan Gong begin to ask where they lived. The girl said, "You and I are no more than friends who have just met. Whether we can marry is not yet certain—why must you know my home?" Still, the two loved each other deeply and exchanged firm vows. One night the girl rose early and lit the lamp. Suddenly she opened a book, and tears glistened in her eyes. Chan Gong quickly got up and asked what was wrong. "My father will be coming soon. I just used the book to divine our fate and opened it to Li Yi's 'Song of Jiangnan'—the meaning is not auspicious." Chan Gong comforted her. "The first line, 'Married to a merchant from Qutang,' is already greatly auspicious. What ill omen could there be?" She then grew somewhat cheerful. She rose to take her leave, saying, "Let us part for now. By daylight, a thousand eyes will be upon us." Chan Gong held her arm and choked back tears. "If our union succeeds, where may I send word?" "I will always have someone watch and report. Whether it succeeds or not, I will hear of it." Chan Gong was about to escort her to her boat, but she firmly declined and left. Before long, Mu arrived. Chan Gong gradually revealed the situation, but his father suspected he had brought a prostitute aboard and raged at him. Upon carefully examining the goods on the boat, he found no losses, and his scolding ceased. One evening, when his father was not on the boat, the girl suddenly appeared. They clung to each other, not knowing what to decide. She said, "Fortune has its ups and downs—let us deal with the present. I will keep you here for two months, and then we will discuss what to do." At parting, they agreed to use chanting as a signal to meet. From then on, whenever his father went out, Chan Gong would chant loudly, and the girl would come. When the fourth month ended and prices had fallen, the merchants were at a loss. They pooled their money and prayed at the temple of the Lake God. After the Dragon Boat Festival, heavy rains came, and the boats could finally pass. Chan Gong returned home and fell ill from longing. His father was worried and called in both shamans and doctors. Chan Gong privately told his mother, "This illness cannot be cured by medicine or incantations. Only Qiulian's arrival can save me." His father was furious at first, but as Chan Gong grew increasingly emaciated and weak, he became frightened. He hired a cart and carried his son back to Chu, mooring the boat at the same place as before. He inquired among the locals, but no one knew the old Bai woman. It happened that an old woman was steering a boat by the lake, and she came forward and identified herself. Mu boarded her boat and caught a glimpse of Qiulian, secretly delighted. But when he asked about her family and clan, he learned they were simply a floating household, living on the water. He then truthfully told her the cause of his son's illness and hoped she would allow the girl aboard to relieve his chronic affliction. The old woman refused, saying there was no marriage agreement. The girl showed half her face, listening intently. Hearing their conversation, tears welled in her eyes. The old woman looked at her daughter's face, and moved by Mu's pleading, agreed. That night, when Mu went out, the girl came to the bed and wept. "The state I was in years ago—now it has come to you! You must understand what this suffering is like. But you are so weak—how can you recover quickly? Let me chant for you." Chan Gong was also glad. She chanted the same Wang Jian poem as before. Chan Gong said, "That is your own heart's concern—how could it cure two people? But hearing your voice, my spirits already feel lighter. Try chanting for me 'A thousand willow branches all bend westward.'" She did so. Chan Gong exclaimed, "Wonderful! When you used to recite verse, there was a 'Cai Lian Zi' that went 'The lotus fragrance stretches across a ten-qing pond.' I have not forgotten it—please sing it to me at length." She complied again. Before she finished, Chan Gong leaped up and said, "Was I ever truly ill!" They embraced, and his chronic illness vanished as if it had never been. Afterward he asked, "What words did my father exchange with the old woman? Did the matter succeed?"

The woman had already discerned the old man's intentions and answered directly that the match would "not do." Soon after she left, her father came and, seeing that the young man had risen from his sickbed, was overjoyed and offered only words of comfort and encouragement. He then said, "The girl is indeed quite fine. But ever since she was a child, she has been steering boats and singing boat songs—regardless of whether that makes her humble, it also makes her unchaste." The young man said nothing.

When the old man had left, the woman returned, and the young man repeated his father's words. The woman said, "I have observed the matter thoroughly: in this world, the more one hurries, the further away things become; the more one pursues, the more they retreat. We must let his mind turn of its own accord, so that he comes seeking us instead." The young man asked her plan. The woman said, "A merchant's aim is nothing but profit. I have the skill to know prices. Just now I looked at the goods on the boat and found not the slightest profit in any of them. Tell my father for me: stock such-and-such a good, and the profit will be threefold; stock such-and-such, and it will be tenfold. When he returns home, if my words prove true, then I shall be a worthy wife for him. When he comes next time, you will be eighteen and I seventeen—we will have our days of joy together. What is there to worry about?" The young man told his father the prices she had mentioned. The father was rather skeptical, but for the surplus funds he had, he followed her instructions halfway. When he returned home, the goods he had purchased on his own had lost heavily on the capital; fortunately, those he had bought following the woman's advice earned a high return, which roughly balanced the losses. From this he was convinced of Qiulian's supernatural abilities.

The young man spoke of it all the more boastfully, telling the woman that she could make him wealthy. The old man then ventured even further south with more capital. When he reached the lake, for several days he saw no sign of the old white-haired woman. After several more days, he finally found her moored beneath the willows and therefore presented the betrothal gifts. The old woman accepted none of them, but merely chose an auspicious day to send her daughter across to the boat. The old man hired a separate boat for his son's wedding.

The woman then urged the old man to travel further south, recording and entrusting to him all the goods he should stock. The old woman then invited her son-in-law to come and live on her boat. The old man returned after three months. When the goods reached Chu, the prices had already doubled and more. Before returning, the woman asked him to bring back lake water; when he returned, she added a small amount to every meal, as one would use vinegar or sauce. From then on, every time he traveled south, he was sure to bring back several jars of it.

Three or four years later, she gave birth to a son. One day, she wept and said she wished to return home. The old man therefore went with his son and daughter-in-law to Chu. When they reached the lake, they could not find where the old woman was. The woman struck the boat's gunwale and called for her mother, her spirit and expression utterly undone. She urged the young man to go along the lake and make inquiries. It happened that a fisherman catching sturgeon had caught a white dolphin. The young man went to look at it closely—it was a massive creature, its form entirely like a human's, with breasts and genitals fully formed. He was amazed and went back to tell the woman. The woman was greatly alarmed, saying she had long held a vow to release living creatures, and she urged the young man to buy it and set it free. The young man went to negotiate with the fisherman, but the fisherman demanded an exorbitant price. The woman said, "In your household, I have arranged profits amounting to no less than a hundred thousand taels—how can you begrudge this paltry sum! If you refuse, I will throw myself into the lake and die!" The young man was frightened and, not daring to tell his father, stole money to buy and release it.

When he returned, the woman was nowhere to be found. He searched but could not find her; only after exhausting every effort did she finally appear. He asked, "Where have you been?" She said, "I went to my mother." He asked, "Where is your mother?" She said with embarrassment, "Now I can no longer hide the truth: the creature I just ransomed is my mother. She was in Dongting Lake, where the Dragon King appointed her to oversee travelers. Recently the palace wished to select consorts, and I was praised by those who spread rumors, so the Dragon King ordered my mother to come and take me into custody. My mother reported the matter truthfully, but the Dragon King would not listen. He banished my mother to the southern shore, where she nearly starved to death—hence the calamity she suffered before. Now the calamity has been averted, but the punishment has not been lifted. If you love me, intercede with the True Lord on her behalf, and it may be pardoned. But if you despise me for being of a different kind, then throw your son back to your family and let me go. If I leave, the comforts of the dragon palace may not be a hundred times less than what your household offers."

The young man was greatly alarmed and worried that the True Lord could not be found. The woman said, "Tomorrow, before the hour of wei, the True Lord will arrive. You will see a lame Taoist priest—hurry to bow to him, and if he enters the water, follow him. The True Lord favors scholars; he will surely take pity and grant your request." She then produced a square of fish-belly silk and said, "When he asks what you seek, present this and ask him to write the character 'mian'—'pardon.'"

The young man waited as she had instructed. Indeed, a Taoist priest came limping along, and the young man prostrated himself before him. The priest hurried away, and the young man followed. The priest threw his staff into the water and leaped onto it. The young man followed him and mounted it as well—and found it was not a staff but a boat. He bowed again, and the priest asked, "What do you seek?" The young man presented the silk and asked him to write. The priest unfolded it and examined it, saying, "This is a white dolphin's fin. How did you come by it?" Qiulian dared not conceal anything and recounted the whole story in detail. The priest laughed and said, "This creature is quite refined and elegant—how could the old dragon be so debauched!" He then produced his brush and wrote the character "mian" in cursive, in the shape of a talisman, and returned to his boat, telling the young man to descend. The young man then saw the priest walking on his staff across the water, and in an instant he had vanished.

When the young man returned to the boat, the woman was overjoyed but cautioned him not to reveal this to his parents. Two or three years after their return, the old man traveled south and did not come back for months. The lake water was exhausted, and they waited for a long time but he did not arrive. The woman then fell ill, gasping urgently day and night, and said to him, "If I die, do not bury me. At the hours of mao, wu, and you, recite Du Fu's poem 'Dreaming of Li Bai,' and I will not decay. When the water arrives, pour it into a basin, close the door, remove my clothes slowly, and immerse me in it—I should come back to life." After gasping for several days, she breathed her last.

Half a month later, Mu Weng arrived, and the young man hastily followed her instructions. After soaking her for about the duration of a double hour, she gradually revived. From then on, she constantly wished to return south. Later, when the old man died, the young man followed her wish and moved to Chu.

An official of Hunan was once sending a subordinate with 600,000 taels of silver to the capital. They were caught by rain on the road, and at dusk they were still far from their destination with no place to stay. In the distance they saw an ancient temple, so they went there to lodge for the night. When dawn broke, they discovered that the silver they had been escorting was completely gone. Everyone was shocked and bewildered, but no one could determine what had happened. They returned to report to the official, who thought it was a lie and was about to punish them. But when he questioned all the escorts, none of them said anything different. The official ordered them to go back to the original location and investigate the matter thoroughly.

Arriving before the temple, they saw a blind man of extraordinary appearance who had posted a sign saying, "I can know the affairs of the heart." They asked him to divine for them. The blind man said, "You are the one who lost the silver." The subordinate said, "Yes. And so he recounted his previous ordeal. The blind man then demanded a sedan chair, saying, "Just follow me, and you will know." They did as he said, and all the officials and escorts followed him. The blind man said, "East." They went east. The blind man said, "North." They went north. After five days, they entered a deep mountain and suddenly saw city walls with a dense population. Entering the city and walking for some time, the blind man said, "Stop." He got down from the sedan chair, pointed south with his hand, and said, "You will see a tall gate facing west—knock and ask inside." Then he clasped his hands and left.

The subordinate followed his instructions and indeed saw a tall gate. He gradually made his way inside. A man came out, dressed in the fashion of the Han dynasty, and did not give his name. The subordinate explained where he had come from, and the man said, "Please stay a few days; I will take you to meet the one in charge." He then led him away and had him stay alone in a place, providing him with food and drink. In his spare time, he strolled to the back of the compound and saw a garden pavilion. He entered it. Old pines shaded the sun, and fine grass was like a carpet. After several turns through corridors and pavilions, there was another tall pavilion. Ascending the steps and entering, he saw several human skins hanging on the wall, complete with all five features, their foul stench assailing his nostrils. Unconsciously, his hair stood on end and his flesh crept, and he quickly retreated back to his quarters. He told himself that, detained in this strange land, he had no hope of survival, but since advancing or retreating meant death in either case, he might as well let things be.

The next day, the man in official dress summoned him, saying, "Today you may have your audience." The subordinate assented. The man in official dress rode a galloping horse at great speed, and the subordinate ran on foot to follow him. Soon they arrived at a gate like that of a military governor's yamen, with servants in black lined up on either side, the whole scene stern and imposing. The man in official dress dismounted and led him inside. Passing through another gate, they saw a king wearing a bejeweled crown and embroidered robes, seated facing south. The subordinate hurried forward and prostrated himself. The king asked, "Are you the escort official from Hunan?" The subordinate said yes. The king said, "The silver is all here. Such a trifling amount—if your commander had simply given it as a gift, that would have been acceptable." The subordinate wept and pleaded, "The deadline has already passed; if I return, I will certainly be executed. To whom can I report this to obtain proof?" The king said, "That is no difficulty." He then handed him a large envelope, saying, "Take this back, and you will be safe." He also sent a strong man to escort him. The subordinate was terrified and dared not argue; he accepted the envelope and returned. The mountains and rivers and roads were entirely different from those they had traveled before. Once they had exited the mountain, the escort left.

After several days, he arrived in Changsha and respectfully reported to the official. The official thought it even more absurd, and in his fury would not allow any explanation; he ordered his attendants to quickly bind him with ropes. The subordinate unwrapped the bundle and produced the envelope. The official opened it and had not finished reading when his face turned ashen. He ordered the bonds untied and merely said, "The silver is a trivial matter. You may go out for now." He then urgently issued orders to his subordinates to find ways to make up the shipment. A few days later, the official fell ill and soon died.

Previously, the official had been sleeping with his favorite concubine. When he woke, her hair was completely gone. The entire office was shocked and bewildered, unable to fathom the cause. It turned out that the envelope had contained her hair. There was also a letter that said: "Since you began your career as a magistrate, you have risen to the highest rank among officials. Your bribery and greed are beyond counting. The previous 600,000 taels of silver have already been received and stored in the treasury. You must open your own coffers of ill-gotten wealth to make up the original amount. The escort official is guilty of nothing and must not be punished. I previously took the concubine's hair as a slight warning. If you disobey my instructions again, I will take your head before dawn or dusk. The concubine's hair is enclosed as proof of my sincerity."

After the official died, his family members only then circulated his letter. Later, subordinates sent men to find the place, but there were only sheer cliffs and impassable ravines—no path at all.

The Historian of Strange Tales says: "The red thread and the golden box, used to warn the greedy, are indeed a marvelous and satisfying tale. But the immortals of the Peach Blossom Spring do not engage in robbery; and even where swordsmen gather, how could there be city walls and government offices? Alas! What manner of spirit is this? If one could find that place, I fear there would be no end of those who would go there to plead their grievances."

Mou Jia

Mou Jia had an affair with his servant's wife, and so he killed the servant and took the wife for himself. They had two sons and a daughter. Nineteen years later, a great bandit force broke into the city and plundered everything. A young bandit entered Mou Jia's house brandishing a sword. Mou Jia looked at him and saw that he closely resembled the dead servant. He sighed to himself, "I am done for now!" He offered all his wealth to ransom his life. The bandit paid no heed and said nothing at all, but searched out and killed people, slaying all twenty-seven members of the household before leaving. Mou Jia's head had not yet been severed; after the bandits left, he revived slightly and could still speak. He died three days later. Alas! The retribution is unfailing—how fearsome indeed!

The Three Monsters of Quzhou

Zhang Wo Zhong served as a military officer in Quzhou and said: "In Quzhou, when the night is still, no one dares walk alone. There is a ghost on the bell tower with a single horn on its head and a ferocious appearance. When it hears the sound of someone walking, it comes down. People flee in terror, and the ghost then departs. But those who see it invariably fall ill, and many die. Also, in the city there is a pond; at night a piece of white cloth emerges, like a bolt of silk lying across the ground. Those who pass by and pick it up are dragged into the water. There is also a duck ghost. When the night is still and the pond's edge is silent and empty, if one hears the sound of a duck, that person will fall ill."

The Building Demolisher

He Jing Qing was from Pingyin. When he first served as an official in Qinzhong, an oil seller committed a minor offense. His speech was blunt, and He flew into a rage and had him beaten to death. Later he rose to a high post in the Ministry of Personnel, and his family was very wealthy. He built a house, and on the day the beams were raised, relatives and friends raised cups to congratulate him. Suddenly he saw the oil seller enter. Privately he was shocked and suspicious. Soon it was reported that his concubine had given birth to a son, and he said gravely, "The building is not yet finished, but the one who will demolish it has arrived!" People thought he was joking, but they did not know that he had actually seen something. Later, when the son grew up, he was the most unruly and squandered the family fortune. He hired himself out as a laborer, and every time he earned a few coins, he would buy oil to eat.

The Historian of Strange Tales says: "I have often seen wealthy families with row upon row of mansions, which, after their deaths, become ruins upon a second visit. Surely a building-demolisher has been reborn into that family. Those who live above others—how can they not be vigilant early on!"

The Giant Scorpion

General Peng Hong of the Ming dynasty led his troops into Shu to suppress bandits. When they reached a deep mountain region, they came upon a great Zen monastery, said to have been without monks for a hundred years. When they asked the locals about it, they said, "There are demons in the monastery—anyone who enters dies." Peng, fearing that bandits might be hiding there, ordered his soldiers to cut through the brush and enter. In the front hall, a black eagle burst through the door and flew away. The middle hall showed nothing unusual. They advanced further to the Buddha hall, looked all around, and saw nothing, but all who entered suffered unbearable headaches. When Peng entered in person, he experienced the same. Shortly afterward, a giant scorpion, large as a pipa, crawled down from the ceiling boards. The entire army fled in alarm, and Peng set fire to the monastery.

Chen Yunqi

Zhen Yusheng was a man of Yiling in Chu, the son of a Recommended Man. He was skilled in literature and of handsome appearance, and was already renowned by the age of twenty. As a child, a physiognomist said, "He will take a nun as his wife." His parents both laughed it off. Yet when they sought a match for him, they found it exceedingly difficult to arrange. His birth mother, Lady Zang, had ancestral ties to Huanggang, and Yusheng therefore went to visit his maternal grandmother. He heard people of the time say, "Among the 'Four Clouds' of Huangzhou, need not speak of the youngest." This was because in the prefecture there was a Lü Ancestral Nunnery, whose nuns were all beautiful, hence the saying. The nunnery was only a little over ten li from the Zang family's village, so Yusheng went there in secret. He knocked at the gate, and indeed there were three or four nuns inside, who received him with modest pleasure and welcoming grace, their bearing all pure and refined. Among them was one youngest one—truly without peer in all the world. His heart was captivated, and his gaze fixed upon her. The young woman propped her chin with her hand, looking elsewhere. The other nuns sought cups to brew tea. Yusheng seized the opportunity to ask her name. She replied, "Yunqi, surnamed Chen." He joked, "How extraordinary! This young man happens to be surnamed Pan." Yunqi flushed crimson to her cheeks, lowered her head without speaking, and rose to leave. Shortly after, they steeped tea and offered fine fruits. Each gave her name and age: one was Bai Yunshan, about thirty; one was Sheng Yunmian, in her twenties; one, Liang Yundong, around twenty-four or five, was the youngest of the three. But Yunqi did not come. Yusheng felt deeply disheartened, and asked about her. Bai said, "This girl is afraid of strangers." Yusheng then rose to take his leave. Bai earnestly urged him to stay, but he would not remain and departed. Bai said, "If you wish to see Yunqi, come again tomorrow." Yusheng returned home, his longing most intense. The next day, he went again. The other nuns were all present, but Yunqi alone was absent, and he did not dare to ask abruptly. The nuns prepared food and insisted he stay for a meal. He declined forcefully, but they would not listen. Bai broke the cakes and handed him chopsticks, urging him with great earnestness. At last he asked, "Where is Yunqi?" The answer was, "She will come on her own." After a long while, the sun was already sinking and Yusheng wished to return. Bai seized his wrist to detain him, saying, "Stay here for now. I will fetch the girl to present her to you." Yusheng then stayed. Soon, lamps were lit and wine was set out, and Yunmian also left. After several rounds of wine, Yusheng declared he was drunk and wished to leave. Bai said, "Drink three more cups, and Yunqi will appear." Yusheng drank as told. Liang also pressed him to drink, and he drained his cup again, then turned over his cup and took his leave. Bai looked at Liang and said, "We are too shy to urge him to drink. You go drag the girl Chen here, and tell her Pan Lang has been waiting for Miaochang for a long time." Liang left, and returned shortly after, reporting, "Yunqi will not come." Yusheng wished to leave, but the night was already deep, so he feigned drunkenness and lay back. The two women undressed him in turn and took turns coupling with him. All night he could not bear their torment. When dawn came, he took his leave without having slept. For several days he dared not return, yet his heart never forgot Yunqi. He only now and then watched and spied nearby. One day, at dusk, Bai went out with a young man. Yusheng was delighted, having little fear of Liang, and hurried to knock at the gate. Yunmian came out to answer. When he asked, he learned that Liang too had gone elsewhere. He then asked about Yunqi. Sheng led him inside, entering another courtyard, and called out, "Yunqi! A guest has arrived!" But the chamber door was seen to bang shut. Sheng smiled and said, "She has closed the door." Yusheng stood outside the window, as if about to speak, and Sheng then left. Yunqi spoke through the window: "People all use me as bait to hook you. If you come frequently, your life will be in danger. I cannot keep my vows of purity to the end, nor dare I abandon all sense of shame. I wish only to give myself to a man like Pan Lang." Yusheng then pledged her his troth. Yunqi said, "My master raised me. Even this is not easy. If you truly love me, you must redeem my body with twenty taels of silver. I will wait three years for you. If you hope for a secret tryst in the mulberry grove, that I cannot do." Yusheng agreed. He was just about to speak further when Sheng returned, and he left with her, then parted and returned home. His heart was filled with melancholy. He wished to find some way to approach her once more and gaze upon her lovely form, but just then a servant arrived with word that his father was ill, and he returned by night without delay. Before long, the Recommended Man died. Lady Zang's household discipline was most strict, and Yusheng dared not let her know of his feelings, but he cut back his expenses daily, saving the money bit by bit. When someone proposed a marriage, he always put it off on the grounds of mourning. His mother would not listen. He told her gently, "When I was in Huanggang, Grandmother wished me to marry into the Chen family, which is truly my heart's desire. Now, owing to the great bereavement, word has been cut off, and I have not visited Huang for long. Let me go there morning and evening. If the match does not succeed, I will obey your command." His mother consented. He then took his savings and went. Arriving in Huang, he went to the nunnery, but the courtyard was desolate, utterly different from before. Going further in, he found only an old nun cooking by the stove, and asked her. The nun said, "The old mistress nun died years ago, and the 'Four Clouds' scattered." He asked, "Where did they go?" She said, "Yunshan and Yundong went with wicked young men. I have heard that Yunqi lives north of the prefecture. Of Yunmian, I have no news." Yusheng heard this and sighed sorrowfully. He ordered his carriage and went at once to the north of the prefecture, inquiring at every convent he passed, but found little trace. He returned in disappointment and falsely told his mother, "My uncle said: Old Master Chen has gone to Yuezhou. When he returns, he will send a messenger." Half a year passed. Lady Zang returned to her natal home and asked her mother about the matter. Her mother was entirely bewildered. Lady Zang was furious at her son's deceit. The old woman suspected that her nephew and uncle had plotted together but had not informed her. Fortunately, the uncle was away, so she could not verify the falsehood. Lady Zang went to ascend Lotus Peak to fulfill a vow, lodging in a temple at the mountain's foot. After she fell asleep, the innkeeper knocked at her door and brought a nun to share her room, who said her name was Chen Yunqi. Hearing that Lady Zang's home was in Yiling, she moved her mat to sit by her bedside and told her story of hardship, her words and expression deeply sorrowful. She concluded: "I have a cousin, Pan Sheng, who shares your native prefecture. Please instruct your sons and nephews to pass on a message, saying that I am temporarily lodging with my master's martial uncle, Wang Daocheng, at the Guanhe Convent, suffering hardship day after day, each day feeling like a year. Tell him to come visit me soon. I fear that beyond this point, I may not be heard from again." Lady Zang examined the name but still did not know it. She only said, "Since he is in the county school, the scholars surely must have heard of him." Before dawn they parted, Yunqi urging her earnestly once more. Lady Zang returned home and spoke of the matter to Yusheng. Yusheng knelt and said, "I tell you truly, Mother: the Pan Sheng she speaks of is your son." Lady Zang, having learned the truth, was enraged. "Wicked son! You debauch yourself in temples and take a nun as your wife—what face do you have to show our relatives and guests?" Yusheng hung his head and dared not utter a word. It happened that Yusheng had gone to the prefecture for the examinations. He secretly ordered a boat to seek out Wang Daocheng. When he arrived, he found that Yun

For half a month he had been out on a journey and had not returned. When he did come back, he was dispirited and fell ill. It happened that Old Woman Zang had just died, and his mother went to attend the funeral. After the burial, she lost her way and arrived at the home of the Jing family. Upon inquiry, she found they were a cousin of hers. She was invited inside and saw a young girl in the hall, about eighteen or nineteen years of age, of surpassing beauty such as she had never seen before. The lady had long wished to find a fine wife for her son so that he would not resent her, and her heart was moved. She therefore asked about the girl's background. The cousin said, "This is a Miss Wang, the niece of the Jing family. She has lost both her parents and is only staying here temporarily." "And who is her husband?" "She has none." The lady took her hand and spoke with her; her manner was gentle and charming, and the mother was greatly pleased. She stayed the night and privately told her cousin of her intentions. The cousin said, "A very fine match. But she thinks rather highly of herself; otherwise, why would she have let the years slip by until now? Let me discuss it." The lady invited her to share her bed, and they talked and laughed most happily. The girl voluntarily offered to call her "Mother." The lady was delighted and asked her to return with her to Jingzhou, and the girl was even more pleased. The next day, they returned together by boat.

When they arrived, the son was still in bed, ill. His mother wished to comfort his grave illness and sent a maid to tell him secretly, "Your mother has brought a beautiful lady for you." The son did not believe it, but peering through the window, he saw that she was even more lovely than Yunqi. He thought to himself: "The three-year agreement has already passed, and since he did not return from his journey, the Jade Countenance must surely already belong to someone else. To obtain this beautiful woman is some consolation to my heart." Thereupon his face brightened, and his illness soon began to mend. His mother then summoned the two women to meet him. When the son came out, the lady said to the girl, "Do you know why I brought you back with me?" The girl smiled and said, "I already know. But why I originally agreed to come back, you do not know. When I was young, I was betrothed to a certain Pan of Yiling. Since then, all communication has been severed, and he must surely already have taken another wife. If that is so, then I shall be your daughter-in-law; if not, then I shall remain your daughter, and I shall repay your kindness in due course." The lady said, "Since there is already a prior engagement, I shall not force the matter. But when I was at Five Ancestors Mountain, a nun asked about the Pan family, and now again it is the Pan family—I know full well that there is no such surname among the prominent families of Yiling." The girl was startled and said, "Was it you who slept under Sleeping Lotus Peak? The one who asked about Pan—that was I!" The mother now understood at last and laughed and said, "If that is so, then Young Master Pan must indeed be here." The girl asked, "Where?" The lady ordered a maid to guide her to ask the son. The son was astonished and said, "Are you Yunqi?" "What do you mean?" He told her what had happened, and she realized he had been jesting about the Pan family. Knowing it was the son, she was too ashamed to continue the conversation and hurried back to tell her mother. The mother asked why she also bore the surname Wang. She replied, "My original surname was Wang. My Taoist teacher was fond of me and took me as her daughter, so I took her surname." The lady was also pleased and chose an auspicious day for the wedding.

Before this, both the girl and Yunmian had been dependent on Wang Daocheng. Daocheng's dwelling was cramped, and Yunmian had therefore left for Hankou. The girl was delicate and could not endure hard work; she was also ashamed to go out and practice the Taoist trade, so Daocheng was not well disposed toward her. It happened that the Jing relatives went to Huanggang, and the girl met them weeping, and so went with them. They had her change into the dress of a Taoist nun, intending to arrange a marriage with a scholar-official family, which is why she concealed her former registration as a Taoist. But whenever suitors came to ask for her hand, the girl always refused, and neither her uncle nor her aunt understood her intentions, so they grew weary and resentful of her. On this day, returning with the lady, she had found someone to rely on, as if a heavy burden had been lifted.

After the wedding, each recounted what they had been through, and they wept for joy. The girl was filial and dutiful, and the lady was especially fond of her. But she loved to play the zither and chess and knew nothing of managing a household, and the lady was somewhat worried about this. After more than a month, the mother sent the two women to the Jing relatives. They stayed several days and returned, sailing on the river. Suddenly another boat passed by, with a Taoist nun on board. Coming closer, they saw it was Yunmian. Yunmian had been particularly close to the girl. The girl was delighted and invited her onto their boat, and they looked at each other with bitter sadness. "Where are you going?" she asked. Yunmian replied, "I have been thinking of you anxiously for a long time. I went all the way to Roosting Crane Temple and heard that you were staying with your Uncle Jing. So I was going to Huanggang to pay you a visit. I never imagined that the person in my thoughts had already found someone to be with. Now I see you as if you were an immortal, while I remain a wanderer—I know not when my wandering will end!" And she sighed and sobbed.

The girl devised a plan: she had Yunmian change into Taoist dress, pretend to be her elder sister, and accompany the lady, while they gradually sought a good match for her. Yunmian agreed. When they returned, the girl first informed the lady, and Yunmian then came in. Her bearing was that of a woman of good family; in conversation, she was worldly-wise and experienced. The lady, being a widow, suffered from loneliness, and with Yunmian she was so happy that she feared she would leave. Yunmian rose early and took on the mother's labors, not acting as a guest. The mother was all the more pleased and secretly thought of taking the girl's elder sister as a wife, to cover up the Taoist nun's name, but she did not dare to say so. One day, having forgotten to do something and in a hurry to ask about it, she found that Yunmian had long since prepared it. She therefore said to the girl, "A painted figure cannot manage a household—what use is she? If my new daughter-in-law were like your elder sister, I would have no worries." She did not know that the girl had had this in mind for a long time and only feared her mother's displeasure. Hearing her mother's words, the girl smiled and replied, "Since you love her so much, what if your new daughter-in-law were to emulate the Two Consorts?" The mother said nothing but smiled radiantly. The girl withdrew and told the son, "Our old mother has given her consent." She then had another room cleaned and said to Yunmian, "When we shared a pillow at the temple, you said, 'If only I could find someone who truly understands love and affection, the two of us would serve him together.' Do you still remember?" Yunmian's eyes suddenly glistened with tears. "When I spoke of love and affection, I did not mean anything else: if one toils day after day and no one knows one's joys and sorrows, but after a few days of slight exertion, the old mother is already concerned and solicitous, then the warmth and coldness one feels in one's heart are entirely different. If she does not give me the 'go-away guest' order and allows me to accompany her always, that would be enough for me; I do not even hope to fulfill what was said before." The girl told her mother. The mother then had the two sisters burn incense and each swear an oath of no regret, and had the son perform the marriage rites with Yunmian. When they were about to retire, Yunmian told the son, "I am a maiden of twenty-three." The son still did not believe her. But when the red stained the mat, he was astonished. Yunmian said, "The reason I am glad to have found a good man is not that I cannot endure solitude; it is truly that, being a woman of the inner chambers, to have to receive guests with the manners of a brothel is what I cannot bear. By this one occasion, I have my name registered in your household. I shall serve you and manage the household for your mother, acting as the inner steward. As for the pleasures of the bedchamber, please explore those with someone else." After three days, she packed her bedding and followed the mother, and could not be sent away. The girl went early to her mother's quarters and took her bed, and Yunmian had no choice but to go to the son. From then on, they would change places every two or three days, and this became the custom. The lady...

Thus he was skilled at chess, but since entertaining guests left him no leisure, he had not indulged in it. Since acquiring Yunmian, his affairs were managed in perfect order, and having nothing to do by day, he would often play chess with the girl. They would light the lamp and brew tea, listening to the two women play the lute, and only disperse at the middle of the night. He would often say to others, "Even when my son's father was alive, we never enjoyed such pleasures." Sheng managed the household accounts and kept records to report to his mother. His mother asked with suspicion, "The children often say they were orphaned young—who taught them calligraphy and chess?" The girl smiled and told her the truth. The mother also laughed and said, "At first I did not want to marry my son to a Daoist priest, and now I have obtained two!" She suddenly remembered the divination from her childhood and came to believe that fate could not be escaped. Sheng sat for the examinations several times but did not pass. The lady said, "Though our family is not wealthy, we have three hundred mu of land. Thanks to Yunmian's management, we grow more prosperous day by day. My son need only remain at my knee, leading the two wives and your old mother in shared joy—I do not wish you to seek riches and honor." Sheng obeyed her. Later, Yunmian bore one son and one daughter; Yunqi bore one son and three daughters. The mother lived to over eighty before she died: all her grandsons entered the county school; the eldest grandson, born of Yunmian, had already passed the provincial examination.

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**The Record-Clerk**

A certain Major Youji had many wives and concubines. She most strictly forbade a certain pet name: she called "year" by "sui," "birth" by "ying," "horse" by "big donkey"; she also forbade "defeat" by calling it "victory," and "peace" by "release." Though in correspondence she did not strictly avoid these, if family members used the forbidden terms, she would be furious. One day, a record-clerk came to report a matter and inadvertently violated the taboo. Enraged, she struck him with an inkstone and killed him on the spot. Three days later, she lay down drunk and saw the clerk enter holding a visiting card. She asked, "What do you want?" He said, "'Ma Zian' has come to pay his respects." She suddenly realized he was a ghost, hastily rose, and swung her knife at him. The clerk smiled faintly, threw the card onto the table, and vanished. She picked up the card and read: "Sui family's dear ones, ying big donkey zi, release victory." What a violent, absurd man—mocked by a ghost indeed! Extremely laughable!

A monk of Niushou Mountain styled himself Tiehan ("Iron Man") and also TieShi ("Iron Shit"). He had forty poems; all who read them were convulsed with laughter. He carved two seals for himself: one reading "Muddled Bastard" and the other "Honest Rascal." A Mr. Wang Sizhi of Xiuxiu printed his poems under the title *Forty Farts of Niu Mountain*. The colophon read: "Muddled Bastard, Honest Rascal, release." One need not read his poems; the title alone is enough to provoke laughter.

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**The Millipede**

At the threshold of the home of Examiner Zhu Sanyou, there was a millipede several feet long. Whenever wind and rain came, it would emerge, coiling on the ground like a white silk ribbon. Now the millipede resembles a centipede: it cannot be seen by day but emerges at night. At the smell of blood it gathers. Some say: the centipede has no eyes yet is exceedingly greedy.

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**The Academy Instructor**

A certain academy instructor was extremely deaf, but was on good terms with a fox spirit. When the fox whispered in his ear, he could hear. Whenever he met his superiors, he went with the fox, and no one knew of his deafness. After five or six years, the fox took leave of him, saying, "You are like a puppet—unless someone manipulates you, all five senses are useless. Rather than incur punishment through deafness, it would be better to resign early." The instructor, attached to his salary, could not follow this advice, and his responses were repeatedly at odds. The examiner wished to expel him, but the instructor asked an influential person to intercede on his behalf. One day, after supervising the examination hall and finishing the roll call, the examiner withdrew to sit with the instructors. Each instructor reached into his boot and presented a letter of recommendation. Afterward, the examiner smiled and asked, "Why has your academy alone presented nothing?" The instructor, bewildered, did not understand. A colleague sitting nearby nudged him with his elbow, and putting his hand into his boot, demonstrated the gesture. The instructor had been selling obscene articles on behalf of a relative, which he always carried in his boot, seeking buyers everywhere. Because the examiner had spoken with a smile, he thought he was being asked about this item. He bowed and rose to reply: "The one costing eight cash is the best; your humble servant did not dare to present it." The whole company hid their laughter. The instructor was ordered out and dismissed from his office.

The Scribe of Strange Tales says: "That Pingyuan alone had none—he is indeed a pillar in the midstream. If the examiner sought recommendations, he should have been served with this. And by this means he escaped. How unjust!"

Master Zhu Ziqing's *Record from the Ear* says: "A certain Mingjing-degree holder of Donglai named Chi served as academy instructor in Yishui. He was eccentric and foolish: whenever colleagues gathered, he would remain silent; after sitting for a moment, without realizing it, all five features would move at once, laughing and weeping together, as if no one else were present. If he heard someone laugh, he would stop abruptly. He was frugal to the point of miserliness and had saved over a hundred taels of silver, which he buried in his study without telling even his wife. One day, sitting alone, his hands and feet suddenly moved on their own. After a moment he said: 'Having done evil and incurred resentment, enduring cold and hunger—so hard to accumulate! Now it is in the study. If anyone finds out, what then?' He repeated this several times. A school servant standing nearby noticed nothing unusual. The next day, when Chi went out, the servant went in and dug it up and took it away. Two or three days later, Chi could not rest easy; he opened the hole to check, and found it empty. He stamped his breast and beat his chest, lamenting to the point of wanting to die." Among academy instructors, one may truly say there are a thousand postures and a hundred shapes.

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**The Black Ghost**

Li Zongzhen, commander of Jiaozhou, bought two black ghosts, black as lacquer. Their foot leather was thick and coarse; they stood with blades laid as a path and walked back and forth upon them without the slightest injury. The commander paired them with prostitutes, and they bore children who was white. The staff and servants teased them, saying the children were not their own. The black ghosts also suspected as much, so they killed the child and examined the bones—all black—and only then regretted it. The commander often had the two ghosts dance together; their expressions were quite entertaining.

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**Woven into Being**

In Lake Dongting, water spirits were known to borrow boats. When an empty boat was encountered, its mooring ropes would suddenly untie themselves, and the boat would drift away as though under its own power. Music would be heard playing in the air, and the boatmen would crouch in a corner, closing their eyes to listen, daring not look up, letting the boat go wherever it wished. When the journey was done, the boat would return to its original mooring.

There was a man named Liu, who, having failed the imperial examinations, was returning home, drunk, and lay sleeping on a boat. Suddenly, the music of sheng pipes began to play. The boatmen shook Liu but could not wake him, and in haste they hid beneath the cabin deck. Soon, someone seized Liu and pulled him up. Being very drunk, he fell to the ground at their hands, but continued sleeping as before, and so they left him alone. Shortly afterward, the blowing and drumming grew loud and clamorous. Liu began to stir slightly, and perceiving a fullness of orchid and musk fragrance, he stole a glance and saw that the entire boat was filled with beautiful women. Knowing this was no ordinary matter, he kept his eyes half-closed as though still asleep. After a while, a summons was passed: "Zhi Cheng." A serving girl at once approached and stood near his cheek. She wore green stockings and purple shoes, slender and delicate as fingers. Liu was smitten, and secretly bit her stocking with his teeth. Shortly after, the girl shifted her movement, stumbled, and fell. The one above inquired into the matter, and the girl reported what had happened. The one above was enraged and ordered immediate execution. Warriors then entered, seized Liu, and bound him, lifting him to his feet. Liu saw a person seated facing south, whose crown resembled that of a king. As he was led forward, Liu spoke while walking: "I have heard that the Lord of Dongting bore the surname Liu, and I too am a Liu; in the past, the Lord of Dongting failed the examinations, and now I too have failed; the Lord of Dongting encountered the Dragon Princess and became immortal, while now I, drunk, have trifled with a maidservant and face death—how vast the disparity between fortune and misfortune!" The king, upon hearing this, called him back and asked: "Are you the scholar who failed the examinations?" Liu answered yes. The king then gave him brush and paper and ordered him to compose a poem on "Wind-Curled Tresses and Mist-Woven Locks." Liu was indeed a famous scholar of Xiangyang, but he was slow to compose, and he held the pen for a long time without writing. The king upbraided him: "How can a famous scholar be like this?" Liu set down the pen and explained himself: "In the past, the 'Three Capitals Rhapsody' took ten years to complete—from this one knows that writing values craftsmanship, not speed." The king smiled and allowed him to continue. From morning until noon, the draft was finally completed. The king read it and was greatly pleased, saying: "A true scholar indeed!" He then bestowed wine upon him. In an instant, an extraordinary array of delicacies appeared. While they were conversing, an official presented a ledger and announced: "The register of drownings is complete." The king asked: "How many people?" The reply: "One hundred and twenty-eight." The king asked: "Who has been assigned to carry out the task?" The answer: "Commanders Mao and Nan." Liu rose to take his leave. The king gifted him ten catties of gold and a handful of crystal paperweights, saying: "There will be a small calamity on the lake; carrying these, you may be spared." Suddenly, a retinue of feathered banners and mounted guards appeared, standing upon the surface of the water. The king descended from the boat, mounted his carriage, and was seen no more. After a long while, all was still. The boatmen then emerged from beneath the cabin deck and rowed north across the lake, but the wind was against them and they could not advance. Suddenly, an iron cat figure surfaced from the water. The boatmen cried out in terror: "Commander Mao has appeared!" The merchants in all the boats prostrated themselves. Before long, a log stood upright in the lake, shaking and trembling. They grew even more frightened and said: "Commander Nan has also emerged!" Shortly after, great waves rose, obscuring the sky above, and looking around, every boat on the lake capsized at once. Liu sat upright in his boat holding the crystal paperweight, and when the towering waves reached his boat, they instantly subsided—thus he was preserved. After returning home, he often told others of this strange event. He said that although he had not fully seen the serving girl's face on the boat, the pair of tiny shoes beneath her skirt were something not found in the human world.

Later, on business, he went to Wuchang, where an old woman named Cui was selling her daughter, but would not part with her for a thousand pieces of gold. She kept a crystal paperweight and said she would marry her daughter to whoever could match it. Liu was intrigued, and went to her carrying his paperweight. The old woman received him joyfully and called her daughter out to meet him. She was around fifteen or fifteen, charming and graceful beyond all comparison. She performed a brief bow and then retreated behind the curtain. At one glance, Liu's soul was stirred, and he said: "This young man also possesses an object—I wonder whether it might compare favorably with what the old mother keeps?" They each brought out their paperweights and compared them; the lengths differed not by a hair. The old woman was delighted and asked where he was lodging, inviting him to return at once and send a sedan chair, keeping the paperweight as a pledge. Liu was unwilling to leave it, but the old woman laughed and said: "You are too cautious, sir! Would this old body run away over a mere paperweight?" Liu had no choice but to leave it. He then hired a sedan chair and hurried back, but the old woman's house was empty—he was greatly alarmed. He asked all the neighbors, but no one knew anything. The sun was already setting, and dejected in body and spirit, he returned home in low spirits. On the way, he encountered a passing sedan chair, and suddenly the curtain was lifted: "Why are so late, Master Liu?" He looked and saw it was old woman Cui. Delighted, he asked: "Where are you going?" The old woman laughed and said: "You must suspect this old body of running off with your money. After we parted, a convenient sedan chair happened to be available, and I thought that since you too are lodging as a stranger here, it would be difficult for you to arrange things, so I sent the daughter back to your boat." Liu invited her to turn back, but she absolutely refused. Liu, flustered and unable to be certain, rushed to his boat, and indeed the girl and a maidservant were there. Seeing Liu enter, she received him with a smiling welcome. He noticed her green stockings and purple shoes—identical in every detail to the serving girl's attire on the boat. His heart was filled with wonder, and he lingered, gazing at her. The girl laughed and said: "Such intent staring—have you never seen the like before?" Liu looked down even more closely, and there on the back of her stocking were the tooth marks, clear as day. Startled, he said: "Are you Zhi Cheng?" The girl covered her mouth and smiled faintly. Liu bowed deeply and said: "If you are truly a divine being, please tell me plainly, to dispel my confusion." The girl said: "I will tell you truly: the one you met on the boat before was the Lord of Dongting. He admires your great talent and wished to give me to you as a gift; but because I had committed an offense, the Princess loved me dearly, so he returned to consult with her. I come now by the Princess's command." Liu was overjoyed. He washed his hands, burned incense, and bowed toward the lake, then returned home.

Later, when he visited Wuchang, the girl asked to go with him, as it would be convenient to visit her family. When they reached Lake Dongting, the girl pulled out a hairpin and cast it into the water. Suddenly, a small boat emerged from the lake, and the girl leaped aboard, like a bird alighting—in an instant she had vanished. Liu sat at the bow of his boat, gazing fixedly at the place where she had disappeared. In the distance, a storied boat approached; as it drew near, its window opened, and suddenly something like a brightly colored bird flew across—it was Zhi Cheng arriving. Someone from within the window tossed out a great quantity of gold, pearls, and precious objects, all gifts from the Princess. From then on, he visited once or twice a year as a matter of course. Thus Liu's family came to possess abundant jewels and precious things; whenever he produced an object, even great families did not recognize it.

It is said that in the Tang dynasty, Liu Yi encountered the Dragon Princess, and the Lord of Dongting Lake took him as a son-in-law. Later, the Lord yielded his position to Yi. But finding that Yi's countenance was too gentle to overpower the water demons, the Lord gave him a demon mask, which he was to wear by day and remove by night. After a long time, Yi grew accustomed to it and forgot to remove it, so that the mask gradually fused with his face and became one with it. When Liu Yi looked at himself in a mirror, he was ashamed. Therefore, when travelers crossed the lake, if they pointed at something with their fingers, he suspected they were pointing at him; if they covered their foreheads with their hands, he suspected they were spying on him. Waves would rise and boats would often capsize. Hence, when people first boarded a boat, the boatman would always warn them of this. If they did not, they would have to offer sacrifices and libations before they could cross. Xu Zhenjun happened to arrive at the lake one day, but the waves blocked his passage. Zhenjun was enraged and had Liu Yi arrested and thrown into the prefectural prison. The jailer counted the prisoners and always found one extra person, but could not determine why. One night, Liu Yi appeared in a dream to the prefect, begging for deliverance. The prefect declined, saying that the realms of darkness and light were different paths. Yi said, "Zhenjun will arrive on a certain day. If you intercede on my behalf, it will surely help." When Zhenjun arrived, the prefect pleaded for him, and he was released. After this, the prohibitions on the lake were somewhat relaxed.

Zhu Qing

Yu Rong, a man from Hunan, whose prefecture and county I have forgotten. His family was poor, and after failing the provincial examination, he set out for home, his funds exhausted. Too ashamed to beg, he was tormented by hunger. He rested for a while in the Temple of the King of Wu, bowing and praying before the divine altar. When he came out and lay down in the gallery, suddenly a man led him away. He found himself before the King, who knelt and said: "The Black-Coat Corps still lacks one soldier. This man may fill the vacancy." The King said: "Very well." At once he bestowed a black garment upon him. The moment he put it on, he was transformed into a crow and fluttered out on his wings. He saw a flock of fellow crows gathered together, and joining them, they flew off in a group, settling here and there on the masts and spars of ships. The passengers on the boats vied to throw meat upward, and the flock caught it in mid-air as they ate. He too imitated them, and in no time his belly was full. He soared and perched among the treetops, feeling thoroughly content.

After two or three days, the King of Wu, pitying him for lacking a mate, paired him with a female, whom he called Zhu Qing. They were devotedly fond of each other. Whenever Yu went to fetch food, he was docile and without guile, but Zhu Qing constantly admonished him against it, though in the end he would not listen. One day, a Manchu soldier passed by and shot him in the chest with a bullet. Fortunately, Zhu Qing carried him away in her beak, so he was not captured. The flock of crows, enraged, beat their wings and fanned the waves. The waters surged up, and the boats were all overturned. Zhu Qing still cast bait to feed Yu. But Yu's wound was severe, and he died by the end of the day.

Suddenly, it was as if he awoke from a dream—his body was lying in the temple. Earlier, the local people had found Yu dead, not knowing who he was. Having felt that his body was still warm, they had therefore sent men to keep watch over him from time to time. When he now came to, they questioned him and learned what had happened. They collected money and sent him home.

Three years later, he passed by the old place again and visited the Temple of the King of Wu to pay his respects. He set out food and called the crows down to gather and eat, saying in his prayer: "If Zhu Qing is here, let her stay." When the food was finished, they all flew away.

Afterward, he passed the provincial examination and returned. He visited the Temple of the King of Wu again, offering a minor sacrifice. When this was done, he laid out a great feast to entertain the crow friends, and prayed again. That night he lodged in a village by the lake. He was sitting with a candle lit when suddenly something alighted before his desk like a bird in flight. He looked at her—she was a beautiful woman of about twenty, who said with a smile: "Have you been well since we parted?" Yu asked in surprise who she was. She said: "Do you not recognize Zhu Qing?" Yu was overjoyed and asked where she had come from. She said: "I am now a divine maiden of the Han River. I seldom return to my old home. Previously, a crow-messenger brought me word of your feelings, so I have come to meet you once." Yu was all the more moved and grateful, as if husband and wife long separated—his joy and affection knew no bounds.

Yu wished to go south with her, but the lady wished to invite him west. Neither plan could be decided upon. When he first awoke from sleep, the lady had already risen. He opened his eyes and saw a great candle blazing brightly in a lofty hall—this was certainly not a boat. He started up in alarm and asked: "What place is this?" The lady laughed and said: "This is Hanyang. My home is your home—why must you go south!" As dawn gradually broke, maids and old servants gathered in numbers, and wine and roasted meats were brought in. A low table was set upon the broad bed, and husband and wife faced each other as they drank. Yu asked: "Where is my servant?" She replied: "On the boat." Yu feared the boatman could not wait long. The lady said: "It does not matter. I will help you reward him."

Thereupon they talked and feasted day and night, so happy that he forgot to return. The boatman awoke from his dream and suddenly found himself at Hanyang—he was terrified beyond measure. The servant searched for his master but could find no trace of him. The boatman wished to go elsewhere, but the mooring rope could not be untied, so they kept watch together. More than two months passed. Yu suddenly thought of returning and said to the lady: "I have been here so long that my relatives have lost all contact with me. Moreover, you and I, though we are called a harmonious pair of lutes, have not once visited my family—what is to be done?" The lady said: "Not to mention that I cannot go; even if I went, you already have a wife at home. Where would you place me? It would be better to keep me here as a separate household for you." Yu resented the distance of the road, which prevented him from coming at will. The lady brought out the black garment and said: "The old coat you once wore is still here. When you think of me, put this on and you may come. When you arrive, I will remove it for you." Then she laid out a great feast of delicacies and saw him off. He fell asleep drunk, and when he awoke, he found himself in the boat. He looked about—it was the old mooring place on Dongting Lake. The boatman and the servant were both there. They stared at him in great terror and questioned him on where he had been. Yu himself was bewildered and startled. By his pillow was a bundle; he opened it and found that the lady had given him new clothes, socks, and shoes, and the black garment was folded within as well. There was also an embroidered pouch tied at his waist. He felt inside—it was stuffed full of gold and money.

Thereupon he set sail south. When he reached the shore, he handsomely rewarded the boatman and departed.

After returning home for several months, he was tormented by longing for the Han River. He secretly took out the black garment and put it on. Wings grew from his flanks, and he soared into the air. After about two hours, he had already reached the Han River. He wheeled and looked down, seeing a cluster of buildings on a solitary islet, and flew down to land. A maid had already spotted him and cried out: "The master has arrived!" Before long, Zhu Qing came out and ordered the servants to untie him gently. He felt his feathers fall away completely. Hand in hand they entered the house, and she said: "You have come at just the right time—I am about to give birth any day now." Yu joked and asked: "Will it be born from the womb, or from an egg?" The lady said: "I am now a goddess, so my skin and bones have hardened—it should be different from before." A few days later, she indeed gave birth. The afterbirth was thickly wrapped, like a great egg. When it was broken open, it was a boy. Yu was delighted and named him Han Chan ("Born of the Han").

Three days later, all the divine maidens of the Han River came to the hall to congratrate him with rare garments and precious foods. They were all lovely, not one of them over thirty. They all entered the chamber and, lying on the bed, pressed the baby's nose with their thumbs, a rite called "Increasing Longevity." When they had left, Yu asked: "Who were all those who just came?" The lady said: "These are all my kind. The last one, dressed in lotus-white—she is the one known as 'Untying the Pendant at Hangu.'"

After several months, the lady sent him back by boat. It needed no sail or oars—it moved swiftly of its own accord. When he reached the shore, someone was already holding a horse tethered by the roadside, and so he returned home. From then on, he came and went without interruption.

After several years, Han Chan grew ever more handsome, and Yu treasured him dearly. His wife, Madame He, was bitterly distressed at having no children and longed to see Han Chan. Yu told the lady of this. The lady then made preparations and sent the boy to follow his father home, agreeing on a period of three months. When he returned, Madame He loved him more than her own child. After more than ten months, she could not bear to let him go back. One day, he fell ill suddenly and died. Madame He grieved as if she wished to die herself. Yu then went to Hanyang to tell the lady. When he entered, he found Han Chan lying on the bed barefoot. He was overjoyed and asked the lady about it. The lady said: "You broke your promise long ago. I missed my son, so I summoned him back." Yu then explained the reason—Madame He's love for the boy. The lady said: "Wait until I bear another child, and then I will let Han Chan return."

A little over a year later, the lady gave birth to twins, a boy and a girl. The boy was named Han Sheng ("Born of the Han"), and the girl was named Yu Pei ("Jade Pendant"). Yu then took Han Chan and returned home. However, he went to Hanyang three or four times a year, finding it inconvenient, so he moved his family to Hanyang. Han Chan entered the prefectural school at the age of twelve.

The woman, finding no man of true beauty in the mortal world, summoned Han Sheng to her side and found him a wife before sending him back at last. The wife was named Zhi Niang, and she too was born of a goddess. When the He family patriarch later died, Han Sheng and his sister both came to pound their breasts and leap in mourning. After the burial, Han Sheng remained, while his brother-in-law departed carrying a jade pendant and never returned.

Duan's Wife

Duan Ruihuan was a wealthy man of Da Ming. At forty, he had no son. His wife, Madam Lian, was exceedingly jealous. She wished to buy a concubine but did not dare. She took a maid as a secret lover; Lian discovered it, beat the maid several hundred times, and sold her to the Luan family of Hejian. As Duan grew older, his nephews came morning and evening to beg and borrow. If a single word went unanswered, they raged with angry voices and dark looks. Duan could not satisfy their demands, and when he wished to adopt one nephew as heir, the others blocked him. Lian's ferocity found no outlet, and she began to deeply regret. In fury she said, "The old man is only past sixty—who says he cannot father a son!" She then bought two concubines and allowed her husband to visit them without interference. After a little more than a year, both concubines were with child, and the whole household rejoiced. Duan's spirits gradually revived. Whenever any nephew tried to take something by force, he rebuffed them with harsh words. Before long, one concubine bore a daughter, and the other bore a son who died. The couple were disappointed. Another year passed, and Duan suffered a stroke and could not rise. The nephews grew even more brazen, seizing cattle, horses, and household goods for themselves. Lian cursed and denounced them, but they only talked back. She was at her wits' end and wept from morning to night. Duan's illness grew worse, and he soon died. The nephews gathered before the coffin to discuss dividing the estate. Though Lian was stricken with grief, she could not stop them. She asked only to keep one fertile estate to support the old and young, but the nephews refused. Lian said, "You would not leave even a scrap of land—will you let this old woman and these babes starve to death?" No decision was reached; she could only weep in fury and beat herself. Suddenly a guest arrived to offer condolences. He went straight to the place of the spirit, bowing and looking up in full grief. When his mourning was done, he sat himself on the mourning mat. The crowd asked who he was. The guest said, "The deceased was my father." They were all the more astonished. The guest then calmly told his story. Earlier, the maid had married into the Luan family. Five or six months later, she gave birth to Huai, and Luan raised him as he did his other sons. At eighteen, Huai entered the county school. Later, when Luan died, his elder brothers divided the property and gave Huai no share among the Luan sons. Huai asked his mother and then learned the truth. He said, "Since I belong to two surnames and each has its own ancestral shrine, why must I stay here to claim a hundred acres from another man?" He then rode to the Duan household, but Duan had already died. His account was detailed and certain, fully credible. Lian, burning with grief and rage, was overjoyed to hear it. She came out directly and said, "Now I too have a son! All the cattle, horses, and goods you borrowed—you had better return them on your own. If not, there will be a lawsuit!" The nephews looked at each other in dismay and gradually withdrew. Huai then brought his wife and came to share in mourning for his father. The Duan nephews, resenting this, plotted to drive Huai out. Huai learned of it and said, "The Luans do not count me as a Luan, and the Duans do not count me as a Duan—where am I to go?" He was furious and wished to bring the matter before the magistrate, but relatives and kinsmen mediated, and the plot was dropped. But Lian, on account of the cattle and horses, would not let it rest. Huai urged her to forget it. Lian said, "It is not about the cattle and horses. My chest is full of pent-up fury. Your father died of rage, and the reason I swallowed my voice and held back my tears was that I had no son. Now that I have a son, what do I fear? You do not know the details of what happened before—let me bring the case myself." Huai tried to stop her but could not. She drew up a complaint and went before the magistrate. The magistrate summoned the Duan nephews and examined the case. Lian's spirit was upright, her words moving, and her testimony poured forth like a spring. The magistrate was moved. He punished the Duan nephews and ordered the goods returned to their owner. When Lian returned home, she summoned those nephews' sons who had not joined the plot and distributed all the recovered goods among them. When Lian was past seventy and near death, she called her daughter and granddaughters-in-law and said, "Remember this: if you have no child by thirty, you must pawn your hairpins and earrings to take a concubine for your husband. The suffering of childlessness is truly unbearable!"

The Historian of the Strange remarks: "Though Lian was jealous, she could turn sharply and swiftly. Heaven rightly gave her descendants to vindicate her spirit. Observe her fierce and generous resolve—ah, what a remarkable woman!"

Jiang Jia of Jinan had a wife, Madam Mao, who was childless and jealous. Her sister-in-law often urged her to reconsider, but she would not listen. She said, "I would rather have no heir than let some seductive woman fill me with rage!" When she was nearing forty, she began to worry about succession. She wished to adopt her brother's son. The brother and his wife both agreed but kept putting it off. Whenever the boy came to his uncle's house, the couple tempted him with sweets and asked, "Will you come live with us?" The boy always said yes. The brother secretly told the son, "If they ask again, say no. And if they ask why, say, 'When you die, why worry that the land and property won't be mine?'" One day, Jia went away on a long business trip, and the boy came again. Mao asked him, and the boy repeated his father's words. Mao flew into a rage. "So my wife and children at home are calculating my property day after day! Their scheme is crooked!" She drove the boy out and at once summoned a matchmaker to buy a concubine for her husband. When her husband returned, a maid was being sold, but the price was high. Even exhausting all her funds, she could not pay the full amount, and it seemed the deal would fall through. Her brother, fearing she might change her mind if it was delayed, secretly gave gold to the matchmaker, pretending it was a loan she had arranged to bring the matter to completion. Overjoyed, Mao bought the maid and brought her home. Mao told her husband the truth. He was furious and broke with his brother. A year later, the concubine bore a son. The couple was overjoyed. Mao said, "The matchmaker never said who lent the money, and after more than a year she has not asked about it. This kindness must not be forgotten. Now that a son is born, shall we still not pay the mother's price!" Jia then took a bag of gold and went to the matchmaker. The matchmaker laughed and said, "You ought to thank the great gentleman. I am as poor as can be—who would lend me a single gold piece?" She told him the whole truth. Jia was deeply moved. He returned and told his wife, and they wept together in gratitude. They then prepared a feast and invited the brother and his wife. The couple advanced on their knees, brought out the gold to repay the brother, but he would not accept it. They parted in perfect joy. Later, Jia fathered three sons.

The Fox Maiden

伊袞，九江人。夜有女來，相與寢處。心知為狐，而愛其美，祕不告人，父母亦不知也。久而形體支離。父母窮詰，始實告之。父母大憂，使人更代伴寢，兼施敕勒，卒不能禁。翁自與同衾，則狐不至；易人，則又至。伊問狐。狐曰：「世俗符咒，何能制我。然俱有倫理，豈有對翁行淫者！」翁聞之，益伴子不去，狐遂絕。後值叛寇橫恣，村人盡竄，一家相失。伊奔入崑侖山，四顧荒涼。日既暮，心恐甚。忽見一女子來，近視之，則狐女也。離亂之中，相見欣慰。女曰：「日已西下，君姑止此。我相佳地，暫創一室，以避虎狼。」乃北行數武，遂蹲莽中，不知何作。少刻返，拉伊南去，約十餘步，又曳之回。忽見大木千章，繞一高亭，銅牆鐵柱，頂類金箔；近視，則牆可及肩，四圍並無門戶，而牆上密排坎窞，女以足踏之而過，伊亦從之。既入，疑金屋非人工可造，問所自來。女笑曰：「君子居之，明日即以相贈。金鐵各千萬，計半生喫著不盡矣。」既而告別。伊苦留之，乃止。曰：「被人厭棄，已拚永絕；今又不能自堅矣。」及醒，狐女不知何時已去。天明，踰垣而出。回視臥處，並無亭屋，惟四針插指環內，覆脂合其上；大樹，則叢荊老棘也。

Zhang's Wife

凡大兵所至，其害甚於盜賊：蓋盜賊人猶得而仇之，兵則人所不敢仇也。其少異於盜者，特不敢輕於殺人耳。甲寅歲，三藩作反，南征之士，養馬袞郡，雞犬廬舍一空，婦女皆被淫污。時遭霪雨，田中瀦水為湖，民無所匿，遂乘垣入高粱叢中。兵知之，裸體乘馬，入水搜淫，鮮有遺脫。惟張氏婦不伏，公然在家。有廚舍一所，夜與夫掘坎深數尺，積茅焉；覆以薄，加蓆其上，若可寢處。自炊灶下。有兵至，則出門應給之。二蒙古兵強與淫。婦曰：「此等事，豈可對人行者？」其一微笑，啁嗻而出。婦與入室，指蓆使先登。薄折，兵陷。婦又另取蓆及薄覆其上，故立坎邊，以誘來者。少間，其一復入。聞坎中號，不知何處，婦以手笑招之曰：「在此處。」兵踏蓆，又陷。婦乃益投以薪，擲火其中。火大熾，屋焚。婦乃呼救。火既熄，燔尸焦臭。人問之。婦曰：「兩豬恐害於兵，故納坎中耳。」由此離村數里，於大道旁並無樹木處，攜女紅往坐烈日中。村去郡遠，兵來率乘馬，頃刻數至。笑語啁嗻，雖多不解，大約調弄之語。然去道不遠，無一物可以蔽身，輒去，數日無患。一日，一兵至，甚無恥，就烈日中欲淫婦。婦含笑不甚拒。隱以針刺其馬，馬輒噴嘶，兵遂縶馬股際，然後擁婦。婦出巨錐猛刺馬項，馬負痛奔駭。韁繫股不得脫，曳馳數十里，同伍始代捉之。首軀不知處，韁上一股，儼然在焉。

異史氏曰：「巧計六出，不失身於悍兵。賢哉婦乎，慧而能貞！」

Yu Ziyou

海濱人說：「一日，海中忽有高山出，居人大駭。一秀才寄宿漁舟，沾酒獨酌。夜闌，一少年人，儒服儒冠，自稱：『于子游。』言詞風雅。秀才悅，便與懽飲。飲至中夜，離席言別。秀才曰：『君家何處？玄夜茫茫，亦太自苦。』答云：『僕非土著，以序近清明，將隨大王上墓。眷口先行，大王姑留憩息，明日辰刻發矣。宜歸，早治任也。』秀才亦不知大王何人。送至鷁首，躍身入水，撥刺而去，乃知為魚妖也。次日，見山峰浮動，頃刻已沒。始知山為大魚，即所云大王也。」俗傳清明前，海中大魚攜兒女往拜其墓，信有之乎？

康熙初年，萊郡潮出大魚，鳴號數日，其聲如牛。既死，荷擔割肉者，一道相屬。魚大盈畝，翅尾皆具；獨無目珠。眶深如井，水滿之。割肉者誤墮其中，輒溺死。或云：「海中貶大魚，則去其目，以目即夜光珠」云。

Male Concubine

**A Merchant's Purchase in Yangzhou**

A gentleman-official in Yangzhou bought a concubine. He visited several households in succession, but none satisfied him. Only one old woman, lodging as a stranger, had a daughter for sale. The girl, about fourteen or fifteen, was graceful and lovely, and skilled in many arts. He was overjoyed and bought her at a high price. That night, he entered the bed and found her skin smooth as lard. Delighted, he groped her private parts—and found she was a man. Utterly shocked, he pressed her with questions. It turned out she had been purchased as a handsome boy, carefully dressed up, and set up as a hoax to cheat people. At dawn, he sent servants to find the old woman, but she had already fled without a trace. Deeply vexed, he did not know whether to keep or dismiss her. It happened that a certain colleague from Zhejiang came to visit, and he told him the whole story. The colleague asked to see her, and upon one glance was greatly pleased. He ransomed her at the original price and left with her.

The Commentator says: "If one meets a true connoisseur, one would not yield her even for the peerless beauty of Nanwei. What need was there for an ignorant old woman to create yet another false illusion!"

**Wang Keshou**

Wang Keshou of Huangmei County in Huguang could remember his three lives. In one life, he was a scholar reading in a temple. The temple kept a mare that gave birth to a mule foal, and he coveted it and seized it. Later he died, and the King of the Underworld examined his records. Enraged by his greed and violence, the King punished him by making him be born as a mule to repay the temple monks. Once born, the monks cared for him, but he longed to die without delay. As he grew a little older, he thought of throwing himself into a ravine, but feared that he would fail the kindness of those who had raised him and that his underworld punishment would grow even worse, so he resigned himself. After several years, his karmic debt was fulfilled and he died of his own accord. He was then born into a farmer's family. He could speak the moment he dropped from the womb, and his parents thought it monstrous and killed him. Thereupon he was born into the household of Scholar Wang. The scholar was nearing fifty and was overjoyed to have a son. Wang was bright from birth, but remembering that he had died in his previous life for speaking too early, he dared not speak. By the age of three or four, everyone thought him mute. One day, his father was writing and a friend happened to call. He put down his pen to greet the guest. Wang came in, saw his father's composition, and could not resist the itch to write; he finished it for him. When his father returned and saw it, he asked, "Who came?" The servants said, "No one." The father was greatly puzzled. The next day, he deliberately wrote a topic and left it on the desk, then went out. After a short while he returned, creeping silently on tiptoe. He saw his son bent over the desk, several lines already on the page. Suddenly catching sight of his father, the boy could not help crying out and knelt, begging to be spared death. His father was delighted, took his hand and said, "You are the only child in our family. Since you can write, it is a blessing for our house. Why did you hide yourself?" From then on he taught him all the more. The boy became a jinshi in his youth and rose to the post of Grand Coordinator of Datong.

**The Calf**

A farmer from the Chu region was returning from market and rested by the road. A diviner arrived later and stopped to talk with him. Suddenly, looking at the farmer, he said, "Your complexion is inauspicious. Within three days you will suffer a financial loss and receive an official punishment." The farmer said, "My official taxes are paid in full, and I have never fought with anyone in my life. How could punishment come to me?" The diviner said: "I do not know the details. But such is your complexion; you cannot be too careful!" The farmer was not entirely convinced, bowed, and went home. The next day, he was grazing a calf in the wilds when a post-horse passed by. The calf saw it, mistook it for a tiger, and charged straight at it, killing the horse. The courier reported the farmer to the official, who gave a light penalty and ordered him to compensate for the horse. It is because water buffaloes will always fight tigers that cattle dealers, when sleeping in the open, use their cattle to defend themselves; if they see a horse passing from afar, they hurry to drive it away, fearing it might be mistakenly attacked.

**Wang Da**

Li Xin was a gambler. One day, as he napped, he suddenly saw two old gambling companions, Wang Da and Feng Jiu, appear before him and invite him to a game. Li, forgetting entirely that they were ghosts, gladly accepted and went with them.

Once outside, Wang Da went to summon a villager named Zhou Ziming, while Feng Jiu led Li Xin ahead. They entered a temple on the village's eastern edge. Presently, Zhou arrived with Wang. Feng produced cards, and they agreed to play for stakes. Li said, "I have no gambling funds with me on such short notice. I am afraid I cannot accept your kind invitation." Zhou said the same. Wang Da said, "Lord Huang Ba of Yanzi Valley lends money at interest. If we go together and borrow from him, he is sure to agree." So the four set off together. In a blur of motion, they arrived at a large village. The houses there stood in continuous rows behind high walls. Wang pointed to a gate and said, "This is the residence of Master Huang." An old servant emerged, and Wang explained their business. The servant went inside to announce them, then returned with the young master's command to receive Wang and Li.

They entered and met the young master, who was eighteen or nine-teen, with a warm and amiable manner. He handed a string of large coins to Li and said, "I know you are honest and straightforward; there is no harm in lending to you. But I cannot trust Zhou Ziming." Wang pleaded on Zhou's behalf at some length. The young master insisted that Li stand as guarantor, but Li refused. Wang urged him from the side, and at last Li agreed. The young master then gave Zhou a thousand cash as well and sent them out. Li handed the money to Zhou, relating the young master's words to goad him into repaying it.

Leaving the valley, they saw a woman approaching—the wife of a villager surnamed Zhao, a woman given to quarreling and cursing. Feng Jiu said, "There is no one about. We ought to give this shrew a little trouble." So he and Wang seized her and dragged her back into the valley. The woman screamed loudly. Feng scooped up earth and stuffed it in her mouth. Zhou approved, saying, "A woman like this deserves a stake driven into her private parts!" Feng then loosened his robe and forced a long stone inside her. The woman went limp as though dead. The group dispersed and returned to the temple to resume their game. From noon until midnight, Li Xin won handily, and Feng and Zhou were cleaned out. Li then gave all his heavy winnings, plus interest, to Wang Da, asking him to repay Lord Huang on his behalf. Wang divided some of it between Zhou and Feng, and the game went on.

Before long, they heard a clamor of voices, and a man burst in, saying, "The City God himself has come to arrest gamblers—he is here!" The group turned pale. Li abandoned his coins and fled over the wall. The others turned to look at their money and found themselves all bound. Once outside, they indeed saw a divine figure seated on horseback, with more than twenty gambers tied up behind the horse. Before dawn they had reached the county town; the gate opened, and they were brought in. At the yamen, the City God sat facing south and called the prisoners forward, reading their names from a register. When the roll was finished, he ordered each man's index finger chopped off with an axe. Then he had their two eyes painted—one with ink, one with cinnabar—and paraded them through the market three times. When this was done, the guards demanded a bribe to wash off the ink and cinnabar, and everyone paid. Only Zhou refused, pleading that his purse was empty; the guards offered to escort him home and be paid there, but he would not agree either. The guards pointed at him and said, "You truly are an iron bean—you won't pop even when fried!" With that, they clasped their hands and left.

Zhou left the city, moistened his sleeve with saliva, and wiped as he walked. When he reached the river and looked at his reflection, the ink and cinnabar had not come off. He scooped water and washed, but they would not budge. He returned home filled with regret and vexation.

Earlier, the Zhao wife had gone to her mother's house on some errand and had not returned by evening. Her husband went to fetch her. At the mouth of the valley, he found his wife lying by the road. Seeing her condition, he knew she had encountered ghosts. He removed the earth stuffed in her mouth and carried her home on his back. She gradually revived and could speak, and he learned there was something inside her. She writhed and worked it free, then told him what had happened. Zhao was furious and went straight at once to the county magistrate to bring charges against Li and Zhou. The warrant was issued. By then Li Xin had just awakened; Zhou was still deep in sleep, looking as though he were dead. The magistrate took their complaint as a false accusation and had Zhao flogged and his wife shackled. Neither husband nor wife could make a reasonable case for themselves.

The next day, Zhou woke. His eye sockets had suddenly turned one red and one black. He cried out that his fingers hurt. When he looked, the bones were severed and the fingers were hanging by the skin alone; within days they fell off. The ink and cinnabar on his eyes had sunk deep into the flesh. All who saw him covered their mouths to hide their laughter.

One day, Wang Da came demanding repayment. Zhou shouted harshly that he had no money, and Wang left in a rage. His family asked what had happened, and only then did they learn the truth. They all urged him to repay, saying the gods and ghosts are merciless. Zhou remained stubbornly unwilling and said, "Nowadays even magistrates side with those who refuse their debts. The principles of the living and the dead should be the same—how much more so with gambling debts!"

The next day, two ghosts arrived, saying that Lord Huang had filed a complaint in the county and that Zhou was summoned to appear for questioning. Li Xin also saw a yamen runner come to fetch him as a witness. The two men died at the same moment. Outside the village they met again; Wang Da and Feng Jiu were both there. Li said to Zhou, "You still have those red and black eyes—how dare you appear before an official?" Zhou repeated his earlier arguments. Li knew he was being petty and said, "Since you have no conscience, I will go see Lord Huang Ba and repay the debt for you." So they went together to the young master's residence. Li went in and explained the matter, but the young master refused, saying, "Who owes the debt, and why should you repay it?" Li came out and told Zhou, and they devised a plan for Zhou to provide the money and have Li present it in Zhou's name. Zhou grew even angrier and spoke insultingly of the young master. The ghosts then seized him and took him along.

Before long they reached the county and entered to see the City God. The City God roared, "You wretched scoundrel! The paint is still on your eyes, and now you refuse your debts!" Zhou said, "Lord Huang offered loans at interest and lured me into gambling, and I was punished for it." The City God summoned the Huang family's servant and demanded angrily, "Does your master run gambling dens and still come to collect debts?" The servant said, "When the money was taken, the young master did not know it was for gambling. The young master's home is in Yanzi Valley; the gamblers were caught at Guanyin Temple, more than ten li away. The young master has never run a gambling establishment." The City God turned to Zhou and said, "You took the money and stubbornly refuse to repay it, and on top of that you fabricate falsehoods! There is no baseness to equal yours!" He was about to have Zhou flogged. Zhou then complained that the interest was too high. The City God said, "How much have you repaid?" Zhou answered, "In truth, I have repaid nothing at all." The City God was furious. "You still owe the principal, and yet you quibble over interest?" He had Zhou given thirty lashes and ordered him held until the debt was paid.

Two ghosts escorted him home, demanded a bribe, and would not let him revive immediately. They bound him in the privy and had him appear in a dream to his family. His family burned twenty bundles of spirit money. When the flames died, the ashes turned into two taels of gold and two thousand copper coins. Zhou then used the gold to repay the debt and the gold to bribe the guards, and they released him and let him return to life. When he regained consciousness, his buttocks were swollen with welts, pus and blood flowing freely; it was many months before he healed.

Afterward, the Zhao wife dared not scold anyone again. But Zhou, with his four fingers and his red-and-black eyes, went on gambling as before. From this we may know that gamblers are no better than ghosts.

The Historian of the Strange says: "The injustices of this world all stem from officials who overcorrect one extreme with another. In the past, wealthy families exploited usurious interest rates to seize the children of good families, and no one dared speak out; otherwise, a single visiting card would be sent, and the magistrate would side with them by invoking the law. Thus, in those days, all local officials were merely servants of the powerful. Later, perceptive men recognized these abuses and reversed them entirely. There were scholars who amassed great fortunes and became great merchants, wearing brocade and feasting on fine grain and meat, building mansions and purchasing fertile land at home—yet they completely forgot where their wealth came from. The moment they sought repayment, they were met with angry glares. When the matter was brought before the magistrate, the magistrate would say: 'I am no one's servant!' How is this any different from the lazy and crippled monk who has no time to wipe away the tears of ordinary men? I have often said that officials of the past were sycophantic, while officials of today are perverse; the sycophants deserve punishment, but the perverse ones are equally to be deplored. To lend money at reduced interest—how could this benefit only the rich?"

Zhang Shinian served as magistrate of Zichuan and detested gambling above all else. Those who painted their faces and wandered the streets were treated as though in the underworld's courts—punishment did not extend to breaking fingers, yet gambling was eradicated entirely. He was exceedingly skilled in the art of investigation. Even amid the flood of official documents, whenever a person appeared before the court, the magistrate would leisurely inquire into their neighborhood, age, family members, and livelihood, asking in exhaustive detail. Only after the questioning was complete would he offer encouragement and send them away. Once, a man had paid his taxes in full and, thinking himself in no trouble, presented his receipt and was about to leave. The magistrate stopped him. After questioning him carefully, he said, "Why do you gamble?" The man vehemently protested that he had never gambled in his life. The magistrate smiled and said, "You still have gambling implements at your waist." He searched him and found them indeed. People thought him divine, yet none knew by what method he had discovered it.

Luo Zhong

Le Zhong was from Xi'an. His father died early, and Zhong was born posthumously. His mother was devout in Buddhism, abstaining from meat and wine. When Zhong grew up, he was fond of drinking and eating well, and secretly harbored resentment against his mother, often urging her to partake of rich foods, for which she rebuked him. Later, when his mother fell gravely ill and lay dying, she craved meat. Zhong was unable to obtain any in a hurry, so he cut flesh from his left thigh and offered it to her. Her condition improved somewhat, but regretting that she had broken her vows, she refused to eat and died. Zhong grieved all the more deeply, and with a sharp blade he further cut into his right thigh, exposing the bone. His family members together rescued him, bound the wound with silk, and applied medicine; he soon recovered. His mind dwelt on his mother's bitter chastity and her foolishness, so he burned the Buddha images that had been enshrined, set up a tablet in honor of his mother, and after drinking, would weep before it in sorrow. At the age of twenty he married for the first time, his body still being that of a boy. Three days after the marriage, he said to others, "The union of man and woman in the bedchamber is the most impure thing under heaven; I truly take no pleasure in it!" He then abandoned his wife. His wife's father, Gu Wenyuan, asked relatives to plead for her return; he begged three or four times, but Zhong absolutely refused. After half a year, Gu then gave his daughter in remarriage. Zhong remained a widower for twenty years, and his conduct grew ever more unrestrained: he drank with slaves and actors alike; when neighbors begged him for something, he never begrudged them; if someone said she had no cauldron for her daughter's wedding, he would lift the one from his own stove and give it to her, then borrow one from a neighbor to cook. Those of dissolute character, knowing his nature, all cheated and swindled him day and night. Someone, having no money for gambling, wept before him, saying the tax collectors were pressing urgently and he would have to sell his son. Zhong furnished the tax money in full as requested and emptied his purse to give it to him; but when the rent collector came to his door, he had to begin pawning and selling things to raise it. For this reason, his household declined day by day.

Previously Zhong had been wealthy and prosperous, and his cousins on his father's side vied to serve him; whatever they took or carried away, none kept accounts; but when Zhong fell into poverty and ruin, inquiries and visits dwindled greatly. Zhong was broad-minded and took no notice of this. On the anniversary of his mother's death, Zhong happened to be ill and could not go to the grave; he wished to send a cousin to perform the sacrifice in his place, but all the cousins declined on various pretexts. Zhong then poured a libation inside the house, wept bitterly before the tablet, and the sorrow of having no heir weighed heavily on his mind. Thereupon his illness grew worse. In his delirium, he felt someone stroking him; he opened his eyes slightly, and it was his mother. He asked in surprise, "Where have you come from?" His mother said, "Because there was no one in the family to visit the grave, I came to receive the offerings, and to see your illness." He asked, "Where did you dwell before?" His mother said, "At Nanhai (the Southern Sea)." When the stroking was done, a coolness spread over his whole body. He opened his eyes and looked around—there was no one to be seen, and his illness was cured.

After he recovered, he wished to make a pilgrimage to Nanhai. It happened that in a neighboring village people were forming a devotional society, so he sold ten mu of land and, taking his funds, begged to go with them. The members of the society found him unclean and together rejected him. He then followed along behind them. On the journey he did not refrain from beef, wine, garlic, and leeks, and the others detested him even more; while he was drunk and asleep, they left without telling him. Zhong then traveled alone. When he reached Fujian, he was invited by a friend to drink, and a famous courtesan named Qionghua was present. When he happened to mention his journey to Nanhai, Qionghua expressed a wish to accompany him. Zhong was pleased and waited for her to pack, then they set out together; though they shared sleeping and eating, he had no improper relations with her. When they arrived at Nanhai, the members of the society, seeing that he had brought a courtesan with him, mocked and ridiculed him even more and considered him too low to join in the worship. Zhong and Qionghua understood their meaning, so they let the others go ahead and worship first, then worshipped afterward. When the group worshipped, they were resentful that no sign manifested. When the two of them worshipped, just as they prostrated themselves, suddenly the entire sea was seen to be covered with lotus flowers, with jeweled necklaces and pendants of pearls hanging from them; Qionghua saw a Bodhisattva, while Zhong saw his mother on every flower. He then cried out urgently, rushed toward his mother, and leaped in to follow her. The crowd saw the myriad lotus flowers all transform into rosy clouds, blocking the sea like brocade. After a short while, the clouds grew still and the waves cleared, and everything vanished; yet Zhong was still standing on the shore. He himself could not understand how he had come out, for his clothes and shoes were not even wet. He faced the sea and wept loudly, his voice shaking the islands. Qionghua consoled and urged him, and sorrowfully they left the temple and took a boat to cross north.

On the journey, a wealthy household summoned Qionghua away, and Zhong lodged alone at an inn. There was a boy about eight or nine years old begging for food in a shop, yet his appearance was not that of a beggar. On questioning him closely, Zhong learned he had been driven out by his stepmother. His heart was moved with pity. The boy clung to his side and earnestly begged to be rescued, so Zhong took him back with him. He asked his surname, and the boy said, "My name is A-Xin, and my surname is Yong. My mother was of the Gu family. I once heard my mother say: 'I had been married to the Yong family only six months when I gave birth to you. Our original surname was Le.'" Zhong was greatly startled. He doubted that he had only been married once in his life and should not have a son. He then asked where the Le family lived. The boy replied, "I don't know. But when my mother died, she entrusted me with a sealed letter, instructing me not to lose it." Zhong urgently demanded the letter. On looking at it, it was the very divorce document from his separation from the Gu family. He cried in astonishment, "You are truly my son!" He examined the date, which was entirely correct, and his face showed comfort and his heart's wish fulfilled. However, his household finances grew daily strained; after two years, he gradually sold off all his land and could no longer afford to keep a servant.

One day, father and son were cooking together when suddenly a beautiful woman entered—it was Qionghua. He asked in surprise, "Where have you come from?" She laughed and said, "We are already a pretend couple—why ask again? The reason I did not come at once before was only because there was an old woman in the house; she is now dead. On reflection, if I do not attach myself to someone, I have no way to protect myself; if I attach myself to someone, then I have no way to keep myself pure; the only plan that satisfies both is to attach myself to you—that is why I did not fear the journey of a thousand li." She then unpacked and took over the cooking from the boy. Zhong was greatly pleased. At night, father and son slept as before as they always had, while a separate room was prepared for Qionghua. The boy treated her as a mother, and Qionghua also cared for the boy well. Relatives and kinsmen, hearing of this, all brought congratulatory gifts to Zhong, and both received them gladly. When guests arrived, Qionghua prepared everything for them, and Zhong never asked where it came from. Qionghua gradually brought out gold and pearls, redeemed the former estate, and extensively acquired servants, horses, and cattle; the household grew daily more prosperous. Zhong often said to Qionghua, "When I am drunk, you should hide yourself so that I do not see you." She laughingly agreed. One day, he was very drunk and urgently called for Qionghua. Qionghua came out in gorgeous attire. Zhong gazed at her for a long time, then was overjoyed, dancing and leaping as if mad, and said, "I have awakened!" He suddenly became sober. He felt the world was bright, and the house where he lived had all become jade towers and jade halls; only after some time did this cease. From then on, he no longer drank in the marketplace, but drank only with Qionghua every day. Qionghua ate only vegetables, serving him tea instead. One day, slightly tipsy, he told Qionghua to press his thigh, and saw the scar from the cut transform into two crimson lotus flowers, rising faintly beneath the flesh. He marveled at this. Zhong laughed and said, "When these flowers bloom, our twenty-year pretense of husband and wife will come to an end." Qionghua believed him. After arranging A-Xin's marriage, Qionghua gradually turned over the household to the new wife and lived in a separate courtyard with Zhong. The son and daughter-in-law paid their respects every three days and did not report matters unless they were difficult or doubtful. They employed two maids: one to warm wine and one to brew tea—that was all. One day

Qiong Hua went to where her son was, and together with her daughter-in-law, after consulting at length, they went to see the father. Entering the door, they saw the father sitting on his couch with bare feet. Hearing their voices, he opened his eyes and smiled, saying, "How wonderful that mother and son have come!" Then he closed his eyes again. Qiong Hua was greatly alarmed and said, "What are you doing?" She looked at his thigh and saw that the lotus had fully bloomed. She tested him—his breath had already ceased. She quickly used both hands to pinch the flower shut, praying, "I have followed you a thousand leagues, which was no easy matter. I have taught your son and trained your daughter-in-law—I have done my small share of labor. Even if it is only a matter of two or three years, why not wait a little longer?" After a while, Zhong suddenly opened his eyes and smiled, saying, "You have your own affairs to attend to. Why must you drag someone else to be your companion? Very well—I shall stay a while longer for your sake." Qiong Hua released her hands, and the lotus had already closed. From then on, they talked and laughed as before.

More than three years passed. Qiong Hua was approaching forty, yet she still looked like a woman of twenty. She said to Zhong one day, "When people die, others grasp their heads and lift their feet—it is most undignified and unclean." She therefore ordered craftsmen to build two coffins. Xin was alarmed and asked about it. She replied, "This is not for you to know." When the work was finished, she bathed and dressed herself, then summoned her son and daughter-in-law, saying, "I am about to die." Xin wept and said, "For these past few years we have relied on Mother's management to avoid freezing and starvation. You have not yet had a single day of ease and comfort—why must you leave your son and go?" She said, "The father plants blessings and the son enjoys them—the slaves, oxen, and horses are all debtors repaying your father's debts. I have no merit in this. I was originally a celestial maiden who scattered flowers; I became entangled in worldly thoughts and was banished to the mortal world for over thirty years. Now my term is complete." She then climbed into the coffin of her own accord. They called out to her again—her eyes were already filled with tears. Xin wept and told his father, but the father had stiffened at some unknown hour, his cap and robes perfectly arranged. Xin wailed in despair and nearly died of grief. They placed both bodies in coffins and set them in the hall. For several days they did not seal the coffins, hoping they might return to life. A brilliant light grew from the thigh, illuminating all four walls. From Qiong Hua's coffin, fragrant mist poured forth, and even the neighbors could smell it. Once the coffins were sealed, the fragrance and light gradually faded. After the burial, the various younger members of the Yue clan coveted the family's property and plotted together to drive Xin out. They brought a lawsuit before the magistrate, but the magistrate could not determine the truth of the matter and proposed dividing half the lands and property among the Yue clan. Xin refused to accept this and appealed his case to the prefecture, but for a long time no judgment was reached.

Now, Gu had married his daughter to Yong. More than a year passed, and Yong drifted as a sojourner to Min, after which all news of him ceased. Gu was old and had no son; consumed with longing for his daughter, he went to find his son-in-law, only to discover that his daughter was dead and his nephew had been driven out. He brought a complaint before the magistrate. Yong was frightened and offered Gu a bribe, but Gu refused it; he insisted on recovering his nephew. He searched everywhere but could not find him. One day, Gu happened to be on the road when he saw a decorated carriage passing by; he stepped aside to the left of the road to let it pass. A beautiful woman inside the carriage called out, "Are you not Old Master Gu?" Gu acknowledged that he was. The woman said, "Your nephew is my son, and he is now at the Yue household. Do not pursue the lawsuit. Your nephew is in trouble—you should go at once." Gu wished to ask for more details, but the carriage had already departed far away. Gu then accepted the bribe and entered Xi'an. When he arrived, the lawsuit was in full ferment. Gu went to the magistrate himself and stated the day his daughter returned to his household, the day she remarried, and the year and month in which her son was born, with the most precise details. The Yue clan members were all flogged and driven away, and the case was thus concluded. When Gu returned home, he recounted the day on which he had seen the beautiful woman—and it was precisely the day Qiong Hua died.

Xin moved Gu's household and gave him a house and servants. When Gu was over sixty, he had a son, and Xin supported and cared for him.

The historian of strange tales said: "To abstain from meat and wine—this is the semblance of Buddha. To be artlessly, radiantly innocent—this is the truth of Buddha. When Le Zhong beheld the beautiful woman, he regarded her directly as a pure and fragrant companion on the Way—he did not view her as a place of tender passion. For thirty years they shared a bed, now seeming to have feelings, now seeming to have none. This is the true face of a Bodhisattva—how could anyone in the world fathom it!"

In Laoshan, at the Qinggong Temple, a camellia tree stood twenty *zhang* tall and measured several tens of arm-spans in circumference, while a peony grew over one *zhang* high. When it bloomed, it shone like brocade.

A scholar of Jiaozhou named Huang lodged there to pursue his studies. One day, he glimpsed a young woman in white robes flitting among the flowers through his window. He wondered how such a person could be found in a temple. He rushed out, but she had already vanished.

From then on, he saw her repeatedly. He concealed himself among the thickets of trees, waiting to see her come. Before long, the young woman arrived again, this time accompanied by one dressed in red. From a distance, he gazed upon them—both peerlessly beautiful. As they drew near, the one in red fell back and said, "There is a living person here!" The scholar sprang up in a sudden rush. The two women fled in alarm, their sleeves and skirts fluttering, a fragrant breeze wafting about them. He chased them over a low wall, but they had vanished into the silence.

His longing grew ever more intense, and he inscribed a verse on a tree:

"Bitter, boundless is my longing;

I pour my feelings toward the short window.

Lest you be claimed by Shatuo Li,

Where shall I seek one beyond compare?"

He returned to his chamber and lost himself in thought. Suddenly the young woman entered. Overjoyed, he welcomed her. She smiled and said, "You charged in like a fierce bandit, terrifying me. I didn't know you were a man of letters—there is no harm in meeting." The scholar asked her briefly about her life. She replied, "My childhood name is Xiangyu. I am registered in Pingkang Lane. The Taoist priest has imprisoned me in these mountains—truly against my will." The scholar asked, "What is this priest's name? I shall cleanse you of this disgrace." She said, "There is no need. He has not dared to force me. Besides, it is rather fine to have trysts with a romantic gentleman in this place." He asked, "Who is the one in red?" She said, "Her name is Jiangxue—she is my sworn elder sister."

They became intimate. When he awoke, the sky was already red with dawn. The woman rose hurriedly and said, "I forgot the hour in our pleasure." As she slipped on her clothes and shoes, she added: "I offer you a poem in return—do not laugh: 'The fine night slips away more quickly; / The morning sun already climbs the window. / Would that we, like swallows on the beam, / Might find a roost and form a pair.'"

He took her wrist and said, "You are beautiful without and wise within—one could love you and forget death. Yet a single day's parting feels like a separation of a thousand *li*. Come whenever you can—do not wait for night." She promised. From then on, they came together both by day and by night.

Often he asked her to invite Jiangxue, but she never came. The scholar resented it. Xiangyu said, "Sister Jiang is of a singularly aloof nature—not so lovesick as I. Be patient, and do not press too hard."

One evening, Xiangyu entered with a stricken expression. She said, "You cannot even guard Long—do you still hope for Shu? Today we part forever." He asked, "Where are you going?" She wiped her tears with her sleeve and said, "This is fated—it is hard to explain to you. Your poem from before has become a prophecy. 'The fair one now belongs to Shatuo Li; / Today no righteous man like Gu Yaya remains'—you may chant it for me." He pressed her for an answer, but she would not speak—she only sobbed. They lay awake all night. At dawn she left.

The scholar was bewildered. The next day, a man of Lan from Jimo came to the temple to sightsee. Seeing the white peony, he was so pleased that he dug it up and carried it away. Only then did the scholar realize Xiangyu was a flower spirit. He was filled with grief and regret.

Several days later, he heard that the Lan family had moved the flower home, and it withered day by day. Furious with grief, he composed fifty poems mourning the flower, visiting the hole where it had been each day and weeping.

One day, as he was returning from paying his respects, he glimpsed from afar a figure in red robes weeping beside the empty hole. He approached calmly, and she did not avoid him. He took her by the sleeve, and they faced each other in tears. After a while, he invited her to come inside, and she followed. She sighed, "A sister of my childhood—severed in a single morning! Hearing of your grief only deepens my sorrow. Perhaps tears falling to the nine springs may, moved by your sincerity, bring her forth again. But the spirit of the dead has already dispersed—how could she suddenly join us two in laughter and conversation?"

The scholar said, "This humble man's fate is thin—I have harmed my beloved. I have no fortune enough to enjoy two beauties. Before, I often asked Xiangyu to convey my feelings. Why does she not come?"

Jiangxue said, "I thought that a young scholar was, nine times out of ten, fickle. I did not know you were a man of true feeling. But my friendship with you is founded on passion, not on lust. If it were a matter of intimate dalliance day and night, that I could not do." Having said this, he prepared to leave.

The scholar said, "Xiangyu's long absence leaves me unable to eat or sleep. I rely on you to stay a little while and comfort this longing—why must you be so final?"

She then stayed the night and left. For several days she did not come again. Cold rain at the dim window—he pined bitterly for Xiangyu, tossing and turning on his bed, tears soaking his pillow and mat. He rose, put on his clothes, and lit the lamp, composing a second poem following the earlier rhyme:

"In the mountain courtyard, dusk rain;

I sit behind the lowered curtain at the small window.

The one I long for I cannot see—

At midnight, tears flow in pairs."

When the poem was done, he recited it to himself. Suddenly, someone outside the window said, "A poet must have one to match his verse." He listened—it was Jiangxue. He opened the door and brought her in. She read the poem and appended lines to it:

"Where has the one who walked by my side gone?

A lone lamp shines on the evening window.

In the empty mountains, a single person—

Facing her shadow, she forms a pair."

The scholar read it and wept, resenting how seldom they met. Jiangxue said, "I cannot be as warm as Xiangyu, but I may offer some comfort for your loneliness." The scholar wished to become intimate with her. She said, "The joy of meeting does not depend on this."

And so, at his most desolate moments, she would come. When she came, they would feast and drink, exchanging poems. Sometimes she would leave without spending the night, and he let her do as he wished.

He would say, "Xiangyu is my beloved wife; Jiangxue is my dear friend."

He often wanted to ask: "Which plant in the courtyard are you? Tell me soon—I will carry you home and plant you, lest you be snatched away by some villain like Xiangyu and leave me with regret for a hundred years."

Jiangxue said, "One's native soil is hard to leave—telling you would be of no use. Even your wife could not stay with you to the end—how much less a friend!"

The scholar would not listen. He took her by the arm and led her out, stopping beneath each peony to ask, "Is this you?" She would say nothing, but cover her mouth and laugh.

Soon after, the scholar returned home for the New Year. In the second month, he suddenly dreamed that Jiangxue came to him, her face grave. She said, "I face a great calamity! If you come quickly, we may still meet. If you delay, it will be too late."

He awoke in alarm, immediately ordered a servant and horse, and sped to the mountains like a star. The Taoist priest was about to build a hall. A camellia tree stood in the way of the construction, and the workmen were about to take their axes to it. The scholar stopped them in haste.

That night, Jiangxue came to thank him. The scholar laughed and said, "You didn't tell me the truth before—no wonder this happened! Now I know you. If you hadn't come, I would have branded you with a moxa cone."

She said, "I knew you would be like this—that is why I dared not tell you before."

After sitting for a while, the scholar said, "Now that I face my dear friend, I think all the more of my beloved wife. It has been long since I wept for Xiangyu. Will you come with me to weep for her?"

The two went together and wept beside the empty hole. After the first watch, Jiangxue gathered her tears and tried to comfort him.

Then several more nights passed. One evening, as the young scholar sat in silence, Jiangxue entered with a smile and said, "I bring you joyful news: the Flower God, moved by your devotion, has commanded Xiangyu to descend once more to this palace." He asked, "When?" She replied, "I do not know, but it shall not be long." At dawn he rose from bed and said to her, "I came here for you. Do not leave me lonely for too long." She smiled and promised. But two nights passed and she did not come. He went to the tree, shook it, stroked it, and called out repeatedly, but there was no answer. He returned, gathered mugwort by the lamp, and prepared to burn the tree. She rushed in, snatched the mugwort from his hand, and cast it aside. "Your prank is cruel," she said. "You would wound me and leave me scarred. I must sever all ties with you!" He laughed and embraced her. They had scarcely sat down when Xiangyu entered, her presence luminous and graceful. Seeing her at once, the scholar wept profusely and hastened to grasp her hands. Xiangyu took one hand and placed it in Jiangxue's; the three of them stood facing one another, choked with grief. When they sat, he held Xiangyu's hand and found it insubstantial—like grasping an empty hand. Startled, he asked why. Xiangyu's eyes brimmed with tears. "Before," she said, "I was the spirit of the flower, and so I was solid. Now I am the ghost of the flower, and so I are dispersed. Though we are together now, do not take this as real. Think of it only as a dream." Jiangxue said, "How wonderful that you have come, sister! I have been tormented to death by your man here." And with that she departed. Xiangyu smiled and was as warm as before, but in their closeness, she seemed like a body beside its shadow. The scholar grew melancholy and joyless. Xiangyu too looked up and down in self-reproach. Then she said, "If you will scatter a little bismuth powder mixed with sulfur and pour a cup of water for me each day, next year on this day I shall repay your kindness." And she left. The next day, he went to see the old spot, and already a peony shoot had sprouted. He tended it daily with care and built a carved railing to protect it. When Xiangyu came, her gratitude was boundless. The scholar planned to transplant the flower to his home, but she refused. "I am too frail to endure another wounding. And every living thing has its appointed place. I never intended to grow in your household—to force it would only shorten my years. But love me and cherish me, and in time we shall be joined." The scholar lamented that Jiangxue did not come. Xiangyu said, "If you insist on compelling her, I can bring her." She and the scholar took a lamp and went to the tree. She plucked a single blade of grass, held it in her palm as a measure, and measured the trunk from the bottom upward to four feet and six inches. She pressed the spot and told the scholar to scratch it with both hands at once. Suddenly Jiangxue appeared from behind the tree, laughing and scolding, "So the little wretch has come to aid a tyrant!" Xiangyu took her by the arm and led her inside. "Sister, do not be angry," she said. "I ask only that you keep the young gentleman company for a year. After that, I shall not trouble you again." And so it became their custom. The scholar watched the flower bud grow fuller and taller with each passing day. By the end of spring, it stood nearly two feet high. When he returned home, he gave gold to the Taoist priest and instructed him to tend the flower morning and evening. The following year in the fourth month, he went to the palace and found a single bud on the flower, not yet open. As he lingered, the bud trembled as though about to burst; in a moment it opened. The flower was large as a plate, and within the stamens sat a tiny figure, no more than three or four fingers tall. In an instant she floated down, as if about to descend—and it was Xiangyu. She smiled and said, "I endured the wind and rain waiting for you. Why did you come so late?" Then she went inside. Jiangxue also came and said, "Day after day I have played the wife in another's place. Now, happily, I may step back and be merely a friend." And they talked and laughed together. In the middle of the night, Jiangxue departed. The two slept together, as tender and content as before. Later, the scholar's wife died, and he went into the mountains and never returned. By then the peony had grown as thick as a man's arm. He would point to it and say, "One day I shall entrust my soul here, and I shall grow to your left." The two women smiled and said, "Do not forget." More than ten years later, the scholar fell ill. His son came and wept before him. The scholar smiled and said, "This is the day of my birth, not my death. Why do you weep?" He said to the Taoist priest, "One day a red shoot will spring up beneath this peony, bearing five leaves when it first opens. That will be me." He said no more. His son carried him home in a carriage, and he died. The next year, a vigorous shoot indeed thrust up from the earth, with leaves matching the number he had said. The Taoist priest thought it a marvel and watered it all the more. In three years it stood several feet high and as thick around as a man's clasped hands, but it never flowered. The old priest died, and his disciple did not know to cherish it—he chopped it down. The white peony withered and died. Before long, the camellia also died.

The Historian of the Strange says: "When feeling reaches its utmost, it can penetrate through ghosts and spirits. The flowers came as ghosts, and the man lodged his soul in them—was this not because their bond with him was so deep? When one departed and two died with him, if this was not steadfast fidelity, it was at least death for love's sake. That people cannot be constant is simply because their feeling is not deep enough. When Confucius read the poem on the tangdi plum blossom and said 'It is not that I do not think of it,' how true those words were!"

The Three Immortals

A scholar traveling to sit for the examinations in Jinling passed through Suqian and encountered three licentiates whose conversation was lofty and uninhibited. He bought wine and they feasted together warmly. Each gave his name: the first was Jie Qiuheng, the second Chang Fenglin, and the third Ma Xichi. They drank deeply and merrily, and before they knew it, the sun had set. Jie said, "We have failed the duties of hosts and yet have been treated to a lavish feast—this is not right. My humble cottage is not far. You may rest there." Chang and Ma both rose, took hold of their robes, called their servants, and set off together. They went to the northern hills of the county, where suddenly they came upon a courtyard, its gate encircled by a clear stream. Inside, the dwellings were clean and tidy. A boy was summoned to light lamps, and servants were given their quarters. Ma said, "In the old days we met as friends through letters. Now the examination is near—we must not waste this fine evening. Let us compose four topics, draw lots for each, and write our essays before we drink further." They all agreed. Each composed a topic, which was written out and placed on the table. The one who drew a topic sat at the table to work on it. Before the second watch was finished, all had completed their drafts, which were passed around for reading. The scholar read the three essays and was profoundly impressed; he copied them hastily and hid them in his robe. The host brought out fine wine and urged them to drink from large cups. Soon they were thoroughly drunk. The host then led the guests to a separate courtyard to sleep. The guests, too intoxicated to remove their shoes, lay down in their clothes. When they awoke, the red sun was already high, and they looked around to find no courtyard or buildings at all—master and servants lay in a valley. They were greatly alarmed. Beside them they saw a cave from which water trickled forth, and they were bewildered and perplexed. But when they looked inside their robes, all three essays were still there. On asking the local people, they learned it was called the "Three Immortals Cave." Within the cave lived three creatures—a crab, a snake, and a toad—all of great spiritual power. They often wandered abroad and were sometimes seen. When the scholar entered the examination hall, the three topics were precisely those written by the immortals, and so he passed in first place.

The Ghost Scribe

Two constables of Licheng County, carrying out an order from Magistrate Han Chengxuan, had been on official business in another prefecture and were returning home at year's end. On the road they met two men whose attire also resembled that of government runners, and they traveled on together, chatting. The two men said they were runners from the prefecture. The constables said, "We know nine out of every ten of the yamen runners in Ji'nan, but we've never seen either of you before." The two men replied, "To tell you the truth: we are ghost constables of the City God. We are now carrying official documents to the Eastern Peak." The constables asked, "What is the matter of the documents?" They answered, "The great calamity of Ji'nan. What we are reporting is the number of those to be killed." Startled, they asked the number. They said, "We don't know it exactly either—roughly close to a million." The constables asked when it would happen. They replied, "The New Year's Day." The two constables looked at each other in alarm, calculating that by the time they reached the prefecture it would be New Year's Eve, and they feared they would fall victim to the disaster. Yet delaying their return risked punishment for tardiness. The ghosts said, "The offense of missing a deadline is minor, but the calamity of being caught in the catastrophe is grave. You should hide elsewhere; do not return for now." The constables followed their advice. Before long, the northern army arrived in great force and massacred Ji'nan, carrying away a million corpses. The two men, having fled and hidden, escaped harm.

Wang Shi

A man of Wang Shi from Gaoyuan was carrying salt to Boxing when at night he was seized by two men. Thinking they were patrolmen from a local merchant's establishment, he abandoned his salt and tried to flee, but his feet would not move, and he was bound. He pleaded with them. The two men said, "We are not men from the salt shop; we are ghost constables." Wang Shi, terrified, begged to be allowed to go home once to take leave of his wife and children. They refused, saying, "Going with us does not mean you will die immediately—it is merely temporary service." Wang Shi asked, "What task?" They said, "In the underworld a new King of Hell has taken office and found the River of Oblivion silted up and the eighteen prison pits and latrines all filled to overflowing. Therefore he is conscripting three kinds of people to dredge the river: petty thieves, counterfeiters, and private salt dealers. And a fourth kind is made to clean the latrines: the singing girls." Wang Shi went with them, entered a city wall, and arrived at a government office, where he saw the King of Hell above, just then reviewing the registers of names. The ghosts reported, "We have apprehended a private salt dealer, Wang Shi." The King of Hell looked at him and said angrily, "Private salt dealers are those who on the top cheat the state of its taxes and on the bottom harm the people's livelihood. But those whom the tyrannical officials and treacherous merchants of this world call private salt dealers are all good people of the realm. When poor people scrape together a trifling capital to seek a meager profit, how is that private?" He fined the two ghosts four dou of salt to be purchased at the market, and also ordered that the salt Wang Shi had been carrying be delivered to his home on his behalf. He detained Wang Shi, gave him a prickly bone club, and ordered him to accompany the various ghosts in supervising the river work. The ghosts led Wang Shi away to the bank of the River of Oblivion, where he saw laborers in the river, strung together like ants. He also saw that the river water was muddy red and stank unbearably. Those dredging the river all worked bare-bodied, carrying baskets and shovels, emerging and submerging in the water. Rotten bones and putrid corpses were carried out in full baskets and on shoulders; in the deep places, they disappeared beneath the surface searching. The lazy ones were struck on the back and thighs with the bone club. Those supervising together gave him a fragrant cotton ball as big as a large bean to hold in his mouth, and only then did he approach the bank. He saw that the Gaoyuan salt merchant was also among them, and Wang Shi treated him with particular harshness: when he entered the river he whipped his back, and when he came ashore he struck his thighs. The merchant, frightened, would often submerge himself completely in the water, and only then did Wang Shi stop. After three days and nights, half the river laborers had died, and the dredging work was finished. The two ghosts who had first seized him escorted him home again, and he suddenly revived.

Earlier, before Wang Shi had returned with the salt, at daybreak his wife opened the door and found two bags of salt placed in the courtyard, while Wang Shi still had not arrived. She sent people to search for him everywhere, and found him dead on the road. They carried him home; he still had a faint breath, but no one understood why. When he woke, he told them what had happened. The salt merchant had also died the previous day and only now revived. Where the bone club had struck, great abscesses had formed, his whole body rotted and festered, and the stench was unbearable to approach. Wang Shi went to see him. Seeing Wang Shi, the merchant still shrank his head under the quilt, as if still in the River of Oblivion. It was a year before he recovered, and he no longer engaged in trade.

The Historian of Strange Matters said: "As for the matter of salt, what the court calls private is that which does not follow the public interest; what officials and merchants call private is that which does not follow their private interest. In recent times, new regulations in Qi and Lu require local merchants to establish shops everywhere, each restricted to a defined territory. Not only may the people of this county not go to that county, but even the people of this shop may not go to that shop. And within the shops, lures are secretly set to entice people from other counties: when selling to other counties they lower the price, but when selling to local people they double the price to inflate it. And patrols are set up on the roads so that no one within the territory can escape their net. If anyone from within the territory comes disguised from another county, the law shows no mercy. They lure each other, and the foolish people who cross shop boundaries and counterfeit increase all the more. Once caught by the patrol, they first maim their legs and thighs with knives and clubs, and then send them to the official; the official then shackles them—this is called 'private salt.' Alas! How unjust! To evade tens of thousands in taxes is not private, but to carry a few pecks of salt makes one private; to sell within one's own territory to another territory is not private, but to buy within one's own territory from one's own territory makes one private—how unjust! Among the laws, the salt statutes are the most severe, yet they alone exempt the poor and distressed soldiers and civilians who carry salt for their daily sustenance; now everything is left unregulated, and they kill only these poor and distressed soldiers and civilians! Consider the poor and distressed soldiers and civilians: their wives and children cry out for food, they obey the law above and do not steal, they know shame below and do not prostitute themselves; having no choice, they scrape together ten coppers to seek a single coin of profit. If a county were filled entirely with such people, one could 'close no doors at night'—are they not the good people of the realm? As for those shop merchants, not only should they be made to dredge the River of Oblivion, they should be made to clean the prison latrines! And officials, accepting their fleeting bribes at the spring and autumn festivals, use the law of the three-foot statutes to help kill our good people. Yet if one considers the lot of the poor, it would be better to become a thief or a counterfeiter: thieves rob people in broad daylight, and officials are deaf; furnaces blaze to the sky, and officials are blind; and even if they are later made to dredge rivers, at least it is not like the peddlers who gain almost nothing yet immediately face official punishment. Alas! When above there are no compassionate and benevolent teachers, and the laws of treacherous merchants are heeded, changing and growing more deceitful by the day—how can it be that stubborn subjects are not born daily, and good people die daily!"

In every district, the merchants of the salt trade had, by long-standing custom, to present a certain amount of salt each year to the local magistrate, a practice known as "food salt." Moreover, on festival occasions, they were expected to offer lavish gifts. When a merchant had business with the magistrate, the magistrate would receive him with courtesy, invite him to sit and converse, and perhaps offer him tea. But when salt peddlers were brought before him, he punished them without mercy.

When Magistrate Zhang Shinian governed Chuan, the salt merchants came to pay their respects according to the old custom, offering only a bow and not kneeling. The magistrate was furious and said, "The previous magistrate accepted your bribes, and so he had to show you great deference. I buy my salt and eat it like anyone else. What manner of merchant are you, to stand as an equal before the court?" He rolled up his sleeves and was about to have the merchant flogged. The merchant kowtowed and begged forgiveness, and the magistrate let him go.

Later, two salt peddlers were caught in the market. One escaped, and the other was brought before the magistrate. The magistrate asked, "There were two peddlers. Where has the other one gone?" The peddler said, "He has escaped." The magistrate said, "Do your legs ail you, that you cannot run?" The man said, "I can run." The magistrate said, "Since you were caught, you certainly cannot run. But if you truly can, get up and try running, so that I may test whether you are able or not." The man ran a few steps and tried to stop. The magistrate shouted, "Run, and do not stop!" The man ran at full speed and dashed right out of the magistrate's gate. All who witnessed it laughed.

The magistrate's acts of devotion to the people were many and varied. This was but a moment of whimsy, yet the people of the district still delighted to tell the story.

Dahan

Xi Chenglie was a scholar of Chengdu. He had one wife and one concubine. The concubine was surnamed He, with the pet name Zhaorong. His first wife had died early, and he married a woman surnamed Shen as his second wife. She was of a jealous nature and treated He cruelly, and her cruelty extended to Xi as well. She nagged incessantly from morning to night, so that they could endure no longer. In a rage, Xi fled and left home.

After Xi departed and did not return, He bore a son named Danan. Since Xi remained absent, Shen excluded He from sharing meals with her, giving her only a measured amount of grain each day. As Danan grew older and their means proved insufficient, He supplemented their income by spinning and weaving. Danan saw the children in the village school reciting their lessons and wished to study as well. His mother thought him too young but sent him to the school nonetheless. Danan was clever and learned twice as fast as the other children. The teacher marveled at him and was willing to teach him without accepting the customary tuition fee. He therefore let him study under the teacher and offered a modest payment in return. After two or three years, Danan had mastered all the classical texts.

One day he returned home and said to his mother, "There are five or six boys in the school, all of whom beg money from their fathers to buy cakes. Why am I the only one who has none?" His mother said, "When you are older, I will tell you." Danan said, "I am only seven or eight now. When will I be older?" His mother said, "When you go to school, you pass by the Temple of the God of War. You should pray there and ask him to make you grow up quickly." Danan believed her and bowed in prayer every time he passed. His mother learned of this and asked, "What words do you pray?" He smiled and said, "I only pray that next year I may be sixteen or seventeen." His mother laughed. Yet Danan's learning and his body grew with equal speed: by the age of ten, he looked like a boy of thirteen or fourteen, and the essays he composed were fully formed.

One day he said to his mother, "You once said that when I grew up, you would tell me where my father is. Now is the time." His mother said, "Not yet, not yet." Another year passed, and he was now fully grown. He pressed the question more and more frequently, and his mother at last told him the whole story. Danan was overcome with grief and wished to go in search of his father. His mother said, "You are still too young, and we do not know whether your father is alive or dead. How can you go looking for him so hastily?" Danan said nothing and left; by midday he had not returned. His mother went to the school and asked the teacher, who said he had not come back after breakfast. His mother was greatly alarmed and spent money to hire people to search everywhere, but no trace was found.

Danan had left home and ran along the road, not knowing in which direction to go. He happened to meet a man who was on his way to Kuizhou, surnamed Qian. Danan begged for food and followed him. Qian found him too slow and hired a mount for him, exhausting both their money and provisions. When they reached Kuizhou and shared a meal, Qian secretly put poison in Danan's food. Danan fell unconscious and knew nothing. Qian carried him to a great temple, claiming him as his own son who had fallen ill and lost all his money, and sold him to the monks. The monks, seeing that Danan was handsome and striking in appearance, competed to buy him. Qian took his gold and departed. The monks gave him something to drink, and he revived slightly. The abbot came to see him, marveled at his looks, and questioned him. Only then did he learn the whole story. He took great pity on Danan and gave him money to send him on his way.

There was a provincial graduate named Jiang from Luzhou, returning home after failing the examinations. On the road he heard Danan's story and praised his filial piety, and took him along with him. When they reached Luzhou, Danan lodged in his household. After more than a month, Danan made inquiries everywhere. Someone told him that there was a merchant surnamed Xi in Fujian. So he took leave of Jiang and wished to go to Fujian. Jiang gave him clothes and shoes, and the neighbors all contributed money to help him on his way. On the road he met two cloth merchants who were going to Fuqing and invited him to travel with them. After several days' journey, the merchants spied the money in his bag, led him to a deserted place, bound his hands and feet, and took it from him. It happened that a certain old man Chen of Yongfu was passing through the area. He freed Danan from his bonds and took him home in his carriage. Old man Chen was very wealthy, and merchants from many regions were connected with his house. He instructed his traveling agents in the north and south to inquire about news of Xi. He kept Danan at his house to study with his sons. Danan thus stayed with the Chen family and traveled no more. But the farther he was from home, the more completely all news of his family was cut off.

He Zhaorong lived alone for three or four years. Shen reduced her allowance and pressed her to remarry. He was unmoved in her resolve. Shen sold her by force to a merchant of Chongqing, who seized her and carried her away. That night she cut herself with a knife. The merchant dared not press her further. When her wound had healed, he sold her again to a merchant of Yanting. When she reached Yanting, she stabbed herself in the heart, piercing so deeply that her entrails were visible. The merchant was terrified, applied medicine, and when the wound had closed, she begged to become a nun. The merchant said, "I have a business partner who, being physically unable to perform as a man, has long wished to have someone to manage his sewing. This would be no different from becoming a nun, and it would also allow me to recover a little of my money." He agreed. The merchant carried her in a sedan chair and delivered her. When they entered the gate, the master of the house came hurrying out—and it was none other than Xi Sheng. Xi had abandoned his scholarly life and become a merchant. The merchant, knowing he had no wife, had given her to him.

They met, overwhelmed with grief and shock, and each recounted their sufferings. Only then did they learn that there was a son searching for his father who had not yet returned. Xi then instructed his traveling agents to search for Danan. And Zhaorong was now taken as his wife. But having endured so many hardships, He was often ill and in pain and could not manage the household work. She urged Xi to take another concubine. Xi, remembering the disasters of the past, would not consent. He said, "If I were the kind of woman who fought for her place in the bedchamber, I would long since have borne another man's child. Would I still be with you today? Besides, the wrongs done to me are a hidden wound in my heart. How could I inflict the same thing on others?" Xi then instructed his traveling agents to buy him an old woman of over thirty as a concubine. Half a year later, the agents did indeed bring back a concubine. When she entered the gate, it was his wife Shen. They were both astonished and bewildered.

It came about as follows. Shen had lived alone for over a year, when her elder brother Bao urged her to remarry. She agreed. However, her nephews and nieces prevented her from selling the farmland, so she sold everything else and accumulated several hundred taels of gold, which she took back to her brother's house. There was a merchant from Baoning who, hearing that she had a rich dowry, tempted Bao with a large sum of money and tricked him into giving her to him in marriage. But the merchant was old and impotent. Shen resented her brother and could not remain in peace in the household. She hanged herself and threw herself into a well, making life unbearable. The merchant was enraged, seized all her money, and intended to sell her as a concubine. Everyone who heard of it thought her too old. The merchant was on his way to Kuizhou and took her along with him. They encountered Xi at the same market, and the merchant's offer happened to suit Xi's wishes, so he bought her and departed.

When she saw Xi, she was ashamed and afraid and could not utter a word. Xi asked the other merchants in the market and learned the rough outline of the story. He said, "If you had been given to a vigorous man, you would be in Baoning now, and there would be no chance of seeing each other again. But such is fate. Today, however, I am buying a concubine, not taking a wife. You must first pay your respects to Zhaorong and observe the proper rites between wife and concubine." Shen was humiliated. Xi said, "How was it when you were the wife?" He tried to persuade him to stop, but Xi would not listen. He took up a stick and pressed her with it. Shen had no choice but to bow to Zhaorong. Yet she was never willing to serve her and did her work only in a separate room. He treated her with great forbearance and could not bring herself to press her to work harder or be more diligent.

Whenever Xi sat and talked with Zhaorong, he would have Shen wait on them nearby. He replaced her with a maid and would not allow Shen to come forward. It happened that Mr. Chen Sizong was serving as magistrate of Yanting. Xi had a minor dispute with a neighbor, who accused him of forcing his wife to become a concubine and brought a lawsuit against him. The magistrate refused to hear the case and drove the plaintiff away. Xi was delighted and was privately praising the magistrate's virtue to He. The night watch had just ended when a servant knocked at the door, entered, and reported, "The county magistrate has arrived."

Xi was utterly terrified, and in a frantic search for his clothes and shoes, he found that the gentleman had already arrived at the bedchamber door. Even more alarmed, he did not know what to do. He examined him closely and hastily came out, saying, "This is my son!" and then wept. The gentleman prostrated himself on the ground, choked with grief. For Da'nan had taken the surname of Old Man Chen and was now an official. Earlier, when the gentleman returned from the capital, he had taken a detour through his native village and only then learned that both his mothers had remarried, which filled him with grief and sorrow. The clansmen, knowing that Da'nan had risen to prominence, returned his fields and houses. The gentleman left a servant to rebuild and renovate, hoping his father would return. Subsequently, he was appointed to Yanting, and again wished to resign his post to search for his father, but Old Man Chen earnestly dissuaded him. It happened that there was a diviner, whom he consulted. The diviner said, "The small shall occupy the great, the young shall be the elder; seek the male and find the female, seek one and find two: it is auspicious for holding office." The gentleman then proceeded to his post. Because he could not be with his father, he abstained from meat and wine while in office. On that day, he received a report from a villager, saw the name Xi, and was suspicious. He secretly dispatched an inner servant to investigate carefully, and it was indeed his father. He left in disguise by night. Upon seeing his mother, he was even more convinced of the diviner's miraculous powers. Before departing, he instructed that the matter not be divulged, gave two hundred taels of gold, and urged his father to prepare for the journey home. When his father arrived home, the gate and courtyard were entirely new; servants and horses were kept in abundance—truly the household of a great family. Shen, seeing Da'nan's wealth and prominence, became ever more restrained. His brother Bao was indignant and filed a lawsuit, contesting his sister's status as the legitimate wife on behalf of his own sister. The magistrate, having thoroughly ascertained the facts, angrily said, "Greedily accepting money to encourage remarriage, having already had two husbands—what face does she have to contest the legitimate or secondary status of years past!" He severely caned Bao. From then on, the proper order of status was even more firmly established. And Shen's sister treated He as her elder sister. Clothing and food were never kept for herself alone. Shen had initially feared that He would seek revenge, but now she was filled with even greater shame and regret. Xi also forgot her former wickedness, and had everyone inside and outside the household address her as Grandmother, though an imperial edict of honor was not forthcoming.

The Historian of the Strange remarks: "The topsy-turvy ways of this world are beyond comprehension—how cunning is the Creator's design! Xi could not even stand on his own between wife and concubine, a mere middling mediocrity! Had it not been for a filial son and a virtuous mother, how could there have been this extraordinary reunion, enjoying wealth and honor for the rest of his life!"

---

Foreigners

In the autumn of the year Jisi, a huge vessel drifted across the ocean to Lingnan. On board were eleven men, dressed in bird feathers with brilliant, colorful plumage. They said, "We are men of Luzon. We encountered a storm and our ship capsized; dozens of men all died. Only eleven of us clung to a massive log and drifted to a great island, where we survived. For five years, we snatched birds and insects to eat by day and hid in stone caves at night, weaving feathers into sails. Then another boat drifted oarless and sailless—it too had been shattered by the wind at sea—and we boarded it to return. But then a great wind carried us to Macau." The governor submitted a memorial to the throne and sent them back to their country.

---

Master Wei

Master Wei was from an old and distinguished family of Xianyang. He was dissolute and lecherous; any servant girl or woman of beauty in his household he would take for his own. He once loaded several thousand taels of gold, wishing to visit every famous courtesan in the land, and there was no flourishing or elegant district he did not visit. Where the women were not especially pleasing, he would stay one or two nights and leave; where he was satisfied, he would remain a hundred days. His uncle was also a well-known official, retired and living at home, and furious at his conduct. He engaged a renowned teacher, set up a separate estate, and had him and his cousins study behind locked doors. The young master waited at night for the teacher to sleep, then climbed over the wall to return home, coming back at dawn. This became routine. One night, he fell and broke his arm, and the teacher only then found out. He informed the elder gentleman, who applied the bamboo rod all the more severely, not allowing him to rise until he had been treated with medicine. After he recovered, the elder gentleman made an agreement with him: if he could read twice as much as his cousins and produced fine writing, he would not be forbidden from going out; if he slipped away in secret, he would be beaten as before. However, the young master was the most intelligent and always exceeded the curriculum in his reading. After several years, he passed the provincial examination. He wished to break the agreement on his own, but the elder gentleman restrained him. When he went to the capital, he was accompanied by an old servant and given a daily journal in which to record his words and actions. Thus for several years he committed no misconduct. After he attained the presented scholar degree, the elder gentleman gradually relaxed his prohibitions. When the young master was about to do something, he feared the elder gentleman would hear of it; when entering the entertainment quarters, he would always give his surname as Wei. One day, passing through Xi'an, he saw a young actor named Luo Huiqing, sixteen or seventeen years old, as lovely as a beautiful girl, and was charmed by him. He kept him for an intimate night and bestowed lavish gifts. Hearing that his newly married wife was especially alluring, he hinted as much to Huiqing. Huiqing showed no difficulty, and that night actually brought his wife; the three shared one couch. After several days, his affection and love reached its peak. He planned to take them both home. Asking about his family, the reply was: "My mother died early; my father is still alive. I was not originally surnamed Luo. My mother served in the household of the Wei family of Xianyang in her youth and was sold to the Luo family; four months later she gave birth to me. If I could go with you, I could also inquire about her." The young master asked in shock what his mother's surname was. He said, "Surnamed Lü." The young master was utterly terrified, sweat pouring down his entire body—for his mother was a servant girl in his own household. He said nothing. By then it was already daylight; he gave them generous gifts and urged him to change his profession. Under the pretense of traveling elsewhere, he promised to summon him upon his return, and they parted. Later, when he was posted to Suzhou, there was a courtesan named Shen Wei'iang, of peerless elegance and beauty, whom he loved and kept as his companion. He jested, "Is your given name taken from 'A Song of Spring Wind—Lady Du Wei'?" She replied, "No. My mother was a famous courtesan at seventeen. There was a gentleman from Xianyang, sharing your surname, who stayed for three months and pledged to marry her. The gentleman left, and eight months later she gave birth to me, so she named me Wei—it is actually my true surname. When the gentleman parted, he gave a golden mandarin duck, which is still in my possession. Once he left, there was no word of him, and my mother died of resentment and grief. When I was three, I was raised by Old Woman Shen, hence I took her surname." Upon hearing this, the young master was ashamed and remorseful beyond bearing. After a silent pause, a scheme suddenly arose. He abruptly rose, lit the lamp, and invited Wei'iang to drink, secretly placing poison in her cup. Wei'iang had barely swallowed when she convulsed and moaned in agony. Everyone gathered to look—she was already dead. He summoned the actors, handed over the corpse, and bribed them handsomely. Now all those with whom Wei'iang had been intimate were powerful families; when they heard, they were all indignant and bribed the actors to bring a lawsuit before the authorities. The young master, in fear, emptied his purse to patch things up, but was ultimately dismissed from office for rashness. He returned home at only thirty-eight years of age, deeply regretting his past conduct. Yet with five or six wives and concubines, he had no sons. He wished to adopt a grandson; the elder gentleman, believing there was no virtue within the family and fearing the boy would acquire bad habits, though he permitted the adoption, insisted the boy not be returned until old age. The young master angrily wished to summon Huiqing, but the household all deemed it impossible, so he desisted. Several years later, he suddenly fell ill and would beat his chest, saying, "He who lusts after servant girls and courtsans is no man!" The elder gentleman heard this and sighed, "He is probably going to die!" He then sent the son of his second son to his household to pay respects and care for him. A little over a month later, he indeed died.

The Historian of the Strange remarks: "The practice of stealing maids and keeping illicit concubines leads to consequences beyond reckoning. Yet to call another man the father of one's own flesh and blood is already shameful enough. That spirits and gods should further mock and toy with such a man, enticing him to drink his own filth—if he does not then tear open his heart and sever his own head, but merely sweats in desperation and swallows poison, is he not a man in appearance but a beast in howling? Nevertheless, the children begotten by a gallant gentleman, even if born in the dust of the pleasure quarters, are all remarkable in their own right."

**Shi Qingxu**

Xing Yunfei was a native of Shuntian. He was fond of stones, and if he saw a fine one, he would spare no expense to obtain it. One day, while fishing in the river, something caught in his net. He drew it up and found it was a stone about a foot across, carved on all four sides with exquisite openwork, its peaks and ridges layered in elegant beauty. Overjoyed, he felt he had acquired a rare treasure. Upon returning home, he carved a red sandalwood stand for it and placed it on his desk. Whenever rain was about to fall, mist rose from every hole in the stone, and from a distance it looked like fresh cotton packed into crevices.

A certain powerful and haughty nobleman came to his door requesting to view the stone. When he saw it, he simply took it and handed it to a sturdy servant, then rode off on horseback without further ceremony. Xing could do nothing but stamp his feet in grief and indignation.

The servant carried the stone to the riverside and rested on a bridge. Suddenly his hands slipped, and the stone fell into the river. The nobleman was furious and had the servant flogged. He then put up a reward and hired expert divers, who searched by every possible means, but the stone was nowhere to be found. The nobleman finally posted a notice of the reward and departed. From that day on, seekers of the stone filled the river daily, but none found it.

Later, Xing arrived at the spot where the stone had fallen in and wept by the stream. He saw that the water was perfectly clear—the stone was indeed still in the river. Overjoyed, he stripped off his clothes, entered the water, and carried it out in his arms. Bringing it home, he dared not place it in the main hall. He cleaned an inner chamber and enshrined it there.

One day, an old man knocked at his door and requested an audience. Xing told him the stone had long been lost. The old man smiled and said, "Is it not in your guest room?" Xing then invited him inside to prove it was not there. But once they entered, the stone was indeed displayed on the table. Xing was speechless with astonishment.

The old man stroked the stone and said, "This is an object that belonged to my family. It was lost long ago. So it was here after all. Now that I have seen it, I must ask you to return it forthwith." Xing was deeply distressed and argued with the old man over who was the stone's rightful owner.

The old man smiled and said, "If it belongs to your family, what proof do you have?" Xing could not answer. The old man said, "I, on the other hand, know it well. It has ninety-two holes through it, and inside the large hole are five characters reading: 'Offering of Stone from the Heaven of Pure Emptiness.'" Xing examined it closely and found that there were indeed tiny characters inside the hole, fine as grains of millet; he had to strain his eyes to make them out. He then counted the holes and found them to be exactly as the old man had said. Xing had no reply but stubbornly refused to hand over the stone.

The old man smiled and said, "An object belonging to another family—by what right do you presume to decide its fate?" He clasped his hands and left. Xing escorted him outside. When he returned, the stone was gone.

Xing hurried after the old man, who had not gone far and was walking at a leisurely pace. Xing ran up, seized his sleeve, and begged piteously. The old man said, "How strange! A stone a foot across—could it be hidden in one's hand or tucked in one's sleeve?" Xing realized he was a divine being and forcefully dragged him back, then knelt and pleaded at length.

The old man then said: "Does the stone truly belong to your family or to mine?" Xing replied, "It truly belongs to your family, but I beg you to part with it out of generosity." The old man said, "Very well. The stone is right here." He entered the room, and the stone was already back in its original place.

The old man said: "A treasure of this world should belong to one who cherishes it. This stone can choose its own master, and I am glad that it has chosen you. But it was too eager to reveal itself—it appeared too early, and the calamities of its fate have not yet been exhausted. I shall in fact take it away and keep it for three years. After that, I will present it to you. If you wish to keep it now, you must reduce your lifespan by three years, and then it may remain with you to the end. Are you willing?" Xing said, "I am willing."

The old man then pinched one of the holes with two fingers. The hole was soft as mud and closed at his touch. After closing three holes, he said, "The number of holes remaining in the stone will be the number of years of your life." He made to leave.

Xing earnestly pressed him to stay, but his refusal to remain was firm. When Xing asked his name, he would not say, and departed.

More than a year later, Xing left home on business. That night a thief entered the house. Nothing else was taken—only the stone was stolen. Xing returned and grieved as though he had lost his own life. He searched and inquired everywhere and offered rewards, but there was no trace of it.

Several years passed. One day, Xing happened to enter the Bao Guo Temple and saw a man selling a stone—it was his old treasure. He moved to claim it, but the seller protested. They carried the stone before the magistrate. The magistrate asked, "What proof do you have?" The seller could state the number of holes. Xing asked him about other details, and the seller was at a loss. Xing then described the five characters inside the hole and the three closed holes, and his case was vindicated.

The magistrate wished to punish the seller with a beating, but the seller stated he had bought the stone in the market for twenty taels of silver, so he was released. Xing took the stone home, wrapped it in brocade, and stored it in a casket. He would take it out to admire from time to time, but first he always burned exotic incense before presenting it.

A certain minister offered a hundred taels of gold for it. Xing said, "Not for ten thousand taels would I part with it." The minister was enraged and secretly used another matter to bring charges against Xing. Xing was arrested and had to mortgage his lands and property. The minister sent someone to hint at the matter to Xing's son. The son told Xing, and Xing declared he would die with the stone rather than surrender it. His wife secretly plotted with their son and presented the stone to the minister's household.

When Xing was released from prison, he learned what had happened. He cursed his wife and beat his son. Several times he tried to hang himself, but the family discovered him in time and saved his life.

That night he dreamed of a man who came and introduced himself as "Shi Qingxu." The man warned Xing not to grieve. "I am merely parting from you for a little over a year. Next year, on the twentieth day of the eighth month, at first light, go to the Haidai Gate and redeem me with two strings of cash."

Xing woke from the dream overjoyed and carefully noted the day. The stone, now in the minister's household, no longer showed the marvel of emitting mist, and in time the minister ceased to value it highly.

The following year, the minister was dismissed from office on a criminal charge and died shortly after. Xing went to the Haidai Gate on the appointed day, and the minister's family was secretly selling the stone. Xing bought it back for two strings of cash.

Later, Xing reached the age of eighty-nine and prepared his own burial furnishings. He also instructed his son that the stone must be buried with him. When he died, his son followed his dying wish and interred the stone in the tomb.

About half a year later, robbers broke open the tomb and stole the stone. The son knew of it but had no way to pursue or question them.

Two or three days afterward, the son was on the road with a servant when he suddenly saw two men stumbling toward them, drenched in sweat, prostrating themselves toward the heavens and crying out: "Master Xing, do not press us! We took the stone, but we only sold it for four taels of silver."

They were bound and brought before the magistrate, where they confessed after a single interrogation. When asked about the stone, they said it had been sold to the Gong family. The stone was retrieved. The magistrate was delighted with it and wished to keep it, ordering it stored in the treasury. As a clerk lifted the stone, it suddenly fell to the ground and shattered into several dozen pieces. Everyone present turned pale with alarm.

The magistrate then had the two robbers heavily shackled and sentenced to death.

Xing's son gathered up the stone fragments, took them out, and reburied them in the tomb.

The Historian of the Strange remarks: "The most exquisite objects are the abodes of calamity. To go so far as one's life is staked upon a stone—this is the height of folly! And yet, in the end, the stone and the man shared their beginning and their end together. Who can say that the stone was without feeling? An ancient saying goes: 'A gentleman dies for one who truly appreciates him.' This is not an exaggeration! If even a stone can be like this, how much more so a human being!"

Zeng Youyu

Zeng Weng was a member of an old and distinguished family in Kunyang. When he had just died and had not yet been laid out, tears as large as beans streamed from both his eyes. He had six sons, none of whom could understand why. The second son, Ti, whose courtesy name was Youyu, was a renowned scholar of the county. He considered this an ill omen and warned his brothers to be vigilant and not bring grief upon their deceased father, but half of his brothers mocked him for being stubborn and foolish.

Previously, Weng's first wife had given birth to the eldest son, Cheng. When he was seven or eight years old, mother and son were abducted by bandits. Weng then took a second wife, who bore three sons: Xiao, Zhong, and Xin. A concubine bore three sons: Ti, Ren, and Yi. Because Ti and his brothers were born of lowly stock, Xiao disdained and refused to acknowledge them, and thus he allied himself with Zhong and Xin. Even when he was drinking with guests and Ti and the others passed beneath the hall, he arrogantly refused to show them courtesy. Ren and Yi were both indignant and plotted with Youyu to take revenge against them. Youyu reasoned with them at great length, but they would not abandon their plan. However, since Ren and Yi were the youngest, they eventually desisted at their elder brother's urging.

Xiao had a daughter who was married into the Zhou family of the county. When she died of illness, Xiao gathered Ti and the others and ordered them to go and beat her mother-in-law. Ti refused. Enraged, Xiao ordered Zhong and Xin to join with ruffians of the clan and seize the Zhou wife, who was beaten beyond count. Grain was scattered and vessels destroyed—not a single pot or basin remained intact. The Zhou family reported the matter to the magistrate, who was furious and had Xiao and the others imprisoned and was about to submit a petition to strip them of their degrees. Youyu, alarmed, went to the magistrate and surrendered himself. Youyu's character had always been held in high regard by the magistrate, and because of this his brothers escaped punishment. Youyu then went to the Zhou household to apologize with a rod across his back. The Zhou family also respected Youyu, and the lawsuit was dropped. When Xiao returned home, he remained ungrateful to Youyu.

Not long after, Youyu's mother Madam Zhang passed away. Xiao and the others did not observe mourning but feasted and drank as before. Ren and Yi grew even more indignant. Youyu said, "Their lack of propriety—how does it harm me?" At the burial, Xiao and the others seized control of the tomb entrance and would not allow her coffin to be placed together with their father's. Youyu therefore buried his mother in a side passage of the tomb.

Before long, Xiao's wife died, and Youyu invited Ren and Yi to join him in going to mourn. They said, "We observe no mourning for her even of the first degree—what lesser mourning could we possibly have?" He urged them again, but they scattered amid an uproar. Youyu went alone and wept with full grief. From beyond the wall he could hear Ren and Yi playing drums and blowing pipes. Xiao was furious and gathered his brothers to go and beat them. Youyu took up a staff and led the way. Upon entering their house, Ren sensed the danger and fled first. Yi was just climbing over the wall when Youyu struck him from behind and knocked him to the ground. Xiao and the others rained blows with fists and staffs without cease. Youyu threw himself across to shield and block them. Xiao, enraged, reproached Youyu. Youyu said, "We reprove them because they lack propriety, but their offense surely does not warrant death. I will not condone my younger brothers' wickedness, nor will I abet my elder brother's violence. If your anger is not appeased, let me take their place." Xiao then turned his staff on Youyu and beat him; Zhong and Xin also joined in beating their elder brother. The commotion shook the entire neighborhood, and a crowd gathered to mediate before the brothers dispersed.

Youyu then, leaning on his staff, went to his elder brother to plead guilty. Xiao drove him out and would not let him take his place in the mourning rites. Meanwhile, Yi's wounds were severe, and he could neither eat nor drink. Ren drew up a petition and sued the magistrate, accusing them of failing to observe mourning for their stepmother. The magistrate issued warrants to summon Xiao, Zhong, and Xin, and ordered Youyu to submit a statement. Youyu, his face and body injured, could not go to the yamen, but he wrote a statement pleading for the matter to be dropped, and the magistrate accordingly closed the case. Yi also recovered shortly after. From then on, the enmity only deepened.

Ren and Yi, being young and weak, were constantly beaten. They grumbled to Youyu, "Everyone has brothers—I alone have none!" Youyu replied, "Those are words I ought to say—why do my two younger brothers say them?" He earnestly exhorted them, but they would not listen. Thereupon Youyu bolted his door, took his wife and children, and lodged elsewhere, over fifty li from home, hoping to hear no more of them. While Youyu was at home, although he did not aid his younger brothers, Xiao and the others still had some restraint. Once he was gone, whenever his elder brothers were at all displeased, they would shout abuse at his door, reviling even his mother's name. Ren and Yi, judging that they could not resist, merely barred their doors and plotted to find an opportunity to stab and kill them, carrying knives when they went out.

One day, the eldest brother Cheng, who had been abducted by the bandits, suddenly returned with his wife. Since the family property had long been divided, the brothers deliberated for three days and found nowhere to house him. Ren and Yi secretly rejoiced and invited Cheng to live with them and share their support. They went to inform Youyu. Youyu was overjoyed and returned, and together they provided fields and a house for Cheng. His elder brothers were angry that he had curried favor and came to his door to humiliate him. But Cheng, having long lived among the bandits, was accustomed to ferocity. He roared in fury, "I have returned, and no one was willing to provide me with even a single room. Fortunately my third younger brother remembered our bond of brotherhood, and now you reproach him for it. Do you wish to drive me out!" He hurled a stone at Xiao, knocking him to the ground. Ren and Yi each rushed out with staffs, seized Zhong and Xin, and beat them without count. Cheng then sued the magistrate, who again sent for Youyu to consult him. Youyu went to the magistrate, bowed his head, and said nothing, only shedding tears. The magistrate asked him, and he replied, "I only seek your just ruling." The magistrate then ordered Xiao and the others to each return fields and property to Cheng, so that the seven shares would be equalized.

From then on, Ren and Yi treated Cheng with doubled love and respect. When the matter of burying their mother was mentioned, they both wept. Cheng said angrily, "To be so inhumane—they are truly beasts!" He then wished to open the grave and reinter her. Ren ran to inform Youyu, who hastened back to dissuade him. Cheng would not listen. He set a date for opening the grave and held a vigil at the graveyard. He took a knife and cut into a tree, saying to his brothers, "Those who do not follow me in mourning dress—let them be like this tree!" The others all assented. Thereupon the entire household came to weep at the burial, and the reinterment was conducted with full propriety. From then on, the brothers lived in peace.

But Cheng was of a fierce and unyielding temper and frequently struck and beat his younger brothers, especially Xiao. He held only Youyu in esteem; even in the height of his rage, when Youyu arrived, a single word from him would resolve it. Whatever Xiao did, Cheng would take offense at it, so there was not a day when Xiao did not go to Youyu's house to curse him in secret. Youyu gently admonished him, but he would never listen. Unable to bear the harassment, Youyu moved again to Sanpo, even farther from home, and their communication and contact grew sparse.

Two more years passed. All the younger brothers feared Cheng, and in time they grew accustomed to it. Xiao was now forty-six and had five sons: the eldest, Jiye, and the third, Jide, were born of his wife; the second, Jigong, and the fourth, Jiji, were born of concubines; and a slave girl bore Jizu. All had grown to adulthood. Following their father's old ways, they each formed cliques and competed daily, and Xiao could not restrain them. Only Jizu had no brothers and was the youngest, so all his elder brothers could revile and abuse him at will. His wife's family lived near Sanpo. On the occasion of visiting his in-laws, he took the long way to visit his uncle. Upon entering the gate, he saw his uncle's two elder brothers and one younger brother, playing stringed instruments and reciting in harmony, and he was delighted. He stayed for a long time without mentioning returning home. His uncle urged him, but he begged to be allowed to lodge there. His uncle said, "Your parents do not even know—would I grudge you a bowl of rice and a ladle of water?" So he stayed. Several months later, he and his wife went to celebrate his mother-in-law's birthday. He told his father, "I will not return from this journey." His father questioned him—

Zhi thereupon revealed a slight grievance. His father feared that there had been long-standing resentment between him and his uncle, and calculated that it would be difficult to stay long. The grandfather said, "Father, your concern is misplaced. Your second uncle is a sage and a worthy man." Thereupon they departed, and brought his wife to Sanpo. Youyu vacated a house for them to live in, treating the child according to his age among the children, and had him hold his books and study under his eldest son, Jishan. The grandfather was the most intelligent; after being registered in Sanpo for over a year, he entered the prefectural school of Yunnan. When studying behind closed doors with Jishan, the grandfather also recited and memorized with the greatest diligence. Youyu loved him dearly.

After the grandfather took up residence in Sanpo, the brothers at home grew increasingly unable to get along. One day, when Ye offered a slight retort, Ye abused and insulted his concubine mother. Gong, in a rage, stabbed and killed Ye. The authorities arrested Gong and put him in heavy shackles; he died in prison several days later. Ye's wife, Madame Feng, still substituted cursing for weeping day after day. Gong's wife, Liu, heard of this and said in anger, "A man in your family has died—so does that mean the men in other families get to live?" She seized a knife, entered, struck down and killed Feng, then threw herself into a well and died. Feng's father, Dali, grieving the tragic death of his daughter, led his sons and nephews, concealing weapons beneath their clothes, went to seize Xiaos wife and stripped and flogged her on the road to humiliate her. Cheng said in fury, "My family has people dying like hemp—how dare the Fengs act like this again!" He roared and rushed out. The various Zengs followed him; the various Fengs were completely routed. Cheng seized Dali first and cut off both his ears. Dali's son tried to protect and rescue him; Ji and Ji struck horizontally with iron staffs and broke both his thighs. The various Fengs each suffered wounds and injuries, and dispersed in a clamor. Only Feng's son still lay by the road. Cheng held him under his arm, placed him in Fengs Village, and returned. He then summoned Ji to go to the authorities and surrender himself. Feng's complaint also arrived. Thereupon the various Zengs were arrested. Only Zhong had fled, and he went to Sanpo, pacing back and forth outside the gate. It happened that Youyu had returned from the provincial examination with one son and one nephew; seeing Zhong, he said in surprise, "Brother, how have you come here?" Zhong wept before he could speak, kneeling on the left side of the road. Youyu took his hand and pulled him inside, questioned him and learned the truth, and was greatly alarmed. "What can be done about this? But this whole household has been perverse and rebellious—I have long known that a strange disaster would befall them. Otherwise, why would I have fled to this place? But I have been away from home for a long time and have no connection with the magistrate; if I were to crawl there now, I would only invite humiliation. If only the Feng father and son's injuries are not fatal, and one of the three of us is fortunate enough to succeed, then this disaster might perhaps be somewhat mitigated." He therefore kept him, eating with him by day and sleeping with him by night. Zhong felt deeply grateful and ashamed. After staying more than ten days, seeing how his uncle and nephew were like father and son, and brothers like blood siblings, he shed tears sorrowfully and said, "Now I know that I was not a human being before." Youyu was pleased at his repentance, and they faced each other with bitter grief. Soon it was reported that Youyu and his son had passed the examination in the same year, and the grandfather also made the supplementary list. There was great rejoicing. He did not attend the Deer Cry banquet but first returned to visit the tombs. In the late Ming, the highest value was placed on examination degrees, and the all Fengs accordingly restrained themselves. Youyu then entrusted friends and relatives with gold and grain as bribes to provide for their medical treatment, and the lawsuit was settled. The whole family wept in gratitude to Youyu and begged him to return. Youyu then burned incense with his brothers and made them swear an oath, instructing each to cleanse his mind and make a fresh start, and thereupon moved the family back. The grandfather followed his uncle and did not refuse to return to his home. Xiaos then said to Youyu, "I lack virtue and should not have a son who brings honor to the clan; my younger brother is good at teaching—let me provisionally make him your son. When he achieves some distinction, you may return him to me." Youyu agreed. Three years later, the grandfather indeed passed the provincial examination. He was told to move his family away, and both husband and wife left in bitter tears. Not many days later, the grandfather's son, just three years old, fled back to Youyu's house and hid in Jishan's room, refusing to return; whenever he was caught and taken back, he would escape. Xiaos then had the grandfather live separately, as a neighbor to Youyu. The grandfather opened a door connecting to his uncle's house. The two households paid respects to their parents as one household.

As Cheng gradually aged, all family matters were decided by Youyu. From then on, the household was harmonious and peaceful, praised for filial piety and brotherly love.

The Historian of Extraordinary Affairs says: "In the world, only beasts know their mother but not their father—why do families of poetry and books often fall into this? The conduct within a household soaks into one's descendants down to the bone. The ancients said: 'If the father is a thief, the son will surely become a bandit'—this is the inevitable result of such corruption. Although Xiaos was not benevolent, his retribution was also tragic; yet in the end he was able to recognize his own lack of virtue and entrust his son to his younger brother—it is fitting that he should have a son who is anxious and thoughtful.—As for karmic retribution, that is a roundabout argument."

Master Jiaping

**A Certain Young Gentleman of Jiaping**

A certain young gentleman of Jiaping was of refined bearing and handsome appearance. Between seventeen and eighteen years of age, he went to the prefectural city to sit for the provincial examination. Passing by the gate of a prostitute of the Xu establishment, he caught sight of a lovely girl of sixteen within and fixed his gaze upon her. The girl smiled and nodded. The young gentleman approached and spoke with her. She asked, "Where are you lodging?" He told her. She asked, "Is anyone with you at your lodgings?" He said, "No one." The girl said, "I will pay you a visit in the evening. Let no one know." The young gentleman returned home, and when evening came, he dismissed his page boys. The girl indeed arrived, giving her name as Wenji. She said, "I, your slave, admire your gentlemanly charm, and so I have come, defying the old woman. My humble wish is to give myself to you for life." The young gentleman was also pleased. From then on she came every two or three nights.

One evening she arrived through the rain, entered, and removed her wet garments, hanging them on the rack. She then took off her small boots and asked the young gentleman to remove the mud from them for her. She then got into bed and covered herself with a quilt. The young gentleman examined the boots and found they were new brocade with a five-penny pattern, soaked through and ruined. He was pained by this. The girl said, "I would not dare to trouble you with a trifling thing. I wanted you to know how deeply devoted I am to you." Hearing the sound of rain beyond the window, which would not stop, she recited: "Bitter wind and cold rain fill the river city." She asked the young gentleman to complete the couplet. The young gentleman pleaded that he did not understand. The girl said: "A gentleman such as you — how can you not know the refinements of poetry! You have quite killed my poetic mood!" She then urged him to apply himself to study, and the young gentleman agreed.

As their visits grew frequent, the servants all knew of it. The young gentleman's brother-in-law, a certain Mr. Song, who was also the son of a good family, heard of it and secretly begged the young gentleman for a glimpse of Wenji. The young gentleman spoke of it to her, but she absolutely forbade it. Mr. Song hid himself in the servants' quarters, and when the girl arrived, he crouched by the window to spy on her. He was beside himself with desire. He hastily pushed open the door. The girl rose and vaulted over the wall to escape. Mr. Song's longing was most ardent. He therefore prepared gifts and went to see the old woman of the Xu establishment, asking for Wenji by name. The old woman said: "There was indeed a Wenji, but she has long been dead." Mr. Song withdrew in bewilderment and told the young gentleman, who then knew for the first time that she was a ghost.

That evening, he told the girl what Mr. Song had said. She said: "It is true. But consider: you desire a beautiful woman, and I, your slave, also desire a beautiful man. Let each satisfy their wish — what does it matter whether one is human or ghost?" The young gentleman thought this reasonable.

When the examinations were finished and he returned home, the girl accompanied him. No one else could see her; only the young gentleman could. At home she was lodged in his study. The young gentleman slept there alone and did not return to his family quarters. His parents were suspicious. When the girl went to visit her own family, he confided the truth to his mother. His mother was greatly alarmed and warned the young gentleman to break with her, but he could not obey. His parents were deeply troubled and tried a hundred methods to drive her away, but she would not leave.

One day the young gentleman had a note for his servants, which he placed on his desk. It was full of errors: "jiao" [pepper] was written as "shu" [bean], "jiang" [ginger] was written as "jiang" [river], and "regrettable" was written as "ke lang" [passable waves]. The girl saw it and wrote on the back: "What is this 'ke lang'? 'Flower beans grow by the river.' With a son-in-law like this, one might as well be a whore!" She then said to the young gentleman: "I, your slave, at first took you for a man of letters from an honourable family and so offered myself, shameful as that was. I never imagined you were all show! To judge by outward appearance alone — would that not make me a laughingstock under heaven!" Having spoken, she vanished.

Though the young gentleman was ashamed and vexed, he still did not know what he had written wrong. He folded up the note and showed it to the servants. Those who heard of it spread it about as a joke.

The Historian of the Strange remarks: "Wenji was a charming girl! A dainty young gentleman indeed — why must he be so harsh about what lies within? It came to the point where he regretted that she was not a whore — then his wife and concubines would weep for shame! Yet though a hundred schemes could not drive her away, at the sight of the note she departed in high dudgeon. Then 'flower beans grow by the river' — how is this different from Du Fu's 'son Zhang's skull'?"

The *Er Lu* says: A man who set up a stand by the roadside to offer free drinks had a sign that read: "Offering *gong* [deference / faeces] to form karmic bonds." This too is worth a laugh.

A scion of an old family who had fallen into poverty posted a notice on his gate: "For sale: ancient lewd vessels." He mispronounced *yao* [kiln] as *yin* [lewd]. It read: "For those wishing for Xuanyin or Dingyin [famous kilns], large and small alike — enter to view the goods and discuss the price." Among the descendants of the Cui and Lu clans there are many such cases. Why single out only "flower beans grow by the river"?