Volume 4

Volume 4

# Yu De

Yin Tunan of Wuchang had a secondary residence, which he had rented to a scholar for a period of half a year, during which time he had never come to inquire after him. One day he encountered the young man at his gate. He was the youngest of his acquaintance, yet his bearing, robes, and horses were elegant and polished in the extreme. Yin approached him and spoke with him, finding him moreover restrained and charming. Marveling at this, he returned home and told his wife, who sent a maid with a pretext to deliver provisions and observe his household. She found a beautiful woman within, lovelier even than a celestial being. All the flowers, stones, garments, and curios were beyond anything she had ever seen or heard of. Yin could not fathom who he might be. He went to the gate and presented his card, but the man happened to be away. The following day, the man returned the call. Yin unfolded the visiting card and read aloud the name, and only then did he know that the man's surname was Yu, his given name De. During the conversation Yin carefully inquired about his family and official lineage, but the man's replies were vague and evasive. Pressing him further, Yu said: "If you wish to maintain a social acquaintance, I would not presume to cut myself off from you. You should know that I am neither a bandit nor a fugitive from justice—why must you insist on knowing my origins?" Yin apologized. Yu ordered wine and hosted him with great hospitality, and their conversation and laughter were most agreeable. Toward dusk, a servant of Central Asian descent came leading a horse carrying a lantern, to escort him away.

The next day Yu sent a note to his landlord. Yin went to his house and saw that the walls had been papered throughout with a glossy bright paper, clear as a mirror. A golden lion-shaped censer burned exotic incense. A single jade-green vase held two phoenix-tail and peacock feathers, each over two feet long. A crystal vase contained a tree of powdery flowers of some unknown variety, also about two feet tall, whose branches hung over the edge of the table. The leaves were sparse but the flowers dense, all still in bud, not yet opened. The flowers resembled damp butterflies with folded wings, and their stems were like whiskers. The banquet table offered no more than eight dishes, yet they were extraordinarily rich and exquisite. Yu then ordered his young servant to beat a drum and play the "hurry the flowers" game. As soon as the drum sounded, the flowers in the vase trembled as if about to snap. Soon the butterfly wings gradually unfurled. Then the drum stopped, and with a deep single sound, the stems and whiskers fell away at once, becoming butterflies that flew down and landed on Yin's robes. Yu laughed and raised a large goblet. Just as he had filled it to the brim, the butterfly fluttered away. Shortly after, the drum sounded again, and two butterflies flew to settle on Yu's cap. Yu laughed and said: "I have fallen victim to my own scheme!" He also drained two goblets. When the drum had sounded for the third time and ceased, the flowers fell in a flurry, fluttering down, catching on sleeves and lapels. The young drummer came over with a smile to tally the count: Yin had won nine rounds, Yu four. Yin was already slightly drunk and could not finish his remaining rounds. He forced himself down three more cups, then left his seat and departed. From this time on, he marveled at Yu all the more.

Yet the man was reclusive by nature and kept few associates. He always stayed behind closed doors and did not exchange visits of condolence or congratulation with others in the district. Yin spoke of him to everyone he met, and those who heard of his strangeness competed to make Yu's acquaintance. The road outside his gate was thronged with the canopies of visiting dignitaries. Yu found this exceedingly tiresome and suddenly took leave of his landlord and departed. After he left, Yin entered his house. The empty courtyard was swept clean without a speck of dust. Pools of candle wax had been piled and thrown beneath the blue-green steps. Torn scraps of silk and bits of cotton hung by the windows, with fingerprints clearly visible. Only behind the house was left a small white stone jar, capable of holding about one *dan* of water. Yin carried it home and stored water in it to keep red fish. For a whole year the water remained as clear as when first poured in. Later, a servant carelessly broke the stone while moving it, yet the water was stored without spilling. Looking at it, the jar seemed to be there; but feeling it, it was hollow and soft. When he put his hand inside, the water drained away with his hand; when he withdrew his hand, the water reassembled itself. In winter months it did not freeze. One night it suddenly crystallized into ice, yet the fish swam about as before. Yin feared others would learn of it and kept it always in a private chamber, showing it to no one save his sons-in-law. In time the secret gradually spread, and those who came to ask to see it crowded his gate. In the twelfth month it suddenly melted back into water, dampening the floor all around, and the fish vanished as well. Only the remnants of the old jar and its broken stone remained. Suddenly a Taoist priest came knocking at the gate asking for it. Yin brought it out and showed it to him. The priest said: "This is a water vessel from the Dragon Palace." Yin told him of the strange fact that it had been broken yet did not leak. The priest said: "This is the spirit-soul of the jar." He earnestly begged for a small piece. Asked what he would use it for, he said: "If I mix the filings with medicine, I can attain eternal life." Yin gave him a fragment, and the priest departed with joyful thanks.

# Yang, the Company Commander

When Minister Bi Gong was recalled from his home to take up a military post in Tao and Min, a company commander named Yang Hualin came to welcome him. Their canopies and carriages were on the road when they happened to see a man defecating by the roadside. Yang drew his bow to shoot him, but Minister Bi hastily shouted him to stop. Yang said: "This fellow is ill-mannered—he deserves a small fright." He then called out from a distance: "You who have left your droppings, I present you with a length of Kuaiji rattan to bind your topknot." He loosed the arrow at once, which struck the man's topknot dead center. The man fled in haste, his excrement fouling the ground.

# The Strange Melon

In the sixth month of the twenty-sixth year of Kangxi, in a melon patch belonging to a villager west of the county seat, a cucumber vine produced a secondary shoot that bore a watermelon, as large as a bowl.

# Green Plum

Cheng, of Bailia, was by nature open and generous, unbound by petty conventions. One day, returning from outside, he loosened his sash and felt it grow heavy, as though something had fallen into it. He looked but saw nothing. As he turned this way and that, a woman emerged from behind his garment, brushed her hair back with a smile, and was exceedingly beautiful. Cheng suspected she was a ghost. The woman said: "I am not a ghost—I am a fox." Cheng said: "If I could have a beauty such as you, I would not even fear a ghost, much less a fox!" And so he became intimate with her. Two years later they had a daughter, whom they called Green Plum. The fox woman often said to Cheng: "Do not take a wife—I shall bear you a son." Cheng therefore did not marry, and his relatives and friends all ridiculed him for it. Cheng's resolve weakened, however, and he became engaged to a Miss Wang of the eastern shore of the lake. When the fox woman heard this, she was furious. She went to the nursing child, weaned her, and left her with Cheng, saying: "This is your family's money-losing merchandise—whether you raise her or kill her is up to you. Why should I act as a wet nurse for someone else!" She walked out the door and went straight away.

Green Plum grew up to be clever and intelligent, with a graceful and beautiful appearance closely resembling her mother. Soon after, Cheng fell ill and died, and Madame Wang remarried and left. Green Plum went to be fed and housed by her father's younger brother. This uncle was dissolute and without principles, and intended to sell her to enrich himself. It happened that a man surnamed Wang, a presented scholar, was awaiting an official appointment at home. Having heard of her intelligence, he purchased her for a large sum of money and had her serve his daughter, A'xi. A'xi was fourteen years old, of peerless beauty. She was delighted when she saw Green Plum and shared her bedroom with her. Green Plum was also skilled in reading her mistress's moods—she could listen with her eyes and speak with her brows—and so the whole household came to cherish and love her.

In the county there was a scholar named Zhang Jieshou, whose family was perpetually poor, possessing no permanent property, renting rooms in the Wang household. By nature he was filially devoted, conducted himself with strict propriety, and was deeply devoted to his studies. Qingmei happened to visit his home one day and saw him sitting on a stone, eating a bowl of gruel with chaff. She went inside and chatted with his birth mother, and noticed a pig's trotter laid out on the table. At that time the old man was bedridden with illness. Zhang entered, embraced his father and wept in private; soiled his clothes with urine and filth; the old man was aware of it and reproached himself. Zhang concealed the evidence, hurried out to wash himself, and feared that the old man would learn of it. Qingmei was greatly moved by all this. She returned and recounted what she had seen, telling the young lady: "The guest in our house is no ordinary man. If my lady does not wish to find a worthy match, so be it—but if she does, that man is Zhang." The young lady feared her father would despise his poverty. Qingmei said: "Not so—it rests with you. If you find him acceptable, I will secretly send word to have him propose marriage. Your mother will certainly summon you to discuss it; you need only answer 'Yes,' and the match will be made." The young lady feared that lifelong poverty would make her a laughingstock. Qingmei said: "I consider myself capable of judging the worth of men under heaven—I cannot be mistaken." The next day she went to tell Zhang's mother, who was greatly startled and called the words inauspicious. Qingmei said: "The young lady has heard of the young master and admires his virtue; I have divined her feelings and speak on her behalf. When the matchmaker comes, the two of us will vouch for the arrangement, and the matter will surely be settled. Even if it fails, what disgrace does it bring the young master?" The mother said: "Very well." She then sent a flower seller surnamed Hou as go-between. The lady of the house heard of it and laughingly informed Lord Wang, who also laughed heartily. He summoned his daughter and conveyed the Hou woman's intention. Before the young lady could answer, Qingmei eagerly praised the scholar's virtue and declared he would surely rise to prominence. The lady asked further: "This concerns your whole life. If you can stomach eating husks and chaff, I will consent for you." The young lady lowered her head for a long time, then looked at the wall and replied: "Poverty and wealth are matters of fate. If fate grants abundance, poverty will not last long, and wealth will have no end. If fate grants meagerness, are there few among the brocade-clad scions of noble houses who end up with not even a spike of land on which to stand? This decision rests with my parents." At first, when Lord Wang had summoned his daughter to discuss the matter, he had intended it as a joke; but upon hearing her words, his heart was displeased and he said: "Do you wish to marry into the Zhang family?" She did not answer. He asked again; again she did not answer. He grew angry and said: "Ungrateful wretch, devoid of ambition! To want to carry a basket and become the wife of a beggar—aren't you ashamed to death?" The young lady's face flushed crimson, her breath choked with sobs, and she withdrew in tears. The matchmaker fled as well.

Qingmei, seeing the match had failed, resolved to act on her own. Several days later, she went to Zhang's home at night. Zhang was reading and asked in alarm why she had come; her words faltered and hesitated. Zhang spoke gravely and refused her, saying: "You are a woman of good family, not one who throws herself at a man. It is only because you find me worthy that you wish to entrust yourself to me. But a virtuous man does not engage in clandestine meetings in the dead of night—how then could a worthy man do so? To begin in disorder and end in marriage is something even a gentleman considers unacceptable. And if no marriage results, how would you justify yourself?" Qingmei said: "If by some chance it could succeed, would you deign to take me?" Zhang said: "With a woman like you, what more could I ask? But there are three things I cannot overcome, which is why I dare not lightly promise." She asked: "What are they?" He said: "If I cannot act on my own authority, that is one thing I cannot overcome. Even if I can act on my own authority, if my parents are displeased, that is another thing I cannot overcome. Even if they are pleased, your bride-price would certainly be heavy, and I am too poor to raise it—that is yet another thing I cannot overcome. Leave quickly—the suspicion of melon and plum is to be feared!" As Qingmei was about to leave, she added: "If you are willing, let us find a way together." Zhang agreed.

Qingmei returned. The young lady questioned her about where she had been, and Qingmei knelt and confessed everything. The young lady was furious at her for throwing herself at a man and was about to beat her. Qingmei tearfully protested her innocence and then told the truth. The young lady sighed and said: "Not to join in improper union—that is propriety. To inform one's parents—that is filial piety. To make no rash promises—that is trustworthiness. With these three virtues, Heaven will surely protect her, and she need not fear poverty." After a moment she asked: "What will you do?" Qingmei said: "Marry me." The young lady laughed and said: "Can this foolish maid act on her own authority?" Qingmei said: "If it cannot be accomplished, I will follow with my death." The young lady said: "I will see that your wish is fulfilled." Qingmei bowed her head to the ground in gratitude. Several days later she said to the young lady: "When you spoke before, was it in jest, or do you truly wish to show mercy? If the latter, there is a further matter I must entreat you to consider." The young lady asked what it was, and Qingmei replied: "Zhang cannot provide a bride-price, and I have no means to redeem myself. If the full sum must be paid, marrying me is the same as not marrying me." The young lady pondered and said: "This is beyond my power to resolve. Even to say 'marry her' I fear would not be granted, let alone to insist that no price be paid—this the master would certainly never allow, and I dare not even speak of it." Qingmei wept at this, begging only for pity and rescue. The young lady thought for a long time and said: "If there is no other way, I have a few taels saved privately—I will empty my purse to help you." Qingmei bowed in thanks and secretly informed Zhang. Zhang's mother was overjoyed and borrowed from many sources, together raising a certain sum, which she stored away while awaiting good news. It happened that Lord Wang was appointed magistrate of Quwo, and he seized the opportunity to tell his mother: "Qingmei is of age, and I am about to take up my post—it would be best to send her away." The lady had long considered Qingmei too cunning and feared she might lead her daughter into impropriety; she had often wished to marry her off but feared the young lady would be displeased. Hearing her daughter's words, she was greatly pleased. Two days later, a servant woman came with a message from the Zhang family. Lord Wang laughed and said: "She is fit only to be matched with a maidservant—how presumptuous she was before! But to sell a concubine into a great household, the price should be double what was asked previously." The young lady stepped forward hastily and said: "Qingmei has served me for a long time; to sell her as a concubine, I could not bear it." Lord Wang then sent word to the Zhang family, still using the original sum to draw up the contract, and gave Qingmei in marriage to Zhang.

After entering the household, she was filial to her parents-in-law, serving them with attentive devotion that surpassed even Zhang's own efforts, and she worked even more diligently, eating husks and chaff without complaint. From that time, there was no one in the household who did not love and value Qingmei. She also took up embroidery and needlework, which sold quickly; merchants waited at the door to buy, fearing they might not obtain any. With the income they could somewhat withstand poverty. She moreover urged Zhang not to let household concerns distract him from his studies, and managed all domestic affairs herself. When her master departed for his post, she went to bid A'xi farewell. A'xi saw her and wept, saying: "You have found your place—I am truly not your equal." Qingmei said: "Whose gift is this, that I would dare forget? But to say you are not the equal of a maidservant—that would shorten this maidservant's life." They wept and parted from each other.

Wang Jin had been in office for half a year when his wife died. Her coffin was placed in a temple. Two years later, Wang was removed from his post for accepting bribes, and the fine ran into tens of thousands. Gradually he fell into poverty and could no longer support himself; his attendants scattered and fled. At that time a great plague broke out, Wang fell ill, and died. Only an old woman remained with his daughter; before long the old woman also died, and the girl's plight grew ever more pitiful. A neighboring old woman urged her to marry, but the girl said, "I will marry only the man who can bury both my parents." The old woman took pity on her, gave her a peck of rice, and left. Half a month later she returned and said, "I have done my utmost for you, but the matter is hard to arrange: the poor cannot afford the burial, and the rich look down on you as the descendant of a ruined family. What can be done? There is still one plan, but I fear you will not agree to it." The girl asked, "What is it?" She replied, "There is a young Master Li here who is looking for a concubine. If he sees your beauty, he will surely arrange a generous burial and will spare no expense." The girl burst into tears and said, "Am I, the descendant of an official family, to become a concubine!" The old woman had nothing to say and left. The girl subsisted on a single meal a day, barely clinging to life while waiting she knew not for what; after six months she could scarcely carry on. One day the old woman came again, and the girl wept and told her, "I am so wretched that I have often thought of ending my life, yet I have lingered on, reluctant to die, only because of the two coffins here. I will soon be cast into a ditch—who would then gather my parents' bones? So I think I had better follow your advice." The old woman immediately brought Li over. He caught a glimpse of the girl and was greatly pleased. He produced money for the burial, and both coffers were raised and interred. Afterward he took the girl away in his carriage and brought her into the household to join the principal wife. The principal wife was by nature fierce and jealous. Li had not dared at first to speak of a concubine, merely pretending he had bought a maid. But when he presented the woman, the wife flew into a rage, beat her, and drove her out, refusing to let her enter the gate.

With her hair disheveled and tears streaming down, the girl did not know where to turn. An old nun passed by and invited her to stay at the convent. She gladly went with her. Arriving at the convent, she bowed and begged to have her head shaved, but the nun would not allow it, saying, "I can see that you are not one destined to wallow in this world for long. Here in the convent, coarse rice and earthen bowls are enough to get by. Stay here for a while and wait. When the time comes, you will leave of your own accord." Before long, idle ruffians in the market, seeing the girl's beauty, kept coming to the gate to taunt and tease her, and the nun could not stop them. The girl wept and wailed and tried to kill herself. The nun went to ask a certain official of the Board of Personnel to post a strict prohibition, and the young rogues began to restrain themselves somewhat. Later, one night someone broke through the temple wall; the nun cried out and he ran away. She reported the matter again to the official, the ringleader was caught, sent to the prefecture, and flogged, and things gradually grew quiet. More than a year later, a nobleman's son passed by and saw the girl; he was utterly smitten. He pressed the nun to convey his ardent feelings and offered her a rich bribe besides. The nun spoke gently to him: "She is the descendant of an official house and will not deign to be a concubine. Sir, go home. In time I will have an answer for you." After he left, the girl wanted to take poison and die. That night she dreamed her father came and said urgently, "Because I did not follow your wishes, I brought you to this pass; my regret comes too late. But hold on a little longer and do not die—your long-cherished wish can still be fulfilled." The girl was amazed by this. The next morning, after washing, the nun looked at her in astonishment and said, "I see that the murky vapors have all left your face; you need no longer worry about misfortune. Blessing is coming—do not forget this old woman." Before she finished speaking, there came a knock at the door. The girl turned pale, certain it must be the nobleman's servant. The nun opened the door, and sure enough it was. He asked brusquely about the matter. The nun smiled and received him graciously, asking only for three days' delay. The servant relayed his master's words: if nothing came of it, the nun herself was to report back. The nun assented respectfully and thanked him, sending him away. The girl was overcome with grief and again tried to kill herself, but the nun stopped her. The girl worried that in three days the man would return and she would have no answer. The nun said, "This old woman is here; let them do their worst—I will bear the brunt."

The next day, just after noon, a torrential rain came down in sheets, and suddenly there was the sound of several men pounding on the gate and shouting loudly. The girl thought some evil had befallen them and was terrified, not knowing what to do. The nun went out through the rain and opened the gate to find a sedan chair parked there, several maids helping out a beautiful woman, with a brilliant retinue and fine canopies and hats. Startled, she asked who it was and was told, "This is the wife of the Judicial Commissioner, taking shelter from the rain for a moment." They were led into the main hall, where a couch was moved and the lady seated with dignity. The household women rushed to the meditation quarters, each seeking rest. Entering the room and seeing the girl, they were dazzled by her beauty and ran to tell the lady. Before long the rain stopped. The lady rose and asked to see the meditation chamber. The nun led her in. Seeing the girl's extraordinary beauty, the lady stared without blinking; the girl too gazed at her for a long time. The lady was no other than Qingmei. Both burst into tears and recounted their experiences. It turned out that Old Man Zhang had died; after the period of mourning, Zhang had passed the examinations in succession and been appointed Judicial Commissioner. He had first escorted his mother to his post, then brought the rest of his family. The girl sighed, "Meeting today, what a world of difference!" Qingmei smiled and said, "Fortunately, you suffered setbacks and found no match—Heaven intended that the two of us be reunited. Had it not been for the rain, how could we have had this encounter? There is divine agency at work here, beyond human power." She then took out a pearl-studded headdress and a gown of brocade and urged the girl to change her clothes. The girl hesitated with bowed head, but the nun encouraged her. The girl worried that living together would be improper in name, but Qingmei said, "In the past our fates were already settled—how could this maid forget your great kindness! Think of Master Zhang—is he the sort who would be ungrateful?" She insisted on dressing her and then departed, taking her leave of the nun. Arriving at the official residence, mother and son were both overjoyed. The girl bowed and said, "I have no face to see your mother now." The mother smiled and comforted her. They discussed choosing an auspicious day for the wedding. The girl said, "If there had been the least means of survival in the convent, I would never have come here at your side. If you remember our old friendship, all I ask is a small hut where I can keep a rush cushion—that is enough." Qingmei smiled and said nothing. When the day came, she brought fine wedding garments, and the girl was at a loss what to do. Suddenly the sound of music and drums burst forth, and the girl could not control herself. Qingmei led the maids and old women to dress her by force and supported her out. Seeing Master Zhang in formal robes bowing to her, she involuntarily bowed in return, her heart brimming over. Qingmei drew her into the bridal chamber and said, "This place has been kept empty waiting for you for a long time." Then she turned to Zhang and said, "Tonight you can repay her kindness—do it well." She turned to leave. The girl seized her skirt. Qingmei laughed and said, "Don't keep me—this I cannot do for you." She freed her fingers and slipped away.

Qingmei served the girl with the utmost deference, never presuming to take her turn, yet the girl remained uneasy and ill at ease. Thereupon the mother ordered that they address each other as equals. Qingmei always maintained the manners of a concubine and maid, never daring to relax. Three years later, Zhang was selected for promotion to the capital. Passing by the convent, he presented five hundred taels of silver to the nun, but she refused. He pressed her, and she accepted two hundred taels, with which she built a temple to the Bodhisattva and erected a stele in honor of Lady Wang. Later Zhang rose to the rank of Vice Minister. Lady Cheng bore two sons and one daughter; Lady Wang bore four sons and one daughter. Zhang submitted a petition to the throne recounting their merits, and both were granted the title of Lady.

The Historian of the Strange says: "Heaven sends forth beauty in order that it may be paired with men of worth and fame; yet the princes and nobles of this world give it instead to the pampered sons of the rich and idle. This is what the Creator is bound to contest. And so, through all manner of strange and wondrous turns, those who bring about the union are driven to endless contrivings—and indeed, the Workman of Nature labors in bitter toil. Only the Green Lady could perceive a hero in the dust, and she vowed to wed him with a resolve set on death. And yet those who strut in caps and robes, forsaking virtue to seek after rich food and fine grain—how their wisdom falls short of a mere maid!"

**The Rakshasa Market and the Sea**

Ma Ji, styled Longmei, was the son of a merchant. He possessed a handsome and graceful bearing, and from youth was dashing and unconventional, with a fondness for song and dance. He would often join the players of the pear garden troupes, binding his head with a brocade kerchief and looking as lovely as a beautiful woman, for which he also earned the name "the Handsome Man." At fourteen he entered the prefectural academy and quickly became well known. His father, grown old, abandoned trade and returned home, saying to his son, "A few volumes of books cannot be boiled when you are hungry or worn when you are cold. My son, you had better carry on your father's trade." Ma Ji thereupon began to dabble in commerce. He sailed the sea with his men, but was blown off course by a hurricane, and after several days and nights reached a great city. Its inhabitants were all exceedingly ugly; when they saw Ma Ji arrive, they took him for a demon and fled in clamorous confusion. At first, seeing their appearance, Ma Ji was greatly frightened. But when he realized that the people of that country were terrified of him, he turned the tables and used this very fact to intimidate them. Whenever he came upon someone eating or drinking, he would rush toward them; the people would flee in alarm, and he would devour what remained. After a time he entered a mountain village. Among those living there were some whose features resembled those of human beings, yet they were dressed in rags like beggars. Ma Ji rested beneath a tree. The villagers dared not approach but only watched from a distance. After a while, they sensed that Ma Ji did not devour people, and began gradually to draw nearer. Ma Ji smiled and spoke with them. Although his speech was foreign, half of it could be understood. Ma Ji then related where he had come from, and the villagers were delighted, spreading the word to all their neighbors that the stranger was not one who could strike or devour them. Still, those who were extremely ugly kept their distance and would never come forward. Those who did approach had mouths and noses positioned much as in China. They brought wine and offered it to Ma Ji. Ma Ji asked why they had been so frightened, and they replied, "We have heard our grandfathers say that twenty-six thousand leagues to the west there is a country called China, whose people are said to be of strange and monstrous appearance. We had only heard it rumored, but now we believe it." He asked why they were so poor, and they replied, "In our country what is valued is not literary accomplishment but physical appearance. Those who are supremely beautiful become ministers of state; the next in rank serve as magistrates; and even those of the lowest rank gain the favor of the great and are able to secure ample food to feed their wives and children. When my sort is born, our parents all regard us as ill omened and often abandon us outright. Those who cannot bear to cast us away at once do so only to preserve the family line." He asked, "What country is this?" They said, "The great Rakshasa Kingdom. The capital lies thirty leagues to the north." Ma Ji asked them to guide him there for a look. So they rose at cockcrow and led him away together.

At daybreak they reached the capital. The city walls were built of black stone, dark as ink, and the towers and mansions rose nearly a hundred feet. There were few tiles; instead the roofs were covered with red stone. He picked up a broken fragment and rubbed it on his fingernail—it was no different from cinnabar. It happened that court was just being dismissed, and officials in caps and canopies emerged from the court. The villagers pointed and said, "That is the Prime Minister." Ma Ji looked: both ears grew from the back of his head, his nose had three nostrils, and his eyelashes hung over his eyes like a curtain. Several more horsemen rode out, and the villagers said, "Those are the Grand Masters." They pointed out each rank in turn, all of them hideous and strange. But as the rank grew lower, the ugliness diminished. Before long, Ma Ji returned, and the people in the streets, catching sight of him, shouted and fled, stumbling and falling as though they had encountered a monster. The villagers explained at great length, and only then did the townspeople dare to stand at a distance. When he returned home, the whole kingdom knew there was a stranger among them, and the gentry and officials all desired to broaden their experience by seeing him. They therefore ordered the villagers to summon Ma Ji. Whenever he arrived at a household, the gatekeeper would bolt the door, and men and women would whisper to one another as they peered through cracks in the gate. For an entire day, no one dared to invite him in. The villagers said, "There is a Gentleman of the Guard in this quarter who once served as the late king's envoy to foreign lands and has seen many people; he may not be frightened of you." They went to the Gentleman's door. The Gentleman was indeed pleased and received him as an honored guest. His appearance was that of a man of eighty or ninety. His eyes protruded, and his beard curled like a hedgehog's quills. He said, "In my youth I received the king's command and served as envoy more times than any other, but I never visited China. Now, at over a hundred and twenty years of age, I have the chance to see a person from that great country. This must not fail to be reported to the Son of Heaven. But I have lived in retirement for more than ten years and have not set foot at court for a long time. Tomorrow morning I will go on your behalf." He then prepared food and drink, observing the rites of host and guest. After several rounds of wine, he brought out a troupe of some ten female musicians, who took turns singing and dancing. Their faces resembled those of yakshas, all with white brocade bound around their heads and trailing vermillion robes that swept the ground. What they sang and danced, he could not understand, but the tunes and rhythms were strange and wild. The host watched and was delighted. He asked, "Does China also have such music?" Ma Ji said, "Yes." The host asked him to imitate the sound, and Ma Ji struck the table and sang a song in measured time. The host exclaimed in wonder, "How extraordinary! The voice is like the cry of a phoenix or the roar of a dragon—I have never heard its like."

The following day he hastened to court and recommended Ma Ji to the king. The king was pleased and issued an edict, but two or three of the grand ministers, saying that his monstrous appearance might startle the sacred person, persuaded the king to desist. The Gentleman came out and told Ma Ji, deeply chagrined. After living there for a long time, Ma Ji drank with the host and became drunk. He drew his sword and danced, smearing coal on his face to make himself into Zhang Fei. The host thought it splendid and said, "If you were to present yourself to the Prime Minister as Zhang Fei, a generous salary would not be hard to obtain." Ma Ji said, "For a game, perhaps, but how could I change my face to seek glory and prominence?" The host pressed him, and Ma Ji at last agreed. The host laid a banquet and invited the powerful, telling Ma Ji to paint his face and wait. When the guests arrived, they called Ma Ji out to meet them. The guests marveled and said, "How strange! How could he have been so ugly before and so handsome now?" They drank together in great merriment. Ma Ji sang and danced a Yiyang ballad, and not a person in the company failed to be captivated. The next day, memorials recommending Ma Ji were submitted from every quarter. The king was delighted and summoned him with the ceremonial banner. When they met, the king asked about the principles of good governance in China, and Ma Ji gave a detailed account, receiving the highest praise. A banquet was granted in the detached palace. When the wine had flowed freely, the king said, "I have heard that you are skilled in refined music. May I be allowed to hear it?" Ma Ji immediately rose and danced, also imitating the white brocade head wrapping and performing languorous melodies. The king was overjoyed and on the same day appointed him a Grand Master of the Lower Rank. He was often invited to private banquets and received exceptional favor. But in time, the court officials learned that his face was a disguise, and wherever he went he saw them whispering to one another, treating him with less warmth and cordiality. Ma Ji now stood isolated and, though he appeared at ease, was inwardly uneasy. He submitted a memorial requesting to be allowed to retire, but it was denied. He then requested a leave of absence and was granted three months.

Thereupon he rode post with the gold and treasures and returned to the village. The villagers crawled forward on their knees to greet him. Ma distributed the gold among his old friends, and their joyful shouts thundered like drums. The villagers said, "We humble folk have received your lord's bounty. Tomorrow we go to the Sea Market and shall seek rare curios to repay you." He asked, "Where is the Sea Market?" They replied, "It is a market upon the sea, where mermaids from the four seas gather to trade jewels and precious goods. The twelve nations of the four quarters all come to do business. Many divine beings wander there in sport. Clouds and mist veil the sky; waves surge and churn. The noble and the highborn, fearing danger, dare not venture there themselves, so they entrust us with gold and silk to purchase rarities on their behalf. The time is not far off." When he asked how they knew, they said, "Whenever we see red birds flying to and fro over the sea, the market opens in seven days." Ma asked when they were leaving and wished to go along to see it. The villagers urged him to value his high station, but Ma said, "I am a wanderer of the blue sea—why should I fear wind and waves?" Before long, people came one after another to his door entrusting funds. So he packed the money and boarded a boat. The boat held dozens of men, with a flat bottom and high gunwales. Ten men plied the oars, and the water churned as swiftly as flying arrows. After three days, they saw amid the shimmering veil of water and clouds terraces of buildings rising in layers, and trading vessels swarming together like ants like ants. In time they reached the city walls. The bricks of the walls were as tall as a man, and the watchtowers soared to touch the Milky Way. They moored the boat and entered. The goods displayed in the market were rarities and treasures whose brilliance dazzled the eyes—many things unknown in the human world.

A young man rode up on a spirited horse, and the people of the market all scattered in flight. They said he was the "Third Prince of the Eastern Sea." As the prince passed, he glanced at Ma and said, "This is no foreigner." At once a horseman came forward to inquire where he was from. Ma bowed by the roadside and stated his name and lineage in full. The prince, delighted, said, "Since you have graciously honored us with your visit, our bond must be no shallow one!" He then gave Ma a horse and asked him to ride alongside. They issued from the west gate, and when they reached the shore of the island, the horse Ma was riding neighed, reared, and plunged into the water. Ma cried out in terror. But then he saw the sea divide, standing upright like a wall. Presently he beheld a palace: its beams were of hawksbill tortoise shell, its tiles of bream scales; the four walls were crystal clear and dazzling to the eye. He dismounted and bowed his way in. He looked up and saw the Dragon King upon his throne. The prince reported, "Your servant was wandering through the marketplace when he found a worthy scholar of the Middle Kingdom and has brought him to present to the Great King." Ma stepped forward and paid his obeisance. The Dragon King said, "Sir, you are a man of letters and surely can hold your own against Qu and Song. I would trouble you to take up your great brush and compose a rhapsody on the 'Sea Market.' Pray do not begrudge your pearls and jade." Ma kowtowed and accepted the command. He was given an inkstone of crystal, a brush tipped with dragon-whisker hair, paper that shone like snow, and ink whose fragrance was like orchids. He at once composed over a thousand words and presented them in the hall. The Dragon King beat time in appreciation and said, "Sir, your heroic talents bring glory to our watery realm!" He then assembled all the dragon clan and gave a banquet in the Rainbow-Plume Palace. After several rounds of wine and roasted meats, the Dragon King raised his cup and said to his guest, "I have a daughter whom I cherish, but she has yet to find a worthy mate. I wish to entrust her to you, sir. Would you be willing?" Ma rose from his seat in humble gratitude and murmured his assent. The Dragon King spoke to his attendants. In a moment, several palace ladies led out a young lady. The sound of her jade pendants tinkled, and a sudden burst of music rose. When the obeisance was done, he stole a glance—she was truly an immortal. The lady bowed and withdrew. A little later the wine was done, and twin maidservants carrying painted lanterns led Ma to a side palace. The lady sat waiting in rich makeup. Her bed was of coral adorned with the Eight Treasures; the curtain's tassels were strung with pearls the size of bushel measures; her quilts and coverings were fragrant and soft. When dawn was breaking, young maidservants crowded in on every side. Ma rose and hurried out to pay his morning respects. He was appointed Commandant of the Imperial Son-in-Law. His rhapsody was dispatched by courier to every sea. The Dragon Kings of all the seas sent special envoys to offer their congratrations and vied with one another to send letters inviting the son-in-law to feast. Ma, dressed in embroidered robes and riding a green horned dragon, went out with a great retinue of guards. Several dozen warriors on horseback, with carved bows on their backs and white staves in his hands, surrounded him in a blaze of splendor. From horseback they played the zheng; from the carriage they struck jade chimes. In three days he visited every sea. From then on the name "Dragon Matchmaker" resounded throughout the four seas.

In the palace there was a jade tree, so thick that one could just embrace it with both arms. Its trunk was translucent as white glass; its heart was pale yellow, slightly thinner than an arm. Its leaves were like green jade, about the thickness of a coin, and cast a dense shade. He and his lady often sang and recited poems together beneath it. When it bloomed, the blossoms covered the whole tree, resembling gardenia flowers. Each petal that fell made a clear, ringing sound. Picked up and examined, it was like a carved red agate, bright and lovely. At times a strange bird came to sing—its feathers were golden and kingfisher-green, its tail longer than its body, and its voice was like sorrowful jade, piercing the heart and lungs. When Ma heard it, he thought of his homeland. He said to his lady, "I have been away from home for three years, cut off from my parents' kindness. Every time I think of them, tears soak my chest and my back runs with sweat. Can you come back with me?" The lady said, "The paths of immortals and mortals are separate; we cannot be together. Nor could I bear to seize the joy of our love and rob your parents of their happiness. Allow me time to think of a way." When Ma heard this, tears would not stop. The lady also sighed, "This is a matter that cannot be resolved both ways!"

The next day Ma returned from an outing. The Dragon King said, "I hear the Commandant longs for his homeland. Would it suit you to make ready and depart at dawn?" Ma thanked him, saying, "A lonely sojourner, I have received far too great a favor. The thought of repaying it is bound to my heart and bowels. Allow me to return for a brief visit, and I will plan to come back." At dusk, his lady set out wine to bid him farewell. Ma promised to meet her again, but the lady said, "Our bond of love is spent." Ma was overcome with grief. The lady said, "You return to care for your parents—I see your filial piety. The gatherings and partings of life are like morning and evening in a hundred years. Why make a scene of weeping like a child? From now on, let me be faithful to you and you be righteous to me. With two hearts as one in two places, we are husband and wife. Must we be together morning and evening to be called lifelong partners? If either breaks this vow, the marriage will not be fortunate. Should you worry that no one tends your household, you may take a concubine. There is one more thing I must entrust to you: my garments with child seem to bear good omens. I ask you to name the child." Ma said, "If it is a girl, name her Dragon Palace; if a boy, Blessing of the Sea." The lady asked for a token. Ma had a pair of red jade lotus flowers, obtained in the Land of the Rakshasas, which he brought out and gave her. The lady said, "Three years from now, on the eighth day of the fourth month, you shall sail to the Southern Island, and I will return your offspring." She made a pouch of fish leather, filled it with pearls and treasures, and gave it to Ma saying, "Keep this carefully—it will feed your family for generations without exhaustion." At dawn the King set up a farewell tent and gave rich gifts. Ma bowed and took leave of the palace. The lady rode in a white goat cart and escorted him to the shore of the sea. Ma went ashore and dismounted. The lady called out her parting wishes, turned her cart, and departed. In a moment she was far away. The waters closed together, and she could be seen no more. Ma then returned home.

Since he had set out to sea, his family had all assumed he was dead, yet when they saw him return, they were all astonished. Fortunately his parents were unharmed, but his wife alone had left the household. Only then did he understand the Dragon Maiden's words about "keeping faith"—she had foreseen it all. His father wished to arrange a new marriage for him, but he refused; he took a maidservant instead. Carefully observing the three-year term, he sailed his boat to the island. He saw two children sitting upon the water's surface, splashing and laughing in the current, neither moving nor sinking. When he drew near to pull them in, one child gleefully seized his arm and leaped into his embrace. The other wailed loudly, as if resenting that he had not rescued her first, and he drew her up too. Examining them closely, he found one boy and one girl, both of handsome and delicate countenance. Upon their foreheads, flower crowns were adorned with jade—the red lotus was there. On their backs were brocade satchels; opening them, he found a letter which read:

"Your parents-in-law are both well. In the blink of an eye, three years have passed; the dusty world is forever separated from us, and though but a stretch of water lies between, the blue bird cannot carry our messages. Pining thoughts turn into dreams, and craning our necks only brings weariness. Vast and boundless is the blue expanse—what can be done about this sorrow! Yet when I think of Chang'e who fled to the moon, dwelling in vain in the cassia palace; and of the Weaving Maid who cast her shuttle, still pining across the Milky Way—what manner of person am I, that I should expect eternal union? When such thoughts arise, I break into laughter through my tears. Two months after our parting, I gave birth to twins. They are now babbling in my arms, already beginning to understand speech and laughter; they seek dates and grasp pears, and can survive without their mother. I respectfully return them to you. The red jade lotus flowers you sent me, I have used to adorn their crowns as a token of faith. When you hold them to your knees, it will be as though I were still at your side. I hear that you have been able to honor your former vow, and my heart is comforted. In this life I shall have no other, and unto death I shall not waver. In my trousseau chest, I store no precious ointments; before the mirror, I have long abandoned powder and paint. You are like a soldier on campaign, and I like a wife left behind—even though we set aside intimacy and do not share a bed, who could say we are not yet a harmonious pair of lutes? I only calculate that your parents have now been granted grandchildren, yet they have never once seen their new daughter-in-law; measured against propriety and feeling, this too is wanting. Next year, when your mother is laid to rest in the earth, I will come to the graveside to fulfill my wifely duties. Beyond that, if the Dragon Palace remains unharmed, there will not be lacking a time to clasp hands; if the Sea of Blessings grants long life, there may yet be a path for coming and going. I earnestly hope you will treasure yourself. Much remains unsaid."

The scholar read the letter over and over, wiping away his tears. The two children clung to his neck and said, "Shall we go home?" He held them more tightly, grief-stricken, and asked, "Do you children know where home is?" The children wept and babbled that they wished to return. He looked out at the sea—vast and boundless, reaching to the edge of the sky; the cloud-coiffured one was far away, and the misty waves marked the end of the road. Holding the children, he turned his boat about and returned, heavy with sorrow.

The scholar knew his mother would not live long, and he prepared everything for her burial in advance, planting over a hundred pines and catalpas at the gravesite. A year later, his mother indeed died. When the funeral bier reached the burial chamber, a woman in mourning garments appeared at the graveside. The crowd looked back in astonishment, when suddenly a fierce wind arose with thunder and crashing, followed by torrential rain, and in an instant she had vanished. The newly planted pines and catalpas had mostly withered, but from that moment they all revived. As Fuhai grew older, he thought constantly of his mother and one day suddenly threw himself into the sea, returning only after several days. The Dragon Palace, because the girl could not go, often shut her door and wept. One day, at noon, the Dragon Maiden hurried in and stopped him, saying, "Your children are grown and established in their own households—why do you weep?" She then bestowed upon him a coral tree of eight chi, a cake of borneol camphor, a hundred pearls, and a pair of gold-inlaid boxes with eight treasures, as dowry. The scholar heard this and rushed in, seizing her hand and sobbing. In an instant, a thunderbolt shattered the roof, and she was gone.

The Historian of Strange Tales says: "With painted faces they curry favor—the ways of the world are like ghosts. The taste for scabs is the same the whole world over. 'Small shame, small goodness; great shame, great goodness.' If one were to walk openly through the marketplace with the beard and brows of a true man, those who would not flee in terror would be few indeed! That foolish fellow of Lingyang—where would he weep, holding his jade worth several cities? Alas! Glory, honor, and wealth are to be sought only in the mirage towers and the sea-market!"

**Tian Qi Lang**

Wu Chengxiu was a Liaoyang man. He delighted in making friends, and all those he associated with were well-known gentlemen. One night he dreamed of a person who told him, "Your friendships span the realm, but they are all shallow connections. There is only one man who could share hardship with you—why do you not know him?" He asked, "Who is it?" The reply came, "Is it not Tian Qi Lang?" He awoke and thought this strange. The next morning, he asked every friend he met about Qi Lang. One guest who knew of him said he was a hunter from East Village. Wu respectfully called upon his family, striking the gate with his horsewhip. Before long, a man emerged—in his twenties, with fierce eyes and a wasp-like waist, wearing a greasy cap and a coarse black loincloth patched with many white mendings. He raised his hands to his forehead and asked whence the visitor came. Wu stated his name and surname, and explained that he had felt unwell on the road and wished to borrow a room to rest. He asked about Qi Lang, and the man replied, "I am he." He then invited his guest inside. Wu saw several rafters of a dilapidated house, with wooden struts propping up the walls. They entered a small chamber where tiger skins and wolf pelts hung from the pillars; there were no stools or benches to sit upon. Qi Lang spread a mat directly on the floor. Wu spoke with him—his words were plain and unadorned, and Wu was greatly pleased. He immediately offered money for Qi Lang's livelihood. Qi Lang refused. Wu pressed it upon him firmly, and Qi Lang accepted it only after informing his mother. When Wu was about to leave shortly after, Qi Lang firmly refused to keep it. Wu insisted again and again. His aged mother arrived, her expression stern, and said, "This old woman has only this one son—I do not wish him to serve a wealthy guest!" Wu withdrew in shame. On the way back he turned the matter over and over in his mind, unable to understand her meaning. It happened that one of his attendants had overheard the mother's words from behind the house and reported them to Wu.

Previously, Qi Lang had brought gold and presented it to his mother. His mother said, "I have just observed that the young gentleman has lines of ill omen on his face—he is certain to meet with a terrible calamity. I have heard it said: he who receives another's favor must share in that person's troubles; he who receives another's kindness must rush to that person's aid. A wealthy man repays others with money; a poor man repays others with righteousness. To receive a lavish gift for no reason is inauspicious—I fear it will bring a fatal reckoning upon you." Wu heard of this and deeply admired the mother's wisdom, yet his admiration for Qi Lang only grew stronger.

The following day, Wu prepared a banquet and invited him, but Qi Lang declined. Wu went to his house, sat down, and demanded wine. Qi Lang himself poured the wine, served dried venison, and showed him the most thorough hospitality. The day after that, Wu invited him in return, and this time Qi Lang came. They were on the most cordial and cheerful terms. Wu offered him gold, but he would not accept it. Wu then asked him to purchase tiger skins on his behalf, and only then did he accept the money. When he returned and examined his savings, he calculated that they were insufficient to cover the cost. He thought he would go hunting again and then make his offering. He entered the mountains for three days but caught nothing. It happened that his wife fell ill, and he stayed by her side tending to her medicinal broths, having no time to attend to his work. Within ten days, his wife died, fading away in an instant. He arranged for her funeral and burial, and the gold he had received was gradually spent. Wu came in person to offer his condolences and attend the funeral, treating him with the greatest generosity and courtesy.

After the burial, Qi Lang shouldered his bow and went into the mountains, the more determined to find a way to repay Wu, yet he caught nothing. Wu learned of his situation and urged him not to be hasty. He earnestly hoped that Qi Lang would at least come visit him, but Qi Lang, burdened by a sense of debt, was ashamed and would not come. Wu then went and retrieved the hides he had previously stored, in order to hasten Qi Lang's visit. Qi Lang examined the old hides and found them riddled with worms and ruined, the fur entirely fallen off. His frustration grew even greater. Wu learned of this, galloped to his courtyard, and did his utmost to comfort and console him. He then examined the ruined hides and said, "These are still quite good. What I wanted to obtain was never about the fur." He then had the hides stretched and dried, and invited Qi Lang to accompany him. Qi Lang could not go, so Wu returned home alone.

Qi Lang, thinking that he could never adequately repay Wu, packed provisions and entered the mountain. After several nights, he caught an entire tiger and presented it to Wu. Wu was delighted, prepared a feast, and asked him to stay for three days. Qi Lang firmly declined. Wu locked the courtyard gate so he could not leave. The guests saw that Qi Lang was plain and uncouth and whispered among themselves that the young gentleman was befriending the wrong sort of person. But Wu treated Qi Lang with marked distinction above all the other guests. He offered him new clothes, which Qi Lang refused; Wu waited until he was asleep and secretly replaced his garments, and Qi Lang had no choice but to accept them. After Qi Lang left, his son, obeying the old lady's instructions, returned the new clothes and asked for the old ones back. Wu laughed and said, "Go back and tell the old lady—the old clothes have already been taken apart and used as lining for shoes." From then on, Qi Lang sent Wu rabbits and deer every day, but when summoned, he no longer came.

One day, Wu went to visit Qi Lang and arrived while he was out hunting and had not yet returned. The old lady came out, stood in the doorway leaning on one leg, and said, "Do not lead my son astray again—you bear him no good intentions!" Wu bowed respectfully to her and withdrew in shame.

About half a year later, a servant suddenly reported: "Qi Lang got into a fight over a hunting leopard and has beaten a man to death. He has been seized and taken to the official yamen." Wu was greatly alarmed and rushed to see him. Qi Lang was already in chains and imprisoned. When he saw Wu, he said nothing, only remarking, "From now on, I must trouble you to look after my old mother." Wu left in great distress. He hastily offered a large sum of money to the county magistrate and another hundred taels to the victim's family. After more than a month, the matter was settled, and Qi Lang was released and returned home. His mother said with emotion, "My son, your very body and hair have been given to Master Wu—they are no longer mine to cherish. I can only pray that the young gentleman lives a hundred years without calamity or misfortune—that would be your good fortune."

Qi Lang wished to go and thank Wu. His mother said, "Go if you must, but when you see Master Wu, do not thank him. Small favors may be thanked; great favors must not be thanked." Qi Lang went to see Wu, who spoke to him with warm words of comfort, and Qi Lang assented quietly. The servants all thought him distant, but Wu was pleased by his sincerity and treated him even more generously. From then on, he would often stay at the young gentleman's house for several days at a time. He accepted whatever gifts were offered without refusing them, and without speaking of repayment.

It happened that it was Wu's birthday, and the guests and attendants were numerous; at night, the lodging was filled with shoes. Wu shared a small room with Qi Lang, while three servants slept on straw beneath the bed. The second watch was nearly over, and all the servants had fallen asleep, but the two men were still talking animatedly. Qi Lang's sword hung on the wall, and suddenly it leaped several inches out of its scabbard on its own, ringing with a clear, metallic sound, its blade flashing like lightning. Wu started up in alarm. Qi Lang also rose and asked, "Who are the men sleeping beneath the bed?" Wu replied, "They are all servants." Qi Lang said, "There must be a wicked man among them." Wu asked why. Qi Lang said, "This sword was purchased from a foreign land. It has never needed more than a single stroke to kill. I have carried it for three generations now. It has severed a thousand heads and is still as sharp as the day it was honed. When it encounters a wicked man, it rings and leaps—a sign that it will soon be used to kill. The young gentleman should draw close to the virtuous and keep the petty at a distance—perhaps then disaster may be averted." Wu nodded. Qi Lang remained unhappy, tossing and turning on his mat. Wu said, "Calamity and fortune are matters of fate—why do you worry so deeply?" Qi Lang said, "I myself have no fear, but I have an old mother to think of." Wu said, "How can it come to that?" Qi Lang said, "If it doesn't, so much the better."

Now, the three men beneath the bed were: first, Lin Er, a favored servant who could always win his master's favor; second, a young servant boy of twelve or thirteen whom Wu regularly employed; and third, Li Ying, the most stubborn and clumsy of all, who would often quarrel fiercely with the young gentleman over trivial matters, and whom Wu regularly grew angry with. That night, Wu silently considered the matter and suspected it must be this man. At dawn, he summoned him and dismissed him with kind words.

# From *Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio*, Volume 4

## The Dragon

During the *xu* years of the Kangxi reign, in Xing Village, a woman of the Li family was left a widow while carrying her dead husband's child. Her belly suddenly swelled as large as a jar, then contracted as if gripped in a fist. When the time came, she labored a full day and night but could not deliver. When they looked, they saw a dragon's head—but it would retreat as soon as anyone caught sight of it. The family was terrified. An old woman named Wang burned incense, performed the Pace of Yu, pressing on the belly and chanting incantations. Soon after, the afterbirth dropped. The dragon was no longer seen, but several scales as large as wine-cups were left behind. Then a girl was born, her flesh translucent as crystal, her internal organs clearly countable.

## Baozhu

Before the Wu rebellion, the Prince once proclaimed to his officers: any man who could single-handedly capture a tiger would receive generous rations and be called a "Tiger-Fighting General." Among the officers was one named Baozhu, as nimble as a monkey. A tall palace was being built in the prince's residence, the roof beams just erected. Baozhu climbed up along the corner of the building and in moments reached the top, then walked briskly along the ridge purlin, going back and forth three or four times. Then he leaped straight down, standing upright and firm.

The prince had a favorite concubine skilled at the *pipa*. Her *pipa* had warm jade for its tuning pegs, and holding it warmed an entire room. She treasured it and would not show it to anyone without the prince's written order. One evening at a banquet, a guest asked to see this marvel. The prince happened to be feeling indolent and promised to show it the next day. Baozhu, standing nearby, said: "Without Your Highness's command, I can retrieve it." The prince sent a rider to the residence to alert everyone inside and outside to be on guard, then dispatched Baozhu. Baozhu crossed over ten successive walls before reaching the concubine's courtyard. He saw lamplight glowing within, but the door was bolted shut—he could not enter. A roosting parrot sat on a perch in the corridor. Baowu mewed like a cat, then imitated the parrot's cry, calling urgently: "The cat is coming!" The sound of pouncing grew loud and frantic. They heard the concubine say: "Green Slave, hurry and look—the parrot is being killed!" Baozhu hid in a dark corner. Soon a young woman came out carrying a lamp. The moment her body cleared the doorway, Baozhu slipped inside. He saw the concubine guarding the *pipa* on a table. He seized it and rushed out. The concubine cried out "A thief!" and all the guards sprang up. Seeing Baozhu carrying the *pipa* and running, they gave chase but could not catch him, raining arrows upon him like a storm. Baozhu leaped up into a tree. Below the wall there happened to be a large locust tree over thirty spans tall. He moved through the treetops as if flying from branch to branch. When he reached the end of the trees, he climbed onto a roof, then from roof to roof, then to a tower, racing through the palace halls as if with wings, vanishing in a flash, no one knew where. The guests were still drinking when Baozhu came flying down before the eaves, *pipa* in hand. The gates were still bolted as before; not a chicken or dog had made a sound.

## Gongsun Jiuniang

[The remainder of this story continues from the previous tale, "Lin."]

Lin's elder son Shen married a woman of the Wang family. One day, Lin went out and left his son's young servant, Lin'er, to keep watch in the study. The chrysanthemums in the study were in full bloom. The young wife thought that since the old gentleman was away, the study courtyard would be quiet, and went herself to pick some chrysanthemums. Lin'er suddenly appeared and tried to flirt with her. The woman tried to flee, but Lin'er seized her forcefully and dragged her inside. She wept and resisted, her face changing and her voice growing hoarse. Shen rushed in, and only then did Lin'er release her and flee. When Lin returned and heard of this, he was furious and went in search of Lin'er, but no one could say where he had gone. After two or three days, they learned that he had taken himself to the household of a certain Imperial Censor. The Censor was in the capital, and all family affairs were entrusted to his younger brother. Lin, appealing to the bonds of fellow townsmen, sent a letter demanding the return of Lin'er, but the younger brother simply ignored the letter. Lin grew even more enraged and brought a complaint before the county magistrate. Although a warrant was issued, the constables did not arrest him, and the magistrate took no further notice.

Lin was seething with anger when Qi Lang arrived. Lin said: "Your words have proven true." He poured out his grievance to him. Qi Lang's face fell in anguish, but he said nothing at all, and left directly. Lin ordered a trusted servant to track down Lin'er. Lin'er returned at night and was seized by the lookout, then brought before Lin. Lin beat him severely. Lin'er's words were insolent toward Lin. Lin's younger brother Heng, a man of upright character, feared that his nephew's violent rage would bring disaster, and advised him to handle it through official channels instead. Lin agreed, bound Lin'er, and took him to the magistrate's court. But a letter arrived by courier from the Censor's household; the magistrate released Lin'er and handed him over to the Censor's steward to be taken away. Lin'er grew even more brazen, spreading rumors among the crowd that the master's wife had had an affair with him. Lin could do nothing about it, his fury choking him as if he wished to die. He rode to the Censor's gate and ranted and raged. His neighbors comforted him and urged him to go home.

That night, a family servant reported: "Lin'er has been hacked to pieces and his corpse thrown into the open fields." Lin was overjoyed and his spirits revived somewhat. Soon after, he heard that the Censor's household had brought charges against his uncle and nephew, so he went with his uncle to answer the summons. The magistrate would not allow them to speak in their defense and was about to have Heng flogged. Lin protested loudly: "The murder charge is baseless! But as for the insults and abuse of a gentleman—I am the one who did it. It has nothing to do with my uncle." The magistrate pretended not to hear. Lin's eyes were wild with fury and he tried to rush forward, but the bailiffs restrained him. The constables who wielded the rods were all the Censor's running dogs, and Heng was elderly and frail; before the flogging was half done, he lay motionless, already dead. Seeing that Lin's uncle was dying, the magistrate pressed no further charges. Lin wailed and cursed, but the magistrate acted as though he heard nothing. Lin then carried his uncle's body home. Grief and rage left him with no recourse.

He wanted to seek Qi Lang's counsel, but Qi Lang did not even come to offer condolences. Lin thought to himself: I was not unkind to Qi Lang—why does he treat me like a stranger? He also suspected that it must have been Qi Lang who killed Lin'er. But then he thought: if so, why didn't he consult with me first? He sent someone to inquire at Qi Lang's home, but found the doors locked and the house silent—even the neighbors knew nothing of what had happened.

One day, the Censor's younger brother was in the inner office, negotiating with the magistrate. At the hour when firewood and water were brought in the morning, a woodcutter suddenly appeared before him, set down his burden, drew a sharp blade, and rushed straight at him. The younger brother, in terror, raised his hand to block the blade—it severed his wrist. A second stroke took his head. The magistrate was terrified and fled. The woodcutter looked around in confusion. The bailiffs and clerks hastily shut the yamen gates and raised their staves, shouting. The woodcutter then cut his own throat and died. A crowd gathered to identify him, and those who recognized him knew it was Tian Qi Lang. Once the magistrate's shock had passed, he came out to examine the scene. He saw Qi Lang lying stiff in a pool of blood, his hand still gripping the blade. Just as he leaned over to inspect the body more closely, the corpse suddenly sprang up, seized the magistrate's head and severed it, then collapsed again. The yamen officers went to arrest Qi Lang's mother and son, but they had already fled days before.

When Lin heard of Qi Lang's death, he rode to the scene and wept with all his heart. Everyone said that Lin must have instigated Qi Lang. Lin spent his entire fortune and used every connection among the powerful to escape punishment. Qi Lang's corpse lay in the open fields for over thirty days, guarded by birds and dogs circling around it. Lin retrieved it and gave it a generous burial. His son later settled in Dengzhou, changed his surname to Tong, and rose through the ranks of the military. Through his merits he rose to the rank of Assistant General. When he returned to Liaodong, Lin was already over eighty years old, and the son pointed out his father's grave to him.

The Historian of the Strange writes: "He would not accept even a single coin lightly—for this is precisely why he never forgot even a single meal's kindness. How virtuous was his mother! As for Qi Lang—his grievance was not yet fully avenged, yet even in death he carried it out. How divine! If Jing Ke had been able to do the same, there would have been no regrets for a thousand years. If such men existed, they could mend the gaps in Heaven's net. But the ways of the world are vast and dark—I only wish there were more like Qi Lang. How tragic!"

In the affair of Yu Qi, those implicated and put to death were most numerous in the two counties of Qixia and Laiyang. One day several hundred captives were herded together and all slaughtered in the military drill ground. Blood soaked the earth; white bones pierced the sky. The compassionate superiors donated coffins, and the workshops of the provincial capital exhausted all their timber. For this reason, the ghosts executed in the east were mostly buried in the southern suburbs.

During the jiayin period, a scholar from Laiyang came to Jixia. Two or three of his relatives and friends had also been among those executed. He therefore bought paper money and sacrificial offerings, and poured libations among the tangled weeds of the grave mounds. He took lodging in the lower quarters of a temple. The next day he went into the city to attend to some business and had not returned by dusk. Suddenly a young man came visiting at the chamber. Seeing the scholar was not there, he removed his hat, climbed onto the bed, and lay on his back with his shoes still on. The servant asked who he was, but he closed his eyes and made no reply.

When the scholar returned, the evening light was dim and hard to make out. He went himself to the bedside and questioned him. The young man glared and said: "I am waiting for your master. You pester me with questions—am I a robber?" The scholar laughed and said: "I am the master here." The young man at once rose, put on his hat, bowed, and sat down. They exchanged elaborate pleasantries. Listening to his voice, the scholar felt they had met before. He hastily called for a lamp to be brought, and it turned out to be Zhu, a fellow townsman of his, who had also died in the calamity of Yu Qi. The scholar was greatly terrified and backed away. Zhu pulled him back and said: "You and I share a bond of letters—why be so lacking in feeling? Though I am a ghost, my thoughts of old friends remain fixed and unforgotten. I come now with a request. I pray you do not suspect or slight me on account of my being a different creature."

The scholar then sat down and asked what he wished to say. Zhu said: "Your niece, being widowed and without a mate, I wish to have her manage my household. I have repeatedly sent matchmakers, but she always declines on the ground that she lacks the command of a senior. I hope you will not begrudge a few words of favor." It happened that the scholar had a niece who had early lost her mother. She had been left in his care, and was returned to her own family only at fifteen. When captives were brought to Ji'nan, she heard that her father had been executed and died of shock. The scholar said: "She has her own father—why come to me?" Zhu said: "Her father's coffin has been opened and removed by his nephew; he is not here now." The scholar asked: "Whom has your niece been relying on?" Zhu said: "She lives with an old neighbor woman." The scholar worried that a living man could not act as a ghost's matchmaker. Zhu said: "If I may have your golden promise, I would trouble you to come in person." He then rose and took the scholar's hand. The scholar firmly declined. "Where are you going?" Zhu said: "Just come along." The scholar reluctantly followed him.

They went north about a li, and came to a large village of several hundred households. Arriving at a mansion, Zhu rapped on the door with his knuckles. At once an old woman came out, threw open both leaves of the door, and asked Zhu: "What is it?" He said: "Please tell your young lady that her maternal uncle has arrived." The old woman turned and went in, and shortly came out again, inviting the scholar inside. She glanced at Zhu and said: "The two rooms of this thatched cottage are very cramped. I beg the young gentleman to wait a short while outside the gate." The scholar followed her in. He saw a courtyard of half a mu overgrown with weeds, with two small rooms ranged beside it. His niece met him at the door weeping; the scholar also wept. The lamp in the chamber burned with a dim glow. The girl's face was as fair and clean as in life; her eyes were fixed and brimming with tears. She asked after her aunts and grandmother one by one. The scholar said: "They are all well, but your uncle has passed away." The girl sobbed again and said: "I received your care and nurture from my aunt and uncle since childhood, and had not yet repaid you with the least service. I never expected to be buried in a ditch first—this is my deep regret. Last year my uncle's eldest elder brother moved my father away and gave me no thought at all. Hundreds of li away, I was as lonely as a swallow in autumn. That my uncle did not abandon this sunken soul, and further bestowed gold and silk upon me—I have already received it." The scholar told her of Zhu's words. The girl lowered her head and said nothing. The old woman said: "The young gentleman has sent the old woman Yang here three or five times before. I thought it a very fine thing. The young lady would not act carelessly on her own. With her uncle directing the matter, her heart will now be satisfied."

As she spoke, a girl of seventeen or eighteen, followed by a maid in blue, suddenly burst in. She caught sight of the scholar and turned to flee. The niece caught her by the skirt and said: "There's no need for that! This is my uncle." The scholar bowed to her. The young lady also performed a curtsy. The niece said: "This is Jiuniang, of the Gongsun family of Qixia. Her father was from an old family; now she too is a 'poor Persian,' and feels out of place and discontented. She comes and goes with me morning and evening." The scholar looked at her sideways: her smile was like the autumn moon curved in a bow, her blush like the rosy clouds of dawn. She was truly a being from heaven. He said: "One can tell she is from a great family—how could someone in a snail-shell dwelling be so lovely?" The niece laughed and said: "She is a woman scholar too; her poetry and verse are all works of the highest order. Just yesterday I received a little instruction from her." Jiuniang gave a faint smile and said: "This little servant has wantonly ruined someone, making your uncle laugh in disdain." The niece laughed again and said: "My uncle has not yet remarried after losing his wife. Would this little lady be able to bring him satisfaction?" Jiuniang laughed and ran out, saying: "This is the madness of a crazy servant girl!" And she was gone. Though her words bordered on jest, the scholar was deeply taken with her. The niece seemed to perceive this faintly, and said: "Jiuniang's talent and beauty are without equal. If my uncle does not suspect her on account of her being mere dirt and filth, I will ask her mother on his behalf." The scholar was overjoyed, but he worried that the living and the ghostly could not be matched. The girl said: "No harm will come of it. She and my uncle have a predestined bond from a former life." The scholar then took his leave. The girl escorted him and said: "In five days, when the moon is bright and all is still, I will send someone to fetch you." When the scholar reached outside the gate, he did not see Zhu. He craned his neck and looked westward. The moon hung like a half-circle; in the dim yellow light he could still recognize the old path. He saw a mansion to the south, and Zhu sitting on the stone before the gate. Zhu rose to greet him and said: "I have waited a long while. I beg you to favor my humble dwelling with your presence." He then took the scholar's hand and led him in, expressing his gratitude again and again. He brought out a golden goblet and a hundred Jin-dynasty pearls, saying: "I have no other valuables; these may serve in lieu of betrothal gifts." Then he said: "My house has coarse wine, but the things of a dark chamber are not fit to entertain an honored guest—what can I do?" The scholar waved his hands in polite refusal and withdrew. Zhu escorted him for a good stretch of the road before they parted.

# Liaozhai Zhiyi, Volume 04

# Jiǔniáng

The scholar returned. His servants and monks gathered to ask where he had been. He concealed the truth, saying: "The talk of ghosts is nonsense. I just went to drink with a friend." Five days later, Zhū indeed came, his sandals neatly fastened and a fan in hand, in excellent spirits. Just as he reached the gate, he bowed from a distance through the dust, smiling and saying: "Your wedding celebration has already been arranged, and the rejoicing will be at hand. I have troubled you to take this step." The scholar said: "Since I received no reply, I have not yet sent the betrothal gifts. How could the ceremony be concluded so suddenly?" Zhū said: "I took the liberty of sending them on your behalf." The scholar was deeply grateful and went with him. They went straight to the bedchamber, where his niece awaited him in splendid attire, smiling in welcome. The scholar asked: "When were you married?" The woman said: "Three days ago." Zhū then produced the pearls he had given and helped his niece with her trousseau. The woman declined thrice before accepting, and said to the scholar: "Your niece conveyed your wishes to the Old Lady Gōngsūn, who was overjoyed. But she said she is old and feeble with no other flesh and blood, and does not wish Jiǔniáng to marry far away. She expects you to come tonight and live with them as a matrilineal son-in-law. Since there are no men in that household, you may go together with your young friend." Zhū then led him away. When they reached the end of the village, a gate opened, and the two men entered the hall. Soon it was announced: "The Old Lady has arrived." Two maidservants in blue robes helped an old woman up the steps. The scholar was about to prostrate himself, but the Lady said: "This old decrepit woman cannot perform the rites. Let us dispense with formalities." She directed the maidservants, and a feast was served with wine. Zhū then summoned his household and brought out separate dishes, placing them before the scholar. He also set out another pot of wine for his guest to drink. The food served at the banquet was no different from that of the human world. But the host served himself and made no effort to urge the guest to eat.

After the banquet ended, Zhū departed. The maidservant in blue led the scholar away and entered a chamber, where Jiǔniáng awaited him by the glow of ornate candles. Their reunion was filled with tender feeling, and they gave themselves over to the deepest intimacy. Originally, Jiǔniáng and her mother had been sent under escort to the capital. Upon reaching the district, her mother could not endure the hardship and died, and Jiǔniáng cut her own throat. Recounting these events on the pillow, she choked with sobs and could not sleep. She then composed two quants extempore: "Once my silk robes turned to dust, / In vain I bear the karma of my former life with hatred. / Ten years under cold dew and moonlit maple forests, / Tonight I first meet spring in this painted pavilion." "White poplars and wind and rain encircle a lonely grave— / Who would think of the sunny terrace becoming clouds again? / Suddenly I open the carved gold box within, / And the bloodstains still dye the old silk robes." As dawn approached, she urged him: "You should leave now, and do not startle the servants." From then on he came by day and returned by night, and their attachment grew ever more extraordinary.

One evening he asked Jiǔniáng: "What is the name of this village?" She said: "Láixiá Hamlet. There are many newly dead from two places in the hamlet, hence the name." Upon hearing this, the scholar sighed with grief. The woman said sadly: "A tender soul a thousand leagues away, drifting without end—a mother and child, bereft and alone—speaking of it breaks the heart. I hope you will remember the kindness of one night and gather my bones to bury them beside the tomb, so that for a hundred years I may have a place to rest, and even in death I shall not be forgotten." The scholar promised. The woman said: "The paths of the living and the dead are different—you should not linger long." She then gave him her silk stockings, wiped away her tears, and urged him to leave. The scholar departed sorrowfully, his heart too anguished to bear returning. He therefore went to knock on Zhū's door. Zhū came out barefoot to greet him; his niece also rose, her cloud-like hair loose and disheveled, startled to inquire after him. The scholar was lost in melancholy for a long while before he finally recounted Jiǔniáng's words. The woman said: "If my aunt had not spoken of it, I would have been planning it day and night. This is not the world of the living—one cannot stay long." They faced each other in tears, and the scholar also parted with weeping. He returned to his lodging and lay down, but tossed and turned until dawn. He wished to find Jiǔniáng's grave, but realized he had forgotten to ask for its marker. When he went again that night, there were a thousand mounds upon mounds, and he lost his way entirely in the village paths, returning with sighs and regret. He unfolded the silk stockings to look at them—upon exposure to the wind they crumbled to pieces, rotted as if to ashes. He then packed his things and headed east.

For half a year he could not free himself from grief. He went again to Jìmén, hoping to encounter her. When he reached the southern suburbs, the sun was already low. He rested beneath a tree and hastened to the burial ground. All he could see were tomb after tomb stretching endlessly, his vision lost among the wild brambles. Will-o'-the-wisps flickered and foxes cried—a sight to chill the heart and eyes. Startled and sorrowful, he returned to his lodging. Disheartened, he wandered about, then turned his horse and headed east. After traveling about a league, he saw from afar a woman standing atop a mound, her expression and bearing strangely resembling Jiǔniáng. He whipped his horse forward to look—indeed it was Jiǔniáng. He dismounted to speak with her, but the woman walked straight away as if she did not know him. He drew closer again, and her expression turned to anger; she raised her sleeve to shield her face. He called out "Jiǔniáng!"—and she vanished like smoke.

The Historian of Extraordinary Matters says: "Fragrant herbs sink into silk gauze, and blood fills the breast; from the Eastern Mountains the jade pendants are worn, and tears soak the sand. Since ancient times there have been filial sons and loyal ministers who, even unto death, could not be forgiven by their lords and fathers. Could Gōngsūn Jiǔniáng be one who, burdened by the trust of her unburied bones, harbors resentment that she cannot release? There is something lodged between heart and diaphragm that she cannot bring forth to show—what a grievance!"

# The Cricket

During the Xuāndé era, the palace was fond of cricket fighting, and crickets were levied from the people every year. This creature was not originally produced in the west. There was a magistrate of Huáyīn who wished to curry favor with his superior. He presented one cricket, and when it proved good at fighting through trial, he was ordered to supply them regularly. The magistrate passed this duty down to the village headman.

Roving ruffians in the market would cage and raise fine specimens, inflating their prices and hoarding them as rare goods. The village clerks, cunning and crafty, used this as a pretext to extort money from every household. For each cricket demanded, several families' fortunes were ruined.

In the county there was a man named Cheng, who had devoted himself to the scholar's calling but had long failed to pass the examinations. Being simple and slow of speech, he was reported by unscrupulous clerks to serve as village headman, and despite every scheme he devised, he could not escape the post. Before the year was out, his modest property was exhausted. It happened that a cricket levy was ordered. Cheng dared not collect from the households, yet had nothing to compensate for the shortfall, and was so distraught that he wished for death. His wife said, "What good would dying do? You had better go out and search yourself—perhaps you may find one by a stroke of luck." Cheng agreed. He went out at dawn and returned at dusk, carrying a bamboo tube and a wire cage, probing among ruined walls and tangled weeds, turning over stones and digging into burrows. No device he tried brought success. Even when he caught two or three, they were puny and weak, not up to the magistrate's standard. The magistrate imposed strict deadlines for punishment, and after ten-odd days Cheng had received a hundred blows with the rod. Pus and blood streamed down both his thighs, and he could no longer even go out to catch crickets. Tossing on his bed, he thought only of killing himself.

At that time a hunchbacked sorceress came to the village, who could divine by supernatural means. Cheng's wife prepared money and went to consult her. She saw young women and white-haired old crams crowding the doorway. Entering the inner chamber, she found it hung with curtains, and before the curtains a table set with incense. Those who sought answers burned incense in the censer and bowed twice. The sorceress stood to one side and gazed into empty space, offering prayers on their behalf. Her lips moved in and out, though no words could be heard, and all stood in reverent silence to listen. After a while, a slip of paper was tossed out from behind the curtain, and it spoke of exactly what was in the person's mind, without the slightest error. Cheng's wife placed money on the table and burned incense in worship. After a brief interval, the curtain stirred and a scrap of paper fluttered down. She picked it up and looked at it: it bore no writing but a picture, depicting a hall and pavilion resembling a Buddhist temple. Behind a small hill, strange rocks lay in confusion, and among dense thorny bushes a cricket called "Blue-Head" crouched. Beside it a toad seemed poised to leap and dance. She studied it but could not understand it. Yet seeing the cricket, she felt it secretly answered her heart's desire. She folded it away and returned to show Cheng.

Cheng turned it over in his mind: "Could this be showing me where to hunt for a cricket?" Examining the scene closely, he found it bore a striking resemblance to the Great Buddha Pavilion east of the village. He roused himself, took his staff, and went to the back of the temple, following the picture. There an ancient mound rose thick with growth. He walked along it and saw stones crouching in rows like scales, exactly as in the picture. Then, among the wild weeds, he listened carefully and walked slowly, searching as though for a needle or a mustard seed, yet his mind, eyes, and ears were all strained to no avail—there was no trace or sound. Just as his desperate search continued, a scabby toad suddenly bounded away. Cheng was astonished and hurried in pursuit. The toad plunged into the grass. He tracked it and parted the growth, and saw a cricket crouching at the root of a thorn bush. He lunged and caught it, but it slipped into a hole in the stone. He teased it with a sharp blade of grass but it would not come out; only when he poured water from his tube into the hole did it emerge. Its form was exceptionally fine and strong. He chased it and captured it. On close inspection: a large body, a long tail, a green neck, and golden wings. Overjoyed, he placed it in his cage and returned home. The whole household celebrated, feeling that even a jade disc worth several cities would not surpass it. They put it in a basin and fed it on crab-meat and chestnut, tending it with the utmost care. They kept it until the deadline, to satisfy the official demand.

Cheng had a son of nine years. Seeing his father was out, he secretly opened the basin. The cricket leaped out and bounded into the path, too swift to catch. When the boy finally seized it, its legs had fallen off and its belly was split—in a moment it was dead. The child, terrified, ran weeping to tell his mother. When she heard, her face turned ashen and she cried out, "Wretched creature, your time for death has come! When your father returns, he will settle accounts with you himself!" The child went out weeping. Before long Cheng came in and heard his wife's words as though drenched in ice and snow. In fury he searched for the boy, but the child had vanished and could not be found. Then they discovered his body at the well. His anger turned to grief, and he beat his breast and cried out as if his heart would break. Husband and wife sat facing the corner of the room; no smoke rose from their thatched cottage. They sat in silence, facing each other, with no will to live.

As evening approached, they took the child for a rough burial. When they drew near and touched him, his breath was still faintly stirring. Overjoyed, they placed him on the bed, and by midnight he revived. The hearts of husband and wife were somewhat comforted. But the child's spirit was dull and wooden, and he lay as if barely alive, always on the verge of sleep. Cheng looked at the empty cricket cage and was choked with grief, no longer giving a thought to his son. From dusk to dawn he did not close his eyes. When the eastern sun had risen, he lay stiff and lost in endless sorrow. Suddenly he heard a cricket chirping outside the door. Startling awake, he went to look, and the cricket was indeed still there. Delighted, he caught it. But at the first chirp it leaped away, moving very quickly. He covered it with his palm, but it felt as though nothing were there. The moment his hand lifted, it leaped again. He hurried to chase it, but it turned past a corner of the wall and he lost track of where it had gone. He looked around in every direction and saw a cricket resting on the wall. Examining it closely, it was small, black and red in color—certainly not the former one. Cheng thought it inferior on account of its size. He could only wander about, looking everywhere, seeking the one he had been chasing. Then the small cricket on the wall suddenly leaped and landed on his lapel and sleeve. He looked at it: its form resembled a mole-cricket, with plum-blossom wings, a square head, and long legs—it seemed promising. Pleased, he kept it. He was about to present it to the magistrate's court, but feared anxiously that it might not meet expectations, and thought of testing it in a fight to see.

A young man in the village, fond of such amusements, had trained a cricket which he called "Crab-Shell Blue." He matched it against the young men's crickets every day and was never defeated. He wished to keep it for profit and set a high price on it, but no one bought it. He went straight to Cheng's cottage to pay a visit. Seeing the cricket Cheng had kept, he covered his mouth and laughed. Then he produced his own cricket and placed it in the same cage. Cheng looked at it: it was huge and tall, and he felt his own shame and dared not compete. The young man insisted. Cheng thought to himself: keeping a worthless creature would be of no use—better to stake it for a laugh. So he agreed and placed both crickets in the fighting basin. The small cricket lay still, stupid as a wooden rooster. The young man laughed again. He tried tickling the cricket's whiskers with a pig's bristle, but it still did not move. The young man laughed once more. After repeated provocations, the cricket flew into a rage and charged straight at the other. They clashed and leaped at each other, fighting with vigor and making sounds. Soon the small cricket sprang up, spread its tail and extended its whiskers, and bit straight into the neck of its opponent. The young man was greatly alarmed and called for them to stop. The cricket raised its head and chirped proudly, as if reporting its victory to its master. Cheng was overjoyed.

As they were admiring it together, a chicken darted in and rushed forward to peck. Cheng stood aghast and cried out in alarm. Fortunately the peck missed, and the cricket leaped away about a foot. The chicken advanced strongly, pressing close—the cricket was already beneath its claws. Cheng, in sudden panic, knew not how to save it, and stamped his foot, his face drained of color. Then he saw the chicken stretch its neck and flap; looking closely, the cricket had settled on the chicken's comb, biting fiercely and refusing to let go. Cheng was doubly amazed and delighted. He picked it up and placed it in the cage.

翼日進宰。宰見其小，怒訶成。成述其異，宰不信。試與他蟲斗，蟲盡靡；又試之雞，果如成言。乃賞成，獻諸撫軍。撫軍大悅，以金籠進上，細疏其能。既入宮中，舉天下所貢蝴蝶、螳螂、油利撻、青絲額……一切異狀，遍試之，無出其右者。每聞琴瑟之聲，則應節而舞，益奇之。上大嘉悅，詔賜撫臣名馬衣緞。撫軍不忘所自，無何，宰以「卓異」聞。宰悅，免成役；又囑學使，俾入邑庠。后歲餘，成子精神復舊，自言：「身化促織，輕捷善斗，今始蘇耳。」撫軍亦厚賚成。不數歲，田百頃，樓閣萬椽，牛羊蹄躈各千計。一出門，裘馬過世家焉。

異史氏曰：「天子偶用一物，未必不過此已忘；而奉行者即為定例。加之官貪吏虐，民日貼婦賣兒，更無休止。故天子一跬步皆關民命，不可忽也。第成氏子以蠹貧，以促織富，裘馬揚揚。當其為里正、受撲責時，豈意其至此哉！天將以酬長厚者，遂使撫臣、令尹、并受促織恩蔭。聞之：一人飛升，仙及雞犬。信夫！」

柳秀才

明季，蝗生青兗間，漸集于沂，沂令憂之。退臥署幕，夢一秀才來謁，峨冠綠衣，狀貌修偉，自言御蝗有策。詢之，答云：「明日西南道上有婦跨碩腹牝驢子，蝗神也。哀之，可免。」令異之。治具出邑南。伺良久，果有婦高髻褐帔，獨控老蒼衛，緩蹇北度。即爇香，捧卮酒，迎拜道左，捉驢不令去。婦問：「大夫將何為？」令便哀求：「區區小治，幸憫脫蝗口。」婦曰：「可恨柳秀才饒舌，泄我密機！當即以其身受，不損禾稼可耳。」乃盡三卮，瞥不復見。

后蝗來飛蔽天日，竟不落禾田，盡集楊柳，過處柳葉都盡。方悟秀才柳神也。或云：「是宰官憂民所感。」誠然哉！

水災

康熙二十一年，山東旱，自春徂夏，赤地千里。六月十三日小雨，始種粟。十八日大雨后，乃種豆。一日，石門莊有老叟，暮見二羊斗山上，告村人曰：「大水至矣！」遂攜家播遷。村人共笑之。無何，雨暴注，平地水深數尺，居廬盡沒。一農人棄其兩兒，與妻扶老母奔避高阜。下視村中，匯為澤國，并不復念及兩兒。水落歸家。一村盡成墟墓，入己門，則一屋獨存，見兩兒尚并坐床頭，嬉笑無恙。咸嘆謂夫婦孝感所致。此六月二十二日事也。

康熙二十四年，平陽地震，人民死者十有七八。城郭盡墟；僅存一舍，則孝子某家也。茫茫大劫中，惟孝嗣無恙，誰謂天公無皂白耶？

諸城某甲

諸城孫景夏學師言：其邑中某甲，值流寇亂，被殺，首墜胸前。寇退，家人得尸，將舁瘞之，聞其氣縷縷然，審視之，咽不斷者盈指。遂扶其頭荷之以歸。經一晝夜能呻，以匕箸稍哺飲食，半年竟愈，又十余年，與二三人聚談，或作一解頤語，眾為哄堂，甲亦鼓掌。一俯仰間，刀痕暴裂，頭墮血流，共視之已死。父訟笑者，眾斂金賂之，乃葬甲。

異史氏曰：「一笑頭落，此千古第一大笑也。頭連一線而不死，直待十年后成一笑獄，豈非二三鄰人，負債前生者耶！」

庫官

鄒平張華東，奉旨祭南岳，道出江淮間，將宿驛亭。前驅白：「驛中有怪異，不可宿。」張弗聽，宵分冠劍而坐，俄聞靴聲入，則一頒白叟，皂紗黑帶。怪而問之，叟稽首曰：「我庫官也。為大人典藏有日矣。幸節鉞遙臨，下官釋此重負。」問：「庫存幾何？」答云：「二萬三千五百金。」公慮多金累綴，約歸時盤驗，叟唯唯而退。張至南中，饋遺頗豐。及還，宿驛亭，叟復出謁。及問庫物，曰：「已撥遼東兵餉矣。」深訝其前后之乖。叟曰：「人世祿命，皆有額數，錙銖不能增損。大人此行，應得之數已得矣，又何求？」言已竟去。張乃計其所獲，與庫數適相吻合。方嘆飲啄有定，不可妄求也。

酆都御史

酆都縣外有洞，深不可測，相傳閻羅署。其中一切獄具，皆借人工。桎梏朽敗，輒擲洞口，邑宰即以新者易之，經宿失所在。供應度支，載之經制。

**The Cave of the Underworld**

In the Ming dynasty there was a censor by the name of Hua, who, while on an inspection tour of Fengdu, heard the story and did not believe it. He wished to enter the cave to resolve his doubts, but his attendants told him it was impossible. He would not listen. Taking a torch, he entered, followed by two runners. After going about a li, the torch suddenly flared and died. He saw that the stairway and passage were spacious and bright, and there were some ten large halls in a row, with venerable officials seated in them, in full court dress and with tablets in their hands. Only the seat at the east end was empty. When the venerable officials saw the censor arrive, they descended the steps to meet him and asked with a smile, "Have you come at last? Have you been well since we parted?" The censor asked, "What place is this?" The officials replied, "This is the underworld." The censor, greatly alarmed, announced his wish to withdraw. The officials pointed to the empty seat and said, "This is your place. How can you return?" The censor was even more frightened and earnestly begged for clemency. The officials said, "How can the appointed number be escaped?" They then brought out a volume and showed it to him. It was inscribed with the words: "On a certain day of a certain month, so-and-so shall return to the underworld in the flesh." When the censor read this, he trembled as though plunged into ice water, and thinking of his old mother and young children, shed tears in silence.

Presently a god in golden armor arrived, holding a document on yellow silk. The company bowed and danced, opened and read it, then congratulated the censor, saying, "You have an opportunity to return to the world of the living!" The censor joyfully asked the reason. They said, "We have just received an imperial edict granting a great amnesty to the shades. We can make a special exception on your behalf." They then showed him the way out. After a few paces, the darkness was pitch black, and he could not distinguish the road. The censor was in great distress. Suddenly a divine general strode in, majestic in bearing, with a red face and a long beard, his radiance shining several feet. The censor advanced, bowed, and pleaded with him. The divine being said, "Recite the Buddhist sutras and you can get out." With that he departed. The censor reckoned that he could not remember many sutras, but he had studied the *Diamond Sutra* rather thoroughly. He therefore pressed his palms together and recited it. At once he felt a thread of light illuminating the road ahead. Whenever he forgot a passage, the way before him would instantly grow dark; he would pause to recollect, then recite again and the light would return. In this way he finally emerged. As for his two runners, nothing more could be asked.

**The Dragon without Eyes**

At Yishui there was a great rain, and suddenly a dragon fell from the sky, both eyes missing, barely breathing. The county magistrate had it covered with eighty mats, but they could not cover its whole body. A sacrifice was offered in the open fields, but the dragon kept thrashing its tail back and forth on the ground, making a booming sound.

**The Humorous Fox**

Wan Fu, courtesy name Zixiang, was from Boxing. He studied the classics from youth, but his family was poor and his luck was bad. At over twenty, he had still not passed the county examination. In the village, the vulgar custom was to report wealthy households for corrup service; the honest and kind were ruined. Wan happened to be reported for service and, in flight, fled to Jinan, where he lodged in an inn. At night a woman rushed to him, rather beautiful in appearance. Wan was pleased and took her as a lover. He asked her name. The woman said frankly, "I am really a fox, but I will not harm you." Wan was delighted and harbored no doubts. The woman told him not to share her with guests, so she came every day and slept with him. Whatever he needed for daily use was provided by the fox.

Before long, two or three acquaintances came to visit and would stay for a night or two. Wan was annoyed but could not bear to refuse them, and in the end he told them the truth. The guests wished to see the immortal's face, so Wan spoke to the fox about it. The fox said, "What use is it to see me? I am just like a person." They could hear her voice but not see her. Among the guests was one Sun Deyan, who was good at jesting. He insisted on seeing her, saying, "Just to hear your delicate voice makes one's soul soar. Why be so stingy with your beauty, leaving us to pine after you with nothing but the sound of your voice?" The fox laughed and said, "Worthy grandson! Would you paint a portrait of your great-great-grandmother in amorous pose?" Everyone burst out laughing. The fox said, "Since I am a fox, allow me to tell you a fox story. Would you like to hear it?" Everyone assented. The fox said: "In a certain village inn, there used to be many foxes. They would frequently come out to haunt travelers. When the travelers learned of it, they warned each other not to stay at that inn. For half a year, the place was deserted. The innkeeper was greatly troubled and took great pains to avoid mentioning foxes. Suddenly a traveler from a distant land, who said he was from a foreign country, stopped at the gate and asked for lodging. The innkeeper was overjoyed and had just invited him inside when someone on the road secretly told him, 'This house has foxes.' The traveler was frightened and told the innkeeper, wishing to move elsewhere. The innkeeper strongly protested it was nonsense, and the traveler stayed. He had just lain down in the room when he saw a host of rats emerge from under the bed. The traveler was terrified, rushed out in a panic, and cried, 'There are foxes!' The innkeeper asked in alarm. The traveler angrily said, 'The foxes nest here—why did you lie and say there were none?' The innkeeper asked again, 'What did you see?' The traveler said, 'What I saw just now was tiny and minuscule—if not fox children, then surely fox grandchildren!'" When she finished, the guests at the table all smiled broadly. Sun said, "Since you won't grant us a look, we shall stay and block your trysts!" The fox laughed and said, "Lodging causes no harm. If I cause any small offense, I hope you won't take it to heart." The guests, fearing she might play tricks, then dispersed together, but they came every few days to ask for the fox's jokes and barbs. The fox was extremely witty; every remark would throw the guests into confusion, and no jester could match her. They jokingly called her "Madame Fox."

## Hu Qian (Rain of Money)

A scholar of Binzhou was reading in his study one day when someone knocked at the door. He opened it to find an old man of very ancient appearance. He invited him in and asked his name. The old man said, "I am Yangzhen, surnamed Hu. In truth, I am a fox spirit. I admire your refined taste and would like to spend my days and nights in your company." The scholar was by nature broad-minded and saw nothing strange in this. They discussed and debated past and present, and the old man proved remarkably learned. His conversation was exquisitely wrought, his words sparkling and brilliant. When he touched upon the classics, his philosophical insights were profound and unexpected. The scholar was amazed and kept him for a long time.

One day he secretly begged the old man, "You have shown me great affection. But I am so poor—if you would only lift a finger, gold and silver could be had at once. Why not help me a little?" The old man was silent for a moment, then smiled and said, "This is a very simple matter. But I will need a dozen or so coins to serve as the 'mother.'" The scholar provided them as requested. The old man then led him into an inner chamber, where he paced in the ritual step of Yu and recited incantations. In an instant, several million coins came clattering down from the rafters like a sudden rainstorm, burying their knees in moments; when they stood on tiptoe, the coins reached their ankles. In a room ten feet wide, the pile was some three or four feet deep. The old man turned to the scholar and said, "Does this satisfy you?" "More than enough," said the old man waved his hand and the coins stopped at once. Then they locked the door and went out. The scholar secretly rejoiced at his sudden wealth.

A short while later he went back inside to take some money for use, but the fortune had vanished into thin air—only the dozen or so "mother" coins remained. The scholar was sorely disappointed. He confronted the old man in a rage, reproaching him bitterly for the deception. The old man was furious. "I have been a friend of yours through literature and learning—I never proposed to be your accomplice in thievery! If that is what you had in mind, you ought to seek out a gentleman on the rafters instead. This old man cannot oblige you!" And he left in a huff.

---

## The Concubine Who Beat the Bandits with a Pole

In the western outskirts of Yidu there was a wealthy family of high standing. The master kept a concubine who was graceful and beautiful, but his wife tormented her cruelly, beating and whipping her without mercy. The concubine served with the utmost care and deference, and the master pitied her, often speaking to her privately to comfort her, yet she showed no trace of resentment.

One night several men climbed over the wall and broke through the door, nearly shattering it. The master and his wife were paralyzed with terror, not knowing what to do. The concubine rose without a sound, groped about in the dark, and found a wooden pole used for drawing water. She unbolted the door and burst out suddenly. The bandits were in disarray like tangled hemp. She brandished the pole, swinging it so that it whistled through the air with a metallic ring, and immediately knocked four or five of them to the ground. The rest of the bandits panicked and fled in all directions, but the wall was too high to scale in their haste; they stumbled and fell with cries of dismay, utterly bereft of their wits. The concubine leaned on her pole, turned, and said with a smile, "Creatures like you aren't even worth the trouble with my own hands—and yet you presume to be bandits! I won't kill you; killing you would only disgrace me." She let them all go and they fled.

---

*[The first passage, which appeared before the section heading, is translated below:]*

---

One day a grand feast was held. Wan took the seat of honor, while Sun and the two other guests sat on his left and right. A couch was set at the top of the room for the fox. The fox declined, saying he was no drinker. Everyone begged him to sit and talk instead, and he agreed. After several rounds of wine, the company played a dice game called "Melon Vine." One guest threw the losing roll and was required to drink. In jest, he moved the cup to the seat of honor and said, "The fox lady is too sober—let me borrow a sip." The fox smiled and said, "It is true I don't drink. But allow me to tell a story to help everyone enjoy their wine." Sun covered his ears, not wishing to listen. The guests all said, "Anyone who insults another must be fined." The fox smiled and said, "What if I insult a fox?" The company said, "That will do." They all leaned in to listen.

The fox said, "Once a great minister was sent as an ambassador to the Red-Haired Kingdom. He wore a hat of fox fur to audience with the king. The king noticed it and asked with surprise, 'What animal's pelt is this, so wonderfully warm and thick?' The minister answered that it was fox. The king said, 'This creature I have never heard of in all my life. What are the written characters for *fox*?' The minister traced the characters in the air and reported: 'On the right is a big melon; on the left is a little dog.'" The host and guests burst into laughter again.

The two guests were brothers of the Chen family, one called Suojian ("What I Have Seen") and the other Suowen ("What I Have Heard"). Seeing Sun deeply embarrassed, they said, "Where is the male fox, that he lets the female fox cause such venom?" The fox said, "I had barely finished one story and was interrupted by a pack of barking dogs—allow me to complete it. The king saw the ambassador riding a mule and was greatly astonished. The minister explained, 'It was born from a horse.' The king was even more amazed. The minister said, 'In China, horses give birth to mules, and mules give birth to foals.' The king asked for details of their appearance. The minister said, 'A horse giving birth to a mule—that is *what I have seen*. A mule giving birth to a foal—that is *what I have heard.*'" The whole company roared with laughter again.

Knowing they could no longer match him, the guests agreed that anyone who opened the way for future jests would be fined to host the next feast.

Before long, the wine had flowed freely, and Sun said to Wan in jest, "I have a couplet for you to complete." Wan said, "What is it?" Sun said, "A courtesan goes out to visit her lover—when she arrives, 'ten thousand blessings'; when she leaves, 'ten thousand blessings.'" Everyone pondered but could not find the matching line. The fox smiled and said, "I have it." He replied: "The Dragon King issued an edict seeking honest counsel—the turtle too 'may speak'; the tortoise too 'may speak.'" The company fell over laughing. Sun was furious. "We just made a pact—why have you broken the rule again?" The fox smiled and said: "The fault is indeed mine, but without this I could truly not have matched your line. Tomorrow I will host a feast to atone for my offense." They laughed at each other and the matter ended. The fox's wit and humor could not be fully recounted.

After several months, the fox returned home with Wan. When they reached the boundary of Boxing, he said to Wan, "I have a distant relative here whom I have not visited for a long time—I must look in on them. The day is growing dark; let us stay the night together here and depart at dawn, shall we?" Wan asked where they were, and the fox pointed and said, "Not far." Wan was puzzled, as there had been no village here before, but he went along. After about two miles, they indeed came upon a manor—one he had never seen in his life. The fox went and knocked at the gate, and an old servant came out to answer. Inside were gate upon gate and hall upon hall, just as in a great household. Soon the master and mistress appeared, an old man and an old woman, who bowed to Wan and bade him sit. A lavish feast was spread, and Wan was treated as a family connection by marriage. He stayed the night.

The fox said to him early on, "I have brought you here so suddenly that I fear it will alarm people. You should go ahead first, and I will follow." Wan did as he said. He went home first and told his family in advance. Before long the fox arrived, and he and Wan talked and laughed—everyone could hear them, yet no one could see the fox.

The following year, Wan took up a position again in Ji, and the fox accompanied him. Suddenly several men came, and the fox went to speak with them, exchanging every manner of greeting. Then he said to Wan, "I am originally from Shaanxi. I had a predestined bond with you, which is why I have followed you for some time. Now my brothers have come, and I must return with them—I can no longer attend to your affairs." Wan tried to detain him, but it was of no use. The fox departed.

He was greatly astonished and asked, "How is it that you can do this?" She replied, "My father was formerly a master of spears and cudgels, and I have learned all his arts. I could probably hold my own against no fewer than a hundred men." His wife was even more deeply alarmed and regretted that she had been so blind in choosing a wife. From then on, she treated the girl well and dealt with her as if she were a proper wife. Yet the concubine never showed the slightest breach of propriety. A neighboring woman said to the concubine, "When you beat that bandit, it was no more than beating a pig or a dog. Why do you submit to being caned and humbled?" The concubine replied, "It is my duty—what business is it of anyone else?" Those who heard of it thought all the more highly of her.

The Historian of the Strange remarks: "She possessed matchless skill, yet lived for several years without anyone knowing of it. Then in a single moment, she warded off calamity and repelled disaster, transforming a hawk into a dove. Alas! When the pheasant is struck, the wife smiles with delight; when the game of *shuo* is won, the princess rides in the same carriage. Such is the power of skill that it cannot be done away with!"

**The Scholar Who Drove Away the Demon**

Xu Yuan'gong of Changshan was a former *zhusheng* scholar of the Ming dynasty. After the dynastic change, he abandoned Confucian studies and sought the Way, gradually learning the arts of sorcery. People near and far had heard his name. A great man of a certain county prepared generous gifts and sent a letter of sincere invitation, summoning him with a mounted escort. Xu asked, "What does he wish to see me for?" The servant replied, "I do not know. But he instructed me to do everything to persuade you to honor him with a visit." Xu then set out. When he arrived, a banquet was laid in the central hall, and he was received with great courtesy, yet the purpose of his invitation was never mentioned. Xu therefore asked plainly, "What is it you truly wish?" hoping to dispel his doubts. The host merely said, "Nothing at all," and went on urging him to drink. His words were evasive and hard to understand. As the talk went on, evening came unnoticed, and Xu was invited to drink in the garden. The garden was quite fine, but the bamboo and trees cast a dark shade, and the scene was gloomy and somber. Wildflowers grew in thick clumps, half hidden by the weeds. They arrived at a pavilion, where the floorboards above were strung with cobwebs, as if no one had lived there for a long time. After several rounds of wine, the sky grew dim, and candles were brought to continue drinking. Xu excused himself, saying he could not drink more, and the host then stopped the wine and called for tea. The servants hurriedly cleared away the dishes and placed them all on a table in the left chamber of the pavilion. Before half the tea was drunk, the host made an excuse and left entirely. A servant led Xu with a candle to spend the night in the left chamber, set the candle on the table, and hastily turned and departed, doing everything in a very perfunctory manner. Xu thought that someone might come later with bedding to keep him company, but after a long while, all sound of human voices had ceased, and he himself got up, bolted the door, and went to bed.

A bright moon shone through the window and fell across the bed. Night birds and autumn insects chirped and buzzed all at once. His heart was filled with dread, and he could not fall asleep. After a while, there came a thumping sound from above the boards, as if someone were stamping and kicking violently, very fierce. Soon the sound came down the ladder, and soon it approached the bedroom door. Xu was terrified, his hair bristling like a hedgehog's quills. He quickly pulled the blanket over his head, but the door had already burst wide open. Xu lifted a corner of the blanket and peered out cautiously. He saw a creature with an animal's head and a human body, covered all over with hair as long as a horse's mane, of a deep black color. Its teeth were as thick as a swarm of bees, and its eyes blazed like twin torches. It reached the table and crouched down to lick up the leftover dishes, its tongue sweeping across them once, and several vessels were instantly clean as if swept with a broom. Then it moved toward the bed and sniffed at Xu's blanket. Xu suddenly threw off the blanket, covering the creature's head with it, and pressed down on it while shouting wildly. The demon, taken by surprise, broke free in alarm, opened the outer door, and fled. Xu threw on his clothes and tried to escape, but the garden gate was bolted from the outside and he could not get out. He ran along the wall, jumped over a low fence, and found himself at the host's stable. The stableman was startled, and Xu told him what had happened. He asked to spend the night there.

Near dawn, the host sent someone to look for Xu but could not find him and was greatly alarmed. Shortly afterward, Xu emerged from the stable. Xu said angrily, "I am not accustomed to performing demon-driving arts. You sent for me, yet kept it secret and told me nothing. I have a wish-fulfilling hook in my bag, but you did not send it to my sleeping quarters—you wanted me to die!" The host apologized, saying, "I intended to tell you at once, but I feared you would find it difficult to accept. I also did not know there was a hidden hook in your bag. I beg you to forgive me for a capital offense!" Xu remained displeased and demanded his horse to go home. From then on, the demon never appeared again. Later, when the host held banquets in the garden, he would always say to his guests with a laugh, "I shall never forget Mr. Xu's service."

The Historian of the Strange remarks: "Among yellow cats and black cats, the one that catches mice is the champion. This is no empty saying. Suppose that after throwing off the blanket and shouting wildly, Xu had concealed his terror and openly claimed credit for the demon's disappearance as his own doing—then people would have said that Mr. Xu was a true sage beyond all reach!"

**Sisters Exchanged in Marriage**

Prime Minister Mao of Ye County came from a family that had long been poor. His father had often tended cattle for others. At that time, a prominent local family named Zhang had a newly made grave on the eastern slope of the eastern mountain. Someone passing beside it heard a voice shouting from within the tomb: "You must quickly depart and not long pollute the dwelling of a nobleman!" The Zhang family heard this but did not fully believe it. Then they repeatedly received warnings in dreams: "Your family's burial ground is actually the proper resting place of Lord Mao—how can you occupy it for so long?" After this, the family suffered repeated misfortunes. A guest advised them to move the burial to a more auspicious site, and the Zhang family did so.

One day, Mao's father was tending his flock and happened to pass by the Zhang family's ancestral graves when a sudden rain caught him. He took shelter in an abandoned tomb. Soon the rain grew heavier still; floodwater rushed into the tomb with a roar, and he drowned. At the time, the future Minister was still a small child. His mother went to the Zhang family and begged for a small plot of land to bury her husband. When Zhang asked her surname, he was greatly astonished. He went to the place where the drowning had occurred and found it was precisely where the coffin should be placed—this filled him with even greater wonder. He therefore had the body interred in the old tomb and told her to bring her son as well. After the burial, the mother went with the boy to thank Zhang. Zhang took one look at the boy and was delighted. He kept him in his home, taught him to read, and ranked him among his own sons. He also asked to betroth his eldest daughter to the boy, but the mother declined, saying she dared not aspire so high. Zhang's wife, however, gave her consent in the end. But the daughter thought very little of the Mao family; resentment and shame showed on her face and in her words at every moment. She declared, "I would rather die than marry the cowherd boy!" When the wedding day came, the groom entered for the feast and the bridal sedan stood at the door, but the young lady covered her face and wept in a corner. They urged her to make herself ready—she would not dress; they coaxed her—she would not relent. Before long the groom announced his departure, and the music struck up loudly, yet the girl's eyes still shed rain and her hair was wild as flying weeds. Her father came in to persuade her; she would not listen. He angrily forced her, and her weeping grew only more violent. The father was at his wit's end. A servant reported that the groom wished to depart. The father hurried out and said, "Her clothes and makeup are not finished yet; I pray you, sir, wait a little longer," then rushed back in to look at his daughter. He went back and forth several times, but the girl never relented. The father was frantic, twisting and turning in anguish, with no idea what to do. His second daughter stood nearby. Because she was not the one being forced, she earnestly urged her sister to comply. The elder sister said angrily, "Little wretch, you too learn to prattle like the rest! Why don't you go and marry him yourself?" The younger sister said, "Father never promised me to the Mao gentleman. If he had promised me to the Mao gentleman, what need would there be for you to urge me?" The father, hearing her words bold and frank, spoke quietly with his wife and proposed exchanging the younger for the elder. The mother then said to the second daughter, "That stubborn creature will not obey her parents' command. Now we wish you to take your sister's place. Will you consent?" The girl said resolutely, "A command from one's parents cannot be refused even by a beggar. Besides, who says a man from the Mao family must starve to death all his life?" The parents were overjoyed. They dressed the younger daughter in her sister's wedding clothes, and she was hastily placed in the sedan and carried away. When she entered the Mao household, the husband and wife lived in harmony and deep affection. However, the girl had always suffered from thin hair, and the Mao husband minded it somewhat. But when he learned how the marriage had been arranged, he regarded her all the more as a true friend and felt ever more grateful to her.

Before long, Mao was admitted as a Government Student and went to sit for the provincial examination. He passed through the village of Mr. Wang the Court Secretary, where the innkeeper had dreamed a god the previous night saying, "Soon a top-degree candidate named Mao will arrive, and he will later deliver you from calamity. Treat him well." For this reason the innkeeper rose early and kept watch for travelers from the east. When he found the gentleman, he was overjoyed. He provided a lavish spread and asked for no payment. The gentleman asked why, and the innkeeper told him about the dream. The gentleman was rather pleased with himself and secretly thought: "My wife's hair is thin and sparse—I fear it will make me a laughingstock among the eminent. When I am rich and honored, I will replace her." When the examination results came out, he had failed. Crestfallen and dejected, he was too ashamed to face the innkeeper and did not dare pass through Wang's village again, taking a different road home.

Three years later he went to sit for the examination again, and the innkeeper welcomed him as before. The gentleman said, "Your words did not come true, and I am ashamed to have been so honored." The innkeeper said, "The scholar, because in secret he wished to change his wife, was cast out by the spirits of the underworld. Was my dream not fulfilled after all?" The gentleman was stunned and asked why. The innkeeper said, "After you left, I dreamed again and the god told me, so I know." The gentleman heard this and was filled with fearful repentance, standing rigid as a wooden figure. The innkeeper then said, "The scholar should take heart and conduct himself well—in the end you will be the top candidate." He sat for the examination and indeed came first on the list of successful candidates. His wife's hair also grew in before long, dark tresses cascading down, making her twice as charming and beautiful.

The elder sister had married a wealthy young man in the village and carried herself with great pride. But her husband was dissolute, and the family gradually declined until they had not even smoke from their cooking fires. When she heard her sister had become the wife of a successful provincial candidate, her shame grew ever deeper, and whenever the sisters met, she would avoid the road. Before long, her husband also died, and the family was ruined. The Mao gentleman further distinguished himself by passing the metropolitan examination. When the sister heard of this, she hated herself to the bone and in her fury became a nun. When the gentleman returned as a Grand Secretary, he insisted on sending a nun to the yamen to pay her respects and inquire after him, hoping he might bestow something. When she arrived, the lady presented her with several bolts of brocade, silk gauze, and fine silk, with gold concealed among them. The nun brought them back to show her mistress. The mistress was disappointed and said angrily, "If he had given me gold and silver, it could have been used for firewood and rice. What use have I for these things?" She ordered them returned at once. The gentleman and his lady were puzzled. They opened the packages and found the gold inside, and only then understood the meaning of the refusal. The gentleman laughed and said, "Your mistress cannot even accept a hundred pieces of gold—how could she have the fortune to receive favors from me, an old Minister?" He then gave fifty pieces of gold to the nun to take back, adding, "Take this for your mistress's expenses. But I fear a person of little fortune can scarcely bear such a gift." The nun returned and told her mistress. The mistress gave a silent sigh to herself, reflecting that all her life she had acted perversely—how one avoided the good and pursued the evil was surely not a matter for human effort alone! Later, the innkeeper at Wang's village was arrested and imprisoned on a capital charge, and the gentleman exerted his influence to clear him of the crime.

The Tale-Appending Historian says: "The Zhang family's ancestral tomb became the Mao family's auspicious burial ground—this is strange enough. I have heard people of the time joke, 'The elder brother-in-law becomes the younger brother-in-law; the former top candidate becomes the later top candidate.' Can such things be calculated even by the cleverest? Alas! The blue heavens have long been lost in a dream—how is it that for the Minister, their response was as quick as an echo?"

**Continuing the Dream of the Yellow Millet**

In Fujian there was a successful provincial candidate named Zeng. When he passed the metropolitan examination in the southern palace, he went roaming outside the city walls with two or three fellow graduates. They heard that a diviner was staying at the Pilu Monastery and went to consult him. They entered, bowed, and sat down. Seeing their proud and buoyant air, the diviner flattered them somewhat. Zeng waved his fan, smiled, and asked, "Do I have the destiny of a high minister?" The diviner said, "Twenty years as a Grand Secretary in times of peace." Zeng was immensely pleased and his bearing grew even more haughtily.

A light rain began to fall, so they and their companions took shelter in a monastery cell. Inside there was an old monk with deep-set eyes and a prominent nose, sitting on a rush cushion. He was forlorn and paid them no respects. The visitors merely raised their hands in greeting, then climbed onto the platform and talked among themselves. They all congratulated Zeng on becoming a Grand Secretary. Zeng's spirits were exceptionally high, and he pointed to his companions and said, "When I am Grand Secretary, I will recommend Mr. Zhang to be the Southern Viceroy, my cousin to be a military commandant or vice commandant, and even our old family servant to be a minor officer. Then my wishes will be fulfilled." The whole company burst out laughing.

Soon after, Zeng heard the rain pouring even harder outside the gate. He lay wearily on the couch. Suddenly he saw two palace eunuchs arrive bearing a handwritten imperial summons, inviting Grand Tutor Zeng to deliberate on matters of state. Zeng, flushed with pride and glory, never doubted its authenticity and hastened to the palace. The Son of Heaven drew his seat forward and spoke with warm words at length, commanding that all officials of the third rank and below should be subject to Zeng's promotion or dismissal without need of memorial to the throne. He was immediately bestowed an embroidered python robe, a jade belt, and two fine horses. Zeng put on the garments, bowed low, and departed. Returning home, he found it was no longer his old residence—painted beams and carved rafters, of the utmost magnificence. He himself could not fathom how he had so suddenly arrived at such a state. Yet when he stroked his beard and gave a slight call, the sound of attendants answering thundered like a roll of thunder. Soon after, dukes and ministers presented gifts from the sea, and bowing, deferential visitors thronged his gate. When the Six Ministers came, he welcomed them with his slippers on backwards; with vice ministers, he exchanged bows and conversation; those below them, he merely acknowledged with a nod. The governor of Jin presented ten female musicians, all lovely girls, among whom Niaoxiao and Xianxian received his particular favor. He let his hair down during his days off and devoted himself to song and music each day. One day he recalled that in his humble years, the local gentleman Wang Ziliang had given him relief; now that he had risen to the clouds, while the man still languished in officialdom, why not extend a hand? Early the next morning he submitted a memorial, recommending Wang for the post of Remonstrance Counselor. The imperial edict was received at once, and Wang was promoted immediately. He also recalled that Grand Master Guo had once glared at him in resentment, so he sent word to Censor Lü and Imperial Censor Chen Chang, conveying his wishes. The following day, impeachment memorials flew in, and by imperial decree Guo was stripped of office and dismissed. Gratitude and grudges thus settled to his satisfaction. One day while passing through the suburbs, a drunken man chanced to obstruct his procession; Zeng had him bound and delivered to the metropolitan prefect, where he was beaten to death on the spot. Those whose mansions adjoined his, fearing his power, presented their rich estates; from then on his wealth rivaled that of the state. Before long, Niaoxiao and Xianxian passed away one after another. Thinking of them day and night, he suddenly remembered the beautiful daughter of his eastern neighbor from years past—he had long wished to purchase her as a concubine but had been too poor to fulfill the wish. Now at last he could indulge his desire. He sent several trusted servants with a handsome bride-price to her family. Shortly, a bamboo sedan arrived carrying her—and she was even more ravishing than when he had glimpsed her before. Reflecting on his life, he felt all his wishes fulfilled.

A year passed, and court officials murmured among themselves, as if nursing secret disapproval. Yet sensing that each was merely a horse standing at attention, Zeng remained haughty and high-spirited, giving it no thought. Then the Dragon Pavilion Academician Bao Zheng submitted a memorial, which read in part: "Your subject humbles himself to observe that Zeng was originally a good-for-nothing gambler and drunkard, a mere market riffraff. By a single word that pleased him, he received the imperial favor—father clothed in purple, son in vermilion—his glory and favor carried to the utmost. Yet he does not consider sacrificing himself to repay even a fraction of the debt; instead he indulges his whims and wields power at will. Offenses deserving death are too numerous to count! He treats the titles and offices of the court as merchandise to be traded, weighing the fatness of the post to set the price accordingly. Thus all generals and ministers flock to his gate, calculating connections like peddlers, looking up to his breath and trailing his dust—beyond counting. When worthy scholars and loyal ministers refuse to fawn and flatter, the light ones are relegated to idle posts; the heavy ones stripped of rank and reduced to commoners. Even one who fails to show him partiality is accused of treachery and false charges; a single word that offends is banished to the land of wolves and jackals. Court officials are chilled to the bone, and the court itself stands isolated. He devours the fat of the common people at will; he forces good families' daughters into wedlock. Miasma and grievance darken the world without sun or moon! When his servants arrive, prefects and magistrates curry favor; when his letters are delivered, ministries and courts bend the law. Any servant's child or distant relative of his rides the imperial post stations, sweeping like wind and thunder. If local supplies are even slightly delayed, whips and cudgels descend at once. He poisons the people, enslaves the officials; wherever his retinue passes, no green grass remains in the countryside. And Zeng, blazing and mighty, clings to his favor without repentance. He summons his accomplices at the palace gate and slanders are carried before the sovereign; he has scarcely withdrawn from court when music rises in the rear gardens. In sensual pleasures, dogs and horses, he indulges in dissipation day and night; of statecraft and the people's welfare, he gives not a moment's thought. Has the world ever seen such a chancellor? Within and without, all are alarmed and shaken. If the axe and block are not swiftly brought down upon him, he will surely bring about the calamity of a Cao or a Wang Mang. Your subject Bao Zheng trembles day and night and dares not rest in peace. He dares to list these charges and present them to Your Majesty's ears. I humbly beg that the head of this sycophant be severed, his ill-gotten wealth confiscated, so as to turn back Heaven's wrath and satisfy the people's hearts. If your subject's words prove false, let the saw and the cauldron be visited upon his own body." And so forth. When the memorial was submitted, Zeng heard of it and his soul was seized with terror, as if he had swallowed icy water. Fortunately the emperor was gracious and held the memorial without acting upon it. But then censors, supervising secretaries, and the Nine Ministers all submitted articles of impeachment—even those who had once bowed at his gate and called him foster-father now turned their faces against him. An imperial decree was issued to confiscate his property and exile him to the army in Yunnan. His son, serving as governor of Pingyang, was already being summoned by dispatched officials for interrogation.

Zeng had just received the decree in terror when dozens of armed warriors, swords in hand and halberds raised, burst straight into his inner chambers, stripped him of his official robes and hat, and bound him together with his wife. Soon several men carried his wealth into the courtyard—in gold, silver, cash, and notes, several millions; in pearls, kingfisher feathers, agate, and jade, several hundred bushels; and in canopies, curtains, couches, and bedding, several thousand items—down to infants' swaddling clothes and girls' shoes, scattered across the courtyard steps. Zeng looked upon each item, his heart aching and his eyes stinging. Then a man led out his beautiful concubine, her hair loose, weeping piteously, her lovely face lost and helpless. Grief burned within him, yet he held his fury and dared not speak. Soon the towers, pavilions, and storehouses were all sealed, and he was ordered out at once. The guards dragged him and his wife forth; husband and wife stifled their sobs and set out on the road. They begged for a single poor carriage to serve as transport, but could not obtain even that. Ten li out, his wife's feet grew weak and she nearly stumbled; Zeng supported her with his hand. Another ten li, and he too was exhausted. Suddenly a lofty mountain appeared, piercing the clouds. He feared he could not climb it and at times pulled his wife close, the two of them weeping face to face. The guards glared savagely, not allowing the slightest pause. He saw the slanting sun already sinking and wished to find a place to rest. With no choice, they hobbled onward, limping and stumbling. By the time they reached the mountainside, his wife's strength was spent. She sat weeping by the roadside. Zeng too stopped to rest, enduring the guards' curses and abuse.

Suddenly a clamour arose as a band of robbers, each wielding sharp blades, leapt forward with menacing vigour. The guards were seized with terror and fled. Zeng knelt and said, "I am a lone exile, far from home, with nothing of value in my pack." He begged them to spare him. The robbers glared and declared, "We are all wronged souls who have suffered injustice. We seek only the head of that treacherous villain—nothing else will we take." Zeng angrily rebuked them: "Though I stand accused, I am still an appointed officer of the court. How dare you, villains, act thus!" The robbers too grew enraged. They swung a great axe at Zeng's neck, and he felt his head fall to the ground with a thud.

His soul was still reeling in shock and doubt when two ghosts came, bound his hands behind his back, and drove him forward. After several hours of travel, they entered a great city. Presently he caught sight of a palace hall, and upon the dais sat a king of hideous aspect, leaning over his desk to pronounce judgments of fortune or calamity. Zeng crawled forward on his knees and begged for mercy. The king examined the scroll and, having read but a few lines, flew into a rage: "For the crime of deceiving his sovereign and leading the realm astray, he shall be cast into the cauldron of boiling oil!" The myriad ghosts echoed in chorus, their voices like thunder. At once a colossal ghost dragged Zeng down before the steps. He saw a cauldron some seven feet high, ringed about with glowing charcoal, its legs red-hot. Zeng trembled and wept in anguish, but there was no path of escape. The ghost seized his hair with one hand and grasped his ankles with the other, then hurled him into the cauldron. He felt his body sink and rise with the waves of oil, his flesh searing, pain piercing to his heart. Boiling oil poured into his mouth, scorching and cooking his lungs and entrails. He longed for a swift death, yet by no stratagem could he die. After about the time it takes to eat a meal, the ghost drew him out with a great fork and set him once more before the hall. The king examined the register again and, in a fury, declared: "For abusing his power to oppress others, he deserves the Mountain of Blades!" The ghost dragged him away once more. He saw a mountain, not vast in extent, but rising sheer and precipitous, its surface bristling with sharp blades, scattered thick as bamboo shoots. Several men already hung there, their entrails pierced upon the points, their cries of agony shattering to the heart and mind. The ghost urged Zeng to climb up. Zeng wept and shrank back. The ghost stabbed a poisoned awl into his head, and Zeng, bearing the pain, begged for pity. The ghost, enraged, seized him, lifted him, and hurled him into the void. He felt his body soaring among the clouds, then a dizzy plunge, and the blades crossed through his chest—a suffering beyond all description. After some time, his frame grew heavy and distended, the wounds widened, and suddenly he fell free, his limbs curled and bent. The ghost then drove him once more before the king. The king ordered an accounting of all the titles he had sold, the reputations he had trafficked in, the property he had seized by perverting the law—how much silver had he amassed? At once a whiskered man appeared, holding counting-rods and an abacus, and declared: "Two million two hundred and ten thousand." The king said: "Since he hoarded it in life, let him drink it back!" In a short while, silver was heaped upon the steps like a hill, then cast into an iron cauldron and melted over a raging fire. Several ghosts took turns ladling it into his mouth with a great spoon. Where it touched his skin, it cracked and stank; where it entered his throat, his organs seethed and boiled. In life he had fretted that there was too little of it; now he fretted that there was too much. It was half a day before it was done.

The king ordered him to be sent to Ganzhou to be reborn as a woman. After a few steps, he saw an iron beam upon a stand, several feet in circumference, around which was coiled a wheel of fire—its size beyond measure, spanning hundreds of yojanas. Flames of five colours blazed from it, their light piercing the heavens. The ghost drove him onto the wheel. He closed his eyes and leapt—then the wheel turned beneath his feet, and he felt as though he were toppling, a chill spreading through his whole body. He opened his eyes and looked upon himself: he was an infant, and a girl. He looked upon his parents: they were clad in ragged, threadbare garments; in their earthen hovel, a gourd ladle and a staff still lay about. He knew in his heart that he was the child of beggars. Each day he followed the begging-bowl with his father, his belly growling, never once filled. He wore tattered clothes, and the wind pierced him to the bones. At the age of fourteen, she was sold to Magistrate Gu to serve as a concubine, and from then on food and clothing were barely sufficient. But his principal wife was fierce beyond measure, daily applying the whip and the rod, and often pressing a red-hot iron to her chest and breasts. Fortunately the master showed some pity and affection, which brought a measure of comfort. Then one day a wicked youth from the neighbouring house suddenly vaulted the wall and tried to force himself upon her. She thought to herself: "The sins of my former life have already been punished by the ghosts—how can this happen again?" So she cried out loudly, and the master and the principal wife both rose at once, and the youth fled. One night, the scholar lodged in her chamber, and upon the pillow she poured out her tale of woe. Suddenly a tremendous crash resounded, the door burst open, and two robbers entered with knives. They cut off the scholar's head, gathered up all the clothing and goods, and departed. She crouched beneath the covers, not daring to make a sound. When the robbers had gone, she ran crying to the principal wife's chamber. The wife was greatly alarmed, and together they wept and examined the body. They suspected the concubine of killing her husband with a paramour, and the case was reported to the Regional Inspector. The Inspector interrogated her harshly, and under cruel torture she was forced to confess. The sentence was death by slow slicing, and she was bound and led to the execution ground. The wrongs that choked her breast, the cries of injustice that surged within her—she felt that even the Nine Depths and the Eighteen Hells held no darkness so black. As she wailed in her grief, she heard a traveller's voice calling: "Is it a nightmare?"—and she awoke with a start. She saw the old monk still seated in meditation upon his mat. Her companions all said to one another: "The sun is setting and our stomachs are empty—why have you slept so long?" Zeng rose with a stricken look. The monk smiled and said: "Has the prophecy of the prime minister been fulfilled?" Zeng was all the more astonished, bowed, and begged for instruction. The monk said: "Cultivate virtue and practise humaneness, and even in a pit of fire there is a blue lotus. What does a mountain monk know of such things?" Zeng had come in the fullness of his pride; he returned utterly deflated. From that day, his ambitions for the high court faded. Later he went into the mountains, and no one knew where he ended.

The Commentator says: "Dreams are indeed delusions, and thoughts are not reality either. Yet what is done in the realm of illusion, the spirits repay in kind. When the millet is nearly cooked, such a dream must inevitably occur—it should be placed alongside the tale of Handan."

---

**The Dragon Drawing Water**

Xu Dongchi was travelling south one night when he moored his boat by the riverbank. He saw a grey dragon descend from the sky and lower its tail into the river. Waves surged upward, rising along the dragon's body. From a distance he watched the water gleaming and flashing, a band some three feet across. After a while the dragon withdrew its tail, and the water at once subsided. Soon a great rain poured down, filling every channel to the brim.

---

**The Little Hunting Hound**

# The Wall Dog

When Wei Zhongtang of Shan-you was still a scholar, he lodged as a boarder in a Buddhist monastery. He suffered terribly from bedbugs, mosquitoes, and fleas in his room, and could not sleep at night. One day after dinner, he lay resting on his bed when he suddenly saw a small warrior, a pheasant feather in his hair, about two inches tall, riding a horse the size of a wax moth, with a blue leather arm-guard and a hawk on his arm the size of a fly. The warrior entered from outside, circling the room, walking and riding at great speed. The gentleman was staring in suspicion when another man entered, dressed the same way, a small bow and arrows strapped at his waist, leading a hunting ant as large as a giant ant. Shortly after, on foot and on horseback, several hundred of them came streaming in, with hundreds of hawks and dogs. Whenever mosquitoes or flies took wing, they loosed the hawks to strike, and all were killed. The hunting dogs climbed the bed and scaled the walls, searching for and devouring lice and fleas; wherever there was a crevice where vermin hid, the dogs sniffed them out and none escaped. In an instant, they had slaughtered them nearly all.

The gentleman feigned sleep and watched from the corner of his eye. Hawks gathered and dogs darted about on his person. Then a man in yellow robes, wearing a flat crown like a king, ascended a different couch and tethered his four horses among the reeds and bamboo. All the mounted followers dismounted and presented their catches, flying and running game, crowding around in abundance, though he could not understand what they said. Before long, the king mounted his small palanquin; the guards in a panic each saddled their horses. Ten thousand hooves thundered together, scattered like tossed beans, smoke and mist flying up, and in a moment they were all gone.

The gentleman had seen it all clearly and was bewildered, not knowing whence it had come.

He put on his shoes and peered outside—there was no trace or sound. He turned back and looked all around the room—nothing to be seen. Only on the wall tiles had they left behind a tiny dog. The gentleman quickly caught it, and it was quite tame. He placed it in his inkstone box, turning it over again and again to admire it. Its fur was extremely fine and dense, and around its neck was a small ring. He fed it grains of rice, but it sniffed and would not eat. It leapt onto the bed mat, sought out the seams of his clothes, and gnawed to death lice and nits. Then it came back to lie down beside him.

After a night, the gentleman suspected it had gone, but looked and found it coiled there as before. When he lay down, it climbed onto the bed mat; whenever it encountered a vermin, it devoured it. No mosquito or fly dared to land. The gentleman loved it more than a jade disc.

One day he was napping during the day, and the dog lay hidden beside him. The gentleman woke and turned over, crushing it beneath his waist. He felt something there and suspected it was the dog; he rose quickly to look, and it was already flat as a pancake, dead, as though cut from paper. But from then on, the vermin on the walls were utterly exterminated.

# The Chess Ghost

Marshal Liang, the former Commander-in-Chief of Yangzhou, had retired to his country estate. Every day he carried wine and a chess set and roamed among the hills and woods. On the Double Ninth Festival, he climbed a height with his guests and was playing chess when a man suddenly came, lingered by the board, and stayed to watch with fascination. He looked at him: his face and eyes were pinched and threadbare, his clothes tattered like a quail's plumage, yet his manner was gentle and refined, with the air of a scholar. The Marshal received him courteously, and he sat down. He was also exceedingly modest. The Marshal pointed to the chessboard and said, "Sir, you must surely be skilled at this. Why not play a match with my guest?" The man deferred and declined for some time before finally taking his seat at the board. When the game ended he had lost; his expression was vexed and heated, as if he could not control himself. He played again and lost again, growing ever more indignant and ashamed. Wine was poured for him, but he would not drink, only tugging at his opponent to continue. From morning until the sun slanted west, he had no time even to relieve himself.

Just as they were disputing the placement of a single piece, the two of them wrangling heatedly, the scholar suddenly rose from his seat in alarm, standing rigid, his expression stricken and pale. After a moment, he dropped to his knees toward the Marshal, knocked his forehead on the floor, and begged for help. The Marshal, astonished and puzzled, rose and helped him up, saying, "It was only a game—why go to such lengths?" The scholar said, "Please instruct the grooms not to bind my neck." The Marshal was further astonished and asked, "Which groom?" He said, "Ma Cheng."

Now, the Marshal's groom Ma Cheng was a man who walked in the realm of the dead; every ten days or so he would descend to the underworld, holding a warrant to serve as a bailiff. The Marshal, finding the scholar's words strange, sent someone to check on Ma Cheng, and found he had already lain stiff and unconscious for three days. The Marshal then rebuked Ma Cheng for his rudeness, and in a glance saw the scholar sink into the ground and vanish. The Marshal sighed and marveled for a long time, then realized he was a ghost.

The next day, when Ma Cheng awoke, the Marshal summoned him and questioned him. Ma Cheng said, "He is a man from Hubei, obsessed with chess, who gambled away all his property. His father, distressed by this, locked him in a study. He would climb over the wall and go out, secretly making his way to empty places to associate with chess players. When his father learned of it and scolded him, it could not be stopped. His His father died of resentment. The King of Hell, judging the scholar to be lacking in virtue, shortened his lifespan and sentenced him to the Hell of Hungry Ghosts, where he has been for seven years now. It happened that the Phoenix Tower of the Eastern Peak was completed, and a dispatch was sent to all prefectures calling for literati to compose an inscription. The King released him from prison to answer the summons and redeem himself. But he delayed along the way and gravely exceeded the deadline. The Emperor of the Eastern Peak sent a deputy to charge the King with the offense. The King, enraged, sent his underlings to search for him everywhere. I had received your orders earlier, so I did not dare bind him with chains."

The Marshal asked, "What is his situation now?" Ma Cheng said, "He has been returned to the prison warden, with no prospect of rebirth forever." The Marshal sighed and said, "So dangerous is the harm of obsession!"

The Historian of Strange Phenomena said: "He saw chess and forgot his death; and after his death, he saw chess and forgot his life. Is it not that what he desired was more important than life itself? Yet obsessed to such a degree, he never achieved a single masterful move, and only ensured that in the world below there would be a chess ghost who dies eternally without rebirth. How pitiful!"

# Xin Shisi-niang

Feng Sheng of Guangping was a man of loose morals and indulged in wine from youth. One morning, as he happened to be walking, he encountered a young woman wearing a red cape, of surpassing beauty. She was accompanied by a young page, and they were trudging through the dew, their shoes and stockings soaked. Feng found himself drawn to her. Returning home in the evening, still tipsy, he passed an old Buddhist temple by the roadside that had long fallen to ruin. A woman emerged from within—it was the very beauty he had seen earlier. She caught sight of him and immediately turned to go back inside. Feng thought to himself: "How does such a beauty come to be in a Buddhist temple?" He tied his donkey at the gate and went to investigate the strangeness of it all.

Inside, he found crumbling walls in disarray and fine grass covering the carpet-like steps. As he stood hesitantly, an old man with white hair emerged, his hat and clothes neatly arranged. "Where does the guest come from?" he asked. "I happened to pass this old temple," Feng replied, "and wished to have a look around." He then asked, "And why has the elder come here?" The old man said: "This old man has no place to settle and have wandered far. I have borrowed this place to put my household in order. Since you have honored us with your visit, tea shall serve as wine." He then formally ushered Feng in.

Feng saw that behind the main hall lay a courtyard with a polished stone path, free of brambles and weeds. When he entered the chamber, curtains, screens, and bed hangings greeted him, and fragrant mist seemed to fill the air. They sat and exchanged names. "This old man's surname is Xin," he said. Feng, emboldened by wine, abruptly asked: "I have heard that your daughter has yet to be matched with a worthy husband. Presumptuous as I am, I would like to offer myself as a suitor." Xin smiled and said: "I must discuss this with my wife." Feng then took up a brush and wrote a poem:

"A thousand pieces of gold to find the jade pestle—

With earnest hands I offer it myself.

If Yunying harbors any such intent,

I shall personally pound the dark frost for her."

The host smiled and passed it to an attendant. After a short while, a maid whispered in Xin's ear. Xin rose, asking the guest to be patient and sit, then drew the curtain and went inside. Feng caught a few murmured words, and Xin hurriedly came out again. Feng was certain the news would be favorable, but Xin merely sat and exchanged pleasantries with him, saying nothing further on the matter. Feng could not contain himself and asked: "I do not yet understand her mind. I beg you to dispel my doubts." Xin said: "You are a man of outstanding talent. I have long admired you. But there is a private matter that I dare not speak of." Feng pressed him further. Xin said: "I have nineteen children. Twelve have already been married off. The marriage arrangements are left to my wife's discretion—this old man has no say in the matter." Feng said: "This young man only wants the one who was leading her little page through the dew this morning." Xin made no reply. They sat in silence. From inside the chamber came the soft murmur of feminine voices. Feng, drunk, lifted the curtain and said: "If I cannot have her as a wife, then let me see her face once to dispel my regret." Inside, the curtain-hook was heard to stir, and all those present turned in alarm. Indeed there was the woman in red, her sleeves fluttering and her hair falling about her, standing gracefully as she toyed with her sash. Seeing Feng enter, the whole room fell into a flurry of panic. Xin was furious and ordered several men to drag Feng out. The wine surged up within him, and he tumbled among the overgrown weeds, tiles and stones raining down upon him like a storm—though, fortunately, none struck his body.

He lay there for some time, then heard his donkey still grazing by the roadside. He rose, mounted the donkey, and stumbled along. The night was dark and disorienting, and he strayed into a mountain ravine where wolves howled and owls screeched, making the hair on his body stand on end with cold fear. He hesitated, looking around in all directions, not knowing where he was. In the distance, through the dark forest, he saw lights flickering—he suspected it must be a village and galloped toward it. He looked up to see a tall gate and struck it with his riding crop. From within came a voice: "Who comes here in the middle of the night?" Feng explained that he had lost his way. "Wait while I inform the master," came the reply. Feng stood on tiptoe, craning his neck, waiting. Suddenly he heard bolts being drawn and the gate thrown open. A sturdy servant emerged and took charge of the donkey for the guest.

Feng entered and found the rooms richly appointed, with lanterns and candles lit in the hall. He sat for a moment, and then a woman came out and asked the guest's surname. Feng told her. After a short while, several maids in blue helped out an old lady, who announced: "The Commandery Mistress has arrived." Feng rose and stood at attention, wishing to bow. The old lady stopped him and had him sit. She said to Feng: "Are you not the grandson of Feng Yunzi?" "I am," he replied. She said: "Then you should be my grandnephew by marriage. This old woman's time has run out, her remaining years are few, and among our kin there has been much estrangement." Feng said: "I lost my father young. Of those who lived with my grandfather, I recognize scarcely one in ten. I have never come to pay my respects—I beg you to enlighten me." "You know it yourself," said the old lady. Feng dared not press further and sat, lost in thought.

The old lady said: "Why has my nephew come here so late at night?" Feng, wishing to display his boldness, recounted everything he had encountered. The old lady laughed and said: "This is a fine matter indeed! Moreover, my nephew is a man of letters—it would hardly be beneath your family connections. That wild fox-spirit has no reason to put on such airs. Fear not, nephew—I can arrange this for you." Feng thanked her profusely. The old lady turned to her attendants and said: "I did not know the daughter of the Xin family had grown up to be so lovely." A maid in blue said: "She has nineteen daughters, all of them graceful and elegant. I wonder which one the gentleman seeks to marry?" Feng said: "She is perhaps fifteen or so." The maid said: "That would be the Fourteenth Daughter. In the third month, she came with her mother to wish the Commandery Mistress a happy birthday. How could you have forgotten?" The old lady laughed and said: "Is she not the one who carved lotus petals into high shoes, filled them with fragrant powder, and walked veiled in gauze?" "That is she," said the maid. The old lady said: "This girl is full of whims and coquettish tricks. But she is indeed slender and graceful—my nephew's taste is not mistaken." She then said to the maid: "Send the little cat-slave to summon her here." The maid assented and went off.

After some time, the servant girl came out to report, "We have summoned the Fourteenth Lady of the Xin family." Presently a young woman in red appeared, looking at the old woman and bowing low. The old woman said, "You will be the wife of my nephew's son. You need not observe the formalities of a servant girl." The woman rose and stood with graceful modesty, her red sleeves hanging low. The old woman smoothed her hair and fingered her earrings, saying, "Fourteenth Lady, what have you been doing at home?" The woman answered softly, "In my leisure I have done nothing but embroidery." She turned and saw the young scholar, shrinking back in shyness and unease. The old woman said, "This is my nephew's son. He was deeply desirous of making a match with you, but why did you let him lose his way and wander all night through the mountain valleys?" The woman bowed her head and said nothing. The old woman said, "I summoned you for no other reason than to arrange a marriage for my nephew's son." The woman remained silent. The old woman ordered the bed to be prepared with mats and coverlets, intending to perform the nuptial ceremony at once. The woman said with embarrassment, "I should still inform my parents." The old woman said, "I have acted as your go-between. What error could there be?" The woman said, "The command of the Commandery Lady—my parents would not dare to defy it. But to do things in such haste—your servant would rather die than accept such orders!" The old woman laughed and said, "This young woman's will cannot be overcome. She is truly the right wife for my nephew's son!" She then plucked a golden flower from the woman's head and gave it to the young scholar to keep. She told him to go home and consult the almanac for an auspicious day. She then ordered the servant girl to escort the woman home. Hearing that the distant roosters had already crowed, she sent someone with a donkey to escort the scholar out. A few paces away, he suddenly looked back—and the village dwelling had already vanished. He saw only dense, dark pines and catalpas, and tumbleweeds covering a grave mound. After a long time lost in thought, he realized the place was the tomb of Xue Shangshu.

Xue had been the younger brother of the scholar's deceased paternal grandmother, hence the "nephew" form of address. He knew he had encountered a ghost, yet he still did not know who the Fourteenth Lady was. He sighed and returned home, casually consulting the almanac and waiting, yet in his heart he feared a ghost's promise might not be reliable. When he went back to the Buddhist temple, the halls and buildings were desolate. He asked the local people, and they said fox-spirits were often seen about the temple. He thought to himself in secret, "If I can obtain a beautiful woman, even a fox would not be bad." On the appointed day, he cleaned his house and swept the road, sending servants to keep watch, but at midnight all was still, and the scholar had nearly given up hope. Then suddenly there was a commotion outside the gate. He rushed out in his slippers to look—a decorated bridal carriage had already stopped in the courtyard, and two maids were helping the woman sit in the bridal tent. Her dowry was not large; only two tall manservants carried a large savings jar, big as a vat, which they set down in a corner of the hall, glad of the relief. The scholar was delighted to have obtained a beautiful wife and did not suspect she was of a different kind. He asked the woman, "You are a dead spirit—how is it that your family obeys her so completely?" The woman said, "Minister Xue now serves as Inspector of the Five Capitals. For hundreds of miles around, ghosts and foxes all serve as his retinue, so he rarely returns to his tomb." The scholar did not forget the matchmaker. The next day he went to sacrifice at her tomb. On his way back, he saw two servant girls presenting embroidered silk as a wedding gift, which they laid upon his table and departed. The scholar told the woman about this. She said, "These are things from the Commandery Lady."

In the district there was a son of the Chu family of Yintai, who had studied with the scholar since youth and was on familiar terms with him. Hearing that the scholar had married a fox-woman, he sent gifts for the wedding feast and came to offer his congratulations. A few days later, he sent another note inviting the scholar to drink with him. When the woman heard this, she said to the scholar, "When the young gentleman came the other day, I peered through the wall at him. He has the eyes of an an and the nose of an eagle—one cannot live long in his company. You should not go." The scholar agreed. The next day the young gentleman came to his door, reproaching him for breaking his promise and presenting new verses of poetry. The scholar's comments bordered on mockery. The young gentleman was deeply ashamed, and they parted on bad terms. The scholar returned and laughingly recounted the matter in the bedroom. The woman said gravely, "That young gentleman is a wolf and a jackal—he cannot be trifled with! If you do not listen to my words, disaster will befall you!" The scholar laughed and apologized. Afterward, the scholar and the young gentleman continued to exchange pleasantries, and their former rift gradually healed. When the provincial examination was held, the young gentleman placed first and the scholar second. The young gentleman was immensely pleased with himself and sent a servant to invite the scholar to drink. The scholar declined, but after repeated invitations, he went. Upon arrival he learned it was the young gentleman's birthday; the guests filled the hall, and the feast was sumptuous. The young gentleman showed the scholar his examination papers, and relatives and friends crowded together to praise them. After several rounds of wine, music was played in the hall. The rustic piping was loud, and host and guests were greatly merry. The young gentleman suddenly said to the scholar, "There is a saying: 'In the examination hall, do not discuss composition.' Now I know this to be false. The only reason I was able to place above you is that the opening few lines of my essay were slightly superior." When the young gentleman had finished speaking, the entire company praised him. The scholar, drunk and unable to restrain himself, burst out laughing: "Do you still believe, even now, that your writing is up to this standard!" When the scholar had spoken, the entire company turned pale. The young gentleman was mortified and choked with anger. The guests gradually departed, and the scholar also fled. When he sobered up, he regretted his behavior and told the woman about it. The woman was displeased and said, "You are truly a clever but shallow fellow from the countryside! If such frivolous behavior is shown toward a gentleman, it destroys one's virtue; if shown toward a villain, it costs one's life. Your disaster is not far off! I cannot bear to see you reduced to ruin—I ask to take my leave from you now." The scholar was frightened and wept, confessing his regret. The woman said, "If you wish me to stay, I make this agreement with you: from now on, keep your door closed and cut off all socializing, and do not drink recklessly." The scholar strictly accepted her teaching.

The Fourteenth Lady was diligent, frugal, and free-spirited, spending each day at her weaving and embroidery. When she visited her parents, she never stayed past nightfall. From time to time she brought out gold and silk to support the household finances, and whenever there was a surplus, she deposited it into the savings jar. She kept the doors closed every day, and whenever someone came to visit, she instructed the old servant to turn them away.

One day, a letter came from a gentleman of Chu, but the woman burned it without telling him. The next day, he went out to offer condolences in the city and met the gentleman at the bereaved household. The gentleman seized his arm and pressed him urgently, but the young man declined, citing a prior engagement. The gentleman ordered his groom to lead the horse and dragged him along by force. Upon arriving at his estate, he immediately ordered a sumptuous meal prepared. When the young man again tried to excuse himself and leave early, the gentleman blocked his way without relenting and brought out one of his household maidens to play the zheng for entertainment. The young man had always been unaccustomed to restraint; he had been confined to the courtyard for some time and felt exceedingly stifled. Suddenly finding himself at a lavish feast, his spirits rose magnificently, and he gave no further thought to what lay behind. Thus he drank himself into a stupor and collapsed onto the mats in a heap. The gentleman's wife, Lady Ruan, was the most ferocious and jealous of women; her maidservants dared not even apply powder and rouge. The previous day, a maid had entered the study and was seized by Lady Ruan, who struck her on the head with a staff, splitting her skull and killing her on the spot. The gentleman had long harbored resentment against the young man for his mocking insolence and was daily plotting his revenge. He therefore schemed to make him drunk and then frame him. While the young man lay in drunken sleep, the gentleman had the corpse carried to his bed, closed the door, and left. At the fifth watch, when the young man sobered up, he first became aware that he was lying on a table. Rising to look for his pillow and mat, he felt something slippery that entangled his feet. He reached down and touched it—it was a person. He assumed the master had sent a servant to sleep beside him. When he kicked it and it did not move, and then lifted it and found it rigid with death, he was greatly alarmed and rushed outside shouting in bewilderment. The servants all rose and lit torches. Seeing the corpse, they seized the young man and raged at him. The gentleman came out to inspect the scene and accused the young man of forcing his advances and killing the maid, then had him arrested and sent to Guangping. Only the next day did Fourteenth Lady learn of this. She wept and said, "I knew this day would come!" From then on, she sent money to him daily. When the young man appeared before the prefect, he had no argument to plead. Morning and evening he was beaten until his flesh was stripped from his bones. The woman went in person to inquire after him. When the young man saw her, grief choked his heart and he could not speak. She knew the trap was too deep and urged him to confess falsely in order to avoid further punishment. He wept and obeyed her command.

During her comings and goings, no one could observe her even at close range. Returning home, she consulted with sorrow and promptly sent her maidservant away. After living alone for several days, she again engaged a matchmaker to purchase a girl from a good family, named Luer, who had reached the age of fifteen, was rather beautiful in countenance, and whom she kept with her in the same quarters for meals and rest, showing her affection far beyond that of ordinary servants. The young man was convicted of accidental murder and sentenced to strangulation. An old servant returned with the news and reported it to the household, weeping so bitterly he could hardly speak. When the woman heard, she remained calm as though she took no notice of it at all. But when the day of the autumn execution drew near, she grew agitated and restless, leaving at dawn and returning at dusk without a moment's rest. Whenever she was alone in a quiet place, she grieved with such anguish that she could neither sleep nor eat. One day, in the late afternoon, the fox-servant suddenly appeared. The woman rose at once, drew her aside, and spoke with her in private. When she emerged, her face was full of smiles, and she managed the household affairs as usual. The next day, the old servant went to the prison, and the young man sent word asking the lady to come for a final farewell. The old servant delivered the message, and the woman responded casually, showing no sorrow or grief, treating the matter with complete indifference. The family privately murmured at her heartlessness. Suddenly, the roads were abuzz with the news: the Censor of Chu had been removed from office, and the Pingyang Investigator had received a special imperial edict to handle the case of Scholar Feng. The old servant heard this and joyfully informed his mistress. The woman also rejoiced and immediately sent him to the prefectural office to inquire. By then, the young man had already been released from prison, and they met in sorrow and joy. Soon the gentleman was arrested, and after a single interrogation, all the facts were brought to light. The young man was immediately set free and allowed to return home. Upon returning and seeing the woman, he shed tears in streams. She too faced him with grief and anguish, and after their sorrow came joy, yet in the end he never learned how the matter had reached the emperor's ears. The woman smilingly pointed at the maid and said, "This one is your meritorious minister." He asked her in astonishment to explain.

Before this, the woman had sent the maid to the capital to gain access to the palace and plead the young man's wrongful case. When the maid arrived, she found a divine guardian watching over the palace. She wandered back and forth along the imperial moat for several months without being able to enter. Fearing she would fail in her mission and thinking of returning to seek another plan, she suddenly heard that the emperor was about to visit Datong. The maid went ahead in advance and disguised herself as a wandering courtesan. When the emperor arrived at the pleasure quarters, she received the most lavish favor and affection. The emperor suspected she did not seem like a woman of the demimonde, and the maid began to weep. The emperor asked, "What injustice do you suffer?" The maid replied, "Your servant's native place is Guangping in Zhili. I am the daughter of the scholar Feng. My father is about to die in a wrongful case, so he sold me into the pleasure quarters." The emperor was deeply moved and bestowed a hundred taels of gold upon her. Before she left, he carefully inquired into the details and wrote down the names with brush and paper. He also said he wished to share wealth and honor with her. The maid said, "I only wish for father and son to be reunited; I do not desire luxury and rank." The emperor nodded and departed. The maid related all this to the young man. He rose hastily in gratitude, tears glistening in both eyes. Before long, the woman suddenly said to the young man, "Had I not been bound by affection, where would I have found such vexation? When you was arrested, I rushed about among relatives and friends, and not a single one of them offered to devise a plan on your behalf. The anguish I felt at that time was truly beyond telling. Now I find the mundane world ever more wearisome and bitter. I have already found a worthy mate for you. We may part from this day forward." When the young man heard this, he wept and prostrated himself, refusing to rise, and the woman relented. That night she sent Luer to attend him in bed, but he refused to accept her. In the morning, when he looked upon Fourteenth Lady, her radiance had suddenly diminished. Another month passed, and she gradually aged. In half a year, she was dark and withered like a village crone. Yet the young man honored her and never wavered in his devotion. The woman again spoke of parting and said, "You have your own fine mate—what need have you for this 'dish of witch's brew'?" The young man wept and pleaded as before. Another month passed, and the woman fell gravely ill, refusing all food and drink, lying wasted in the bedchamber. The young man attended to her medicines as though serving his own parents. Shamans and physicians alike were powerless, and in the end she passed away. The young man was consumed with grief as though he wished to die. He used the gold that had been given to the maid to arrange her funeral rites. After several days, the maid also departed, and he took Luer as his wife. In the following year, she bore him a son. But the harvests failed year after year, and the family grew ever more impoverished. Husband and wife were at their wits' end, facing each other's shadows in endless sorrow. Suddenly the young man remembered the clay money jar in the corner of the hall into which Fourteenth Lady had often thrown coins—he wondered if it was still there. Going to look, he found it was filled to the brim with jars of bean paste and salt. He removed them one by one and probed inside with chopsticks, but they would not go in. He smashed the jar, and gold coins poured forth. From that point on, the family enjoyed sudden and great abundance.

Later, the old servant went to Mount Taihua and encountered Fourteenth Lady riding a black mule, with the maidservant following on a donkey. She asked, "How is Scholar Feng?" and added, "Please convey to your master that my name has now been enrolled in the registers of the immortals." With that, she vanished from sight.

The Historian of Strange Tales remarks: "Frivolous words proceed mostly from men of letters, and this is what the gentleman laments. I have often risked an ill-reputed name; to speak of injustice may seem excessively fastidious, yet I have never failed to discipline myself with diligence, striving to attach myself to the ranks of the gentleman, and the question of fortune or misfortune does not enter into it. As for a scholar like Feng, a single careless word nearly cost him his life. Had he not had an immortal in his chamber, how could he have escaped the prison and been given a second life in this world? How terrifying!"

Lianhua Sect

A certain man of the White Lotus Sect was a native of Shanxi, roughly a disciple of Xu Hongru. He deluded the masses with heterodox arts, and many fell under his spell. One day, as he was about to go elsewhere, he placed a basin in the hall and covered it with another basin upside down. He instructed a disciple to sit and watch over it, strictly forbidding him to lift the cover and look. After the master left, the disciple lifted the cover and found the basin filled with clear water, on which a boat had woven from grass, complete with sails and masts. Marveling, he nudged it with his finger, and it immediately tipped over. He hastily righted it and replaced the cover as before. Presently the master returned and angrily rebelled, "Why did you disobey my orders?" The disciple stood and protested his innocence. The master said, "Just now a boat capsized in the sea—how can you lie to me?"

On another night, he burned a great candle in the hall and ordered a disciple to guard it diligently, not letting the wind extinguish it. Two drops of the water-clock passed, and the master had not yet arrived. The disciple, exhausted, collapsed and dozed briefly on the bed. When he awoke, the candle had already burned out entirely. He hastened to relight it. Soon after, the master entered and rebuked him again. The disciple said, "I certainly did not sleep—how could the candle have gone out?" The master angrily replied, "Just now it forced me to travel over ten *li* in the dark—and still you talk such nonsense?" The disciple was greatly terrified. His strange deeds were of every kind and too numerous to record.

Later, he discovered that a beloved concubine had been intimate with a disciple. He said nothing but secretly knew. He sent the disciple to feed the pigs. The moment the disciple entered the pen, he transformed into a pig on the spot. The master then called a butcher to slaughter it and sold its flesh; no one knew of the matter. The disciple's father, since his son had not returned home, came to inquire. The master told him his son had not come for a long time. The disciple's family searched everywhere but found no trace. A fellow disciple of the master secretly knew of the affair and revealed it to the disciple's father. The father reported it to the county magistrate. The magistrate, fearing the master would flee, dared not arrest and prosecute him. He made a detailed request for a thousand government soldiers to surround the master's residence, and his wife and children were all seized. They were locked in cages, to be escorted to the capital. While passing through the Taihang Mountains, a giant emerged from the mountains, as tall as the trees, with eyes the size of jars, a mouth like a basin, and teeth a foot long. The soldiers stood paralyzed and dared not advance. The master said, "This is a demon—my wife can repel it." An armored soldier untied his wife's bonds, and she took up a spear and went forward. The giant, enraged, sucked her in and swallowed her. The troops were even more terrified. The master said, "Since it has killed my wife, it must have my son." His son was brought out again, and the giant swallowed him too. The soldiers looked at one another, not knowing what to do. The master, weeping with rage, said, "It has killed my wife and my son—how can I bear this! I myself must go." The soldiers indeed released him from the cage, handed him a blade, and sent him forth. The giant advanced with fierce might. They fought for some time. The giant seized him, thrust him into his mouth, stretched his neck, and swallowed him down, then departed calmly.

Double Lamps

Wei Yung-wang was a native of Pen-ch'uan in I-tu, of an old and eminent family. Later the family declined and could no longer support his studies. At over twenty years of age he abandoned his books and went into the wine trade on behalf of his father-in-law. One night he was sleeping alone in the upper storey of the wine shop, when suddenly he heard a tramping sound below. He started up in alarm and listened in terror. The sound gradually drew nearer, ascending the ladder step by step with heavy tread. Presently two maids appeared carrying lamps, and they came to the foot of his couch. Behind them was a young scholar leading a young lady, who approached the couch and smiled. Wei was greatly astonished and perplexed. He then realized they were fox-spirits; his hair stood on end, and he lowered his head, not daring to glance at them. The scholar laughed and said, "Do not suspect us. My younger sister has a karmic bond with you from a former life—it is fitting that she serve you." Wei looked at the scholar, whose brocade and sable dazzled the eye; he felt ashamed of his own shabby appearance and did not know how to reply. The scholar led the maids, left the lamps, and departed. Wei looked closely at the young lady—she was as graceful as an immortal, and his heart was greatly pleased. Yet, embarrassed and ashamed, he could not bring himself to speak lightly. The lady turned and smiled, saying, "You are not a bookworm—why put on such a pedantic air?" She promptly approached the pillow and mat and warmed her hands against his chest. Wei at first broke into a smile, then playfully tugged at her trousers, and they became intimate. Before the morning bell had sounded, the two maids came again to lead her away. They made another appointment for the evening. When evening came, the lady indeed arrived, laughing, "What fortune has this foolish fellow—without spending a single coin, to have such a fine wife come to him every night of her own accord!" Wei, delighted to be alone, set out wine and drank with her. They played the guessing game, and the woman won nine times out of ten. She then laughed and said, "You do not know that I hold the counters—you guess for yourself; if you guess right, you win, otherwise you lose. If I were to guess, you would never win." They followed her suggestion and passed the whole night in pleasure. When they were about to retire, she said, "Last night the bedding was rough and cold—quite unbearable." She then called the maids to bring a quilt, which they spread upon the couch—silken, fragrant, and soft. After a while, they loosened their sages and nestled together, her lip-saliva richly fragrant—truly not inferior to the Land of Tenderness of the Han dynasty. From then on, this became a regular occurrence.

Half a year later, Wei returned home. It happened to be a moonlit night, and he was chatting with his wife by the window, when he suddenly saw the lady, gorgeously dressed, sitting on top of the wall, beckoning to him. Wei approached her, and she reached out her hand and helped him over the wall. Holding his hand, she said to him, "Now I must part from you. Please escort me a few paces, to express the affection of these six months." Wei, startled, asked the reason. The lady said, "Marriage bonds are predestined—what need is there to explain?" As they spoke, they reached the outskirts of the village, where the maid was waiting ahead carrying two lamps. They proceeded straight to the South Mountain, and when they reached a high place, she took her leave of Wei and bade him farewell. He could not detain her, and so she departed. Wei stood in bewilderment, watching the two lamps flicker in the distance, growing farther and farther until they could no longer be seen, and he returned in dejection. That night the villagers all saw the lights on the mountain top.

Catching Ghosts and Shooting Foxes

Li Gong, Zhuming, was the son of Jinzhuo, the magistrate of Suining. He was a man of generous spirit, never timid or fearful. He was the brother-in-law of Wang Jiliang of Xincheng. Jiliang's residence had many towers and pavilions, where strange occurrences were often seen. The Gong family would lodge there in the heat of summer and loved the cool of the evening atop the pavilion. When told of the strangeness, Gong merely smiled, paid no heed, and insisted on having a couch set up. The host complied as requested. He ordered his servants to keep Gong company through the night, but Gong declined, saying, "All my life I have never understood fear." The host then had incense lit in the brazier, asked which way Gong wished his mat laid, and extinguished the candle and closed the door before leaving.

After Gong had lain down for some time, in the moonlight he saw a tea bowl on the small table tilt and spin, yet it neither fell nor stopped. Gong shouted at it, and with a clang it halted at once. Then it seemed someone pulled out a stick of incense, waving it in the air, tracing crisscross patterns like flowers and threads. Gong rose and shouted, "What ghost or demon dares do this!" He threw off his robes, descended from the couch, and moved to seize it. Searching with his foot beneath the bed, he found only one slipper. Having no time to grope further in the dark, he struck at the waving incense with his bare foot, and the incense stick was suddenly thrust back into the brazier, with no trace left at all. Gong bent down and felt about every dark corner, when suddenly something leapt and struck him on the cheek. It felt like a slipper, but when he searched, he could not find it. Thereupon he opened the door and descended the stairs, calling for his attendants to bring torches and lights. Nothing was to be seen. He then went back to sleep. In the morning, he had several men search for the slipper—they overturned mats and tipped up couches—but its whereabouts remained unknown. The host provided Gong with a replacement slipper. The next day, by chance, he looked up and saw a slipper wedged between the roof rafters. He poked it down, and it proved to be Gong's slipper.

Gong was originally a man of the capital, residing as a sojourner in the Sun family residence of Zichuan. The compound was very spacious, with many rooms standing vacant, and Gong occupied only half of it. The southern courtyard faced a high pavilion, separated only by a wall. From time to time, the pavilion doors were seen to open and close of themselves, but Gong paid no attention to it. Once, while speaking with members of his household in the courtyard, the pavilion door opened, and suddenly there sat a small man facing north, no more than three feet tall, wearing a green robe and white stockings. The others pointed and looked at him, but he did not move. Gong said, "This is a fox." He quickly fetched a bow and arrows and took aim at the pavilion, about to shoot. The little man, seeing this, made mocking, scoffing sounds, then vanished. Gong seized a blade and climbed the pavilion, cursing and searching as he went, but saw nothing at all, and returned. The strange occurrences then ceased entirely. Gong lived there several years in peace and safety. Gong was the elder brother of Gong Yousan, who was related to me by marriage, and these events were witnessed by him personally.

The Historian of Strange Occurrences says: "I was born too late to have had the honor of attending Gong. Yet, having heard the elders speak of him, he was in the main a man of generous spirit and firm resolve. From these two incidents, one may form a general impression. When a man harbors a spirit of vast integrity within, what can ghosts and foxes do to him?"

The Lame Man Repays His Debt

Li Gong, Zhuming, was generous and fond of giving. A fellow townsman, Wang Zhuo, worked as a hired laborer in Gong's household. This man had been dissolute in his youth and could not manage farm work, so his family was often in poverty. However, he possessed minor skills and was frequently employed for tasks, and Gong always paid him generously. At one time, when he had no breakfast, he came to Gong begging in distress, and Gong would give him a peck or a bushel. One day he said to Gong, "This humble person receives your generous support daily, and by good fortune my three or four dependents have not starved, but how can this go on forever? I beg my master to lend me a picul of green beans as capital." Gong gladly gave them to him. Zhuo carried them away. More than a year passed, and he repaid nothing at all. When asked about it, the bean capital had been entirely squandered. Gong pitied his poverty and pressed him no further.

Gong was studying in a secluded temple. More than three years later, he suddenly dreamed that Zhuo came and said, "This humble person owes your master the price of the beans, and has now come to repay it." Gong consoled him, saying, "If I demanded repayment, how could I calculate all that you have received over the years?" Zhuo said with a grave expression, "That is true. But if a man does some small service and receives a thousand pieces of gold from another, he need not repay it. Yet if one receives aid for no reason, even a peck or a bushel must not be forgotten—how much more so a great sum!" With that, he departed. Gong was all the more puzzled. Soon after, a servant reported to Gong, "Last night the she-donkey gave birth to a foal, and it is well-formed and sturdy." Gong suddenly understood and said, "Could the foal be Wang Zhuo?" Several days later, when he returned home, he saw the foal and, as a joke, called out "Wang Zhuo." The foal came running to him, as if it understood. From then on, this became its name. Gong rode it to Qingzhou, and a eunuch of the Heng princely establishment, seeing it, was delighted and wished to purchase it at a high price, but the price had not yet been settled. It happened that Gong had urgent family business and could not wait, so he went home. Another year passed, and the foal, kept in the same stall as a stallion, was bitten and had its shin bone broken, beyond cure. A cow veterinarian came to Gong's house, saw it, and said to Gong, "I beg you to entrust the foal to me. I will tend and treat it morning and evening, and it will take months. If by chance it recovers, the proceeds shall be divided between us." Gong agreed as requested. Several months later, the veterinarian sold the donkey for one thousand eight hundred cash, and gave half to Gong. Upon receiving the money, Gong was suddenly enlightened: the sum exactly matched the price of the beans. Alas! A debt repaid openly, and a debt repaid in the unseen world—this is enough to offer encouragement!

The Rolling Head

Su Zhenxia, a provincial graduate, saw his father, lying down during the day, observe a human head emerge from the ground, large as a grain measure, rolling ceaselessly beneath the couch. Shocked, he fell ill from it and never recovered. Later, his younger brother visited a dissolute woman and met his death at her hands. Was this an omen of that event?

The Ghost Prepares a Feast

Du Sheng Jiuwan's wife fell ill. It happened to be the Double Ninth Festival, and he had been invited by a friend to a cornelian cherry gathering. He rose early, washed, and told his wife where he was going. As he was putting on his hat and robes to leave, he suddenly saw his wife in a daze, murmuring on and on as though speaking with someone. Du was puzzled and went to ask her at her bedside, but she kept calling him "son." The family members all knew something was amiss. At the time, Du had his mother's coffin still unburied, and he suspected her spirit had possessed his wife. Du prayed, saying, "Could it be my mother?" His wife cursed him: "You beast! Do you not know your own father?" Du said, "If you are my father, why have you returned to haunt my wife?" She called him by his childhood name and said, "I have come especially for your wife's sake—why do you resent it instead? Your wife should die at once. Four men have come to summon her; the leader is Zhang Huaiyu. I begged and pleaded in every way, and only just now got their consent. I promised them a small bribe; you had best pay it." Du immediately burned paper money outside the door. His wife then said, "The four men have left. They could not bring themselves to disregard my face. In three days you should prepare a feast to repay her. Your mother is old and decrepit and cannot manage the household kitchen. When the time comes, I will still need your wife to go." Du said, "The realms of dark and light are different paths—how could she take over the cooking? I hope you will forgive and release her." His wife said, "Do not be afraid, my boy. She will go and return forthwith. This is a matter for her; she must not shrink from the labor." Having spoken this, she said, "I shall go now." His wife immediately fell into a stupor and did not revive for a long time. When Du asked her what had happened, she remembered nothing. She only said, "I saw four men come just now, wanting to seize me. Fortunately, my dear father-in-law pleaded for me. He even loosened his purse and bribed them, and only then did they leave. I saw that his money pouch still had two silver ingots left, and I wanted to steal one to use for our daily living. But he caught me and scolded, 'What are you trying to do! Is this something you could use?' So I drew back my hand and dared not move." Since his wife was gravely ill, Du was half believing and half doubting. Three days later, they were chatting and laughing when she suddenly stared fixedly for a long time and said, "Your wife is extremely greedy. When she saw my white silver just now, she conceived covetous desires. Still, the chief reason is poverty, so it is not too strange. I will take your wife to manage my kitchen affairs—do not worry." No sooner had she finished speaking than she suddenly died. About half a day passed before she revived, and she told Du: "Just now my father-in-law summoned me and said, 'You need not do the work yourself—I have someone else to cook. You only need to sit firmly and give orders, and that will suffice. In the underworld I like abundance; all dishes should overflow their vessels. Remember this well.' I agreed. When I reached the kitchen, I saw two women cutting and chopping on the chopping block in the middle of the room. Both wore dark purple scarves with green borders, and they called me 'sister-in-law.' Each time they filled a gui vessel with food, they would invite me to inspect it. The four men from before were all at the table. When the food had been served, the wine vessels were already arranged. Then the old man ordered me to return." Du was greatly astonished and told the story to all his acquaintances.

Hu Four, the Honorable Gentleman

Zhang Xuyi of Laiwu was the second elder brother of the education commissioner Zhang Daoyi. By nature he was bold and unrestrained. He heard that a certain residence in the county was inhabited by fox spirits, so he respectfully prepared a calling card and went to pay them a visit, hoping to see them. He slipped the card through a gap in the door, and after a while the door opened of its own accord. His servant was greatly startled and fled back, but Zhang straightened his clothes and entered reverently. He saw that tables and couches in the main hall were arranged as in an ordinary home, yet it was utterly silent and no one was there. He bowed and said, "This humble student has come after fasting and purification. Since the Immortal does not reject me as an outsider, why not grant me the light of your countenance?" Suddenly he heard a voice from the air say: "To trouble you to come all this way is truly the sound of footsteps long awaited. Please sit and instruct me." At once two chairs moved of their own accord to face each other. He had scarcely sat down when a carved lacquer red tray holding two tea cups appeared suspended before his eyes. Each took his cup and drank; the sound of sipping was audible, yet the person was never seen. After tea came wine. On making careful inquiries about his family and official background, the voice said, "My surname is Hu, and I am the fourth in birth order. They call me 'the Honorable Gentleman,' as others address me." They then drank and discussed together, their temperaments quite in harmony. Turtle and deer meats were served, mixed with fragrant herbs. Those who brought wine and hot dishes seemed to be many young attendants. After wine, Zhang thought of tea; the moment the thought arose, fragrant tea had already been placed on the table. Whatever he wished for appeared the instant he thought of it. Zhang was overjoyed and returned home thoroughly drunk. From then on he went every two or three days without fail, and Hu also came to Zhang's house from time to time, each observing the courtesies of host and guest.

One day Zhang asked Hu, "The old sorceress in the southern quarter daily pretends to speak for the Fox God to profit herself. Does the fox lord of her house know her?" Hu said, "That is nonsense—there is truly no fox there." Shortly after, Zhang got up to relieve himself and heard a small voice say: "About that fox sorceress in the southern quarter just mentioned—I do not know what sort of person she is. This lowly one wishes to go with the master to observe her. Would you trouble yourself to make the request to our host?" Zhang knew this was a young fox and answered, "Very well." He then made the request at the table, saying: "I would like to borrow one or two of your attendants to investigate the fox sorceress. I respectfully ask your permission." Hu firmly said it was unnecessary, but Zhang pressed the matter again and again, and at last Hu consented. Afterward, when Zhang came out, a horse appeared as though controlled by someone. He mounted and rode, and the foxes spoke to him on the road: "From now on, master, if you feel fine sand scattering on your robe while on the road, it will mean that we are following you." As they spoke, they entered the city and arrived at the sorceress's house. The sorceress saw Zhang and came forward smiling: "Why has an honored gentleman suddenly deigned to visit?" Zhang said, "I have heard that the foxes of your household are greatly efficacious. Is it true?" The sorceress put on a serious face and said: "Such flippant talk is not fitting for a gentleman to utter! How dare you speak of 'foxes'? I am afraid our Lady Flower will be displeased!" Before she had finished speaking, half a brick flew through the air and struck her arm; she staggered and nearly fell. She said in alarm to Zhang: "How could you, sir, strike an old woman?" Zhang laughed and said: "Blind old woman! When have you ever seen someone whose own forehead is broken falsely accuse a bystander?" The sorceress was bewildered and did not know what to do. While she was still confused, another stone fell and struck her; she tumbled down, and filth and mud rained down upon her, smearing her face like a demon. She could only wail and beg for her life. Zhang asked that she be spared, and then it stopped. The sorceress hastily rose and fled into her room, closing the door and daring not to come out. Zhang called out to her, saying: "Are your foxes like my fox?" The sorceress could only apologize. Zhang beckoned to her and, looking up toward the sky, warned them not to harm the sorceress. Only then did she come out trembling. Zhang spoke to her with a smile and then returned home.

From then on, when Zhang walked alone along the road, he would call out to the fox at the faintest rustle of windblown sand, and the fox's answers never erred. Faced with tigers, wolves, or violent brigands, Zhang relied on the fox and feared nothing. A year passed in this way, and their bond grew ever closer, beyond all formality. Once Zhang asked the fox his age, but the fox could scarcely recall it himself, saying only, "I saw Huang Chao's rebellion as though it were yesterday."

One evening as they conversed together, there came a sudden sharp noise from atop the wall, a sound most startling. Zhang thought it strange, and the fox said, "That must be my elder brother." Zhang said, "Why not invite him to sit with us?" The fox replied, "His powers are rather shallow—he can do no more than snatch a couple of chickens to eat and considers that quite enough."

Zhang said to the fox, "The friendship between the two of us is such that we can say we have no regrets; yet we have never once set eyes on each other—that is a great pity." The fox said, "If we are good friends, what need is there to meet face to face?"

One day the fox set out wine and invited Zhang, and also took his leave. Zhang asked, "Where will you go?" The fox said, "I was born in Shaanxi, and now I shall return there. You have always regretted never seeing my face, so today let me show you my friend of these several years, so that you may recognize me another day." Zhang looked about in every direction but saw nothing. The fox said, "Try opening the door to your bedchamber, and you will find me there." Zhang pushed the door open and glanced inside. There stood a handsome young man, and the two looked at each other and smiled. His robes were neat and fresh, his brows and eyes like a painting; but in the blink of an eye, he was seen no more.

Zhang turned and walked away, and at once there was the sound of footsteps close behind him, saying, "Today your regret is put to rest." Zhang lingered, reluctant to part. The fox said, "Union and separation follow their own destiny—why let it weigh upon you?" He then urged Zhang on with a great goblet of wine. They drank until the middle of the night, and the fox lit Zhang home by the light of a lantern shaded with gauze. The next morning Zhang went to visit him, but found only a cold and desolate empty room.

Later, when a certain gentleman became the Provincial Education Commissioner of Xizhou, Zhang asked leave to go to Jin to visit him, taking the opportunity to see his friend the fox, his hopes running high. But when he returned, things fell far short of his original expectations. He sighed on horseback, dejected as a puppet. Suddenly a young man riding a black donkey came up behind him. Zhang turned and saw that his furs and horse were of fine quality, and his bearing was refined and cultured, so he struck up a conversation. The young man, observing that Zhang was unhappy, asked the reason. Zhang told him everything. The young man offered words of comfort.

They traveled together about a li, until they reached a fork in the road, where the young man raised his clasped hands in farewell and said, "Ahead on the road there is a person who has an item from an old friend of yours—I beg you to accept it with a smile." Zhang wished to ask more, but the young man galloped off into the distance. Zhang could make nothing of it. After another two or three li, he saw an old servant carrying a small bamboo trunk, who presented it before Zhang's horse, saying, "Master Hu the Fourth has respectfully sent this for you, sir." Zhang understood at once. He opened the trunk and found it filled with white silver. When he looked again for the old servant, he had vanished.

Nian Yang

The Collector of Strange Tales remarks: The ways of human treachery are like those of ghosts and sprites, and they are found everywhere; but along the great thoroughfares of north and south, the harm they do is especially severe. There are those who, like drawn bows and galloping warhorses, prey upon travelers beyond the city gates—everyone knows of them. Then there are those who slit bags and stab satchels to seize goods in the marketplace; a traveler turns his head and his money and goods are already gone—are these not the most extreme of ghosts and sprites? And yet there are also those met by chance on drifting waters, whose sweet words flow like honey, whose approach is gradual and whose penetration is deep. Mistaking them for a friend met under the canopy of a carriage, one falls victim to the calamity of lost fortune. They set their snares according to circumstance, and their methods vary; common people call them "Nian Yang" because of the gradual soaking-in of their words. They are especially numerous on the northern roads today, and those who suffer their harm are many indeed.

In my county there was a man named Wang Zixun, a county student of the Imperial Academy. A clansman of his, a Hanlin Compiler of the Manchu Banner, was in the capital, and Wang was going to visit him. He packed his things and set out north. Having left Jinan and traveled several li, a man riding a black mule galloped up and joined him on the road, now and then drawing him into casual conversation. Wang answered him readily enough. The man said, "My surname is Zhang. I am a yamen servant in Qixia, sent by the magistrate on official business to the capital." His manner was deferential, his attentions most assiduous. He followed Wang for several tens of li and proposed that they lodge together. If Wang rode ahead, Zhang would whip his donkey to catch up; if Wang fell behind, Zhang would wait by the roadside. Wang's servant was suspicious and rebuffed him harshly, not allowing him to follow. Zhang seemed somewhat abashed, flicked his whip, and rode away.

That evening, when they rested at an inn, Wang happened to walk about the courtyard and saw Zhang drinking in the outer quarters. Just as he was wondering about this, Zhang caught sight of Wang, came forward with hands hanging and bowing, humble as a menial servant, and made a few polite inquiries. Wang took it as a casual encounter and was not suspicious, but Wang's servant kept watch through the whole night.

When the rooster had crowed, Zhang came to call Wang to travel together, but the servant brusquely refused him, and he left. Not until the morning sun had risen did Wang set out. After traveling half a day, a man ahead of him riding a white mule—about forty years old, with neat cap and robes—rode with his head bowed, swaying on his donkey as though on the verge of falling asleep. Now ahead, now behind, he followed along for some ten li. Wang asked in surprise, "What were you doing last night to make you so dazed?" The man heard this, gave a sudden start and a stretch, and said, "I am from Qingyuan. My surname is Xu. Linzi Magistrate Gao Qing is my cousin on my mother's side. My elder brother keeps a school at the yamen, and I went to visit him and received a small gift in return. Last night at the inn, I inadvertently lodged in the same room as a Nian Yang—I was so frightened and vigilant that I dared not close my eyes, and so I am dazed even in broad daylight." Wang asked, "What is a Nian Yang?" Xu said, "You have traveled little and do not know of such treachery. There are villains who use sweet words to beguile travelers, contrive to rest and lodge with them, and then seize the opportunity to swindle them. Recently a distant relative of mine lost his traveling money in this way. We all ought to be on our guard."

Wang nodded. It happened that the Linzi magistrate was an old acquaintance of Wang's—he had once joined his staff and knew his retainers. There was indeed a man surnamed Xu among them, so Wang ceased to be suspicious. They exchanged pleasantries and inquired after Xu's elder brother. Xu proposed that they lodge together that evening, and Wang agreed. But the servant still suspected a plot and secretly discussed it with his master. They deliberately delayed and did not advance, lost contact with Xu, and so he disappeared.

The next day, at high noon, Wang again encountered a young man, perhaps sixteen or seventeen years old, riding a sturdy mule, his hat and robes neat and well-kept, his countenance quite handsome. They travelled together for some time without exchanging a single word. When the sun was already setting, the young man suddenly said: "The Qu Lü inn is not far ahead." Wang gave a faint reply. The young man then heaved a deep sigh, as though overcome by emotion. Wang asked him briefly what was the matter, and the young man sighed: "I am surnamed Jin, from south of the river. Three years of lamp oil and study, hoping to win a degree, and I never dreamed I would fall short of Sunshan! My elder brother holds a post in the Ministry, so I brought my household here in hopes of distraction. I have never in my life travelled, and the dust flies in my face—it is most vexing." He took a red cloth and wiped his face, groaning and sighing without cease. His speech was in the southern accent, soft and delicate like a woman's. Wang was drawn to him and offered some consolation. The young man said: "I rode ahead earlier, and my family must have been waiting for me a long time. Why have none of my servants come either? The sun is already setting—what are we to do!" He lingered and gazed back, walking very slowly. Wang rode on ahead, and the distance between them gradually widened.

That evening Wang arrived at an inn. Entering his room, he found a bed beneath the wall, with another traveller already unpacking on it. Wang asked the innkeeper, and a man came in and led the other guest out, saying: "Please make yourself comfortable—I will move him to another room at once." Wang looked at him and recognised Xu. Wang stopped to share the room with him, and Xu accordingly stayed, and they sat down to talk. Shortly after, another man entered carrying luggage, saw Wang and Xu in the room, and turned and hurried out, saying: "There are guests already." Wang looked carefully—it was the young man he had met on the road. Before Wang could speak, Xu hurriedly rose and pulled him back, and the young man sat down. Xu then asked him about his family and home, and the young man repeated what he had told Xu on the road. Soon he untied his purse and produced a large pile of silver, weighing it out to the amount of two taels and more, which he gave to the innkeeper, instructing him to prepare food and wine for a night of conversation. Both Wang and Xu tried to dissuade him, but in the end he would not listen.

Before long, wine and roasted meats were served. During the banquet, the young man discussed literature with great elegance. Wang asked him about the examination topics in the southern capital, and the young man told him all of them. He also recited from memory his opening passages and the lines of which he was most proud in his essays. Having finished, he seemed deeply aggrieved, and they all wrung their hands in sympathy. The young man also said that he had lost track of his family and had no servants for the night, and was worried he could not tend to the animals. Wang therefore ordered his own servant to feed the fodder, and the young man was deeply grateful. After a while, he suddenly stamped his foot and said: "My luck has been bad all my life, and I have not had a good journey either. Last night at the inn I lodged next to a villainous man—he threw dice and shouted, the noise pounding in my ears and boiling in my heart, so that I could not sleep." In the southern dialect, dice were called *dou*, which Xu did not understand, so he pressed him for an explanation, and the young man traced the shape with his hand. Xu then laughed, took a die from his purse, and said: "Is this the thing?" The young man nodded. Xu then proposed using the die to play a drinking game, and they drank merrily together. When the wine was nearly finished, Xu suggested they throw the die together, the loser to be the host. Wang declined, saying he did not know how. Xu then threw the die with the calling of *hu lu* against the young man, and secretly told Wang: "Say nothing about this. The southern gentleman is quite well-off and young—he probably does not understand the secrets of *wumu*. I will win a little, and tomorrow I shall treat you." The two then went into the adjoining room. Soon a great clamour of gambling was heard. Wang peeped in secretly and saw the Qixia clerk among them. Greatly puzzled, he spread his bedding and lay down. After some time, the others all pulled Wang to gamble, but Wang firmly declined, saying he did not know how. Xu offered to distinguish the *xiao* and *zhi* throws for him, but Wang would not allow it either; Xu then threw the die on Wang's behalf. After a while, he came to the bed and reported to Wang: "You have won several rounds." Wang, half-asleep, murmured a reply.

Suddenly several men burst through the door, chattering in a foreign tongue. The leader said his surname was Tong. They were banner guards sent to arrest gamblers. At that time the gambling laws were strictly enforced, and all were greatly alarmed. Tong shouted menacingly at Wang, who countered by invoking his rank as a Historiographer of the Imperial Academy. Tong's anger abated, and he and Wang, discovering they were from the same banner, exchanged pleasantries. Tong laughingly invited them to resume gambling for sport. The others did so, and Tong joined them as well. Wang said to Xu: "I want nothing to do with winning or losing. I only wish to sleep—do not disturb me." Xu paid no attention and continued to report to him. When the game was over, they each counted their tallies, and Wang found himself deeply in debt. Tong then searched Wang's bags to collect payment. Wang rose furiously to contest it. Jin seized Wang's arm and whispered: "These are dangerous men, and their intentions are unfathomable. We are friends of letters and must look after one another. Just now I won a certain sum in the game, which can cover this debt. This money was owed to Xu—let me exchange it. Let Xu pay Tong, and you owe me. This is only to deceive others for the moment; afterwards I will return it to you. Surely, as friends bound by principle, I would not truly take your money?" Wang, being by nature honest and trusting, believed him. The young man came out and told Tong of the exchange. Tong then opened Wang's bags before everyone, estimated the value of the goods, and put them in his own purse, then turned to demand payment from Xu and Zhang.

The young man then brought his bedding and lay down next to Wang, their pillows touching. His coverlets were all of fine quality. Wang also called his servant to sleep on the bed, and each lay quietly on his pillow. After a while, the young man deliberately turned over and pressed his lower body close to the servant. The servant shifted to avoid him, but the young man drew close again. His skin touched the servant's thigh—smooth and soft as grease. The servant's heart was moved, and he tested whether the young man would respond, and the young man was most ardently willing, their breathing rustling beneath the covers. Wang heard it quite clearly; though he was startled and puzzled, he never suspected anything more. At dawn, the young man rose and urged Wang to set out early. He also said: "Your mule is worn out—the goods you entrusted to me last night, please hand them over on the road ahead." Before Wang could reply, the young man had already loaded his luggage and mounted his mule, and Wang had no choice but to follow. The mule galloped on, and the distance grew ever greater. Wang supposed the young man was waiting for him ahead and paid no mind to it. He then asked his servant about what he had heard in the night, and the servant told him the truth. Wang was now alarmed: "We have been swindled by *nian yang*! How could a gentleman of an official house offer himself to a groom?" But then he reflected that the young man's conversation and literary grace were beyond the capacity of a *nian yang*, and he rode hard for several tens of *li*, but the trail had vanished entirely. Only then did he realise that Xu, Zhang, and Tong were all members of the same gang: one scheme having failed, they had simply switched to another, determined to draw him in. The exchange of debts and goods had already planted the seed of a future claim; had the plan to seize his baggage not succeeded, they would certainly have used the earlier pretext to snatch it away. For a few dozen taels of silver, they had trailed him for several hundred *li*, and fearing the servant might expose them, had even offered themselves to him—such a bitter stratament indeed!

Several years later, there was the affair of Wu Sheng:

There was a man of the district, surnamed Wu, styled Anren, who had lost his wife at the age of thirty and lived alone in his empty study. A scholar came to converse with him, and they became close and fond of each other. The scholar brought a young servant called Guitou, who also became friendly with Wu's servant Ba'er. After some time, Wu discovered that the scholar was actually a fox-spirit. Whenever Wu travelled far, the fox-spirit would accompany him, and in the same room, no one else could see him.

When Wu was in the capital and about to return home, he heard that a man named Wang had fallen victim to a band of swindlers, and so he warned his servants to be on guard. The fox-spirit laughed and said, "No need—this journey will bring nothing but good."

When they reached Zhuolu, Wu saw a man tethering a horse and sitting at a tobacco shop, dressed handsomely in fine fur garments. Seeing Wu pass by, the man also rose and mounted his horse, following him. Gradually he fell into conversation with Wu, saying, "I am surnamed Huang, from Shandong, and I serve in the Household Ministry at the court. I am returning east, and I am pleased to have company on the road so as not to be lonely." From then on, when Wu stopped, Huang stopped; whenever they ate together, Huang always paid for Wu's share. Wu outwardly felt grateful but inwardly grew suspicious. He privately asked the fox-spirit about it, and the fox-spirit said, "No harm in it." Wu's mind was put at ease.

In the evening, they sought lodging together, and they found a handsome young man already sitting in the room. Huang entered and clasped hands in greeting with him, then asked with delight, "When did you leave the capital?" The young man replied, "Yesterday." Huang then persuaded him to share the lodgings, and said to Wu, "This is Master Shi, my cousin on my mother's side, also a man of letters. He can join you in discussing poetry and literary matters, and our evening conversation will not be dull." He then produced money, and they prepared food and drank together. The young man was graceful and charming, and Wu grew very fond of him. During the drink, the young man would signal Wu with his eyes to penalise Huang in a drinking game, forcing him to drain his cup, and Wu would clap his hands and laugh. Wu liked him even more. After that, Shi and Huang proposed gambling together and drew Wu in, each of them putting out money from their purses as stakes. The fox-spirit told Ba'er to secretly bar the plank door, and instructed him, "If you hear people making a clamour, just sleep and make no noise." Wu agreed.

Each time Wu threw the dice, he lost on small bets but won on large ones. After the first watch, he reckoned he had won two hundred taels of gold. Shi and Huang's purses were nearly empty, and they proposed pawning their horse.

Suddenly there came a furious pounding at the door. Wu hastily rose, threw the dice into the fire, covered himself with a quilt, and pretended to sleep. After a long while, he heard the innkeeper searching for his key but unable to find it, then breaking the bolt and pushing open the door. Several men rushed in furiously, searching for the gamblers. Shi and Huang both denied there were any. One of the men pulled back Wu's quilt and pointed at him as a gamber; Wu shouted at them. The men forcibly searched Wu's baggage. Just as he was unable to resist them, there suddenly came from outside the sound of a sedan-chair with outriders shouting and clearing the way. Wu hurried out and cried out, and the men were frightened. They dragged him back in and begged him to be silent. Wu then calmly presented bribes to the innkeeper. Once the retinue had passed far away, the men went out the door.

Huang and Shi put on an act of surprise and relief, and went in turn to look at the sleeping quarters. Huang told Shi to share a bed with Wu. Wu placed his money-bag under his pillow and was just stretching out the quilt to sleep when, before long, Shi lifted Wu's coverlet, entered his arms naked, and whispered, "I admire your open and generous spirit, and wish to form a bond of intimacy with you." Wu knew in his heart that this was a trick, yet the plan was also not without its appeal, so he embraced him. Shi did his utmost to serve him, but to his surprise Wu proved to be a powerful man, and the fit was most ill-matched. Shi groaned and whimpered, scarcely able to bear it, and secretly begged for mercy. Wu insisted on finishing the act. When he reached down and felt, the blood flowed like pestles in a mortar. Then he let him go. By morning, Shi was too exhausted to rise, and pleaded a sudden illness, asking Wu and Huang to set out first. As Wu was leaving, he gave him gold to cover the cost of medicine and nourishment.

On the road, Wu spoke with the fox-spirit and then learned that the retinue from the night before had all been the fox-spirit's doing.

Huang, on the road, became even more fawning toward Wu. In the evening they again shared lodgings, but the room was very narrow, barely fitting one bed, though it was warm and clean. Wu thought it too cramped. Huang said, "This room is cramped for two people to sleep in, but spacious enough for you alone—what does it matter?" After eating, he left straight away. Wu was also pleased to sleep alone, so he could meet with his fox friend. He sat for a long time, but the fox-spirit did not come. Suddenly he heard a small door in the wall, and the sound of fingers tapping on it. Wu unbolted the latch and looked inside—a young woman, gorgeously made up, hurried in. She barred the door herself, smiled at Wu, and was as beautiful as an immortal. Wu was delighted and questioned her closely. She turned out to be the son's wife of the innkeeper. They became intimate and were very fond of each other. Suddenly the woman shed tears. Wu asked her in alarm why, and she said, "I dare not conceal it from you—I am in fact the innkeeper's wife, sent to lure you. When I entered the room earlier, I was at once seized; I do not know why tonight they have not come for so long." She sobbed again and said, "I am a woman of a good family, and my heart is unwilling. But now I have given my heart to you—I beg you to rescue me!" Wu was frightened and at a loss, and could only urge her to leave quickly. The woman merely bowed her head and wept.

Suddenly he heard Huang and the innkeeper banging on the door with a great clamour. He heard Huang shouting, "I have served you all along the way, and thought you a man of honour—how could you seduce the wife of my brother's lodgings!" Wu was terrified and pressed the woman to leave. He heard the sound of blows and striking from outside the wall-door. Wu broke into a sweat like rain in his haste, and the woman also crouched weeping. Then he heard someone trying to stop the innkeeper, but the innkeeper would not listen, pushing the door more urgently. The one who tried to stop him said, "May I ask the master—what do you intend to do? If you wish to kill them, there are several of us guests here, and we will not stand by and watch violence. If one of the two escapes, how can you escape blame? If you wish to bring the matter before the courts, an impropriety between the bed-curtains only brings shame upon yourself. Moreover, you are lodging travellers—you are clearly involved in a trap and a swindle. How can you guarantee that the woman will not say something different?" The innkeeper stared blankly and could not speak. Wu listened and felt secretly grateful and admiring, though he did not know who the speaker was.

At the beginning, just as the shop was about to close, a scholar had arrived with a servant to lodge in the outer room. He brought fine wine and poured for everyone in the house, urging Huang and the innkeeper especially warmly. The two men tried to rise and leave, but the scholar held their garments and would not let them go. Later they found a chance to slip away, seized staffs, and rushed to Wu's room. The scholar, hearing the clamour, then came in to mediate. Wu peered through the window and saw that it was his fox friend, and his heart rejoiced secretly. Seeing that the innkeeper's resolve had somewhat weakened, he spoke loudly to frighten him. He also said to the woman, "Why do you not speak a single word?" The woman sobbed, "I am ashamed to be so unlike a man, driven to such low and servile tasks!" The innkeeper heard this and his face turned ashen. The scholar cursed them, saying, "Your brutish natures have been fully exposed. This is something this traveller and we all detest!" Huang and the innkeeper both released their knives and staffs and knelt to beg forgiveness. Wu also came out of the room and burst into furious cursing. The scholar again urged Wu to stop, and the two sides were at last reconciled.

# From *Liaozhai Zhiyi*, Volume 4

The woman wept again, refusing to go back, preferring death. Old women and maids rushed out from inside and dragged her in, forcing her to enter. The woman lay on the ground, crying all the more bitterly. The licentiate urged Wu to pay a heavy price and buy the young man out. The master lowered his head and said: "I have been a madam for thirty years, and today the baby has swaddled the nursemaid—what can I say?" He then followed the licentiate's advice. Wu was still unwilling to spend such a large sum. The licentiate mediated between host and guest, and they settled on fifty taels of silver. After the money and the person had changed hands, the morning bell had already begun to toll. They hurried together to pack and set off, carrying the woman with them. The woman had never ridden a horse, and the galloping was quite hard on her. At midday she rested briefly. When they were about to set off again, they called for Bao'er, but he was nowhere to be found. The sun had already set, yet there was still no trace or sound of him. They were greatly puzzled and suspicious, and so they asked the fox. The fox said: "Do not worry—he will arrive on his own." The stars and moon had already risen when Bao'er finally appeared. Wu questioned him, and Bao'er laughed, saying: "The gentleman enriched that villainous rustic with fifty taels of silver, and I found it most unfair. I happened to scheme with Guitou and went back myself to get it." He then placed the silver on the table. Wu asked him in astonishment what had happened. It turned out that Guitou knew the woman had only one elder brother, who had been away for over ten years without returning. So he transformed himself to look like her brother, had Bao'er pose as the younger brother, and they went to the gate demanding the sister. The master was terrified and falsely claimed she had died of illness. The two servants wanted to take the matter to the magistrate, which frightened the master even more. He fed them silver, gradually increasing the amount to forty taels, and the two servants then departed. Bao'er recounted the whole story in detail, and Wu immediately gave him the silver.

Wu returned home, and the harmony between him and his wife was exceedingly deep. Their family grew ever more prosperous. Questioning the woman closely, he learned that the handsome young man of earlier days had indeed been her husband—for Shi was Jin. She wore a cassock of silk gauze, which she said had been obtained from a man surnamed Wang in Shandong. Their associates were very numerous, and the innkeepers were all of their kind. Who would have thought that the person Wu encountered was the very one for whom Wang Zixun cried out to heaven in bitter distress—was that not a splendid thing! How true the ancient saying: "Those who ride are good at falling."

# The Frog Melody

Wang Zixun related: When he was in the capital, he once saw a man performing a trick in the marketplace. He carried a wooden box made into compartments, twelve holes in all, with a frog crouching in each hole. He would tap the frog's head with a thin stick, and it would croak loudly. If someone gave him money, he would strike the tops of the frogs in rapid succession, producing music like the cloud-gongs—melodies and tunes, clearly distinguishable.

# The Mouse Show

A man in Chang'an sold mouse performances on the street. He carried a sack on his back containing over ten small mice. Whenever he was in a crowd, he would set up a small wooden frame on his shoulder, looking just like a miniature stage. Then he would clap the drum and sing old variety plays. The moment the singing began, mice would emerge from the sack, wearing masks and small costumes, climbing onto the stage from his back, standing on their hind legs and dancing. Their expressions of joy and sorrow matched the dramatic scenes exactly.

# The Clay Scholar

In Luocun there was a man named Chen Dai, who was somewhat dull and uncouth from youth. He married a woman of the certain surname who was quite beautiful. Because he felt himself unworthy as a husband, he was melancholy and frustrated. Yet he was chaste, and mother and daughter-in-law lived in harmony. One night, sleeping alone, he suddenly heard the wind and the door creak open. A scholar entered, took off his clothes and hat, and lay down with the woman to sleep. The woman was terrified and resisted desperately, but her body suddenly went limp, and she could only submit to his intimate advances before he left. From then on, no night passed without his coming. After a little over a month, the woman's appearance grew haggard. Her mother, puzzled, asked about it. At first she was too ashamed to speak, but pressed firmly, she finally told the truth. Her mother was horrified and said: "This is a demon!" They tried every method of exorcism and incantation, but could never stop it. She then had Chen Dai hide in the room with a staff, waiting to strike. At nightfall the scholar came again. He placed his hat on the table and took off his robe, hanging it on the clothes rack. Just as he was about to climb onto the bed, he suddenly cried out: "Good heavens! There is the breath of a living person!" He hastily put his clothes back on. Chen rose up from the shadows and struck him in the waist and ribs with a heavy thud. He looked around the four walls, but the scholar had vanished. They bundled kindling and lit it for light. A piece of clay clothing had fallen to the floor, and a clay hat still sat on the table.

# The Land God's Lady

Wang Bing of Diaochiao was leaving the village when he saw a beautiful woman emerge from the Land God's shrine, gazing at him with great warmth. He tried to flirt with her, and she gladly accepted. They became intimate without reservation, and she agreed to come to him at night. Wang Bing told her his address. She came that night as promised, and they were exceedingly happy together. When he asked her name, she firmly would not tell him. From then on, her visits never ceased. Whenever Wang Bing lay in bed with his wife, the beautiful woman would also come to couple with him, and his wife never sensed another person's presence. Wang Bing asked her in amazement about this. The woman said: "I am the Land God's lady." Wang Bing was greatly horrified and urgently wanted to break it off, but by every means he could not prevent it. He let matters drift for half a year, until he was bedridden with illness. The woman came even more frequently, and all the family members saw her. Before long, Wang Bing indeed died. The woman still came once a day. Wang Bing's wife scolded her: "Shameless lustful ghost! The man is already dead—what do you come back for?" The woman then left and never returned.

Though the Land God is small, he is still a god. How could he allow his wife to run off on her own? One cannot fathom what lecherous, maddened creature caused this, so that for ages to come people would say this village had an unclean and immodest deity. What an injustice!

# Lotus in the Cold Moonlight

There was a Daoist of Jinan, whose origins were unknown and whose surname was not recorded. In both winter and summer he wore a single lined gown, tied with a yellow sash, with no trousers or undergarments. He would comb his hair with half a comb, then hold the topknot in his teeth, like a crown. He walked barefoot in the marketplace by day and slept in the streets at night. Several feet away from his body, ice and snow would melt completely. When he first arrived, he would perform magic tricks for people, and the townsfold would compete to give him things. A rascal from the well district offered him wine and begged to be taught his art, but the Daoist refused. Once, when the Daoist was bathing at the river crossing, the rascal suddenly seized his clothes to threaten him. The Daoist bowed and said: "Please return them to me, and I will not begrudge teaching you." The rascal, fearing he was being deceived, firmly refused to release them. The Daoist said: "You truly will not let go?" "No," said the rascal. The Daoist said nothing. In a moment they saw the yellow sash turn into a snake, large enough to grasp in both hands, coiling around his body six or seven times, glaring with angry eyes, raising its head and thrusting its tongue forward. The rascal was greatly terrified, fell to his knees, his face turned blue and his breath came fast—he could only beg for his life. The Daoist then took back his sash. The sash was indeed not a snake. There was another snake, which slithered away into the city. From then on, the Daoist's fame grew even greater.

A certain gentry family, having heard of his strange powers, invited him to associate with them, and from then on he came and went at the gate of the local scholars. The prefectural and circuit officials all knew his name, and whenever they held a banquet, they always made the Taoist priest attend. One day, the priest requested the use of the Shuimian Pavilion to repay the kindness of the various dignitaries' feast. When the day arrived, each official found an invitation from the priest on his desk, though no one knew how it had gotten there. When the officials arrived at the banquet site, the priest came out hunched over to greet them. Once inside, however, the pavilion was empty and still—tables and couches had not been set up—and some doubted his claims. The priest addressed the officials: "This poor priest has no servants. I would trouble you to lend me a few attendants to help with the running about." The officials all agreed. The priest painted a pair of double doors on the wall and knocked on them with his hand. From within came someone who answered, shook the bolt, and opened them. They all craned their necks to look, and saw figures bustling about inside—screens, curtains, beds, and tables were all there. Immediately, items were passed out one by one through the doorway. The priest ordered the clerks and runners to receive and arrange them in the pavilion, and cautioned them not to speak with the people inside. The two sides passed things back and forth, only looking at each other and smiling. In an instant, the pavilion was filled with furnishings, sumptuous and splendid beyond measure. Soon fine wine wafted its fragrance, and hot roasted meats steamed with savory heat—all transmitted through the wall. None of the seated guests failed to marvel. The pavilion had always backed onto the lake, and every sixth month, lotus flowers stretched across dozens of acres, boundless to the eye. But the banquet took place in the depths of winter, and outside the windows all was a vast blur, with only misty green. One official remarked with a sigh, "What a fine gathering this day—it's a pity there are no lotus blossoms to adorn it!" All the rest murmured agreement. A short while later, a clerk in blue robes came running to report: "The lotus leaves fill the pond!" The whole company was astounded. They pushed open the window and gazed out—indeed, they saw verdure stretching to the horizon, interspersed with lotus buds. In the blink of an eye, ten thousand branches and a thousand blossoms burst open all together; the north wind blew upon their faces, and the fragrance of the lotuses penetrated their minds. Everyone thought it strange. They dispatched clerks by boat to pick the lotuses. From afar they saw the clerks enter deep among the flowers; after a while they returned rowing, their bare hands coming into view. The official questioned them, and the clerk said, "This petty man went out by boat and saw the flowers in the distance, gradually reaching the northern shore, then turning far away again in the southern marshes." The priest smiled and said: "These are but empty flowers of a dream." Before long, the wine ran out and the lotuses also withered. A sudden north wind arose, tearing the lotus leaves, and nothing remained. The Observation Commissioner of Jidong was greatly delighted with him and took him back to his yamen, spending every day in his company. One day the Commissioner was drinking with a guest. The Commissioner had a fine inherited brew, of which he always allowed only one dou at a time and was unwilling to provide for wasteful drinking. That day the guest drank it and found it sweet, and kept pressing for more of the stored wine. The Commissioner firmly refused, saying it was all gone. The priest said to the guest with a smile: "If you must satisfy your gluttony, you may ask this poor priest for it." The guest asked. The priest put his sleeve to the pot; a moment later he brought it out and poured for everyone in the seat—it was no different from what the Commissioner had stored. They drank to their fill and finished. The Commissioner was suspicious and went to look at the wine jar: the seal was intact as before, but the bottle was already empty. In his heart he seethed with shame and rage, seized him as a demon, and had him caned. The first stroke had barely fallen when the Commissioner felt a sudden sharp pain in his thigh; a second stroke, and the flesh of his buttocks felt as though it were splitting. Though the priest screamed at the foot of the steps, the Commissioner's blood was already soaking his seat. He stopped the beating and ordered him to leave. The priest then departed Ji, and no one knew where he went. Later, someone encountered him in Jinling, dressed as before, and asked him about it—he smiled and said nothing.

The Wine Madman

Miu Yongding was a senior scholar from Jiangxi. He was habitually given to drunkenness, and many of his relatives and friends avoided him out of fear. He happened to visit his uncle's house, where he bantered and jested with the guests, and they all drank themselves into a drunken revel. Miu, in his cups, used the wine to berate the company and gave offense to a guest. The guest flew into a rage, and the whole table erupted in uproar. His uncle tried to mediate, but Miu took the guest's side, which only further enraged his uncle. His uncle, at his wits' end, ran to tell Miu's family. His family came and supported him home. No sooner had they laid him on the bed than all four of his limbs went cold; when they felt for him, his breath had utterly stopped.

Miao saw a man in a black cap leading him away. After some time they reached a government office, with jade-green tiles, of a magnificence unparalleled in the mortal world. Coming to the steps below the hall, it seemed he was waiting to be received by the magistrate. He thought to himself that he was innocent—it must be a civil case involving a brawl. He glanced back at the man in the black cap, whose eyes blazed with rage like an ox's, but dared not ask. Suddenly a clerk on the hall announced that those involved in lawsuits should return early the next morning to wait their turn. At this, the people below the hall dispersed in a flurry. Miao also followed the man in the black cap out, with nowhere to return to, and hung his head, standing beneath the eaves of a shop. The man in the black cap said angrily, "Drunken scoundrel! The sun is setting—everyone has gone off to find food and lodging. Where do you think you're going?" Miao trembled and said, "I don't even know what this is about. I didn't tell my family, so I have no money at all. How can I get home?" The man in the black cap said, "Drunken thief! If you'd spent it all on drinking for yourself, that would have been some use! If you babble any more, my old fists will smash your drunken bones!" Miao hung his head and dared not make a sound. Suddenly a man came out of a doorway, saw Miao, and said in surprise, "Where did you come from?" Miao looked at him and recognized his maternal uncle. His uncle, Jia, had been dead for several years. Seeing him, Miao at last understood that he himself was dead, and his heart grew even more frightened and sorrowful. Weeping, he said to his uncle, "Uncle, save me!" Jia turned to the man in the black cap and said, "Lord Dongling—this is no matter of consequence. Please honor my humble home." The two men then entered. Jia bowed deeply to the man in the black cap and treated him with marked favor. Soon wine and food were brought out, and they sat in a circle and drank together. Jia asked, "What has my nephew done to warrant being summoned here?" The man in the black cap replied, "His Majesty was on his way to visit the Lord of Fuluo when he encountered your nephew drunk and hurling abuse, and ordered me to seize him." Jia asked, "Has he been brought before the King?" He replied, "The Lord of Fuluo is presiding over the Huazi case; His Majesty has not yet returned." Jia asked again, "What punishment will my nephew receive?" He answered, "It cannot be known yet. But His Majesty is greatly angered by such people." Miao, standing nearby, heard their words and shuddered with sweat, unable to lift his cup or chopsticks. Before long, the man in the black cap rose and thanked Jia, saying, "I have enjoyed your generous hospitality and am already drunk. I entrust your nephew to you for now. When His Majesty returns, I will visit again." And he departed. Jia said to Miao, "You have no brothers, and your parents loved you as the apple of their eye, never willing to scold you once. At sixteen or seventeen, every time you had three cups, you would mumble and pick fault with others, and the slightest disagreement would send you banging on their doors and cursing them bare-faced. We still thought you were just young. Who would have thought that in more than ten years apart, you have made no progress at all. What am I to do with you now!" Miao prostrated himself on the ground and wept, filled with remorse too late to undo. Jia pulled him up and said, "Your uncle runs a wine business here and has some small reputation—I will certainly do my utmost. The one who was just drinking with us is the emissary Lord Dongling. I have often given him wine, and he and I are on quite good terms. His Majesty attends to ten thousand matters each day and is unlikely to remember this one clearly. I will plead with him at length, asking him to release you as a personal favor—he may well agree." Then he thought again and said, "But this matter carries considerable weight; it cannot be resolved for less than a hundred thousand." Miao thanked him and promised, and stayed that night at his uncle's. The next morning, the man in the black cap came early to see what was happening. Jia asked to speak with him privately. After some time, he came and told Miao, "It is settled. He will return shortly. I will first put together everything I have to seal the contract, and the rest can be gathered after you return." Miao said joyfully, "How much altogether?" "A hundred thousand," said Jia. "Where am I to get such a sum?" Jia replied, "Just a hundred bundles of gold coins and spirit money—that will suffice." Miao said happily, "That is easily managed." But by noon, the man in the black cap had still not come.

Miao wanted to go out to the market to look around a little. Jia warned him not to wander far, and Miao promised and went out. He saw the streets and stalls, just like the world of the living. Coming to one place, he saw high thorn walls, which looked like a prison. Opposite the gate was a wine shop, with a great many people coming and going. Outside the shop stretched a long stream, its black waters surging and churning, so deep that the bottom could not be seen. He was standing there peering into it when he heard someone inside the shop call out, "Master Miao, where have you come from?" Miao looked quickly and saw Old Weng, a neighbor from his village—a literary friend of ten years past. They hurried out, clasped hands, and were as joyful as in old days. They went into the shop for a small drink and each told the other of all that had happened since they parted. In his joy at having unexpectedly met an old friend, Miao drank his fill without restraint. He grew thoroughly drunk, forgot entirely that he was dead, and his old habits returned—he began to pick at Old Weng's faults in a rambling way. Old Weng said, "It has been several years since we last met, and you are still the same!" Miao had always hated people speaking of his behavior when drunk, and hearing this, he grew even more enraged. He struck the table and cursed loudly. Old Weng glanced at him, shook his sleeves, and walked out. Miao followed him all the way to the stream's edge, grabbed Old Weng's hat, and Old Weng said angrily, "This man is truly mad!" He pushed Miao and sent him tumbling into the stream. The water was not particularly deep, but the bottom was thick with sharp blades, piercing his ribs and shins; he could not move, and the pain penetrated to his very bones and brain. The black water was mixed with filth, which was drawn into his throat as he breathed—more than he could bear. The people on the bank watched and laughed in a dense crowd, and not one of them lifted a hand to help.

At this moment of crisis, Jia suddenly arrived. Seeing the scene, he was greatly alarmed, pulled Miao out, and brought him back, saying, "You are impossible! Even in death you have learned nothing—you are not fit to be human again! I ask that you be handed over to Lord Dongling to receive the axe and block." Miao was terrified, wept, and bowed in acknowledgment of his fault. Jia then said, "Lord Dongling came just now, waiting for you to sign the contract, but you were off drinking and wandering and did not return, and he could not wait any longer. I have already signed the contract and paid a thousand strings of cash for him to leave; the remainder is due within ten days. When you return, you should prepare it quickly and at night, in the open fields outside the village, call out your uncle's name and burn it. Then this matter can be settled." Miao obeyed everything and urged Jia to send him on his way. Jia escorted him to the outskirts and warned him once more, "You must not break your word—it will do me no good to be burdened by it." Then he showed him the way home.

At this point, Mou had been lying stiff and motionless for three days. His family believed he had drunk himself to death, yet his breath still faintly hung by a thread. On that day, he revived and vomited violently, bringing up several pecks of black sediment so foul that the stench was unbearable. After the vomiting, his sweat soaked the bedding, rising with a steaming stench no different from the vomit itself; only then did his body begin to feel cool. He told his family of the strange event. Soon he felt the pierced place grow painful and swollen, and by the next day a wound had formed, though mercifully it did not ulcerate badly. By the tenth day he was gradually able to walk with a staff. His family all begged him to repay his debt in the underworld. Mou calculated that the expense would require no small sum, and he grew rather stingy about it. "Perhaps it was merely an illusion of the Land of Drunkenness," he said. "Even if it were not, she released me in private—how would I dare let the King of the Underworld know?" His family urged him, but he would not listen. Still, his heart trembled within him, and he dared not drink to excess again. The neighbors were all pleased at his moral improvement and gradually began to drink with him. After a year or so, the underworld's retribution faded from his memory, his ambitions grew unrestrained, and his old habits began to sprout anew. One day, while drinking at the home of a younger clansman, he again abused those present. The host expelled him and shut the door, walking away without a backward glance. Mou raged for over an hour before his son learned of it and came to support him home. Upon entering the house, he faced the wall and knelt for a long time, striking his own face countless times. "Then I shall repay your debt!" he cried. "Then I shall repay your debt!" The words had barely left his face when he fell to the ground. They looked at him—his breath had already stopped.