Volume 7

Volume 7

Luo Zu

Luo Zu was a native of Jimo. In his youth, he was poor. The clan was required to send one man to garrison the northern frontier, and Luo was the one dispatched. After several years at the frontier, he had a son. The garrison commander treated him with great kindness and respect. When the commander was promoted to Regional Vice Commander in Shaanxi, he wished to take Luo with him. Luo therefore entrusted his wife and children to a friend of his named Li, and headed west. For three years thereafter, he was unable to return home. It happened that the Vice Commander wished to send a letter to the northern garrison, and Luo came forward to offer his services, requesting permission to visit his family along the way. The Vice Commander agreed. When Luo arrived home, his wife and children were safe and well, which brought him great comfort. However, beneath the bed he found a man's shoe, and suspicion arose in his heart. He immediately went to call on Li to express his thanks. Li offered him wine with warm hospitality; his wife also spoke of Li's kindness and generosity, and Luo was overwhelmed with gratitude. The next day, he said to his wife, "I am going to deliver my master's message and cannot return tonight. Do not wait up for me." He went out, mounted his horse, and rode away. But he concealed himself nearby and returned after the night watches had changed. He heard his wife and Li talking in bed together. Furious, he broke down the door. The two, terrified, crawled forward on their knees begging for death. Luo drew his blade, then sheathed it again, saying, "I took you for a man of honor—but to do this! Killing you would only soil my blade! I make this agreement with you: you may take my wife and keep her; you may also take my name and use it as your own; my horse, weapons, and equipment are all yours. I am gone!" And he left. The villagers reported the matter to the authorities. The official had Li flogged, and Li told the truth. But there was no evidence or witness to corroborate the case, and no way to verify it. A search was conducted far and wide, but Luo had vanished without a trace. The official suspected that Li had killed Luo out of jealousy over the affair, and had Li and his wife shackled ever more tightly. After more than a year, both died in chains. Luo's son was then sent back to Jimo by post carriage. Later, a woodcutter from Shixia Camp entered the mountains and saw a Daoist sitting in a cave who never sought food. The people thought this strange and brought him grain to eat. Someone who recognized him said it was indeed Luo. Gifts of food filled the cave, but Luo never ate any of it. He seemed weary of the noise and clamor, so those who came to visit gradually grew fewer. After several years, a forest of wild grass and wormwood had grown up outside the cave. Someone secretly peered in and saw that he had not moved from his sitting place at all. After a still longer time, they saw him come out and wander upon the mountain, but when they went to approach him, he had vanished. They looked down into the cave again, and the dust on his robe lay as thick as before. They marveled at this even more. Several days later, they went again and found a jade pillar hanging down—he had already sat in meditation and passed away for some time. The locals built a temple for him. Every year in the third month, worshippers with incense and paper money came in an unbroken line along the road. His son came, and people called him Little Luo Zu, and all the temple's incense tax revenue went to him. Even today, his descendants still come once a year to collect the tax revenue.

Liu

A man surnamed Liu [the text gives no further particulars].

A certain Liu of the county was a tiger in human guise. Later he left Zibo and settled in Yi, but his old habits remained unchanged, and the villagers all feared and despised him. He owned several mu of farmland that bordered the fields of one Miao. Miao was diligent and had planted many peach trees along the edge of his land. When the peaches first bore fruit, Liu's son climbed over to pick them. Liu drove him off in a rage, claiming the trees as his own. The boy wept and told his father. Father was just beginning to express shock and bewilderment when Liu was already cursing and shouting at their gate, declaring he would bring a lawsuit. Miao smiled and calmed him. Liu's anger did not subside; he left in a fury. At that time, one Li Cuishi of the same county was running a pawnshop in Yi. Liu had gone into town carrying a legal complaint and happened to meet him there. Being fellow townsmen, they were already acquainted. Li asked, "What business brings you here?" Liu told him. Li laughed and said, "Your reputation is known to all. I have long known Miao—he is a very mild and honest man. How dare you accuse him of fraud? Aren't you the one telling it backwards!" Thereupon he tore up Liu's complaint, dragged him into the shop, and intended to mediate between them. Liu remained bitterly resentful. He secretly took a brush from the shop, drafted another complaint, hid it in his breast pocket, and resolved he would file it no matter what. Before long, Miao arrived and explained the matter in detail, entreating Li to secure a settlement. He said, "I am a farmer; in half a lifetime I have never set eyes on an official. So long as the lawsuit is dropped, a few peach trees—how would I dare claim them as my own?" Li called Liu out and told him of Miao's willingness to yield. Liu again pointed at the sky and stamped the ground, cursing without cease. Miao merely spoke with a gentle countenance and humble words, daring not to offer the slightest rebuttal. After it was over, four or five days passed, and Li saw people from Liu's village who reported that Liu had died. Li was astonished and sighed. On another day, while Li was traveling elsewhere, he saw someone approaching with a staff—it was unmistakably Liu. When Liu drew near, he asked warmly after Li's health and invited him to visit. Li hesitantly asked, "The other day I suddenly heard the news of your death—how absurd it was!" Liu did not answer, but led him into the village to his home, where he set out wine and refreshments. Then he said: "That report the other day was not absurd at all. I had just left my house when I saw two men come to seize me and bring me before the authorities. I asked what the charge was, but they merely said they did not know. I thought to myself: I have come and gone from yamen gates for dozens of years; I am no coward who shrinks from seeing officials, and I felt no fear. I went with them to the government hall. I saw one seated facing south who wore an angry expression. He said, 'So you are so-and-so? Your crimes are full to the brim; you have not reformed or repented. Moreover, you have seized another man's property and claimed it as your own. Such tyranny and violence—you deserve to be cast into the cauldron!' One man consulted the records and said, 'This man has done one good deed; he should not die.' The one facing south reviewed the records, and his expression softened somewhat. He then said, 'Send him back for now.' Dozens of people shouted at me to leave in unison. I said, 'For what matter was I summoned here? And for what matter am I being sent away? I beg you to make it clear.' The clerk descended holding the records and pointed out one entry for me to see. It recorded: 'In the thirteenth year of Chongzhen, he spent three hundred cash to save a husband and wife and keep them together.' The clerk said, 'But for this, today your life would have ended, and you would have been reborn in the animal realm.' Terrified beyond measure, I followed the two men out. The two men demanded a bribe. I angrily told them, 'Don't you know that Liu has passed through government gates for twenty years? One who has always extorted money from others—how dare you come asking a tiger for meat!' The two men said nothing more. They escorted me to my village, clasped their hands, and said, 'This trip we didn't so much as get a handful of water to drink.' After the two men left, I entered my door and then revived. By that time I had been dead for a full day." Li heard this and marveled at it, then pressed him for the full particulars of his good deed. It was like this: In the thirteenth year of Chongzhen, the harvest failed catastrophically, and people ate one another. Liu was then in Zibo, serving as a chief constable's deputy. He happened to see a man and woman weeping bitterly. He asked them about it, and they replied, "We husband and wife have been together barely a year. This year the famine is so severe that we cannot both survive, and so we grieve." A short while later, he saw them again in front of an oil shop, apparently engaged in some dispute. He went closer to question them. The shopkeeper, surnamed Ma, said at once: "This husband and wife are starving to death. Daily they come begging me for sesame paste to stay alive. Now they want to sell the wife to me. I have already bought more than ten people in my household. What does it matter? If the price is low, I'll buy her; otherwise, that's the end of it. It's laughable—they pester a man like this!" The husband then said: "Now grain is as precious as pearls. I reckon that without three hundred cash at the very least, there will not be enough to cover the costs of flight. My wish was for both of us to live. If selling my wife would not save me from death, how would I dare? I do not presume to speak of fairness—I only ask that you do a secret good deed." Liu took pity on him and asked Ma what price he would offer. Ma said: "For a woman today, the price is barely a hundred or so." Liu urged him not to lower the sum and offered to contribute half the price himself. Ma stubbornly refused. Liu, being somewhat headstrong, then said to the man: "That fellow is petty and not worth dealing with. I will give you the full amount. If you can escape the famine and keep husband and wife together besides, wouldn't that be even better?" Thereupon he opened his purse and gave it to them. The husband and wife wept, bowed, and left. When Liu recounted this matter, Li praised him lavishly. From that time forward, Liu's conduct changed utterly; now at seventy he is still vigorous. Last year, Li went to Zhoucun and found Liu quarreling with someone. A crowd surrounded them and could not make peace. Li called out with a laugh: "Are you going to sue over a peach tree again?" Liu's expression changed in a flash; he meekly withdrew his hands and retreated.

The Historian of the Strange said: "Li Cuishi and his brothers were all considered men of great wealth. But Cuishi was moreover gentle and prudent, took delight in doing good, and never prided himself on his riches—a modest and sincere gentleman indeed. Observe his settling disputes and encouraging virtue, and his whole life may be known. The ancients said: 'To be wealthy and not unkind.' I do not know whether Cuishi was benevolent first and then became wealthy, or whether he became wealthy first and then grew benevolent."

Shao Nü

Cha Tingbin was a man of Taiping. His wife, née Jin, was barren and extraordinarily jealous. Cha spent a hundred taels of gold to buy a concubine, but Jin treated her with such cruelty that she died within the year. Cha, enraged, left her and slept alone for several months, never setting foot in the women's quarters.

One day, Chai was celebrating his birthday, and Jin came to him with humble words and formal courtesy, offering birthday wishes to her husband. Chai could not bring himself to refuse her, and so they began to speak and smile again once more. Jin prepared a feast in the inner chamber and invited Chai in. Chai declined, saying he was drunk. Jin, richly adorned, went in person to Chai's quarters and said, "I have exhausted all my sincerity for an entire day. Even if you are drunk, grant me one cup and then we may part." Chai then went in, and they drank wine and talked. His wife said calmly, "The other day I made a mistake in killing that serving girl, and now I deeply regret it. Why must you bear such a grudge, so that all wedded affection between us is gone? In the future, I beg you to take twelve hairpins' worth of concubines, and I will not reproach you for it." Chai was even more pleased. The candles burned down to their stubs, and so he stayed the night. From then on, they loved and respected each other as before.

Jin then called a matchmaker and instructed her to find a fine concubine, but secretly told her to delay and give no reply, while she herself kept pressing the matter. A year passed in this way. Chai could wait no longer and asked all his relatives and friends to find someone for him, and he obtained the adopted daughter of the Lin family. Jin, upon seeing her, was visibly delighted. They ate and drank together, and Jin let her take whatever cosmetics and flowered bracelets she wanted. However, Lin was a native of Yan and was not skilled in needlework; apart from embroidered shoes, she needed help for everything. Jin said, "Our family has always been industrious and frugal; we are not like a noble household that buys people to look at as painted pictures." So she gave her fine brocade and had her learn to sew, treating her as a strict teacher would a pupil. At first there were scoldings, and then beatings with a whip. Chai was deeply pained in his heart but could do nothing. Yet Jin's affection and fondness for Lin was even greater than before; she would often bind her feet herself and apply powder and rougher evenly. But if the heel of a shoe had even a slight crease, she would strike both her arches with an iron rod; if her hair was the least bit disheveled, she would slap her cheeks. Lin could not endure the abuse and hanged herself. Chai was stricken with grief and bitterness and began to harbor resentment. His wife said angrily, "I was teaching your young wife on your behalf—what crime is there in that?" Chai then saw through her treachery, and so they turned against each other again, forever severing all marital harmony.

Secretly, Chai had rooms prepared in a separate property, planning to buy a beautiful woman and live apart from Jin. Half a year passed without finding the right person. By chance, he attended a friend's funeral and saw a young girl of sixteen whose radiant beauty dazzled his eyes; he stopped and gazed, his spirit entranced. The girl was startled by his wild staring and cast her sidelong glances at him. He asked about her and learned she was of the Shao family. Shao was a poor scholar with only this one daughter. From childhood she had been intelligent; he taught her to read, and she could grasp a text at a glance. She especially liked to read the *Neijing* and books on physiognomy such as the *Bingjian*. Her father doted on her, and whenever anyone proposed marriage, he let her choose for herself, yet she was seldom satisfied with either rich or poor suitors, so at seventeen she was still unmarried.

Chai learned all these details and knew he could not easily win her, yet his heart lingered on the thought. He also hoped that, since her family was poor, he might be able to tempt them with money. He approached several matchmakers with the plan, but none dared to act as go-between, and so he lost heart and gave up hope. Then an old woman who dealt in pearls came to visit Chai. Chai told her of his wish and bribed her with a large sum of money, saying, "I only ask that you convey my sincere intentions; whether it succeeds or not, I will not hold you accountable. If there is any hope, I would not grudge a thousand pieces of gold." The old woman, tempted by the money, agreed.

She went to the Shao household and began chatting idly with Shao's wife. Seeing the girl, she exclaimed in admiration, "What a beautiful young lady! If she were placed in Zhaoyang Palace, the Zhao sisters would not count for anything!" She then asked, "Who is her husband's family?" Shao's wife replied, "Not yet engaged." The old woman said, "For such a lady, why worry that there are no princes and nobles to be her distinguished husband?" Shao's wife sighed, "We dare not aspouse to a princely family; we only want someone who can read, and that would be fine. But this little rascal of ours picks and chooses repeatedly—out of ten, not one suits her. I cannot understand what she is after."

The old woman said, "Madam, do not trouble yourself. Such a beautiful person—who knows what merit she cultivated in a former life to deserve such blessings! The other day there was a great laughing matter: Master Chai said that at a certain family's grave he caught a glimpse of her beauty and wished to offer a thousand pieces of gold as betrothal gifts. Wasn't that a hungry owl dreaming of swans? I drove him away with a scolding long ago!" Shao's wife smiled and said nothing. The old woman continued, "Even with a scholar's household, it is hard to argue over such things; but with anyone else, losing a foot and gaining a rod, it might seem worth considering." Shao's wife smiled again and was silent. The old woman clapped her hands and said, "If that is truly so, then my own thinking was wrong. Day after day I have enjoyed your kindness, Madam—whenever I enter your hall, you draw close and offer me wine and broth. If I got a thousand pieces of gold, with carriages entering and towers rising, the next time I came to your door, the gatekeeper would drive me away with curses."

Shao's wife pondered for a long time, then rose and went to speak with her husband. After a while, she called for her daughter. After yet another while, the three of them came out together. Shao's wife said with a smile, "This girl is peculiar—she has refused many fine matches, but when she heard of becoming a concubine, she agreed. I fear she will be laughed at by the scholarly world!" The old woman said, "If she enters the family and bears a little master, what then, great lady?" Having said this, she told them of Chai's plan to live separately. Shao was even more pleased and called to his daughter, "Try speaking with this matchmaker. This is your own decision—do not regret it later and blame your parents." The girl said bashfully, "If my parents can enjoy generous support, then their care will will be well provided for. Besides, I feel in my heart that my fate is slight; if I obtain a good match, it would surely shorten my lifespan. Better to suffer a little torment—that may not be misfortune. When I saw Master Chai earlier, he too had the look of one destined for fortune; his descendants will surely prosper."

The old woman was overjoyed and ran to tell Chai. Chai was more delighted than he had ever dared hope. He immediately put out a thousand pieces of gold, prepared carriages and horses, and married the girl at his separate estate. No one in the family dared to say a word. The woman said to Chai, "Your plan is like a swallow nesting in a tent—you are not thinking beyond the moment. Stopping mouths and guarding tongues, hoping that nothing leaks out—how can that be achieved? I beg you to take me home sooner rather than later; it would be like setting out quickly and keeping the disaster small."

Chai feared she would be abused. The woman said, "In this world there is no one who cannot be transformed. If I commit no fault, how can anger arise?" Chai said, "Not so. This is an extraordinary fury—she cannot be moved by reason or feeling." The woman said, "As a lowly concubine, ill-treatment is only to be expected. Otherwise, buying my days to live—how long could that last?" Chai thought she was right, yet he remained hesitant and could not bring himself to decide.

One day, Chai was away from home. The concubine emerged in plain clothes, ordered the servant to saddle a gray old mare, and with an old woman carrying her bundle, set off directly to the principal wife's quarters. She knelt on the ground and made her confession. The wife was at first furious, but then reflected that since she had come forward voluntarily, she could be pardoned. Seeing also that her manner and dress were humble, her anger somewhat subsided. She ordered a maid to bring out fine clothes and dress her, saying, "That faithless creature has spread evil rumors about me among the people, so that I have been slandered without cause. In truth it is the men who are unrighteous and the maids who are wanton—it is they who provoked her. Consider: for a man to abandon his wife and set up another household—is that the conduct of a human being?"

The concubine said, "Upon close observation, he seems somewhat repentant, but he is simply too proud to humble himself. As the proverb goes, 'The great do not submit to the small.' By the rules of propriety, a wife stands in relation to her husband as a son to his father, and a concubine to her principal wife. If you, my lady, would only show a kind word and a gentle expression, all accumulated resentment could be entirely dispelled."

The wife said, "He does not come to me—what concern is it of mine?" She nevertheless ordered the maids to prepare quarters for the concubine. Though inwardly displeased, she allowed her to stay for the time being.

When Chai heard the concubine had returned, he was filled with alarm, imagining that a sheep had entered a wolf pack and would be torn to pieces beyond recognition. He rushed home in haste, only to find the house perfectly quiet, and his mind was at last at ease. The concubine met him at the door and urged him to go to the principal wife's quarters. Chai hesitated, showing reluctance. The concubine wept, and Chai's heart softened somewhat. She went to the wife and said, "My lord has just returned and is too ashamed to face you. I beg you to go and mock him a little." The wife refused to go. The concubine said, "I have already told him: the relation of husband to wife is like that of principal wife to concubine. When Meng Guang raised her tray to her husband, people did not think her servile—why? It was simply her proper place." The wife then went with her and said to Chai, "You with your three burrows like a crafty rabbit—what have you come home for?" Chai bowed his head and did not answer. The concubine nudged him with her elbow, and Chai at last forced a smile. The wife's expression softened slightly and she was about to leave. The concubine pushed Chai to follow her and also instructed the cook to prepare wine. From then on, husband and wife were reconciled.

The concubine rose early each morning, dressed in plain clothes, and went to pay her respects. After washing, she would hand over a towel and observe the manners of a maid with great deference. When Chai entered her room, she firmly refused him, and only after more than ten nights did she consent to receive him once. The wife also thought well of her in her heart, yet feeling she could not match her, accumulated shame turned into jealousy. But the concubine served with such care that there was no fault to find; even when mild reproofs were given, she submitted to them without complaint.

One night, the husband and wife had a slight quarrel, and the wife's morning toilet was still suffused with anger. The concubine held up a mirror, which slipped from her hands and shattered. The wife grew still more furious, seized her hair, and glared with blazing eyes. The concubine was terrified and prostrated herself at length, begging for mercy. The anger did not abate, and she was beaten with a whip several dozen times. Chai could not bear it; bursting in with a show of indignation, he dragged the concubine out, while the wife followed with a stream of curses and blows. Chai flew into a rage, snatched the whip, and struck back. The wife's face was torn and bleeding before she retreated. From then on, husband and wife were like enemies.

Chai forbade the concubine to go to the wife's quarters. She disobeyed, rising early each day and crawling on her knees to wait outside the wife's curtain. The wife pounded the bed in furious rage, shouting at her to leave, but she would not go. Biting her teeth with resentment day and night, the wife planned to wait until Chai went out before venting her fury on the concubine. Chai learned of this and cut off all social contact, closing his door to visits of condolence and congratulation. The wife could do nothing about it, and could only beat the maids day after day to vent her hatred; the servants could all endure it no longer. Since husband and wife had broken off relations, the concubine also dared not spend the night with Chai, and he slept alone. The wife heard of this and was somewhat consoled.

There was an older maid who was naturally cunning and sly. She happened to speak with Chai one day, and the wife suspected an intimate liaison, beating her most cruelly. The maid would go to places where no one was about and beat her head in resentment, cursing bitterly.

One night it was this maid's turn to keep watch. The concubine warned Chai, telling him on no account to go to her, saying, "There is murder in that maid's face—she is unpredictable." Chai followed her advice. He summoned the maid and asked in feigned casualness, "What are you doing?" The maid was so frightened and alarmed that she could find no words. Chai's suspicion deepened. He searched her clothing and found a sharp blade. The maid had nothing to say; she merely prostrated herself and begged for death. Chai was about to beat her, but the concubine stopped him, saying, "I am afraid the wife may hear of it—if she does, this maid will certainly not be spared. Her offense is indeed unpardonable, but it would be better to sell her. That way her life is preserved and I also receive my just due." Chai agreed. It happened that there was a man seeking to buy a concubine, so they hastily sold her. Because Chai had not consulted her beforehand, the wife blamed him and vented her anger even more on the concubine, reviling her with ever greater venom. Chai turned to the concubine in fury and said, "You have brought this on yourself. If you had killed her before, how would we be in this state today?" With that he stormed off.

The wife was puzzled by his words and questioned the servants on all sides, but no one knew anything. She asked the concubine, who also said nothing. The wife grew more and more sullen and angry, seized her by her garment, and railed at her wildly. Chai then returned and told her the truth. The wife was greatly alarmed and spoke gently to the concubine, but in her heart she resented her all the more for not having spoken sooner. Chai thought that all ill feeling had been cleared away and no longer took precautions. When he happened to go away on a journey, the wife summoned the concubine and upbraided her, saying, "One who kills her mistress deserves death without mercy—what was your motive in letting her go?" The concubine, taken off guard, could not find words to explain herself. The wife heated red-hot iron and branded the concubine's face, intending to destroy her beauty. The maids and old women all thought this unjust. Every time she cried out in pain, the whole household wept and offered to die in her place. The wife then stopped branding her, but pierced her side with a needle more than twenty times before finally dismissing her.

When Chai returned and saw the wounds on her face, he was furious and went to seek out the wife. The concubine seized his robe and said, "I knew full well it was a pit of fire and I walked into it. When I married you, did I think your household was paradise? I simply considered my own fate unlucky and sought to vent the anger of Heaven and Earth. Accept it calmly, and there will be an end to it. If you stir things up again, it would be like filling in a pit and then digging it up once more." She then applied medicine to the wounded area, and within a few days she was healed.

Suddenly she took up the mirror and said joyfully, "You should congratulate me today—she has seamed through the wrinkles of ill fortune on my face!" She continued to serve the principal wife morning and evening as before. Jin, having previously heard the household weeping, knew that she stood alone as a tyrant and felt the first stirrings of shame and regret. From time to time she would call the concubine to attend her, and her words and expression were mild and kind.

More than a month later, Gong Jin suddenly fell ill with a rebellious flow of qi that prevented him from eating or drinking. Chai resented that she had not died and paid her no attention whatsoever. After several days, her belly swelled like a drum, and she grew weaker by the day and night. The maidservants attended her without rest or food, and Jin grew ever more grateful for it. The maid explained the medical principles herself; Jin, reflecting on her own past cruelty, suspected the maid was seeking revenge and therefore thanked her with an apology. Jin had always managed the household with strict discipline, and all the maidservants and servants had submitted to her control; but after she fell ill, they all grew lax and idle. Chai took it upon himself to oversee the household affairs, toiling with great hardship, yet the rice and salt in the house consumed themselves as if of their own accord. He therefore sighed and thought of taking a wife to manage the domestic affairs and summoned physicians to treat Jin. Jin told everyone she suffered from "qi possession," so when the doctors took her pulse, they all diagnosed it as qi stagnation. She went through several physicians in succession, but none proved effective, and she was on the verge of death. About to prepare another dose of medicine, the maid stepped forward and said, "Medicine such as this—a hundred packages would do no good; it would only worsen the illness." Jin did not believe her. The maid secretly prepared a different medicine and substituted it. After taking it, within the time of a meal Jin had three bouts of diarrhea, and her illness vanished as if it had never been. Jin therefore laughed even more at the maid's talk as nonsense, groaning and calling out, "Maid Hua Tuo, how do you fare now!" The maid and all the other servant girls laughed. Jin asked why, and they told her the truth at last. Jin wept and said, "I have received your grace every day like heaven and earth covering and carrying me, and I did not know it! From now on, I ask only to manage the household affairs and to follow your lead." Before long, she had recovered, and Chai prepared a banquet to congratulate her. The maid stood by with the wine pot in hand; Jin rose, seized the pot from her, and pulled her to sit arm in arm, showing her unusual affection. When the night grew late, the maid made an excuse to leave the table; Jin sent two maidservants to drag her back and forced her to share the bed. From then on, all matters were discussed together, all meals were shared together—even sisters could not have been more harmonious. Before long, the maid gave birth to a son. After the childbirth, she suffered many illnesses, and Jin personally tended her as if she were serving an old mother. Later, Jin suffered from heart pain; when it struck, her face and eyes turned blue, and she only wished to die. The maid quickly bought several silver needles from the market—but by the time they arrived, Jin's breath was nearly spent. The maid needled the acupoints, and the pain stopped at once. It recurred more than ten days later, and she needled her again; it came back again after six or seven days. Although the treatment worked immediately and the pain was not unbearable, her heart was always filled with dread, fearing it would recur. One night she dreamed she arrived at a place resembling a temple, where all the gods and spirits in the great hall were in motion. A deity asked her, "Are you Madam Jin? Your sins are manifold, and your lifespan should have run its course; but in consideration of your repentance, I have merely sent down this disaster as a slight punishment. The killing of your two concubines was retribution for your past deeds. But what crime had Madam Shao committed that you treated her with such cruelty? The punishment of flogging has already been repaid on your behalf by Scholar Chai, and the accounts may be considered balanced. But the debt of one branding and twenty-three needle burns—you have repaid only a fraction in these three episodes, and you expect the root of your illness to be removed? Tomorrow it shall come again!" She awoke in great terror, still hoping the dream was a demon's slander. After eating, she indeed fell ill, and the pain was twice as severe. The maid came, needled her, and the pain ceased immediately. Jin wondered, "If your skill goes no further than this, why cannot the root of the illness be removed? Please cauterize it again. This will require a thorough burning, but I fear the lady cannot endure it." Jin recalled the words from her dream, so she showed no sign of difficulty. Yet as she groaned and endured the burning, she silently thought: if I still owe nineteen needle burns, I do not know what strange symptoms they might produce; better to suffer them all at once and be spared future torment. When the moxa was finished, she asked the maid to needle her again. The maid laughed and said, "Needles cannot be used so casually!" Jin said, "Never mind the acupoints; I only ask for nineteen pricks." The maid refused with a laugh. Jin pleaded even more insistently, rising to kneel on the bed. The maid could not bear to relent. Jin then told her the dream in full. The maid then needled roughly along the meridians, pricking the exact number. From then on, Jin recovered fully and never fell ill again. She redoubled her repentance and no longer showed a harsh countenance to those beneath her. They named the son Jun, who was extraordinarily handsome and gifted. The maid often said, "This boy has the look of a Hanlin academician." At eight he was hailed as a child prodigy; at fifteen he passed the imperial examinations and was appointed to the Hanlin Academy. By then, Chai and his wife were forty years old, while the concubine was only thirty-two or thirty-three. When they returned to visit her family in a fine carriage and horses, the whole village considered it an honor. Old Man Shao, after selling his daughter, had grown enormously wealthy, but the literati had shunned his company; only now did people begin to visit him.

The Historian of the Strange says: "Cunning and jealousy are the natural disposition of women. And those who become concubines further flaunt their beauty and employ their wiles to stoke that rage. Alas! Thus does calamity arise! If one were to find peace in one's fate and keep to one's station, remaining unshaken in purpose despite a hundred setbacks, could such a one be harmed by mere clubs and blades? And yet it was only when the maid saved her life a second time that the first stirrings of repentence appeared. Alas! What manner of woman was she! That she was made to repay the exact number without added interest is also the Creator's mercy. But to receive evil recompense for an act of healing—is that not perverse? I have often seen foolish couples lying ill all day, summoning ignorant shamans who pierced their flesh and burned their skin without daring to groan, and I have always wondered at it—only now have I understood."

A man of Fujian took a concubine. One evening he entered his wife's room and did not dare leave right away; he pretended to unmake his shoes as if preparing to climb into bed. His wife said, "Go away! Don't put on an act!" The husband still lingered, and his wife said sternly, "I am not like those jealous wives elsewhere; there is no need for all this." The husband then left. The wife lay alone, tossing and turning, unable to sleep. She rose and went to crouch outside the door, secretly listening. She could hear the concubine's voice faintly, not clearly, except for the two words "lang ba," which she could just make out. Lang ba is what people in Fujian call "father." The wife listened for more than a quarter of an hour, then collapsed in a fit of phlegm congestion, her forehead striking the door with a sound. The husband started up in alarm, opened the door, and the corpse tumbled in. He called for the concubine to bring a lamp, and it was his wife. He hastily supported her and poured liquid into her mouth. Her eyes opened slightly, and she groaned, "Whose 'father' were you calling!" Her jealousy was truly laughable.

Gong the Taoist had no name, and no one knew where he was from. He once sought an audience with the Prince of Lu, but the gatekeeper would not announce him. A eunuch official came out, and Gong greeted him and made his request. The eunuch, seeing how coarse and vulgar he looked, drove him away. But Gong came back again. The enraged eunuch chased and beat him. When they reached a deserted spot, the Taoist smilingly produced two hundred taels of gold and asked the man who had beaten him to convey a message to the eunuch: "Tell him I don't want to see the prince either. I've only heard that the flowers, trees, terraces, and pavilions in the rear garden are the finest sights in the world. If he could just guide me on a tour, that would be enough for my lifetime." He also gave the man silver as a bribe. The fellow was delighted and delivered the message. The eunuch was also pleased and led the Taoist in through the Rear Slaughter Gate, and they toured every scenic spot. Then they went up a tower. Just as the eunuch was leaning on the window, the Taoist gave him a push. The eunuch felt himself falling from the tower. A thin hemp cord caught him around the waist, suspending him in midair. When he looked down, the dizzying height was terrifying, and the hemp cord could be heard creaking as if about to snap. Stricken with fear, he cried out at the top of his lungs. Before long, several eunuchs arrived and were horrified. They saw him suspended impossibly far above the ground. They climbed the tower and looked together: the end of the hemp cord was tied to the window lattice. They wanted to untie it and pull him up, but the cord was too thin to bear any force. They searched everywhere for the Taoist, but he had vanished. At their wits' end, they reported the matter to the Prince of Lu. The prince went to see for himself and was greatly amazed. He ordered hay and cotton to be piled on the ground below, intending to let the cord snap. The moment they finished, the hemp cord broke on its own—and the eunuch was no more than a few inches from the ground. Everyone looked at each other and laughed. The prince ordered a search for the Taoist's whereabouts. He learned that he was lodging at the home of a scholar named Shang. He went to inquire, but the Taoist had gone out and not yet returned. Later, the prince encountered him on the road and brought him in for an audience. The prince offered him a seat at a banquet and asked him to perform a trick. The Taoist said, "Your subject is a rustic fellow with no special talents. Since I have received such gracious favor, I venture to present some female musicians to wish Your Majesty long life." He then reached into his sleeve and produced a beautiful woman, placing her on the ground. She kowtowed to the prince. The Taoist instructed her to perform the play "The Feast at Jasper Pool" to wish the prince ten thousand years. The woman delivered a few opening lines. The Taoist then produced another woman, who announced herself as "the Queen Mother of the West." Shortly afterward, Dong Shuangcheng, Xu Feiqiong, and all the immortal maidens appeared one by one. Finally the Weaving Maiden came to pay her respects and presented a celestial robe, resplendent with golden colors that illuminated the entire room. The prince suspected it was a fake and asked to examine it. The Taoist hastily said, "You must not!" The prince paid no heed and looked at it after all. Indeed, it was a seamless garment, something no human hand could make. The Taoist said displeasedly, "I have served Your Majesty wholeheartedly, and for a brief time borrowed from the granddaughter of Heaven. Now she has been tainted by foul air—how can I return her to her original master?" The prince also suspected that the singers must be immortal maidens and considered keeping one or two of them. But on closer inspection, they turned out to be nothing but palace musicians. He then wondered whether they had not rehearsed this play before, and asked them. They were bewildered and had no memory of it. The Taoist took the robe, burned it with fire, and then put it back into his sleeve. When he searched again, it was gone. From then on the prince held the Taoist in the highest esteem and kept him in the princely residence. The Taoist said, "A rustic man by nature, I look upon palaces and mansions as cages. I would rather stay at the scholar's home, where I have more freedom." Every night at midnight, he would return to his lodgings. Sometimes the prince insisted on keeping him, and he would stay the night. At banquets he would perform tricks of making flowers and trees of the four seasons appear out of season. The prince asked, "I have heard that even immortals cannot forget their feelings. Is that true?" The Taoist replied, "Perhaps immortals are like that. But I am not an immortal, so my heart is like a dead tree." One night, while the Taoist was staying in the residence, the prince sent a young courtesan to test her way into his room. She called his name several times but got no answer. She lit a candle and saw him sitting cross-legged on the bed with his eyes closed. She shook him; his eyes flickered open for a moment and then closed again. She shook him again, and he began to snore. She pushed him, and he fell over onto his back, sleeping thunderously. She flicked his forehead, and it made the sound of striking an iron pot. She reported this to the prince. The prince had someone try to pierce him with a needle, but the needle could not penetrate. They pushed him, but he was too heavy to move. More than ten men lifted him and threw him off the bed, and he fell as heavily as a thousand-pound stone hitting the ground. The next morning they peeped in and found him still sleeping on the floor. He woke up and laughed, "What a dreadful sleep—I didn't even notice I'd fallen off the bed!" After that, the women would amuse themselves by pressing down on him whenever he sat or lay down. At first he felt soft, but after pressing twice he turned to iron and stone.

The Taoist lodged at the scholar Shang's home but often did not return until well past midnight. Shang locked his door, and when he opened it in the morning, the Taoist would already be lying inside the room. Earlier, Shang had been intimate with a singing girl named Huige and had vowed to marry her. Huige was an accomplished singer, and her playing on stringed instruments was the envy of her time. The Prince of Lu heard of her fame and summoned her into his service, and their bond was severed. Shang thought of her constantly but had no way to reach her. One evening, he asked the Taoist, "Have you seen Huige?" The Taoist replied, "I've seen all the palace women, but I don't know which one is Huige." Shang described her appearance and told him her age, and then the Taoist remembered her. Shang begged him to relay a message. The Taoist smiled and said, "I am a man beyond the world. I cannot act as a wild goose to carry your letters." Shang pleaded piteously. The Taoist spread open his sleeve and said, "If you must see her, please go in here." Shang peered inside and found it as large as a room. He crawled in, and it was bright and spacious as a hall, with desks, tables, beds, and couches—everything one could wish for. Living inside it, he felt no sense of confinement at all.

The Taoist went into the princely residence and played chess with the prince. Seeing Huige approach, he casually brushed the dust from his sleeve with his robe, and Huige was drawn into his sleeve without anyone else noticing. As Shang sat alone lost in thought, a beautiful woman suddenly fell from the ceiling. He looked—it was Huige. They were both overjoyed, and their intimacy was complete. Shang said, "Today's miraculous encounter must not go unrecorded. Let me compose a couplet with you." He wrote on the wall: "The gate has seemed a vast sea, long without a trace." Huige continued: "Who knew the Xiao-lang would meet again today?" Shang wrote: "The universe in the sleeve is truly vast." Huige wrote: "It embraces parted lovers and longing wives." The moment they finished writing, five men entered, wearing octagonal hats and pale red robes. Shang recognized none of them. Without a word, they seized Huige and took her away. Shang was terrified and did not know what it meant.

When the Taoist returned, he called Shang out and asked what had happened. Shang was evasive and would not tell him everything. The Taoist smiled, took off his robe, and turned inside out the lining to show him. Shang examined it closely and saw faint traces of writing, as tiny as lice eggs—they were the very lines they had inscribed. More than ten days later, he asked to go in again. In all, he entered three times.

Hui-ge said to Shang: "There is movement in my belly, and I am greatly distressed by it. I often bind my waist tightly with cloth. There are many ears and eyes in the palace—if one day I give birth, where could the infant's crying be concealed? Please speak to the Taoist Priest Gong and beg him for deliverance when you see me with child." Shang promised. He returned to see the priest and prostrated himself on the ground without rising. The priest pulled him up and said: "What you wish, I already understand clearly. But do not worry. Your ancestral line depends on this one thread—how would I not do my utmost for you? But from now on you must not come again. My repayment to you was never based on private affection." Several months later, the priest came in from outside, laughing, and said: "I have brought the prince here! Quickly bring swaddling clothes!" Shang's wife was most virtuous; she was nearly thirty, and after several births had managed to keep only one son. She had just given birth to a daughter who died within the month. Hearing Shang's words, she came out in joy and surprise. The priest reached into his sleeve and drew out an infant, sleeping soundly as if in a dream, the umbilical cord still unsevered. Shang's wife took the child in her arms, and it began to wail. The priest removed his robe and said: "Birth blood has splashed on my clothes—this is the greatest taboo in the Taoist path. Now, for your sake, a garment of twenty years I cast away in an instant." Shang gave him a change of clothes. The priest instructed him: "Do not throw away the old garment—burn a coin's worth of it, and it can cure difficult labor and expel a dead fetus in the womb." Shang followed his words. After some time had passed, the priest suddenly said to Shang: "You should keep a small portion of the old robe for yourself; after I die, do not forget this either." Shang thought his words inauspicious. The priest said nothing more and left. He entered to see the King and said: "Your subject wishes to die!" The King, startled, asked why, and he replied: "This is a matter of fixed destiny—what more is there to say?" The King did not believe him and tried hard to keep him. They played a game of chess, but the priest suddenly rose to leave; the King stopped him again. The priest asked to retire to the outer quarters, and the King granted it. The priest hastened to lie down, and when they looked at him, he was already dead. The King prepared a coffin and buried him with full ceremony. Shang attended the funeral and wept with bitter grief, only then realizing that the priest's earlier words had been a foretelling. The leftover robe was used to hasten childbirth, and its efficacy was like an echo; those who sought it came to the door in an unbroken line. At first he gave them the soiled sleeve; later he cut pieces from the collar and lapel—all were effective. When he recalled the priest's instructions, he suspected that his wife was destined to suffer a difficult birth, so he cut a piece of the bloodstained cloth the size of a palm and treasured it. It happened that the Prince of Lu had a beloved consort who had been in labor for three days without delivery, and the physicians had exhausted their arts. Someone told the King of Shang's skill, and he was summoned at once; one dose brought the delivery. The King was overjoyed and bestowed silver and brocade in rich measure, but Shang declined everything. The King asked what he desired, and he said: "Your subject does not dare to speak." Asked again, he kowtowed and said: "If Your Majesty would extend heavenly grace, simply grant me the former courtesan Hui-ge." The King summoned her and asked her age. She said: "I entered the palace at eighteen, and it has been fourteen years now." The King, considering her years had advanced, ordered all the courtesans to be called before him and told Shang to choose freely; but Shang had no interest in any of them. The King laughed and said: "What a foolish scholar! Did you arrange a marriage ten years ago?" Shang told him the truth. The King then prepared a grand carriage and horses, and using the brocade that Shang had declined, made a trousseau for Hui-ge and sent her out. The son Hui-ge had borne was named Xiusheng—"Xiu" means "sleeve"; at this time he was eleven years old. Daily he remembered the Taoist's kindness; at the Qingming Festival he swept his grave. There had been a man long traveling in Sichuan who met the priest on the road; the priest produced a scroll of book and said: "This belongs to the palace. When I came, I was in haste and had no time to return it—please deliver it for me." The man returned and heard that the priest had already died; he dared not deliver it to the King, but Shang presented it on his behalf. The King unrolled it and examined it—it was indeed what the priest had borrowed. Puzzled, the King had the tomb opened, and it was an empty coffin. Later, Shang's own son died young, but thanks to Xiusheng who carried on the line, they came to admire Gong's foreknowledge even more.

The Commentator says: "A universe within a sleeve—this was an allegory of the ancients. Could it truly exist? And yet how marvelous! Within it there is heaven and earth, there are the sun and moon; one can take a wife and beget sons, and yet there is no burden of tax collection or the troubles of human affairs. Then the lice within the sleeve are no different from the chickens and dogs of Peach Blossom Spring! If one could dwell there forever and grow old in that land—would that not be well?"

Ershang

**Translation:**

There was a man of the Shang clan in Ju County whose elder brother was wealthy and younger brother poor, the two living side by side with only a wall between them. During the Kangxi reign, a year of great famine struck, and the younger brother could not provide for himself from morning to evening. One day, the sun was already past noon, yet he had not even lit a fire. His stomach empty, he paced about in distress, at his wits' end. His wife told him to go ask his brother for help. The younger Shang said, "It would be useless. If my brother pitied my poverty, he would have done something about it long ago." His wife insisted, so he sent his son instead. In a little while, the boy returned empty-handed. Shang said, "What did I tell you?" His wife asked in detail what the uncle had said. The boy replied, "Uncle hesitated and looked at Aunt. Aunt told me: 'Since the brothers divided their households, each eats his own rice. Who can look after the other?'" Husband and wife said nothing. For the time being, they traded their broken pots and tattered bed for a little chaff to stay alive.

Three or four wicked youths in the village, seeing that the elder Shang was well-off, climbed over the wall at night and broke in. The couple woke in alarm and banged basins and cried out. The neighbors all hated the rascals, but none came to help. In desperation, the elder Shang called out urgently for his younger brother. The younger Shang heard his sister-in-law's cries and wanted to rush to the rescue, but his wife stopped him. He called out loudly to his sister-in-law: "Since the brothers divided their households, each suffers his own calamity. Who can look after the other!" Presently the robbers broke down the door, seized the elder Shang and his wife, and tortured them with branding irons. Their screams were pitiful in the extreme. The younger Shang said, "He may have been heartless, but how can I sit and watch my brother die without saving him?" He led his son over the wall and shouted loudly. The younger Shang and his son were known for their martial courage and were feared by others. The robbers, moreover, feared that the noise would summon other help, so they fled. The younger Shang looked at his brother and sister-in-law: both their thighs were scorched and burned. He helped them onto the bed, gathered the servants and maids, and then returned home.

Though the elder Shang had been injured, his gold and silk were untouched. He said to his wife: "What remains to us now was all given by my younger brother. We should share it with her." His wife said: "If you had a good brother, you would not have suffered this!" And the younger Shang said nothing.

The younger Shang's household was now completely without food, certain that his brother would make some recompense. But as time passed, nothing was heard. His wife could wait no longer and sent their son with a sack to borrow from the elder brother. He returned with a peck of grain. His wife was angry at the small amount and wanted to return it, but the younger Shang stopped her.

Two months passed, and their hunger and destitution grew ever more unbearable. The younger Shang said: "There is no way now to make a living. We had better sell our house to my brother. My brother fears I might go elsewhere, so he may refuse the deed and instead show me charity—that is possible. Even if he does not, getting ten or so taels of silver would allow us to survive." His wife agreed, and they sent their son with the deed to the elder Shang. The elder Shang told his wife and said: "Even if my brother has been unkind, he is my own flesh and blood. If he leaves, I will be isolated. I had better return the deed and give him aid." His wife said: "No. When he says he wants to leave, he is manipulating us. If we let him go, we will fall right into his scheme. Are all men without brothers simply supposed to die? If I build up the walls high, I can protect myself well enough. We had better accept the deed and let him go where he pleases—it will also enlarge our dwelling." Having settled on this plan, they made the younger Shang sign the foot of the deed, paid him the price, and sent him away. The younger Shang then moved to a neighboring village.

The lawless men of the township, hearing that the younger Shang had left, attacked the elder Shang again. They seized him, beat him savagely, and tortured him with such cruelty that he paid out all his gold and money to ransom his life. As the robbers were leaving, they opened the granary and called to the poor of the village to take whatever they wished. In an instant, it was all gone.

The next day, the younger Shang learned of it. He ran to see his brother, but the elder Shang was already delirious and could not speak. He opened his eyes, saw his younger brother, and could only clutch at the bed mat with his hand. In a moment, he was dead. The younger Shang went to the county magistrate to lodge a complaint. The ringleader of the robbers had fled and could not be apprehended. Those who had stolen the grain numbered over a hundred, all poor folk of the village, and the prefect could do nothing about it.

The elder Shang left a young son, only five years old. The family was now poor, and the boy often went of his own accord to his uncle's house, staying several days without returning. When they sent him back, he would weep without stopping. The younger Shang's wife did not treat him kindly. The younger Shang said: "His father was unkind, but what fault has the child?" He bought several steamed cakes and took them himself to deliver the boy. Several days later, he again avoided his wife and secretly carried a peck of grain to his sister-in-law to feed the child. This became his regular practice.

Several years passed. The elder Shang's widow sold the land and house, obtained enough money to provide for herself, and the younger Shang no longer visited.

Later, a great famine struck, and corpses lined the roads. The younger Shang's household grew ever larger, and he could not look elsewhere. The nephew was now fifteen, frail and unable to manage a trade, so he was sent with a basket to follow his uncle selling sesame cakes.

One night, the younger Shang dreamed that his brother came, his face dark with grief, and said: "I was misled by my wife's words and so lost the bond of brotherhood. My brother did not hold past grudges against me and has only added to my shame. The old house I sold is still empty—you should rent it and live there. Beneath the awning behind the house, there is buried gold in a cellar. Dig it up, and it will make you moderately prosperous. Let my ugly little son follow me. That sharp-tongued woman—I detest her utterly. Do not look after her." When he woke, he marveled at the dream. He offered a generous price to the owner of the house and finally obtained it. He dug and indeed found five hundred taels of gold. From then on he abandoned his humble trade and set up a shop in the marketplace with his brother's son. The nephew was quite clever, keeping accounts without error, and was honest and sincere—every penny of income or expenditure he reported. The younger Shang loved him all the more.

One day, the nephew wept and begged grain for his mother. The younger Shang's wife wanted to refuse, but the younger Shang, moved by the boy's filial piety, gave him a monthly allowance. After several years, the family grew still richer. The elder Shang's widow died, and the younger Shang, now old, divided the nephew's share, giving him half the family property.

The Historian of Strange Tales says: "I have heard that the elder Shang would not lightly take or give even a single coin—he was a man of fierce integrity and self-respect. Yet he listened to his wife's words, muddled and never uttering a word of his own, severed the bond of flesh and blood, and in the end died of his own stinginess. Alas! What is there to wonder at? The younger Shang began in poverty and ended in wealth. What was his great virtue? Simply that he did not much heed his wife's instructions. Alas! One conduct differs, and a man's character is thereby set apart."

---

**The Yishui Scholar**

A certain scholar of Yishui studied in the mountains. One night, two beautiful women entered, smiling but saying nothing. Each swept the bed with her long sleeve, then sat down together, their garments soft and soundless. After a while, one of the women rose and spread a white silk handkerchief on the table. On it were three or four lines of cursive script, but the scholar did not examine what it said. The other woman placed a bar of white silver on the table, about three or four taels. The scholar picked it up and tucked it into his sleeve. The woman took back the handkerchief, shook his hand, smiled, and left, saying: "Intolerably vulgar!" The scholar felt for the silver—it had vanished. With a beauty sitting before him, he offered her sweet fragrance and paid it no heed, yet it was the silver he grabbed. Such is the beggar's nature—how could it be borne! The fox-folk are charming; one can imagine their refined grace.

Friends have spoken of these things, and I have thought of matters one cannot endure, which I append here: facing a vulgar guest of sour disposition; a marketplace person speaking in literary phrases; the mannerisms of the wealthy and eminent; a scholar-official putting on airs as a famous recluse; the fawning attitude of a bystander; tirelessly telling lies offhand; bowing and seating oneself with tedious deference to rank; forcing others to read or hear crooked poetry and prose; a money-wailing miser weeping about his poverty; a drunkard making a nuisance; putting on Manchu airs; body odor that presses upon one like speech; vulgar marketplace jests; allowing a foolish child to climb up to the banquet table and grab the dishes and fruits; borrowing another's residual authority to put on a show; a crooked examination graduate discoursing on poetry and literature; repeatedly mentioning noble relations in conversation.

Mei Nü

Feng Yunting was a man from Taihang. He once went to the prefecture and lay down in his lodging during the day. At the time he had lost his wife while still young, and in his loneliness his thoughts wandered considerably. As he gazed fixedly, he saw the shadow of a woman on the wall, faint as a painting. He supposed it must be a product of his imagination. But after a long while it did not move, nor did it disappear, and he found this strange. He rose and looked—it became more real. Approaching closer, she was unmistakably a young woman, her brows knit, her tongue protruding, the noose showing against her slender neck. Before he had finished staring, she slowly began to descend. He knew she was a hanged ghost, but bolstered by the daytime courage, he was not greatly frightened. He said, "If you, madam, have a great injustice, this humble fellow may exert his utmost for you." The shadow indeed came down and said, "A casual acquaintance from the duckweed waters—how would I dare suddenly to trouble a gentleman with a heavy matter? But my withered bones below the springs cannot retract my tongue nor remove the noose. If you would sever the roof beam and burn it, your kindness would be as weighty as mountains and peaks." He agreed, and she vanished. He called the landlord and asked what he had seen. The landlord said, "This was formerly the residence of the Mei family, ten years ago. At night a thief entered the house and was seized by Miss Mei and brought before the jailer. The jailer accepted three hundred cash from the thief and falsely accused his daughter of having intercourse with him, preparing to summon her for examination. The girl heard of this and hanged herself. Later Mr. and Mrs. Mei died one after another, and the house came to me. Guests frequently see strange occurrences here, but there is no way to pacify them." Feng told the landlord what the ghost had said. They calculated that demolishing the house and replacing the pillars would cost a fortune, so he hesitated about it; Feng then lent his labor to help with the work. When it was finished, he took up residence there.

The Mei woman came at night. Having expressed her thanks, she was brimming with joy, her bearing charming and graceful. Feng was enamored and wished to lie with her. She looked ashamed and said, "The baleful energy of the shade would not only bring no benefit to you; if we were to do this, the defilements of my former life could not be washed away even by the West River. There will be a time for our union, but today is not yet that day." He asked, "When?" She only smiled and said nothing. Feng asked, "Will you drink?" She answered, "I do not drink." Feng said, "Facing a beauty, staring blankly eye to eye—what pleasure is there in that?" The woman said, "In my lifetime I had only one skill, which was playing p gambling game with horses. But with only two people, lonely and desolate, and the night so deep, it is also distressing to lack no game board. Now the long night must be passed—let me play the string-crossing game with you instead." Feng agreed. They sat knee to knee with fingers darting, turning and changing for a long while; Feng was bewildered and did not know what to follow; she would call out directions and gesture with her chin, each move more wondrous than the last, inexhaustible in technique. Feng laughed and said, "This is the supreme art of the bedchamber!" The woman said, "This I figured out on my own. As long as there are two threads, a pattern can be formed—people simply do not notice it." As the night deepened and he grew somewhat weary, he urged her to sleep. She said, "I, a shade person, do not sleep—please rest yourself. I have some slight knowledge of massage; I wish to exhaust my skill to accompany your pleasant dream." Feng granted her request. She layered her palms and pressed lightly, from the crown of his head to his heels, everywhere; wherever her hands passed, his bones felt as if drunk. Then she grasped her fingers and tapped finely, like touching a wadded ball of silk—his body was so comfortable it could not be described: when the tapping reached his waist, his eyes and mouth grew drowsy; when it reached his thighs, he sank into deep sleep. When he awoke, the sun was already past noon. He felt his bones and joints light and harmonious, quite different from other days. His heart grew even more enamored. He walked around the house calling for her, but there was no response.

At dusk, the woman finally arrived. Feng said, "Where do you live that I have to call everywhere for you?" She said, "Ghosts have no fixed abode—they are simply beneath the ground." He asked, "If there is a crack in the ground, can you fit inside?" She said, "Ghosts do not see the ground, just as fish do not see water." Feng grasped her wrist and said, "If you were alive, I would bankrupt myself to acquire you." The woman smiled and said, "There is no need to go bankrupt." They played until midnight, and Feng pressed her urgently. The woman said, "Do not pester me. There is a Zhejiang courtesan who is fond of you, newly lodged in the northern neighboring house, quite alluring in her charms. Tomorrow evening, I will summon her to come along and substitute for myself—how about that?" Feng agreed.

The following evening, she indeed arrived together with a young woman of nearly thirty, her eyes and brows shifting and flowing, secretly harboring a wanton air. The three sat close together, playing the horse game. When the game ended, the woman rose and said, "Our happy gathering is at its height—I shall take my leave." Feng wished to detain her, but she had already drifted away. The two ascended the couch, and their union was most pleasurable. When he asked about her family background, she was vague and would not tell him everything. She only said, "If you love me, you should tap your finger on the northern wall, call softly: 'Gourd Boy,' and I will come. If she does not respond after three calls, you will know she is not at leisure—do not summon her again." At dawn, she entered a crack in the northern wall and departed.

The next day, the woman came. Feng asked about Aiqing. She said, "I was summoned by Master Gao to serve wine at a banquet, which is why I couldn't come." Thereupon they trimmed the candle and talked together. The woman several times wished to say something, but each time her lips parted and then she stopped. When pressed firmly, she still refused to speak, only sobbing. Feng insisted on jesting with her, and she did not leave until the fourth watch. From then on, the two women came frequently, their laughter often resounding through the night until dawn, and thus the whole city and its neighborhoods all heard of it.

A certain Registrar, also of an established Zhejiang family, had been demoted because his principal wife had taken a servant as a lover. He then married a Madame Gu, with whom he was deeply in love; but after only a month she died young, and he grieved for her exceedingly. Hearing that Feng had dealings with supernatural beings, he wished to inquire about karmic bonds in the afterlife, and so rode his horse to call upon Feng. Feng at first refused to oblige him, but the Registrar pressed his request relentlessly. Feng set out a feast and sat with him, promising to summon the ghost prostitute. When the sun had grown dim, Feng knocked on the wall and called out; before he had called three times, Aiqing entered. She raised her head, saw the guest, and her expression changed—she tried to flee. Feng blocked her path with his body. The Registrar examined her closely, flew into a rage, and hurled a large bowl at her; she vanished with a sudden start. Feng was greatly alarmed and could not understand the reason; he was about to demand an explanation when presently an old woman emerged from a dark room, cursing loudly: "You greedy, despicable scoundrel! You've destroyed our family's money tree! Thirty strings of cash—you'll pay for that!" She struck the Registrar with her staff, hitting him on the skull. He clutched his head and cried out piteously, "This is Madame Gu, my wife! She died young, and I have been consumed with grief—I never knew that as a ghost she would be unfaithful. What concern is this of yours, old woman?" The old woman said angrily, "You are nothing but a worthless scoundrel from Zhejiang! You bought yourself a black horn belt [an official post], and now your nose points straight up to the sky! What justice or fairness have you shown as an official? With three hundred cash in your sleeve, you'll call someone 'father'! The gods are wrathful and men are resentful—your death is at hand! Your parents wept before the courts of the underworld, offering your beloved daughter-in-law to enter a brothel to repay your greedy debts. Did you not know?" Having said this, she struck him again, and the Registrar writhed and wailed piteously.

Just as Feng stood in shock, with no idea how to intervene, he saw the plum girl emerge from the inner room, her eyes wide and her tongue protruding, her face transformed. She approached and thrust a long hairpin into the Registrar's ear. Feng was horrified and threw himself in front of the guest to shield him. The girl's fury was unabated, but Feng pleaded, "Even if he is guilty, if he dies in my lodgings, the blame will fall on me, a mere student. I beg you to remember the caution one shows when trying to strike a mouse without breaking the vessel beside it." The girl then pulled the old woman and said, "Let him breathe a little longer—for the sake of my dear Feng." The Registrar fled in a panic like a scurrying rat. When he reached his office, he suffered from a headache and died that very night.

The next night, the girl emerged and laughed, saying, "How satisfying! The foul air is expelled!" Feng asked, "What grudge was this?" The girl said, "I told you before: he accepted bribes and falsely accused me of adultery—I have nursed this hatred for a long time. I often wished to ask you to help clear my name, but I felt ashamed that I had not the slightest virtue to offer you, and so each time I was about to speak, I stopped. Just now, hearing the commotion, I listened in secret—and never expected it to be my enemy." Feng said in surprise, "This is the one who falsely accused you?" She said, "That Registrar has held his post here for eighteen years; I have been wronged and dead for sixteen winters." Feng asked, "Who is the old woman?" She said, "An old prostitute." He asked again about Aiqing, and she said, "She is ill in bed." Then she said with a smile, "I once said our reunion would come in time—now it is truly not far off. You once promised to ruin yourself financially to redeem me. Do you still remember?" Feng said, "My heart is the same today." The girl said, "I will tell you plainly: on the day I died, I was reborn into the family of Provincial Graduate Yan in Yan'an. It was only because my great grievance remained unredressed that I lingered here. Please make a ghost-bag of new silk, so that I may attach myself to you and travel there, and then seek a betrothal with the Yan family—I am certain it will be granted." Feng worried that the disparity in their social standing was too great and feared it would not succeed. The girl said, "Just go—have no fear." Feng followed her instructions. The girl cautioned him, "On the journey, be careful not to call me; wait until the wedding night, when you hang the bag over the bride's head and call out urgently, 'Do not forget! Do not forget!'" Feng agreed. The moment he opened the bag, the girl leaped inside.

He carried her to Yan'an and made inquiries. There was indeed a Provincial Graduate Yan, who had a daughter of extreme beauty, but she was an imbecile, and her tongue constantly protruded beyond her lips, like a dog panting in the sun. She was sixteen years old, and no one had ever sought her hand. Her parents' worry had become an illness. Feng went to the gate and presented his card, stating his family connections in full. After he withdrew, he engaged a matchmaker. Yan was delighted and took Feng into his family as a live-in son-in-law. The girl was utterly witless and did not understand the wedding rites; two maids had to support her and lead her to the bridal chamber. Once the maids had left, the girl unbuttoned her gown, bared her breast, and smiled foolishly at Feng. Feng covered the bag and called to her. The girl paused, gazed at him, and seemed to ponder. Feng smiled and said, "Do you not recognize me, dear one?" He held up the bag to show her. She then understood, hastily covered her chest, and joyfully shared laughter with him.

At dawn, Feng went to pay his respects to his father-in-law. Yan consoled him, saying, "My foolish daughter is ignorant, but since she has received your affection, if you wish, there is no lack of clever maids in our household—I would not begrudge giving you one." Feng insisted that she was not an imbecile. Yan was skeptical. Before long, the girl arrived, and her bearing was entirely proper; Yan was greatly astonished. The girl merely covered her mouth and smiled. Yan questioned her closely, but she retreated, too embarrassed to speak. Feng gave a brief account of the matter. Yan was overjoyed, and his love and delight exceeded what it had been before. He had his son Dacheng study together with his son-in-law, and provided generously. After more than a year, Dacheng gradually grew contemptuous of Feng, and as a result the brothers-in-law were no longer on good terms; the servants also picked at his faults. Yan, influenced by these constant whispers, gradually relaxed his courtesy. The girl perceived this and said to Feng, "We cannot stay long at your in-laws' house; all who stay long become worthless. Before a complete break occurs, we should return home quickly." Feng agreed and told Yan. Yan wished to keep his daughter, but she refused. Her father and brother were all furious and would not provide a carriage or horse. The girl used her own dowry to hire a horse and returned home. Later, Yan invited her to visit her natal home, but she firmly declined. Afterward, Feng passed the provincial examination, and only then did they resume cordial relations.

The Historian of the Strange said: "The lower the official, the greedier he is—is this not the common way of things? With three hundred cash he falsely accused another of adultery—the last vestiges of conscience in the night air were utterly destroyed. He took a good mate and placed her in a brothel, and in the end died a violent death. Alas! How terrifying!"

In the year Jiazi of the Kangxi reign, the Registrar of Beqiu was the most avaricious and deceitful, and the people all resented him. Suddenly his wife was lured away by a cunning man and eloped with him. Someone posted a notice on his behalf that read: "A certain official, through his own carelessness, has lost one wife. He has no other possessions, save seven feet of red silk wrapping a single ingot of silver, finely grained at the rim, without flaw or damage." This too was a little jest of the romantic sort.

Guo Xiucai

A certain scholar of the eastern provinces, surnamed Guo, was returning from a friend's house one evening when he lost his way in the mountains and wandered into a thicket of brambles. After some time, he heard voices and laughter on a mountaintop and hastened toward them. He saw over ten men seated on the ground, drinking. They caught sight of Guo and cried out cheerfully: "We were just one guest short for our gathering—excellent, excellent!" Guo sat down and noticed that most of the guests wore scholar's caps. He asked them for directions. One of them laughed and said: "You are truly a pedant! Here is this bright moon, and you won't even enjoy it—why ask about roads?" At once a cup flew toward him. Guo drank it; the fragrance struck his nose, and he emptied it in one gulp. Another man tilted a pot and poured for him. Guo was by nature a good drinker, and having been racing about with a parched throat, he downed ten cups in no time. The company praised him loudly: "What a hero! A true friend indeed!" Guo was bold and fond of jesting. He could imitate the calls of birds, and none of his imitations failed to be uncannily exact. He rose from his seat to relieve himself and secretly mimicked the cry of a swallow. The company said doubtfully: "How could there be swallows at this hour?" He then imitated the cuckoo, and they grew even more puzzled. Guo sat back down and merely smiled without speaking. Just as they were arguing and questioning him, he turned his head and cried out like a parrot: "Scholar Guo is drunk—take him home!" They listened in alarm, but heard nothing more. A little while later, he did it again. Then they realized it was Guo and all burst into laughter. They all pursed their lips and tried to imitate the sound, but none could do it. One of them said: "It's a pity Blue Lady isn't here." Another said: "At mid-autumn, we shall gather here again—Master Guo must not fail to come." Guo respectfully promised. One man rose and said: "This guest has extraordinary skill; shall we also perform the shoulder-stacking trick?" At once they all rose together with a clamor. The first man stood upright; then another flew up to stand on his shoulders, also upright; they stacked up to four men, too high to climb further; those who came after climbed on shoulders and stepped on arms, as if ascending a ladder: in an instant all over ten men had climbed up, and the tower seemed to reach into the heavens. While Guo stared in amazement, the whole structure suddenly toppled and fell, dissolving into a single narrow path. Guo stood in terror for a long time, then followed the path and found his way home. The next day, his stomach ached badly; his urine was green, like verdigris, and could stain whatever it touched, yet it had no urinous smell. After three days it stopped. He went back to examine the place, but found only scattered bones and scraps of food, surrounded on all sides by dense thickets—there was no path at all. When mid-autumn came, Guo wished to keep his appointment, but his friends dissuaded him. Had he the courage to go once more and meet the Blue Lady, there would surely have been even more marvels. Alas that he wavered!

A Dead Monk

A certain Taoist priest, traveling far and wide, arrived at a deserted temple at dusk. Finding the monks' quarters locked, he took a rush cushion and sat cross-legged in the corridor. When the night grew still, he heard the sound of a door opening and closing, and presently saw a monk approaching, his whole body smeared with blood. The monk seemed not to see the priest, and the priest seemed not to see the monk. The monk went straight into the main hall, climbed onto the Buddha's seat, and embracing the Buddha's head, laughed for a long while before leaving. When daylight came, the priest saw that the room's door was still locked as before. Wondering at this, he went into the village and told what he had seen. The villagers went to the temple, broke open the lock, and examined the room—there lay the monk, killed on the ground. The mats and trunks in the chamber had been overturned and ransacked; clearly it had been a robbery. They suspected the ghost's laughter had a reason. Examining the Buddha's head, they found a small mark at the back. They scraped it open and inside discovered over thirty taels of gold. This was used to bury the monk.

The Historian of Strange Tales says: "There is a saying: 'Wealth is bound up with life.' How true it is! A man who hoards and amasses wealth, giving it to he knows not who, is already a fool; how much more so a monk who gives it to he knows not who and keeps nothing at all? He would not enjoy it in life, yet after death he still turned back and laughed over it—such is the pity of a miser. The Buddha says: 'Not a single coin can one take away; only karma follows the body.' This was the case with that monk!"

A Ying

Gan Yu, styled Bi-ren, was from Luling. His parents died early. He had a younger brother named Gan Jue, styled Shuang-bi, who was only five years old when Gan Yu took him in and raised him. Gan Yu was by nature loving and caring, and he treated his younger brother as his own son. As Jue grew older, he became graceful and handsome, and was also clever and literary. Gan Yu loved him all the more. He would often say: "My brother is so outstanding—he must not lack a worthy match." But his standards were so exacting that no marriage was ever arranged. It happened that Gan Yu was studying at a Buddhist temple on Mount Kuang. One night, just as he was settling into bed, he heard a woman's voice outside the window. He peered out and saw three or four young women seated on the ground, with several maids setting out food and wine—all of them were of surpassing beauty. One woman said: "Lady Qin, why hasn't A Ying come?" The one seated below replied: "Yesterday I came from Hangu Pass and was injured on the right arm by a villain. I cannot join you on our outing—I am filled with regret." Another woman said: "I had a terrible nightmare the night before last, and I'm still sweating and trembling." The one seated below waved her hand: "Don't speak of it! Don't speak of it! Tonight the sisters are gathered in joy—such talk would frighten people and spoil their pleasure." The woman laughed and said: "What a timid little thing you are! Would tigers and wolves carry you off? If you must not speak, then you must sing a song to accompany our wine." The woman sang softly in a low voice:

"Peach blossoms bloom here and there upon the idle steps,

Yesterday's spring outing—our little tryst should not be missed.

Tell the neighbor girls to wait a little, do not urge me on,

Once I've put on my phoenix-headed shoes, I'll come at once."

When she finished, everyone in the company praised her. Amid their talk and laughter, a tall man suddenly strode in from outside, stern of bearing, with falcon-bright eyes and a fierce, ugly countenance. The company cried out: "A demon has come!" In a panic they scattered in all directions, like a flock of birds startled into flight. Only the singer, graceful and unhurried, did not flee. She was seized and wept piteously, struggling against him. The man roared in rage, bit off her finger, and ate it then and there. The young woman fell to the ground as if dead. Gan Yu, moved by pity and unable to bear it, quickly drew his sword from its sheath and rushed out, striking the man. He hit his thigh; the thigh fell off, and the man fled in pain. Gan Yu helped the woman inside. Her face was ashen, and blood soaked her collar and sleeves. Examining her hand, he found the right thumb had been bitten off. He tore a strip of cloth to bandage it. The woman groaned and said: "You have saved my life—how can I ever repay you?" From the moment Gan Yu had first peered out, he had secretly been planning for his brother, so he told her his intention. The woman said: "A person mauled by wolves cannot manage the dustpan and broom. I must find another match for your worthy brother." When he asked her surname, she replied: "Qin." Gan Yu then spread a quilt and let her rest, while he bundled up his things and slept elsewhere. In the morning, when he looked, the bed was already empty—he supposed she had gone home on her own. But when he inquired in nearby villages, he found very few people of that surname. He asked far and wide among relatives and friends, but there was no news. He returned and told his brother, and both were filled with regret.

One day, Jue happened to stroll through the outskirts of the countryside, where he encountered a maiden of sixteen years, her bearing graceful and delicate. She glanced at him with a smile, as if she wished to speak. After casting her gaze about to ensure they were alone, she asked, "Are you the Second Master of the Gan family?" "I am," he replied. "Your father once betrothed me to you in marriage. Why do you now wish to break your former vow and pledge yourself instead to the Qin family?" Jue said, "I was orphaned in childhood and have never heard of any such arrangement. Please tell me your family name, and I shall ask my elder brother when I return home." The maiden said, "There is no need for lengthy explanation. Only give me a word, and I shall come to you myself." Jue declined, saying he had not yet received his brother's permission. The maiden laughed and said, "What a foolish young gentleman! Are you truly so afraid of your elder brother? My name is Lu. I live at Wang Village in the eastern hills. Within three days, I shall await your answer." Then she took her leave. Jue returned home and recounted the matter to his elder brother and sister-in-law. His brother said, "This is utter nonsense! When our father passed away, I was already over twenty years of age. Had such an arrangement existed, how could I not have heard of it?" Moreover, he held Jue in even greater contempt for having walked alone in the open countryside and struck up conversation with a young man. When asked about the maiden's appearance, Jue's face and neck flushed crimson, and he could not utter a word. His sister-in-law laughed and said, "I suppose she must be a beauty." Yu said, "What does a boy know of beauty and ugliness? Even if she were beautiful, she could not surpass the Qin maiden. Wait until the matter with the Qin family falls through—then you may pursue it." Jue withdrew in silence.

Several days later, Yu was on the road when he saw a woman walking ahead, weeping. He let his horse fall behind and gazed at her sidelong—surely no one in the world could match her beauty. He sent his servant to inquire. She replied, "I was once betrothed to the Second Master of the Gan family, but because my family was poor and moved far away, all communication was cut off. Recently I returned home, only to hear that the young master of the Gan family has changed his heart and broken his former vow. I went to ask his elder brother, Gan Biren, what he intends to do with me." Yu was overjoyed and said, "Gan Biren—that is myself! The betrothal made by my late father was something I truly did not know. My home is not far from here; please come back with me so we may discuss the matter." He then dismounted, offered her the reins, and walked alongside her, leading his horse home. The woman said, "My childhood name is Aying. I have no brothers; I live only with my cousin, the Qin lady." Yu then realized that this was the very beauty he had heard of. Yu wished to inform his family, but the woman firmly forbade it. He secretly rejoiced that his brother had found a fine wife, yet feared that her casual manner might invite gossip. As time passed, however, the woman proved to be most dignified and reserved, yet also gentle and graceful in speech. She served her sister-in-law as a daughter, and her sister-in-law in turn was most fond and admiring of her.

When the Mid-Autumn Festival arrived, the husband and wife were feasting together in intimate joy when the sister-in-law sent for the woman. Jue felt despondent at the thought of her leaving. The woman sent the messenger ahead, promising to follow shortly, but sat smiling and talking for a long while, showing no sign of departing at all. Jue, fearing his sister-in-law might wait too long, repeatedly urged her to go. The woman only smiled and ultimately did not leave. The next morning, she had just finished her morning toilette when the sister-in-law came to visit and asked, "We were together last night—why did you seem so unhappy?" The woman smiled faintly. Jue sensed something amiss; their accounts did not agree. The sister-in-law was greatly alarmed: "If she is not a demon, how could she possess the art of dividing her body?" Yu also grew fearful and spoke through the curtain: "Our family has accumulated virtue for generations and has never borne enmity toward anyone. If she is indeed a demon, let her depart quickly—and please do not harm my brother!" The woman said with shame, "I am not human. I came only because of the former vow made to your father, and my cousin the Qin lady urged me to do so. I knew myself unable to bear children and had often wished to leave. The reason I lingered was that you and your sister-in-law have treated me with such kindness. Now that I suspect I am doubted, I ask that we part ways forever." In the blink of an eye, she transformed into a parrot and fluttered away.

In the past, when old Master Gan was alive, he kept a parrot of remarkable intelligence, and would personally feed it. At that time Jue was four or five years old and asked, "Why do you feed the bird?" His father joked, "She is to be your wife." Whenever the parrot lacked food, he would call out to Jue, "If you don't bring the food, you'll starve your wife to death!" The whole family made a joke of it. Later, the chain broke and the bird escaped. Only now did they realize that the "former vow" referred to was this one. Yet Jue, though fully aware she was not human, could not stop thinking of her. His sister-in-law yearned for her even more keenly, weeping morning and evening. Yu deeply regretted what had happened but could do nothing.

Two years later, he arranged a marriage between his younger brother and a young woman of the Jiang family, but his heart remained unsatisfied. A cousin of his served as a judicial official in Guangdong, and Jue went to visit him, staying away for a long time. At that time, bandits from the north created chaos, and nearby villages were half reduced to rubble. Jue was greatly frightened and led his family to hide in a mountain valley. On the mountain, men and women were mixed together, and no one knew who anyone was. Suddenly he heard a woman speaking in a low voice, sounding exactly like Ying. His sister-in-law urged Jue to go closer and verify, and it was indeed Ying. Jue was overjoyed and seized her arm, refusing to let go. Ying then said to those traveling with her, "Sister, go ahead. I was hoping my sister-in-law would come." When she arrived, the sister-in-law saw her and wept with grief. Ying comforted and consoled her repeatedly. She also said, "This is no paradise." She then urged them to return home. Everyone feared the bandits would come, but Ying insisted, "It will be fine." So they all returned together. Ying scooped up earth to block the door, instructing them to stay safely inside and not go out. After sitting and speaking for a few words, she turned to leave. The sister-in-law quickly grasped her wrist and ordered two maids to seize her feet on both sides. Ying had no choice but to stay. However, she rarely went to Jue's private chamber; Jue had to invite her three or four times before she would go once. The sister-in-law often said the new wife could not please her brother-in-law's wishes. Ying then rose early to dress and apply makeup for Jiang. When she finished combing her hair, she carefully applied powder and rouge, and when people looked at her, her beauty increased several times over. After three days of this, she was truly a beautiful woman. The sister-in-law was amazed and said, "I also have no sons. I had thought of buying a concubine, but have not had the leisure. I wonder if the maids can be made up as well?" Ying said, "There is no one who cannot be transformed, but those with a good foundation are easier to work with." She then examined all the maids and found only one, dark-skinned and ugly, who had the bearing of one destined to bear sons. She called her to wash, then applied a mixture of thick powder and medicinal herbs to her face. After three days, her face gradually turned from red to yellow; after twenty-eight days, the oils and luster had seeped into her skin, and she was actually quite presentable. They spent their days behind closed doors laughing and paid no heed to the warfare. One night, the sound of shouting arose on all sides, and the whole family did not know what to do. Soon they heard the neighing of horses and movement of men outside the door, and the crowds all departed. When it became light, they learned the village had been burned and plundered completely; the bandits had sent groups to search everywhere, and all those hiding in caves and crevices had been killed or captured. They were thus all the more grateful to Ying and regarded her as a goddess. Ying suddenly said to her sister-in-law, "I came here only because I could not forget your kindness and wished to share in the sorrow of this separation and chaos. When your husband arrives, my being here would make me, as the proverb says, neither plum nor peach—a laughable figure. I will leave for now, but should find an opportunity to visit." The sister-in-law asked, "Is the traveler safe?" She replied, "He has recently faced great peril. This does not concern anyone else. The elder sister of the Qin family has received great favors and surely wishes to repay them; there should be no danger." The sister-in-law urged her to stay the night, but before dawn she had already left. Jue returned from eastern Guangdong, heard of the chaos, and hastened forward. On the road he encountered bandits; master and servants abandoned their horses, wrapped gold around their waists, and hid themselves among thick brambles. A mynah bird flew down and perched on the brambles, spreading its wings to cover them. Looking at its foot, they saw it was missing a finger, and their hearts were filled with wonder. Soon the bandits surrounded them on all sides, searching through the undergrowth as if looking for someone. The two men dared not breathe. Only after the bandits had dispersed did the bird fly away. When they returned, each recounted what they had seen. They then knew the mynah bird was the beautiful woman they had rescued. Later, when Jue was away and did not return, Ying would always come in the evening; she would calculate when Jue was about to return and leave early. Jue sometimes met her at his sister-in-law's and occasionally invited her, but she promised and did not come. One evening, when Jue was away, Jue was certain Ying would come and lay in wait for her. Before long, Ying indeed arrived; he suddenly sprang up, blocked her way, and brought her to his chamber. Ying said, "The bond between you and me is exhausted. To force this union would invite the displeasure of Heaven. If we leave a little something unsaved and meet from time to time, how would that be?" Jue would not listen and ultimately lay with her. At dawn, he went to his sister-in-law. The sister-in-law was surprised. Ying smiled and said, "On the way I was seized by bandits, causing you much worry." After a few words, she hurried out. Not long afterward, a huge raccoon dog carried a parrot through the bedroom door. The sister-in-law was terrified and firmly suspected it was Ying. She was at the time bathing, so she stopped washing and cried out in alarm. Everyone rose up and made a noise, striking at it, and finally caught it. Its left wing was stained with blood, and it barely clung to life. She held it in her lap and stroked it for a long time before it gradually regained consciousness. It preened its wing with its beak. After a moment, it flew circling through the room, crying, "Sister-in-law, farewell! I resent Jue!" It beat its wings and flew away, never to return.

The Orange Tree

Magistrate Liu of Shaoxi served as the magistrate of Xinghua. A Daoist priest came to present a potted tree. He looked at it and saw it was a small orange tree, slender as a finger. He rejected it. Liu had a young daughter, then six or seven years old, who happened to be celebrating her birthday. The priest said, "This is not worthy of providing refined amusement for a great man, but I offer it to wish the young lady blessings and longevity." He then accepted it. The girl was delighted at first sight, placed it in her bower, and tended it morning and night, fearing it might be harmed. When Liu's term of service ended, the orange tree was as thick as a fist. That year it bore fruit for the first time. Preparing to depart, he considered the orange tree a heavy burden and planned to abandon it. The girl hugged the tree and wept piteously. The family deceived her, saying, "We are only leaving temporarily and will return." She believed them, and her tears stopped. Fearing that someone strong might carry it away, she stood and watched the family transplant it below the steps before they left. The girl returned home and was betrothed to the Zhuang family. Zhuang passed the provincial examination in the year bingxu, was awarded the jinshi degree, and was appointed magistrate of Xinghua. His wife was overjoyed. She privately thought that after more than ten years the orange tree would no longer exist, but when she arrived, the tree was already ten arm-spans around, with fruit numbering in the thousands. She asked the former servants, who all said, "After Magistrate Liu left, the tree grew lush but bore no fruit; this is the first time it has fruited." She found this even more wondrous. During Zhuang's three-year term, the tree bore abundant fruit without cease. In the fourth year, it withered and lost its luster. His wife said, "Your tenure here will not last much longer." That autumn, he was indeed relieved of his post.

The Commentator says: "Did the orange tree have a predestined bond with the girl? How strangely they met! Its fruiting seemed like gratitude; its failure to bloom seemed like sorrow at parting. If even a plant is so, how much more so are people?"

The Red Characters

On a winter night in the year yiwei of the Shunzhi reign, red characters appeared in the sky like fire. They read: "Is Baishao replacing Jing? Revisiting the discussion of court governance and reform."

Niu Chengzhang

Niu Chengzhang was a cloth merchant from Jiangxi. He married a woman of the Zheng family and had one son and one daughter. Niu died of illness at the age of thirty-three. His son, named Zhong, was twelve at the time; his daughter was only eight or nine. His wife could not remain chaste. She converted their property into money, packed it away, and remarried, leaving the two orphans behind in a state where survival was difficult. Niu's sister-in-law, the widow of his cousin, was already in her sixties, impoverished, and had nowhere to go, so she took the children in and gave them shelter. After a few years, the old woman died, and the household fell into even greater ruin.

As Zhong grew older, he wished to carry on his father's trade but was distressed by his lack of capital. His sister had married into the Mao family, and Mao was a wealthy merchant. She pleaded with her husband to lend several tens of taels of silver, which she then gave to her brother. Zhong set out with others for Jinling, but on the road they were set upon by bandits. His money and provisions were all lost, and he drifted, unable to return home.

By chance he wandered into a pawnshop and saw the man who ran it, who bore an extraordinary resemblance to his father. He stepped out and observed him covertly from a distance; both the surname and the given name matched. Astonished and bewildered, he could not fathom the reason. He lingered near the shop day after day, watching and trying to read the man's intentions, but the man paid him no heed whatsoever. After three days of this, having scrutinized his speech, laughter, and every gesture, Zhong was certain it was his father beyond any doubt. Yet still he did not dare to step forward and make himself known. Instead, he presented himself among the shop's servants, pleading that as a fellow townsman he might be taken on as a hired hand. The contract was drawn up, and when the master reviewed his native place and surname, he seemed moved and asked where he had come from. Zhong, weeping, spoke his father's name. The master stood there, stricken with a look of loss. After a long while, he asked: "Is your mother well?" Zhong still did not dare to say his father was dead, and answered delicately: "My father went trading six years ago and never returned. My mother remarried. Fortunately my aunt took pity and raised me; otherwise I would have been buried in a ditch long ago." The master said with a stricken expression: "I am your father." Thereupon they clasped hands in grief.

He then led Zhong in to pay respects to his second wife. The second wife, surnamed Ji, was a little over thirty, childless, and was overjoyed to have Zhong. She prepared a feast at the bedchamber door. But Niu remained melancholy and sighed continually. He wished at once to return to his hometown. His wife, concerned that the shop would be understaffed, persuaded him to stay. Niu then took his son in hand and set him to managing the shop's affairs. After three months, he entrusted all the account books to his son, gathered his belongings, and set out westward for home.

After they parted, Zhong truthfully told his stepmother that his father was dead. Ji was greatly startled and said: "He came here as a peddler and, through old friends he had made, stayed on to become a pawnbroker. He married me six years ago. What do you mean, dead?" Zhong described everything in detail. They both pondered the matter in bewilderment, unable to make sense of it.

A day and a night had not yet passed when Niu returned. He brought with him a woman, her hair disheveled like a tangle of weeds. Zhong looked at her and recognized her as his birth mother. Niu seized her by the ear and cursed her fiercely: "How could you abandon my children!" The woman cowered in terror and dared not move. Niu bit into her neck with his mouth. The woman cried out to Zhong: "Save me, son! Save me!" Zhong could not bear it. He threw himself between them, shielding her body. Niu was still seething with rage, but the woman had already vanished. Everyone was greatly startled and shouted that it was a ghost. They turned to look at Niu: his face had changed terribly in hue. His clothes fell from his body to the ground, and he turned into a dark mist, which soon dissipated as well. Mother and son gasped in horror and grief. They gathered up his garments and buried them.

Zhong took over his father's business and amassed a fortune of ten thousand taels. When he later returned home and made inquiries, it turned out that his birth mother had died on that very day, and the entire household had seen Niu Chengzhang.

Huo Huan, courtesy name Kuangjiu, was a native of Jin. His father served as a county police chief but died early. Huo Huan was the youngest child left behind, exceptionally clever and intelligent beyond others. At eleven, he was admitted to the county school as a child prodigy. Yet his mother was overprotective, forbidding him from stepping beyond the courtyard. At thirteen, he still could not distinguish uncles from nephews or cousins. In the same neighborhood lived a military judge named Wu, a devotee of the Dao who entered the mountains and never returned. He had a daughter named Qing'e, fourteen years old, of extraordinary beauty. In childhood she had secretly read her father's books and admired the conduct of Immortal Maiden He. After her father became a recluse, she resolved never to marry. Her mother could do nothing about it.

One day, Huo Huan caught a glimpse of her outside his gate. Though still a boy with little understanding, he felt an overwhelming love but could not express it. He told his mother directly, asking her to send a matchmaker. His mother knew this was impossible and therefore made difficulties. Huo Huan was deeply unhappy and at a loss. Fearing to thwart her son's wishes, his mother eventually asked an intermediary to convey their intentions to the Wu family, but nothing came of it. Huo Huan pondered incessantly, walking or sitting, yet could find no plan.

It happened that a Daoist priest appeared at his door, holding a small chisel about a foot long. Huo Huan borrowed it and examined it, then asked, "What is this used for?" The priest replied, "This is a tool for digging out medicinal herbs. Though small, it can penetrate solid stone." Huo Huan was not entirely convinced. The priest then used it to chip at the wall-stone, which crumbled at a touch like rotting earth. Huo Huan was greatly astonished and could not put it down. The priest smiled and said, "Since you love it, I present it to you." Huo Huan was overjoyed and offered money, but the priest would not accept it and left.

Huo Huan brought the chisel home and tested it on brick and stone—nothing could resist it. It occurred to him that if he bored through a wall, he could see the beautiful girl, though he did not consider that this was unlawful. After nightfall, he climbed over the wall and went straight to the Wu residence. He bored through two walls before reaching the central courtyard. Seeing a lamp still burning in a small side room, he crouched and peered in—Qing'e was removing her evening toilet. After a while, the candle was extinguished, and all was silent. He tunneled through the wall and entered; the girl was already fast asleep. Gently removing both slippers, he quietly climbed onto the bed. Fearing the young lady would wake and rebuke and drive him off, he concealed himself beside the embroidered bed-curtain, faintly catching her fragrance, which brought him secret satisfaction. But after the exertions of half the night, he was utterly exhausted. The moment his eyes closed, he fell asleep without realizing it.

The girl woke and heard his breathing. Opening her eyes, she saw light streaming through the hole in the wall. Greatly alarmed, she rose quickly, quietly unbolted the door in the darkness, and went out to tap on the window, calling the women of the household. Together they lit torches and grabbed staves. They found a young scholar with his hair in tufts, soundly asleep on the embroidered bed. Examining him closely, they recognized him as Huo Huan. They pushed him, and only then did he wake. He sat up abruptly, his eyes blazing like shooting stars, seemingly not much frightened, but blushing deeply and saying nothing. The crowd accused him of being a thief and shouted threats. Only then did he begin to weep, saying, "I am no thief. It is only that I love Madam and wished to draw near her fragrance." The others also doubted that a boy could have tunneled through several walls. Huo Huan produced the chisel and told them of its marvel. They tested it together and were utterly amazed, suspecting it had been bestowed by a spirit. They were about to report everything to the lady of the house.

Qing'e lowered her head in deep thought, her manner suggesting she did not approve. The others perceived her meaning and said, "This young man's reputation and family standing are by no means unworthy. Better let him go and have him send a matchmaker again. Tomorrow morning, we can report a burglary to the lady—what do you think?" Qing'e did not answer. The others then urged Huo Huan to leave. He asked for his chisel. They all laughed and said, "Silly boy! Still can't forget your weapon, eh?" Huo Huan noticed a phoenix hairpin on the pillow and secretly tucked it into his sleeve. A maid had seen this and quickly reported it. Qing'e neither spoke nor showed anger. An old woman patted Huo Huan's neck and said, "Don't call him silly—his notions are absolutely extraordinary!" Then she dragged him out, and he left through the same tunnel.

After returning home, Huo Huan dared not tell his mother the truth but urged her to send a matchmaker again. His mother could not bring herself to refuse outright, so she asked various matchmakers everywhere to quickly find another good match for him. Qing'e learned of this and was inwardly frantic. She secretly sent a trusted person to hint to the old matchmaker. The matchmaker was pleased and went to the Wu family. It happened that a young maid had leaked the earlier affair, and Madam Wu had been deeply insulted, burning with anger. When the matchmaker arrived, it further provoked her fury. She drew on the ground with a staff, cursing Huo Huan and his mother alike. The matchmaker fled in terror and reported everything in detail. Huo Huan's mother also became angry and said, "What that unfilial son did—I knew nothing of it in my dreams. How could they be so rude to us! When they were exchanging legs, why didn't they kill the wanton boy and the licentious girl together?" From then on, whenever she met relatives, she would pour out her grievances. When Qing'e heard this, she was so ashamed she wished to die.

Madam Wu deeply regretted it but could not stop her from talking. Qing'e secretly sent someone to speak gently to Huo Huan's mother, swearing she would marry no one else, her words full of sorrow. The mother was moved and spoke no further of it; the marriage negotiations were also dropped.

It happened that Lord Ou of Qinzhong was serving as magistrate of this county. Seeing Huo Huan's writing, he greatly esteemed him and often summoned him to the yamen, treating him with the utmost favor. One day, he asked Huo Huan, "Are you married?" He replied, "Not yet." On pressing further, he answered, "Long ago I had a small betrothal agreement with the daughter of the former Judge Wu; later, because of a minor grievance, it was set aside." Asked, "Do you still wish for it?" Huo Huan blushed and said nothing. The magistrate smiled and said, "I shall bring this about for you." He then commissioned the county police master and the instructional officer to present betrothal gifts to the Wu family. Madam Wu was pleased, and the marriage was settled. A year later, Huo Huan brought the bride home.

The woman entered the house, then threw the spade to the ground and saying, "This is a bandit's loot—take it away!" The young man smiled and said, "Don't forget the matchmaker." She treasured it and never let it leave her body. The woman was gentle and reticent by nature; she visited her mother-in-law three times a day, and for the rest she sat quietly behind closed doors, paying little attention to household matters. When her mother-in-law went out for condolences or celebrations, she managed everything in her stead, handling all affairs with perfect order. After a year or so, she gave birth to a son, Mengxian. She entrusted everything to the wet nurse and nanny, seemingly showing little concern for the child herself. Another four or five years passed, and suddenly she said to the young man, "The bond of our love has lasted eight years. Now the parting will be long and the reunion short—what can be done?" Startled, he asked what she meant, but she had already fallen silent. She dressed in her finest clothes, bowed to her mother-in-law, and turned to go into her chamber. He rushed in to question her, but found her lying on her back on the bed, already dead. The mother and son grieved bitterly and purchased fine wood for her burial. The mother was already advanced in age; often she held her son and thought of her daughter-in-law, as though her lungs and liver were being torn. She fell ill from this and grew too weak to rise. She could not keep down food or drink, yet she craved fish soup—but there was no fish to be had nearby; one had to go a hundred li to purchase it. At that time, the grooms and servants had all been sent on errands. The young man, by nature filially devoted, could not bear to wait. He took money and went alone, traveling day and night without resting his feet. When he returned to the mountains, the sun had sunk into dusk. His feet were blistered and lame; he could barely take a single step. Then an old man came up and asked, "Have your feet gotten blisters, perhaps?" The young man nodded assent. The old man pulled him to sit by the roadside, struck a spark from stone, wrapped medicine in paper, and fumigated both of the young man's feet. When he tried to walk, not only had the pain stopped, but his gait was even more nimble than before. Overwhelmed with gratitude, he expressed his thanks profusely. The old man asked, "What matter is so urgent?" He answered that his mother was ill, and recounted the whole story. The old man asked, "Why don't you take another wife?" He replied, "I have not yet found a suitable one." The old man pointed to a mountain village in the distance and said, "There is a fine woman here. If you can follow me there, I will act as your matchmaker." The young man declined on the ground that his mother was ill and waiting for fish, and that he had no leisure for such matters. The old man clasped his hands in farewell, arranged to visit the village another day, and said one need only ask for Old Wang, then took his leave.

The young man returned home, cooked the fish, and offered it to his mother. She managed to eat a little, and within a few days she had recovered. He then ordered horses and servants to go find the old man. When he arrived at the old place, he could not find the village. He searched back and forth for some time; the evening sun slowly sank. The mountain valleys were very confusing, and he could not see far. He and his servant separated and climbed to the tops of the mountains to look for settlements, but the mountain paths were rugged and difficult—they could no longer ride their horses and had to trudge on foot. Darkness and mist closed in. He looked about on all sides, but there was no village anywhere. Just as he was about to descend, he found the way back was already lost. A fire of agitation burned within his heart. In his frantic wandering, he plunged into a sheer cliff. Fortunately, a few feet below there was a narrow ledge; he fell and lay upon it. It was barely wide enough for his body; looking down, all was black, with no bottom visible. Terrified, he dared not move. Fortunately, small trees grew all along the cliff edge, enclosing him like a railing. After a while, he noticed a small cave opening beside his heart. Secretly rejoicing, he turned his back to the rock and crawled inside. His spirits steadied somewhat; he hoped that when dawn came he could call for help. Shortly after, a light glimmered in the depths like a star. As he drew closer, after about three or four li, he suddenly saw halls and houses. There were no lamps or candles, yet the brightness was like daylight.

A beautiful woman emerged from one of the rooms. He looked—it was Qing'e. Seeing him, she exclaimed in surprise, "How could you come here?" The young man had no time to explain; he grasped her sleeve and wept. She urged him to stop. She asked about his mother and son, and he recounted all their hardships; she too was stricken with sorrow. He said, "You have been dead over a year—is this the underworld?" She said, "No. This is an immortal's abode. When I died before, what was buried was merely a bamboo staff. That you have come here now means you have a share in the immortal's destiny." She then led him to pay respects to her father, a tall gentleman with a long beard, seated in the hall. The young man hastened forward to bow. The woman said, "Brother Huo has come." The old man started up in surprise, shook his hand, and briefly spoke of their acquaintance. He said, "It is excellent that my son-in-law has come. By fate you should remain here." The young man declined on the ground that his mother was waiting for him and he could not stay long. The old man said, "I know that too. But a delay of three or four days—what harm would that do?" He then offered food and wine, and ordered a maid to prepare a bed in the western hall with a brocade mattress. When the young man withdrew, he asked the woman to share his bed. She refused, saying, "What kind of place is this, to allow such intimacy?" He seized her arm and would not let go. Outside the window, maids could be heard snickering; she grew even more ashamed. As they were struggling and resisting, the old man entered and scorned, "Mortal bones defiling our cave dwelling! You should leave at once!" The young man had always been proud and could not bear the humiliation. His expression darkened as he said, "The affections between man and woman are unavoidable for anyone. Why should you, sir, spy on me? It is not hard for me to leave—but let the woman come with me and I will go at once." The old man had no reply. He summoned his daughter to follow, opened the rear gate to see them out, tricked the young man past the doorway, then father and daughter closed the door and departed. He turned to look: the cliff was sheer and jagged, with no crack or crevice. A solitary figure, alone and forlorn, with nowhere to go. He saw the slanting moon hanging high in the sky; the stars were already few. He stood dejected for a long time, sorrow turning to resentment. He faced the wall and cried out, but no one answered. In his fury, he drew the spade from his waist and began hacking at the rock, advancing as he dug, cursing as he worked. In a moment he had burrowed three or four feet. Faintly he heard someone say, "What a wretched creature!" The young man dug even more frantically. Suddenly the bottom of the cave opened like two doors, and Qing'e was pushed out: "Go, go!" The wall immediately closed again. The woman reproached him: "Since you love me as your wife, how could you treat my father like that? What old Taoist gave you that wicked weapon, to torment people half to death?" Having recovered the woman, the young man's wish was fulfilled, and he made no reply. But he worried that the road was too dangerous for the journey home. The woman broke two branches; each mounted one, and they turned into horses. They rode swiftly, and in a moment they were home. By then, the young man had been missing for seven days.

Initially, when the young man and his servant became separated, he searched for him but could not find him, so he returned and told his mother. She sent people to scour the valleys and mountains, but there was no trace. Just as she was filled with anxiety and distress, she heard that her son had returned on his own, and joyfully went out to welcome him. When she raised her head and saw the woman, she was nearly frightened out of her wits. The young man briefly explained the matter, and his mother was even more delighted and reassured. The woman, fearing that her strange appearance would alarm others, asked to move away at once, and the mother agreed. There was another estate in a different prefecture, and at the appointed time they moved, unknown to anyone.

They lived together for eighteen years and had a daughter, who was married to a man of the Li clan in the same district. Later, the mother passed away at a ripe old age. The woman said to the young man: "In our thatched field, there is a pheasant sitting on eight eggs—that spot can be used for burial. You and your son should carry the coffin back and bury it. Your son is now grown; he should stay behind to tend the grave, and there is no need for you to return." The young man followed her instructions and returned after the burial. More than a month later, Mengxian went to visit him, but both parents had vanished. When he asked the old servant, he was told: "They have not yet returned from the funeral." He knew in his heart that something strange had happened, and could only sigh deeply.

Mengxian's literary reputation was very great, but he was frustrated in the examinations, failing for forty years. Later, he was selected as a gongshi candidate and went to the northern provincial examination. He encountered another candidate in the same examination cell, about seventeen or eighteen years old, with a brilliant and handsome bearing, and took a liking to him. Looking at his examination paper, he saw that the candidate was registered as a government-supported student of Shuntian Prefecture, Huo Zhongxing. Mengxian stared in great astonishment and thereupon introduced himself by name. Zhongxing was also surprised and asked where he was from. Mengxian told him everything. Zhongxing said joyfully: "When I came to the capital, my father instructed me that if I encountered someone surnamed Huo from Shanxi in the examination hall, he would be of my clan, and I should make friends with him—and now it has come to pass. But why are our names so similar?" Mengxian thereupon asked about his great-great-grandparents and the names of his parents, and then cried out in astonishment: "They are my parents!" Zhongxing doubted that the ages matched. Mengxian said: "My parents are immortals—how can one judge their age by their appearance?" He then recounted what had happened, and Zhongxing began to believe him. After the examination, without pausing to rest, they set out together to return home. When they had just arrived at the gate, the family servants came out to meet them and reported that the previous night, the old master and his lady had disappeared. Both men were greatly alarmed. Zhongxing went inside and questioned the woman. She said: "Last evening we were still drinking together, and Mother said: 'You two are young and inexperienced. When your elder brother comes tomorrow, I will have no worries.' But when I entered the room early this morning, there was no one there." Upon hearing this, the brothers stamped their feet in grief. Zhongxing still wanted to pursue them, but Mengxian thought it would be of no use, and so they stopped. That year, Zhongxing passed the provincial examination. Since the ancestral graves were in Jinzhong, he followed his elder brother and returned home. They still hoped that their parents were still in the world and searched everywhere, but in the end there was no trace.

The Historian of the Strange says: "To drill a hole and sleep in another's bed—the intention is foolish; to bore through a wall and curse one's father-in-law—the conduct is mad. The immortals who brought them together did so only because they wished to reward his filial piety with long life. Yet having mingled among the human world and borne children, why could they not simply remain and end their days there? But they abandoned their sons repeatedly over thirty years—why? Strange indeed!"

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**Listening with the Mirror**

In Yidu, the Zheng brothers were both men of letters. The elder Zheng was well known at an early age, and their parents loved him excessively; because of their son, they treated his wife well too. The younger Zheng was unsuccessful and did not find much favor with his parents, who therefore came to dislike the younger wife as well, even refusing to treat her with proper courtesy. The contrast in treatment between the two couples left a bitter resentment. The younger wife often said to the younger Zheng: "You are a man like any other—why can't you stand up for your wife?" She then refused to sleep with him. Thereupon the younger Zheng was moved and angered, and with diligent effort and sharp determination, he too became well known. The parents began to treat him somewhat better, but he was always overshadowed by his elder brother. The younger wife's hopes for her husband were most ardent. That year was the great provincial examination, and she secretly performed the mirror-listening divination on New Year's Eve. Two men had just risen and were playfully pushing each other, saying: "You go cool and cold!" She returned home, unable to interpret whether this was auspicious or inauspicious, and set it aside. After the examination, both brothers returned. It was still very hot, and both wives were cooking in the kitchen to serve the laborers, suffering greatly from the heat. Suddenly a messenger on horseback arrived at the gate, announcing that the elder Zheng had passed. The mother went into the kitchen and called to the elder wife: "Elder son has passed! You can go cool and cold!" The younger wife, resentful and aggrieved, wept as she cooked. Shortly afterward, another messenger arrived to announce that the younger Zheng had also passed. The younger wife hurled down her cake-rolling stick and sprang up, saying: "I too will go cool and cold!" At that moment, her pent-up feelings overflowed and the words came out unbidden; only afterward did she realize the proof of the mirror-listening divination.

The Historian of the Strange says: "When one is poor and humble, even one's parents do not treat one as a child—there is reason for it! Within the family court, it is no place for resentment and anger. Yet the younger Zheng's wife, in spurring on her husband, was entirely different from those who are bitter and resentful. Throwing down her stick and springing up—truly a joyous event for the ages!"

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**The Yellow Swelling of Cattle**

*(Note: The heading "牛癀" appears at the end of the provided text, but the corresponding story is not included in the passage.)*

Chen Huafeng was a man of Mengshan. One extremely hot summer day, he lay down to rest beneath a wild tree in the fields. Suddenly, a man came rushing toward him, wearing a scarf around his head. He hastened into the shade of the tree, scooped up a stone to sit upon, and fanned himself incessantly, sweat pouring down like flowing starch water. Chen rose from his seat and laughed, saying, "If you remove that scarf, you could be cool without fanning." The guest replied, "Taking it off is easy, but putting it back on would be hard." They fell into conversation, and the guest proved most refined and engaging. After a while, he said, "At the moment I have no other desire—only to have fine wine steeped in ice, a single draught of cold fragrance descending past the twelve stories of the throat, and half the summer heat would be dispelled." Chen laughed and said, "This wish is easily granted; I shall fulfill it for you." He then took the man's hand and saying, "My humble home is nearby; please take the trouble to come." The guest smiled and followed him. Arriving at the house, Chen brought out stored wine from a stone cave—it was cold enough to make the teeth ache. The guest was delighted and downed ten goblets in one sitting. The sun had already set when it suddenly began to rain. They lit a lamp in the room, and the guest removed his scarf and kerchief. They drank freely together. As they talked, Chen noticed that light from the lamp leaked through behind the guest's head and grew suspicious. Before long, the guest became dead drunk and fell asleep on the couch. Chen moved the lamp and stole a peek. He saw a huge hole behind the guest's ear, large as a wine cup, with several thick membranes layered within like lattice windows. Outside the lattice, soft leather hung as a covering, and the center seemed hollow. Frightened beyond measure, Chen quietly drew a hairpin from his topknot and pushed aside the membranes to peer inside. There was something inside, shaped like a small ox, which flew out at his touch and smashed through the window, gone. Even more terrified, he dared not probe further. Just as he was about to turn away, the guest awoke. Alarmed, the guest said, "You have seen my secret! I have released the ox plague—what is to be done?" Chen bowed and asked the reason. The guest replied, "Since matters have come to this, what point is there in concealment? I will tell you truly: I am the Plague God of the six domestic animals. What I just released is the ox plague. I fear that within a hundred *li*, no oxen will be spared." Chen had long made his living raising cattle and was terrified. He bowed and begged for a method to undo the harm. The guest said, "I myself will not escape punishment—how could I have a method to undo it? Only the kushen powder is most effective. Spread this prescription widely and harbor no selfish thoughts." With that, he thanked Chen and departed. He also scooped up earth and piled it into a wall niche, saying, "A portion of one *he* will also be effective." He bowed and vanished. Before long, the oxen indeed fell ill, and the plague spread with great ferocity. Chen, hoping to profit, kept the prescription secret and refused to share it—he passed it only to his younger brother. His brother tried it and found it miraculously effective. But when Chen himself ground the medicine and fed it to his oxen, it had no effect whatsoever. Of his two hundred oxen, nearly all collapsed and died. The four or five old bulls that remained also tottered toward death. His heart was filled with anguish and helplessness. Suddenly he remembered the scooped earth in the niche. Thinking it might not work, he tried it anyway. By nightfall, all the oxen rose to their feet. Only then did he realize that the medicine had failed because the gods were punishing his selfishness. Several years later, the cows gradually bred and multiplied, and his herd slowly returned to its former size.

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**Jin Gufu**

In Kuaiji there was a shrine to Mei Gu. The goddess had been of the Ma clan, her family residing in Dongguan. She had been betrothed but died before reaching the age of thirty, having resolved never to remarry. Her clansmen built a shrine for her and called her Mei Gu. In the *Bingshen* year, a man named Jin of Shangyu was traveling to sit for an examination when he passed by this place. He entered the shrine and lingered there, lost in deep thought. That night, he dreamed that a woman in a blue garment came, bearing a message from Mei Gu summoning him. He followed her. Entering the shrine, Mei Gu stood waiting beneath the eaves and said with a smile, "I am deeply moved by your affection and have long cherished attachment for you. If you do not disdain my plainness, I would gladly serve you as a concubine." Jin assented. Mei Gu escorted him out, saying, "Go for now. When the seat is prepared, I will come for you." He awoke filled with revulsion. That same night, the villagers dreamed that Mei Gu said, "Jin of Shangyu is now my husband; you should make an image of him." At dawn, the villagers found that all had shared the same dream. The clan elder feared it would taint her chastity and refused on these grounds. Before long, the entire household fell gravely ill. Terrified, they made a portrait of Jin and placed it to the left of the goddess. Once it was completed, Jin told his wife, "Mei Gu has come to fetch me." He dressed in his formal robes and died. His wife, consumed with hatred, went to the shrine and cursed the female image with obscene words. She also mounted the seat and slapped the goddess's face several times before leaving. To this day, the Ma family calls it "Jin Gufu."

The historian of strange tales says: "To remain unmarried and faithful cannot be called unchaste. Yet after being a spirit for hundreds of years, to suddenly change her conduct—how utterly shameless! In general, chaste souls and heroic spirits do not necessarily attach themselves to clay images. When a temple's likeness proves potent and startles the world, it is invariably because ghosts or foxes are possessing it."

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**The Zitong Magistrate**

Chang Dazhong, a *jinshi* degree holder, was a man of Taiyuan. While awaiting an appointment in the capital, he dreamed the night before that the God of Literature sent him a calling card. He drew the lot and was assigned to be magistrate of Zitong, which struck him as strange. Later, he returned home upon the death of a parent. When the mourning period ended and he again awaited an appointment, he had the same dream. He silently wondered whether he was truly to be reappointed to Zitong. And so it turned out.

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**Ghostly Saliva**

A certain Mr. Li was lying down during the day when he saw a woman emerge from the wall, her hair disheveled like a basket, hanging down to cover her face. When she reached the bed, she finally parted the hair with her hands to reveal her face—swarthy, black, and exceedingly ugly. Li was terrified and tried to flee. The woman suddenly leaped onto the bed and forcefully embraced his head. She pressed her lips to his and pushed her tongue into his mouth, sending saliva down his throat, cold as ice, seeping deeper and deeper. He tried not to swallow, but then he could not breathe; when he swallowed, the thick, viscous substance clogged his throat. After a single breath, his mouth was full again, and gasping, he swallowed once more. This went on for a long time until he could no longer endure the suffocation. Hearing someone walking outside the door, the woman finally released her grip and left. From then on, his belly swelled and he wheezed with fullness; for dozens of days he could not eat. Someone prescribed a decoction of ginseng and reed rhizome to induce vomiting. He vomited up something resembling the white of an egg, and only then did his illness heal.

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**The Isle of Immortals**

Wang Mian, styled Minzhai, was a native of Lingshan. He possessed talent and intellect, repeatedly placed first in the examination halls, and carried himself with considerable arrogance. He was skilled at mockery and ridicule, and frequently humiliated and browbeat others. By chance he encountered a Taoist priest, who looked at him and said, "Your physiognomy indicates the highest nobility, yet it has been nearly entirely diminished by the karma of frivolity and contempt. With your intelligence, if you were to turn inward and cultivate the Way, you could still be registered among the immortals." Wang sneered, "Whether one has good fortune or not is indeed unknowable, but how could there be immortals in this world!" The Taoist said, "Why is your vision so low? Seek no further—I myself am an immortal." Wang only laughed the more at this falsehood. The Taoist said, "I am nothing remarkable. If you will follow me, you can see dozens of true immortals at once." Wang asked, "Where?" The Taoist replied, "Right before your eyes." Thereupon he placed his staff between his thighs and offered one end to Wang, instructing him to do the same. He told Wang to close his eyes, then cried, "Rise!" Wang felt the staff grow as large as a five-bushel sack, and they soared into the air with a rushing flight. Secretly he felt it—scales, row upon row of them. Terrified, he dared not move again. After a while, the Taoist cried again, "Stop!" He then withdrew the staff, and they alighted in a compound of a grand mansion, with storied buildings and extended pavilions, resembling a royal residence. There was a terrace over a zhang high, and upon it a hall of eleven bays, magnificently splendid beyond compare. The Taoist led his guest up and ordered a young attendant to set out a feast and invite guests. In the hall, dozens of banquet tables were arrayed, dazzling in their splendor. The Taoist changed into splendid robes and waited upon them. Shortly after, the guests arrived from the air, riding creatures—some dragons, some tigers, some simurghs and phoenixes, of every kind. Each also brought a musical instrument. Among them were women, men, and some with bare feet. There was one especially beautiful woman, riding a multicolored phoenix, dressed in palace style, with a maidservant carrying her musical instrument for her—a thing over five chi long, neither qin nor se, and no one knew its name. Once the wine had been served, rare delicacies were spread in profusion, sweet and fragrant on the tongue, quite unlike ordinary fare. Wang sat in silent stillness, his eyes fixed only upon the beautiful woman. His heart was drawn to her, and he longed to hear her music, yet he secretly feared she might never play at all. When the feast was drawing to a close, an old gentleman spoke up, saying, "Having received the gracious invitation of Master Cui the Perfected, today's gathering may be called a grand assembly, and we should all enjoy ourselves to the fullest. Let those with matching instruments join together to perform a piece." Thereupon each paired and grouped with others. The sounds of strings and bamboo pierced the Milky Way. Only the woman on the phoenix had no partner for her music. When the collective sounds had ceased, the maidservant at last opened the embroidered bag and laid the instrument across the table. The woman then extended her jade-white wrists in the manner of playing a zheng, but its brightness was several times that of a qin, its force sufficient to open the heart, its softness enough to ravish the soul. She played for the time it takes to cook half a meal, and the entire hall fell silent—not a single cough was heard. When she finished, there was a single clear chime, like striking a pure qing. All praised her, saying, "What supreme artistry of Lady Yunhe!" The company then all rose to take their leave, and with crane cries and dragon songs, they dispersed at once. The Taoist prepared a jeweled couch and brocade quilt for Wang's lodging. When Wang first beheld the beautiful woman, his heart had already been stirred; after hearing the music, his thoughts grew even more troubled. He reflected that with his own talents, he ought to pluck the blue and purple of official rank as easily as picking mustard seeds—once wealthy and honored, what could he not obtain? In an instant a hundred tangled thoughts whirled about like hemp in a tangle. The Taoist seemed already to know this and said to him, "In a former life you studied with me, but later, because your resolve was not firm, you fell into the net of the dusty world. I do not hold myself aloof from you—truly I wish to pull you from the foul mire. I did not expect your delusion to be so deep, so muddled that you cannot be roused to understanding. Now I shall send you on your way. It is not certain that we shall never meet again, but to become a celestial immortal will require another kalpa." He then pointed to a long stone at the base of the steps and told Wang to close his eyes and sit upon it, strictly charging him not to look. When he had done so, the Taoist drove the stone with his whip. The stone flew up, the sound of wind filling his ears, and Wang could not tell how far they traveled.

Suddenly he wondered what the world below was like. He cracked his eyes open just a slit and saw the vast, boundless ocean stretching endlessly in every direction. Terrified, he shut his eyes again—but by then his body had already fallen with the rock, plunging downward with a great crash, sinking into the water as lightly as a gull.

Fortunately, having lived near the sea in his youth, he knew a little about swimming. He heard someone clapping and exclaiming, "What a magnificent dive!" Just as he was in the greatest peril, a young woman pulled him aboard a boat, saying, "Good fortune, good fortune—the scholar is 'damp' now!" He looked at her: she was perhaps sixteen or seventeen, with a radiant beauty. Wang, shivering from the cold water, begged for a fire to warm himself. The woman said, "Come with me to my home, and I shall make arrangements. If you are satisfied, do not forget me." Wang replied, "What kind of talk is that? I am a scholar of the Central Plains—if I have met with misfortune this once, I shall repay you with my very life. How could I merely remember you!"

The woman plied her oar and drove the skiff swift as wind and rain. Soon they reached the shore. From the cabin she gathered up a handful of the lotus blossoms she had picked, and led him along with her. After about half a li they entered a village. They saw a vermillion gate opening to the south, and passed through several inner doors before the woman ran ahead to announce them. Shortly after, a man of about forty emerged, bowed to Wang, and invited him up the steps. He ordered servants to bring a hat, robe, socks, and shoes, and helped Wang change his clothes. When this was done, he inquired about Wang's family and origins.

Wang said, "I do not deceive you—my reputation as a man of talent is perhaps known even here. Master Cui showed me great favor and summoned me to the celestial palace. I believed that fame and success would be within my grasp, and so I had no wish to live in seclusion." The man rose with new respect and said, "This is the Island of Immortals, far removed from the world of men. My surname is Wenruo, and my given name is Huan. My family has lived in these remote and secluded regions for generations—what fortune to receive a celebrated scholar!" He then prepared a lavish banquet with warm hospitality.

After a time, he said casually, "I have two daughters. The elder, Fangyun, is sixteen and has yet not found a worthy match. Would you be willing to accept her in marriage?" Wang assumed she must be the lotus-picker herself, and rose from his seat to express his gratitude. Huan summoned two or three elderly neighbors of distinguished reputation from the vicinity. He looked about and called for the young ladies to come forth at once. Before long, an extraordinary fragrance filled the air, and more than ten beautiful maidens emerged, escorting Fangyun among them. She was radiant and luminous, like a lotus flower bathed in the morning sun. She bowed and took her seat. The other maidens stood in attendance—and among them was the lotus-picker.

After several rounds of wine, a young girl with hanging hair emerged from within. She was only about ten years old, but her bearing was graceful and charming. She laughed as she leaned against Fangyun's arm, her eyes bright and restless. Huan said, "Why is this child not in her chamber? What business has she here?" Then, turning to the guest, he said, "This is Lüyun, my youngest daughter. She is quite clever—she has already mastered the ancient classics." He then asked her to recite a poem for the guest. She chanted three verses of a folk song, her voice delicate and pleasing. He then had her sit beside her sister.

Huan said to Wang, "Master Wang, you are a genius and must have many compositions ready. Might I have the privilege of hearing one?" Wang recited a recent composition with great enthusiasm, glancing about with self-satisfaction. The middle couplet read:

*"Though all else is lost, my manhood remains intact;*

*A small drink can dissolve the lump in my chest."*

The elderly neighbors repeated it several times with admiration. Fangyun whispered softly to him, "The first line is Sun Wukong leaving the Cave of Flaming Clouds, and the second is Zhu Bajie crossing the Motherhood River." Everyone burst into applause.

Huan asked for another. Wang recited his poem on waterfowl:

*"On the marshy bank it cries ge-zhe..."*

Suddenly he could not remember the next line. He had barely paused to think when Fangyun whispered something to her sister, and they both covered their mouths and laughed. Lüyun told her father, "She has supplied the husband's next line. It goes: 'The dog's buttocks go peng-ba.'" The whole company burst into laughter. Wang flushed with embarrassment. Huan shot Fangyun an angry look. Wang's composure recovered somewhat, and Huan asked him again for his literary work.

Wang supposed that these people beyond the world could not know about the eight-legged essay, so he proudly displayed his championship piece, titled "Filial Indeed Is Master Min Ziqian," with the opening line: "The Sage praised the great filial virtue of the worthy..." Lüyun turned to her father and said, "The Sage had no disciple whose name was 'zi' [character]. The phrase 'Filial indeed...' is simply the word 'renyan' [what people say]." Upon hearing this, Wang's enthusiasm evaporated.

Huan laughed and said, "What does a child know? Pay no attention to that—we are only discussing literature here." Wang then recited the essay. Every few lines, the sisters would whisper to each other, apparently offering critical commentary, but their murmuring was too faint to make out. When Wang reached a fine passage, he added the examiner's comment: "Every word is deeply moving." Lüyun told her father, "My sister says: 'The word "deeply" should be removed.'" No one understood. Huan feared she was being disrespectful and dared not press the matter.

When Wang finished, he added the general evaluation, which read: "One strike of the jie drum, and ten thousand flowers fall at once." Fangyun again whispered to her sister, and both laughed so hard they could not straighten up. Lüyun announced, "My sister says: 'The jie drum should be struck four times.'" Again no one understood. Lüyun opened her mouth to explain, but Fangyun, stifling her laughter, scolded her: "If this little servant dares to speak, she shall be beaten to death!" Everyone was greatly puzzled and began speculating among themselves. Lüyun could no longer contain herself and said, "Remove the word 'deeply' [qie], and 'painful' [tong] becomes 'does not pass through' [butong]. Four strikes of the drum sound like 'bu tong, bu tong'—'does not pass through, and does not pass through.'" Everyone roared with laughter. Huan angrily scolded her, then himself rose to circulate the wine cups, apologizing profusely.

Wang had originally prided himself on his literary fame, believing there was no one in history who could match him. But by now his spirit was crushed and his face was nothing but a sheet of sweat. Huan flattered and consoled him, saying, "I have a riddle for the company: 'Beside the prince, there is not a single point that does not resemble jade.'" Before anyone could think, Lüyun responded at once: "On the head of the toad old man, add half an evening [ban xi] and you get 'turtle' [gui]." Fangyun burst out laughing and pinched her side several times. Lüyun slipped away, turned back, and said, "What business is it of yours? You scold me constantly and think nothing of it—yet someone else says one word and you cannot bear it?" Huan barked at her, and only then did she laugh and leave.

The elderly neighbors took their leave. The maids led the bride and bridegroom to the inner bedchamber, where lamps, candles, screens, and couches were all exquisitely arranged. Wang noticed that the bridal chamber was filled with bookshelves, every kind of text represented. He tried a few questions and found her answers inexhaustible. Only now did Wang feel the shame of gazing at the ocean and knowing how small he was.

The young woman called out "Mingdang," and the lotus-picker came running in response—so Wang finally learned her name. He had suffered repeated mockery and feared he would not be valued in the women's quarters. Fortunately, though Fangyun's words were sharp, in the bedchamber she was affectionate and loving.

Wang settled in without occupation and soon began chanting verses again. The woman said, "I have some good advice—would you be willing to accept it?" "What is it?" he asked. "From now on, do not write poetry. That too is one way to conceal one's inadequacy."

Wang was overcome with shame and put down his pen for good. After a long while, he grew increasingly close to Mingdang. He said to Fangyun, "Mingdang once saved my life. I hope you will be a little kinder to her." Fangyun agreed at once. Whenever they engaged in amorous play, she invited Mingdang to join, and the two grew ever more intimate, exchanging glances and speaking with their hands. Fangyun began to suspect something and showered Wang with reproaches. Wang merely babbled on, trying to excuse himself.

One evening, as they drank together, Wang found the silence oppressive and urged Fangyun to summon Mingdang. Fangyun refused. Wang said, "You have read every book under the sun—how can you not remember the passage about 'enjoying alone versus enjoying together'?" Fangyun said, "I always said you were no scholar, and now it is proved even more clearly. Don't you even know how to parse the sentence? 'If one desires to be alone, then one desires to be desired by others; if one desires to be with others, then what is the point? The answer: none.'" They laughed and let the matter drop. When Fangyun's sisters went to visit a neighbor's daughter, Wang seized the moment and hurried Mingdang to him, showing her the utmost tenderness. That night, he felt a slight pain in his lower belly; after the pain passed, his manhood swelled up entirely. Terrified, he told Fangyun. She laughed and said, "This must be Mingdang's repayment of kindness!" Wang dared not conceal the truth and confessed everything. Fangyun said, "You brought this calamity on yourself—there is truly no remedy. Since it is neither painful nor itchy, simply leave it be." Days passed without recovery, and Wang grew melancholy and joyless. Fangyun understood his plight but did not inquire, only gazing at him with eyes as limpid as autumn waters, bright as the morning star. Wang said, "As the saying goes, 'When the heart is upright, the eyes are clear.'" Fangyun smiled and said, "As the saying goes, 'When the heart is not upright, the eyes are muddled.'" The word for "without" (沒) was pronounced colloquially like "eye" (眸), and so she made the joke. Wang laughed despite himself and begged for a prescription. She said, "You would not heed good advice before. You may well have suspected me of jealousy. But this girl was simply not to be approached. I truly cared for you, yet you were like a horse with the east wind blowing in its ear—utterly unmoved—so I cast you off and pitied you no more. Very well, I shall cure you. But the physician must first examine the afflicted part." She reached into his robes and chanted, "O yellow bird, O yellow bird, do not rest upon the thorn tree!" Wang could not help but laugh heartily, and the moment he laughed, he was cured.

Several months later, Wang thought often of his aging father and young son and was deeply troubled. He told Fangyun of his wish. She said, "Going back is not difficult, but we shall never meet again." Tears streamed down Wang's cheeks as he begged to return home with her. Fangyun pondered long and at last agreed. Old Master Huan held a farewell feast. Lüyun entered carrying a basket and said, "My elder sister is departing far away, and I have nothing to give her. I fear that when she reaches Hainan, she will have no home to live in. I have labored night and day to build her a house—please do not despise its humble construction." Fangyun bowed and accepted it. When she examined it closely, she found it was a miniature mansion made of fine grasses, some pieces as large as citrons, others as small as oranges—some twenty structures in all, with beams, rafters, and eaves all clearly countable; within, the furnishings and beds were like grains of hempseed. Wang's son played with it, marveling inwardly at its exquisite craftsmanship.

Fangyun said, "Let me tell you the truth: we are all earthly immortals. By virtue of a karmic bond, we have been able to accompany you. We had no desire to tread the dusty world, but because you had an aged father, we could not bear to refuse. Once your father has lived out his allotted span, we must return." Wang accepted this with reverence. Huan then asked, "Will you travel by land or by sea?" Wang, fearing the perils of wind and waves, chose the land. When they emerged, carriages and horses were already waiting at the gate. They took their leave and departed, traveling at a swift pace. Soon they reached the seashore, and Wang worried there was no road ahead. Fangyun produced a bolt of white silk and threw it toward the south; it transformed into a long embankment, more than a zhang wide. In an instant they galloped across, and the embankment gradually drew back. They came to a place where the tides flowed, with vast stretches of wilderness on all sides. Fangyun stopped them from advancing, alighted, and took the grass implements from the basket. Together with Mingdang and several others, she arranged them according to the proper method, and in the blink of an eye a great mansion stood before them. They entered and unpacked, finding it no different from their dwelling on the island—the inner chambers with their tables and couches were all exactly as before. It was already dusk, so they stopped there for the night.

At dawn, Wang was sent to fetch his father. He rode swiftly to his old home, only to find that the house now belonged to another family. He asked the neighbors and learned that both his mother and wife had passed away; only his old father still lived. His son had been a gambler, and the family lands were entirely gone. Grandfather and grandson had no roof over their heads and were lodging temporarily in West Village. When Wang first returned, he still harbored thoughts of fame and official rank and could not put them aside; but upon hearing these tidings, he was overcome with bitter grief. He told himself that even if wealth and honor could be carried off, they would be no different than flowers reflected in empty space. He drove his horse to West Village and found his father in tattered, filthy clothes, so aged and frail that his heart ached with pity. When they met, they wept aloud. He asked about his wayward son and was told he had gone gambling and had not yet returned. Wang loaded his father onto the carriage and brought him back.

Fangyun had already completed her morning greetings. She prepared hot water for his father's bath, presented him with brocade robes, and settled him in a fragrant chamber. She also summoned old friends from afar to chat with him, and the luxuries provided surpassed those of noble households. One day the son came seeking them. Wang cut him off and would not allow him to enter, but gave him twenty taels of silver and sent word: "Take this to buy a wife and make a living. If you come again, you will be whipped to death on the spot!" The son left in tears. After returning, Wang rarely observed social courtesies with others; yet when old friends happened to call, he always invited them to stay and treated them with greater warmth than ever before. There was only one gentleman, Huang Zijie, who had been his fellow student and was a talented scholar fallen on hard times. Wang kept him for a long time, often spoke with him in secret, and gave him generous gifts.

After three or four years, Old Master Wang passed away. Wang spent a vast sum to select an auspicious burial site and performed the funeral rites with full ceremony. By then his son had taken a wife, and the wife kept her husband on a tight leash, so his gambling had somewhat abated. On the day of the funeral, he was at last able to pay respects to his parents-in-law. Fangyun took one look at him and recognized his ability to manage a household. She bestowed three hundred taels of silver for the purchase of farmland. The next day, Huang and the son went together to visit, but the house had vanished entirely—no one knew where it had gone.

The Historian of the Strange writes: "Wherever beauty is found, men will seek it even in hell—how much more so when boundless pleasures are to be enjoyed? If earthly immortals were allowed to take their beauties with them, I fear the Emperor's court would be left empty and unpeopled. That a man of frivolous conduct should have his rank and fortune diminished is only fitting—do even immortals not regard such things with disapproval? And that woman's tongue—how cruel it was!"

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**The Dead King of Hell**

# Liaozhai Zhiyi, Volume 7

## The Governor's Father

The father of a certain Provincial Governor had previously served as Viceroy of the Southern Regions and had long since passed away. One night, the Governor dreamed that his father came to him, his face haggard and trembling. His father said, "In my lifetime, I committed few sins or errors. However, there was one garrison regiment that should not have been mobilized, yet I mistakenly ordered its deployment. Along the way, they encountered pirates at sea, and the entire army was annihilated. Now, a case has been brought before the King of Hell. The punishment in the underworld is excruciating and truly terrifying. The King of Hell is no other than the supply officer who will arrive tomorrow to transport grain — a man surnamed Wei. You must intercede on my behalf. Do not forget!" The Governor awoke, finding the dream strange, but he did not fully believe it. Yet after falling asleep again, he dreamed that his father reproached him: "Your father suffers calamity and distress, yet you do not take it to heart — do you still regard this as an empty dream?" The Governor was greatly astonished. The next day, he paid careful attention to the arriving officials and indeed found a Supply Officer named Wei, who had just arrived to take up his post. The Governor immediately summoned him, had two men hold Wei seated, and then rose to bow to him with the ceremony used at court audiences. After bowing, the Governor remained kneeling with tears streaming down and explained the reason. Wei said he could not take responsibility for this. The Governor remained prostrate on the floor and would not rise. Wei then said, "Very well, such a case may exist. But the laws of the underworld are not like those of the mortal world, where one can manipulate matters with impunity. I fear I may not be able to help." The Governor pleaded even more urgently. Wei, having no choice, agreed. The Governor then asked him to handle the matter quickly. Wei deliberated but found no place of quiet. The Governor offered to clean and prepare the guest quarters for him, and Wei accepted. The Governor then rose. He also asked to go and observe the proceedings secretly. Wei refused. The Governor pressed him repeatedly, and Wei instructed him: "Once there, make no sound. Moreover, although the punishments of the underworld are gruesome, they are not like those of the mortal world. Those who appear dead are temporarily in a state of death, but they are not truly dead. Should you see anything, do not be alarmed." That night, the Governor hid beside the quarters and saw prisoners below the steps — those with severed heads and broken arms — in countless numbers and confusion. In the courtyard stood a fire brazier and an oil cauldron, with several men kindling firewood beneath them. Soon, Wei emerged in official robes and cap, took his seat, and his bearing was fierce and mighty, entirely different from before. All the ghosts at once prostrated themselves and cried out together in anguish. Wei said, "You were killed by pirates — your grievance has its proper target. Why do you falsely accuse a high official?" The ghosts clamored, saying, "By regulation, we should not have been mobilized, yet we were summoned by a false dispatch and met our deaths. Who caused this injustice?" Wei tried in various ways to explain and absolve, but the ghosts howled their grievances, their voices tumultuous and deafening. Wei then called to the ghostly guards: "Take the official to the oil cauldron. A brief dipping would be only fitting." Judging by his intent, it seemed he wished to vent the crowd's anger in this way. Immediately, a guard with the head of an ox led the Governor's father forward and thrust him with a sharp trident into the oil cauldron. The Governor saw this, and his heart was overwhelmed with anguish and grief beyond endurance. Unable to help himself, he let out a cry of anguish. The courtyard fell silent, and all forms vanished. The Governor sighed and returned home in dismay. By morning, when he looked for Wei, he had already died in the quarters. This was recounted by Zhang Yuding of Songjiang. Because it was not a good name to spread, the real names were concealed.

## The Mad Daoist

There was a mad Daoist whose name was unknown. He lodged at Mengshan Temple. He sang and wept unpredictably, and no one could fathom him. Some had seen him cook stones as food. On the Double Ninth Festival, a local dignitary loaded wine and climbed the mountain, going in a sedan with an umbrella canopy. After the feast, as he passed by the temple, just as he reached the gate, the Daoist came out barefoot, wearing a tattered robe, holding up a yellow canopy of his own, and making the sound of a royal escort clearing the way — seemingly in mockery. The dignitary was enraged and humiliated, and he ordered his servants to chase and curse the Daoist. The Daoist smiled and retreated. As they pursued him more closely, he threw down his canopy; together they tore it to pieces, and each piece transformed into a hawk or falcon, scattering and flying in all directions. The crowd was terrified. The canopy handle turned into a giant python, its red scales gleaming. The crowd clamored to flee, but a companion stopped them, saying, "This is merely an illusion that bewitches the eyes — how could it devour a person?" He then seized a blade and charged forward. The python opened its jaws and lunged angrily, swallowing the man whole. The crowd was horrified and rushed the dignitary away, stopping to rest three li distant. He sent several men to cautiously go back and investigate. As they gradually entered the temple, both the man and the python had vanished. Just as they were about to return and report, they heard labored breathing from inside an old locust tree, like that of a donkey. They were greatly frightened. At first, they did not dare approach. Stealthily, they drew closer and saw that the tree was rotten and hollow inside, with an opening like a tray. They tried to climb up and peer inside, and there they found the man who had fought the python, hanging upside down within. The opening was barely large enough for two hands, and there was no way he could get out. They hastily took an axe and split the tree open, but by the time the tree was cleaved, the man was already dead. After a while, he regained consciousness slightly and was carried home. The Daoist was nowhere to be found.

The Historian of the Strange says: "To visit the mountains with a canopy and umbrella — his arrogant spirit saturated to the very marrow. The immortal's playful transformations — how utterly laughable! In my hometown, there was a man named Yin Wenping, brother-in-law of Minister Bi, who treated the world with irreverent amusement. In Zhangqiu, there was a man named Zhou, who rose from humble and lowly origins but always rode in a sedan chair whenever he went out. He also had a distant family connection to Minister Bi. On the occasion of the Grand Lady's birthday, Yin was certain Zhou would come and waited for him on the road. He put on pigskin boots, dressed in official robes, and held a calling card. When Zhou's sedan arrived, Yin bowed at the roadside and called out loudly: 'The licentiate of Zichuan greets the licentiate of Zhangqiu!' Zhou was ashamed and alighted from his sedan. They exchanged a few words and parted. Shortly afterward, they both gathered at Minister Bi's hall, where the room was filled with guests in formal caps and robes. Everyone privately laughed at Yin's attire, but Yin surveyed the room with proud indifference. After the banquet ended and they all went out, each summoning their carriages and horses. Yin also called out loudly in a great voice: 'Where is Lord Yin's dragon carriage?' Two strong servants crossed poles before him, and he mounted them. With a cry of thanks, he flew away at speed. Yin, too, was of the same ilk as the immortals."

## Hu Siniang

Cheng Xiaosi, a man from Jiannan, was clever and skilled in writing from a young age. Both his parents died early, and his family was destitute, with no means of livelihood. He sought employment as a clerk for Master Hu, the Silver Terrace official. When Master Hu tested his writing, he was greatly pleased and said, "This man will not remain poor for long—he is worthy of being a son-in-law." The Silver Terrace had three sons and four daughters, all of whom had been betrothed in infancy to prominent families. Only the youngest daughter, Siniang, born of a concubine whose mother had died early and who was of marriageable age but still unmarried, was thus given in marriage to Cheng. Some ridiculed this, calling it the muddled order of a foolish old man, but Master Hu paid them no heed. He provided Cheng with a study and generous provisions. The young masters all scorned him and would not eat with him, and the servants and maids all mocked him. Cheng bore it silently, never disputing right or wrong, and studied with great diligence. The others jeered at him from the sidelines, but Cheng did not cease reading; they then clanged gongs and cymbals beside him to disturb him, so Cheng took his books and went to read in the women's quarters.

Before Siniang's marriage, a diviner of spirits who knew men's fortunes had observed them all and spoke nothing flattering of any; only when Siniang arrived did he say, "This is truly a noble person!" After Cheng's marriage into the family, all her sisters called her "Noble One" to mock her. But Siniang was dignified and taciturn, as if she had heard nothing. Gradually even the maids and old servant women took to calling her that. Siniang had a maid named Gui'er, who felt greatly aggrieved and declared loudly, "How do you know our young master will not become a high official?" The second sister, hearing this, sneered and said, "If Cheng Lang becomes a high official, he may gouge out my eyes!" Gui'er said angrily, "By then, I fear you will not be willing to part with your eyes!" Chunxiang, the second sister's maid, said, "If the second lady breaks her word, I will offer both my eyes in her stead." Gui'er grew even more furious and struck her palm, swearing, "I will see to it that both are blinded!" The second sister, enraged at the insult, slapped her at once. Gui'er wailed loudly. The lady of the house learned of it but neither approved nor disapproved, merely smiling faintly. Gui'er clamored to complain to Siniang, who was spinning thread at the time; she was neither angry nor spoke, but spun as before.

On the occasion of Master Hu's birthday, all the sons-in-law came, and the birthday gifts filled the courtyard. The eldest daughter-in-law mocked Siniang, saying, "What birthday gift did your family bring?" The second daughter-in-law said, "Two shoulders carrying a single mouth!" Siniang remained calm, showing no trace of shame. People saw that she was foolish in everything and treated her with increasing familiarity. Only Master Hu's beloved concubine, Lady Li, mother of the third sister, always treated Siniang with courtesy and respect, often showing her sympathy. She would often say to the third daughter, "Siniang is inwardly wise and outwardly plain, her cleverness hidden without display. All those maids are within her compass without knowing it. Moreover, Cheng Lang studies day and night with such effort—how could he remain beneath others for long? You must not follow their example; treat her well, so that in the future you may meet with kindness." Therefore, whenever the third daughter returned to her parents' home, she always made a point of treating Siniang warmly.

That year, Cheng, through Master Hu's influence, entered the county school. The next year, when the Education Commissioner conducted the prefectural examination, Master Hu happened to die. Cheng mourned with the grief of a son and could not sit for the exam. After the mourning period ended, Siniang gave him gold and urged him to enter the supplementary candidates' register. She said, "In the past, I was not driven out only because my old father was here; now there is absolutely no reason for you to stay! If you can make your mark, perhaps when you return you will still have a home." At parting, Lady Li and the third daughter gave him generous provisions. Cheng entered the examination hall, sharpening his resolve and concentrating his mind, determined to succeed. Before long, the results were posted, and he was rejected. His hopes dashed and his spirits soured, he found it hard to return home. Fortunately, he had a small sum in his purse and went to the capital with his books. At that time, many of his wife's kinsmen held official posts in the capital, and fearing their mockery, he changed his old name, gave a false address, and sought to conceal himself in the household of a great man. Li of Donghai, the Censorate official, saw him and valued him, taking him into his staff, providing him for his studies, and procuring for him the status of a tribute student so he could sit for the provincial examination in Shuntian. He passed with distinction in every attempt and was appointed a Bachelor of the Hanlin Academy. Only then did he tell the truth of his situation. Lord Li lent him a thousand taels of silver and first sent a steward to Jiannan to build a house for him. At that time, the eldest Hu son, having exhausted his resources after his father's death, sold his fertile estate, and Cheng purchased it. When the house was completed, he then borrowed carriages and horses to go and fetch Siniang.

Earlier, after Cheng had passed the examination, a courier had brought the news, but the entire household was loath to hear it; moreover, upon examining the name and finding it did not match, they drove the courier away. It happened that the third son was completing his marriage, and relatives gathered to celebrate the wedding; all the sisters and aunts were present, but Siniang alone had not been invited by her brothers and sisters-in-law. Suddenly a man rushed in, presenting a letter Cheng had sent to Siniang. The brothers opened and read it, and their faces changed color. Only then did the relatives at the banquet ask to see Siniang. The sisters were anxious, fearing Siliang would come resentfully. Before long, she arrived gracefully. Those offering congratulations, those pulling out seats, those exchanging greetings—the clamor filled the room. Ears listened for Siniang; eyes watched Siniang; mouths spoke of Siniang. But Siniang remained as composed as ever. The crowd, seeing that she showed no particular reaction, gradually settled down and began competing to offer her wine. Just as the feast was at its merry height, wailing and shouting outside the gate grew urgent. All were puzzled. Soon Chunxiang ran in, her face smeared with blood. When they questioned her, she could only weep without answering. The second sister scolded her, and she finally sobbed, "Gui'er pressed me for my eyes—had I not struggled free, she would have gouged them out!" The second sister was deeply ashamed, sweat and powder mingling on her face. Siniang was indifferent. The whole company sat in silence, not a word spoken, and each began to take their leave. Siniang, richly dressed, bowed only to Lady Li and her third sister, then left and mounted her carriage. Only then did the crowd learn that the one who had bought the estate was Cheng.

When Siniang first arrived at the estate, many household items were lacking. Lady Li and the young masters each offered her servants and furnishings, but Siniang accepted nothing; only a maid sent by Lady Li did she accept. Before long, Cheng returned home on leave to visit the tombs, with a retinue of carriages and horses like a cloud. He went to his wife's family to pay respects at Master Hu's coffin and then to call upon Lady Li. The young masters, having completed their formal visits, had already mounted their carriages. After Master Hu's death, the young masters competed daily for the inheritance, paying no heed to the coffin. After several years, the mortuary chamber leaked and decayed, and the grand house was gradually turning into a mound of earth. Cheng, seeing this, grieved deeply. Without consulting the brothers, he set a date for the burial and performed every rite with propriety. On the day of the funeral, officials' caps and canopies followed one another in succession, and all in the village praised him.

For over ten years, Cheng rose through the ranks to high and distinguished office. Whenever he encountered hardship or crisis among his fellow townsmen, he exerted himself to the utmost. The second son happened to be arrested on a charge of murder, and the investigating censor was a man from Cheng's same examination cohort, known for his stern integrity. The eldest son asked his father-in-law, Wang the Surveillance Commissioner, to send a letter on his behalf, but received no reply at all, and his fear grew. He wished to go and beg his sister, but felt ashamed to face her, so he took a letter written by Lady Li and went to the capital. Upon arriving, he dared not present himself immediately. He waited until Cheng had gone to court, then went to his residence. He hoped that Siniang, remembering the bond of brotherhood,

**Brushing Aside Petty Grudges**

[...]

When the gatekeeper announced him, an old housekeeper came out and led him into the main hall, where wine and food were laid out—though in rather sparse measure. After the meal, Siyang came out, her face calm and warm. She said, "Elder Brother must be terribly busy with worldly affairs. What brings you all this way?" Daylang prostrated himself and, weeping, explained the purpose of his visit. Siyang helped him up and laughed. "Elder Brother, you're a fine man! Is this really such a great matter? Why carry on so? I'm just a woman—when have you ever seen me sniveling to others?" Daylang then produced Lady Li's letter. Siyang said, "The wives of your brothers are all women of heavenly grace. Let each appeal to her own father or brother, and the matter would be settled. Why trudge all the way here?" Daylang had no reply, but simply looked at her with pleading eyes. Siyang's face darkened. "I thought you had traveled all this way to visit your sister, but it turns out you've come to beg a high official to intercede in a great lawsuit!" She swept back inside without another word. Daylang left in shame and anger. When he returned home and recounted the whole affair in detail, everyone—high and low—cursed and reviled her. Lady Li too called him heartless. Several days later, Erlang was released and returned home. Everyone was overjoyed, and they all mocked Siyang for having invited nothing but resentment and criticism. Soon afterward, Siyang sent a servant to inquire after Lady Li. The servant was summoned inside and presented gold and silk, saying, "The Lady was pressed to act quickly on Second Uncle's behalf and had no time to write a reply. She sends these small tokens in lieu of a letter." Only then did they learn that Erlang's return had been due to Cheng's influence. Later, as the family of the third sister gradually fell into poverty, Cheng bestowed favors and rewards beyond the ordinary measure. And because Lady Li had no son, he welcomed her into his home and cared for her as a mother.

**A Monk's Magic**

Huang was the son of an old and distinguished family. He had considerable talent and literary gifts, and from youth had harbored lofty ambitions. Outside his village stood a Buddhist temple where a certain monk resided; he and Huang had long been close friends. The monk then went traveling and did not return for over ten years. When he saw Huang again, he sighed, "I thought you would have risen to eminence long ago, yet you are still wearing the white cloth of a commoner. I suppose your fortune and fate are simply too meager. Let me try to bribe the officials of the underworld on your behalf. Can you raise a thousand strings of cash?" Huang said he could not. The monk said, "Try to raise half that amount—I will lend you the rest. Let us set a date three days hence." Huang agreed. He ransacked his household, pawning and mortgaging everything, until he had the sum. On the third day, the monk came and gave Huang five thousand cash. Huang's family had an old well for drawing water that never ran dry—it was said to connect with the rivers and seas. The monk ordered him to bind the money and place it by the well's edge, then warned him, "When I reach the temple, push it into the well. Wait the time it takes to cook a meal, and a coin will bob up to the surface—you must bow to it." Then he left. Huang did not understand the magic, but he reasoned that since he could not be sure whether it would work or not, the ten thousand cash would be a pity to lose. So he hid nine thousand and cast only a thousand into the well. Soon a huge bubble surged up, burst with a clanging sound, and a coin floated to the surface—as large as a cart wheel. Huang was terrified. He bowed, then threw in another four thousand cash. The coins fell down, struck something, and made a sound—blocked by the great coin above, they could not sink. At dusk, the monk arrived and scolded him sharply, "Why didn't you throw it all in?" Huang said, "I threw it all in." The monk said, "The messenger of the underworld carried away only a thousand. Why do you lie?" Huang told him the truth. The monk sighed, "A petty and stingy man can never be a great vessel. This man's fate is to end his days as a Mingjing graduate; otherwise, he would have attained the highest honors in the examinations in no time." Huang was filled with regret and begged to perform the rite again, but the monk firmly refused and left. Huang looked into the well and saw the coin still floating; he fished it up with a rope, and the great coin then sank. That year, Huang qualified as a gong-sheng through the supplementary list—just as the monk had foretold.

The Historian of the Strange says: "Does the underworld too have a system of purchasing degrees? Ten thousand cash for a degree is really quite cheap. But a thousand cash for a gong-sheng is still rather expensive. A Mingjing who never passes the examinations—what is he worth? Not a single coin!"

**The Measure of Fortune**

A certain high official often did evil deeds. His wife constantly urged him to reform, warning him of karmic retribution, but he paid no heed. It happened that a diviner came by who could tell a person's allotted span of fortune. The official went to consult him. The diviner studied him carefully and said, "You will eat twenty dan of millet and forty dan of wheat flour—then your heavenly allotment will be exhausted." The official went home and told his wife. She calculated that a person ate only about two dan of wheat flour in an entire year, so he still had over twenty years of fortune left. Surely goodness could not cut it short? So he continued his reckless ways as before. A year later, he suddenly fell ill with "chuzhong"—a condition of insatiable hunger. He ate enormously but was hungry again almost immediately, consuming more than ten meals in a single day and night. Before a year had passed, he was dead.

Zhou was the scion of an official family in Shuntian. He was on good terms with one Liu, who had received instruction from a remarkable man and was highly skilled in the arts of divination associated with Yuan and Xu. Liu once said to Zhou, "You have no destiny for scholarly honors, but a fortune of ten thousand zhong may yet still be obtained through human effort. However, your wife's physiognomy is meagre and unfortunate—I fear she will not be able to assist you in achieving success." Before long, Zhou's wife did indeed die. His household fell into desolation, and he could find no means of support. He therefore went to Liu, intending to have him divine a marriage. He entered the guest room and sat for a long while; Liu had gone inside and would not come out. After Zhou called for him several times, he finally emerged and said, "I have been searching day and night for a fine match for you, and I have only just found one. I was inside performing a minor rite, begging the Old Man under the Moon to tie the red cord." Zhou was delighted and asked for details. Liu replied, "Did you just encounter a man carrying a bag who came out?" "Yes, I did," said Zhou. "He was dressed in rags, like a beggar." "That man is your future father-in-law," said Liu. "You ought to treat him with respect." Zhou said, "Since we are already friends and have discussed such private matters, why do you mock me so? Even though my fortunes have declined, I am still the scion of an established family. How could I stoop to marry the daughter of a petty tradesman?" Liu said, "Not so. Even a plough-ox can bear a son—what harm is there?" Zhou asked, "Have you seen his daughter?" "No," Liu replied. "I have never had any previous acquaintance with the family; I learned their name only through inquiry." Zhou laughed and said, "If you do not yet know the plough-ox, how can you know its offspring?" Liu said, "I trust my calculations. That man is fierce and lowly, but he is destined to bear a daughter of great fortune. However, if you force the union, a great calamity will surely follow. Let me perform rites to avert it." Zhou returned home and was unwilling to believe his words. He searched in every direction, but no match came to pass.

One day, Liu suddenly arrived and said, "There is a certain guest—I have already sent him an invitation on your behalf." Zhou asked, "Who is it?" "Do not ask yet," said Liu. "You must quickly prepare a meal." Zhou did not understand the reason, but he ordered the provisions as instructed. Soon the guest arrived—it was a military man surnamed Fu, serving in the camp. Zhou was inwardly displeased but treated him with superficial courtesy, while Liu received him with great respect. A little while later, the wine and dishes were laid out, along with coarse and unappetizing food. Liu rose and addressed the guest: "My young master has long admired you. He repeatedly asked me to seek you out on his behalf, and only last evening did we finally have the chance to meet. Hearing also that you will soon depart on a distant campaign, I have invited you at once—you may call me a hasty host." During the drinking, Fu expressed concern that his horse was sick and could not be ridden. Liu also bowed his head and pondered the matter for him. After the guest departed, Liu reproached Zhou: "A thousand pieces of gold could not buy such a friend—why do you treat him with such indifference?" He borrowed a horse to ride home, and then, using Zhou's name, went to Fu's door and presented the horse as a gift. When Zhou learned of this, he was somewhat displeased, but there was nothing he could do.

After a year, Zhou was about to go to Jiangxi to join the staff of the provincial judge. He went to Liu to have his fortune told. Liu said, "Extremely auspicious!" Zhou smiled and said, "I have no other ambition, but if I manage to gain a little, I intend to buy a fine wife. I am curious whether your previous prediction will prove false—can it be so?" Liu replied, "Both your wishes will be fulfilled." When Zhou arrived in Jiangxi, a great rebellion broke out, and for three years he could not return home. Later, when things had somewhat calmed, he chose a day to set out on the road. Midway, he was captured by bandits. There were seven or eight others who had suffered the same fate; all had their gold and goods seized and were then released. But Zhou alone was carried back to the lair. The bandit leader interrogated him about his family background, then said, "I have a daughter whom I wish to give to you in marriage. You must not refuse." Zhou did not answer. The bandit flew into a rage and ordered him beheaded at once. Zhou was terrified and thought it best to yield temporarily to the demand, planning to abandon her later at his leisure. He therefore said calmly, "The reason I hesitate is that I am a frail scholar and cannot follow you in arms—I fear I would only be a burden to my future father-in-law. If you would allow husband and wife to leave together, there could be no greater kindness." The bandit said, "I was just worrying that my daughter would be a burden to someone—how could I refuse this?" He led Zhou inside and dressed his daughter to come out and meet him. She was eighteen or nine years old—a veritable celestial being. That night they performed the nuptial rites, and she far surpassed all his expectations. When he carefully asked her surname, he learned that her father was none other than the man with the bag he had encountered years before. He recounted what Liu had said, and they both sighed in wonder.

After three or four days, as they were about to escort Zhou on his way, suddenly a great army descended upon them, and the entire family was seized and bound. Three officers were supervising the operation; they had already beheaded the girl's father, and they proceeded to Zhou next. Zhou reckoned he had no chance of survival. But one officer examined him closely and said, "Is this not Zhou?" It turned out that the soldier Fu, having distinguished himself in battle, had been promoted to deputy general. He said to his colleagues, "This is a famous gentleman of an esteemed family from my hometown—how could he be a bandit?" He loosened Zhou's bonds and asked how he had come to be there. Zhou lied, saying, "I was returning from Jiangxi, where I had gone to marry a wife, when I did not expect to fall into a bandit's lair along the way. Fortunately I have been rescued by your grace—I owe my life twice over! But my household has been scattered. I beg to borrow your mighty authority to grant them protection and deliver them whole." Fu ordered the prisoners to be lined up and let Zhou identify his wife, which he did. He gave her wine and food and provided her with funds and provisions, saying: "I have not forgotten the kindness you showed me in giving me your horse—I think of it morning and evening. But in the chaos of war I have had no chance to observe proper ceremony. Allow me to offer two horses and fifty ounces of gold to assist you on your journey north." He also sent two cavalrymen with a letter of passage to escort them along the way.

During the journey, the woman said to Zhou, "My foolish father would not heed good counsel, and my mother died because of it. I have long known this day would come. The reason I have clung to life from dawn to dusk is that when I was young, a diviner once foretold me, and I hoped that one day I would be able to recover my father's bones. I have a large store of gold buried away—I can dig it up to redeem my father's remains. The rest we can take with us, which will be enough to establish a livelihood." She asked the cavalrymen to wait by the road. The two of them went to the old dwelling, but the house had been reduced to ashes. In the cinders and embers, they used a sword to dig about a foot deep and indeed found the gold. They packed it all into a sack and returned. Zhou gave a hundred ounces of gold to the cavalrymen to have the old man's corpse buried. He also led her to pay respects at her mother's grave, and then they set out.

When they reached the boundary of Zhili, he generously rewarded the cavalrymen and sent them away. Zhou had been away so long that his family believed him dead and had freely seized and misappropriated his property—grain, silk, utensils, all had been dissipated without remainder. When they heard the master was returning, they were terrified and fled in a tumult; only an old woman, a maidservant, and an old male slave remained. Zhou, having come back from the brink of death, did not pursue the matter. He went to look for Liu, but no one knew where he had gone.

The woman managed the household better than any man. She selected those who were honest and steadfast, gave them capital, and divided the profits equally. Whenever the merchants gathered beneath the eaves to settle accounts, the woman listened from behind a curtain; if a single bead was mistakenly placed on the abacus, she would immediately point out the error. No one inside or outside the household dared to deceive her. Within a few years, her trading partners numbered a hundred, and the family fortune reached several hundred thousand. She then sent people to relocate her parents' bones and gave them a lavish burial.

The Historian of the Strange says: "If the Old Man of the Moon can be bribed and instructed, it is no wonder that matchmakers are no different from brokers. But could a thief have such a daughter? 'A small mound cannot grow tall pines'—such was the vulgar man's notion. If even women and girls can be mistaken, how much more so when judging the scholars of the world!"

The Wrongful Verdict

A young man named Zhu, from Yanggu, was frivolous and fond of joking. Having lost his wife, he went to see a matchmaker. He happened to catch sight of the woman next door and, struck by her beauty, said jokingly to the old woman, "I just saw your neighbor's wife—she is young and beautiful. If you were to find a mate for her, she would do nicely." The matchmaker also said in jest, "You would have to kill her husband first, and then I could arrange it for you." Zhu laughed and said, "Agreed."

A little over a month later, the neighbor went out to collect a debt and was killed in the countryside. The county magistrate arrested and examined the neighbors and guarantors, but though there were bloodstains, he could get at the truth and found no leads. Only the matchmaker recounted the words they had exchanged in jest, and on this basis the magistrate suspected Zhu. He was arrested, but protested his innocence in every way. The magistrate then suspected that the neighbor's wife had been involved in an illicit affair with him. He had her tortured—five forms of punishment applied together—until she could bear it no longer and falsely confessed. He then interrogated Zhu. Zhu said, "She is delicate and cannot endure harsh punishment; everything she said is false. She has already been wronged to death, and now to add the stain of unchastity—even if ghosts and spirits were ignorant, how could my heart bear it? I will confess the truth: it was I who wanted to kill her husband and take his wife. The woman knew nothing about it." "What proof do you have?" the magistrate asked. "Bloodstained clothing can serve as evidence," he replied. But when men were sent to search his house, nothing was found. He was tortured again, dying and reviving twice. Zhu then said, "It is my mother who cannot bear to produce the evidence that would bring about my death. Let me retrieve it myself." He was therefore taken back and said to his mother, "Give me the clothing, and I die; do not give it, and I also die. Since it is death either way, better a quick death than a slow one." His mother wept, went into the room for some time, and came out with the clothing, which she handed over. The magistrate examined the evidence and found it conclusive; he sentenced Zhu to be beheaded. The case was reviewed and retried twice more, but nothing changed. After more than a year, a date was set for the execution.

The magistrate was reviewing the prisoners when suddenly a man strode straight up to the magistrate's bench, glared furiously at him, and cursed him loudly: "A muddle-head like you—how can you presume to rule over the people!" Several dozen constables and guards rushed to seize him, but the man flung out his arms and they all collapsed in a heap. The magistrate, terrified, tried to flee. The man declared loudly, "I am General Zhou, before the altar of Lord Guan! If you move one step, I will strike you down!" Trembling with fear, the magistrate listened in dread. The man said, "The murderer was Gong Biao—what has this to do with Zhu?" Having said this, he fell to the ground as if dead. After a moment he revived, his face drained of color. When asked who he was, it was Gong Biao. He was tortured, and he confessed to the entire crime. It turned out that Gong Biao had long been a man of ill intent. He knew the neighbor was returning from collecting a debt and supposed he must be carrying a heavy purse. He killed him, but found nothing. When he heard that Zhu had falsely confessed, he secretly rejoiced. On that day he had entered the magistrate's yamen himself without knowing why.

The magistrate asked Zhu where the bloodstained clothing had come from. Zhu did not know either. His mother was summoned for questioning, and it turned out the blood was from a wound on her arm. When her left arm was examined, the knife scar had not yet healed. The magistrate was astonished. He was later impeached and dismissed from office on account of this case. He died in detention after paying a fine.

More than a year later, the neighbor's mother wished to marry off the widow. The widow, moved by Zhu's sense of righteousness, married Zhu.

The Historian of the Strange says: "The adjudication of lawsuits is the foremost duty of an official. The cultivation of hidden virtue or the destruction of Heaven's principle—both depend on this; one cannot be careless. Rashness, filth, and cruelty are contrary to Heaven's harmony. But delays and procrastination also harm the people's lives. When one person brings a lawsuit, several farmers miss the season. When one case is concluded, ten households are ruined. How can this be considered a trivial matter! I have often said that for one who serves as an official, to refrain from accepting lawsuits indiscriminately is itself a great virtue. And unless the matter is truly grave, there is no need to detain the parties. If there is no real difficulty, why hesitate? Even if it is a foolish villager or a hot-tempered man from the mountains, who has quarrelled over a goose or a duck and risen to the fury of a horned beast—this merely requires the judgment of the official to settle the matter. There is no need for all the parties to be present; only the plaintiff and the defendant are required. Flogging or caning can be applied at once, and all entanglement severed. Is this not what is meant by a sagely magistrate?

"But I have seen those who hear lawsuits today: once a warrant is issued, it seems to be forgotten. The process-server has not yet collected enough fees, so he does not let the warrant reach the magistrate's court. The jailer's 'moistening of the brush' is not sufficiently satisfied, so he will not post the notice of the hearing. Obstructed and delayed, months and years pass. Before they ever reach the magistrate's court, their flesh and bones are nearly spent! And yet the one who presides as master over the people lies at ease on his couch, indifferent as if nothing were happening. Does he know that in the prison of fire and water, there are countless wronged souls stretching their necks and gasping, hoping for deliverance?

"Among vicious people, their stubborn brutality is certainly not worth pitying. But when good people are dragged in, how can they bear it either? Moreover, among those innocently implicated, there are always fewer vicious people and more good people—and the harm suffered by good people is even greater than that suffered by the vicious. Why is this? Because vicious people are hard to tyrannize, while good people are easily deceived. The beatings and curses of the constables, the extortion of the clerks—all are visited upon the good. From the moment one enters the yamen, it is as if walking through boiling water and fire. To conclude a case one day earlier is to give one day's peace of life. What great matter is there that the magistrate lies gasping on his bench like a dead man, as if he fears the valley will not be quickly filled and so deliberately borrows time from the months and years? Even if he is not cruel and violent, in truth his guilt is equal.

"I have often seen that in a single lawsuit, the truly essential parties number only three or four. The rest are innocent children, falsely ensnared. Some have long harbored grudges over a petty slight; others are incriminated on account of some treasure they possess. Thus the one who brings the lawsuit devotes his full strength to the main case, and uses his remaining venom to settle small grudges. To add a name to the end of the document is to create a bone-deep canker. To suffer ten thousand charges in the yamen becomes a pain that cuts to the flesh. When others kneel, they kneel, clustering like crows. When others are released, they are released, still bound like monkeys. But in the end the magistrate never questions them and the clerks never interrogate them—in truth they are entirely useless. It only serves to ruin families and exhaust households, to fill the greedy pockets of corrupt underlings, to sell children and pawn wives, and to vent the private spite of petty men.

"I earnestly hope that those who serve as officials, whenever a petition is filed, will examine it briefly: if it merits dismissal, dismiss it; if it does not, cut it away. This requires only the dipping of a brush and the movement of a wrist—and yet how many livelihoods are preserved, how much vital energy nurtured. If those who govern have never once given thought to this, what need is there for racks and knives and saws to kill people!"

The Ghost Magistrate

Mr. Zhan, a school instructor, was free-spirited and had the air of a celebrated scholar. However, he was wild when drunk and paid no regard to proper decorum. Every time he returned home in his cups, he would gallop his horse up the temple steps. The steps were lined with many ancient cypress trees. One day, he rode his horse recklessly into the temple, struck a tree, and cracked his skull. He said, "Zilu is angry at my lack of propriety and has smashed my brain!" He died that very night.

A certain fellow named Yi from the county, a peddler in that region, spent the night in an ancient monastery. The night was still and the place deserted when suddenly he saw four or five men enter carrying wine to drink, and Mr. Zhan was among them. After several rounds, one of them proposed a drinking game using characters: "The character *tian* (田) does not let wind through; the character *shi* (十) sits in the middle. Push the *shi* up, and the character *gu* (古) wins a cup." Another said: "The character *hui* (回) does not let wind through; the character *kou* (口) sits in the middle. Push the *kou* up, and the character *lü* (呂) wins a cup." Another said: "The character *ling* (囹) does not let wind through; the character *ling* (令) sits in the middle. Push the *ling* up, and the character *han* (含) wins a cup." Yet another said: "The character *kun* (困) does not let wind through; the character *mu* (木) sits in the middle. Push the *mu* up, and the character *xing* (杏) wins a cup." When it came to Mr. Zhan, he pondered but could not find one. The others laughed and said, "Since you cannot make a rule, you must accept the penalty." A goblet flew toward him. Mr. Zhan said, "I have it now: The character *yue* (曰) does not let wind through; the character *yi* (一) sits in the middle..." The others laughed again and said, "Push it up and what do you get?" Mr. Zhan drained the cup and said, "Push the *yi* up, and it's one mouthful—one big goblet!" They all laughed heartily together, and before long they left through the gate.

Yi did not know that Mr. Zhan had died and secretly suspected he had been dismissed from office and returned home. When he went back and inquired, he found that Mr. Zhan had been dead for a long time. Only then did he realize that those he had met were ghosts.

# Huanniang

Liu Zhongkan of Luoyang was slow of wit in his youth but deeply devoted to his books. He would shut himself away to study in bitter solitude, having no dealings with the world. One day, as he was reading, he suddenly caught a strange fragrance filling his chamber. Shortly after, the tinkling of jade pendants grew loud and insistent. Startled, he turned to look — a beautiful woman entered, her hairpins and earrings gleaming with splendour. Her attendants were all dressed in palace style. Liu fell to the ground in fright. The woman raised him, saying, "Why were you so haughty at first and so humble now?" Liu grew even more terrified. "What celestial being are you? I have never had the honour of making your acquaintance. When did I ever show you offence?" The woman laughed. "It has only been a short time since we parted, and already you are so muddled! Was it not you who sat rigidly grinding bricks?" She then spread a brocade mat, set out jade nectar, and bade him sit facing her as they drank together. She discussed matters past and present with him, displaying learning of the most extraordinary breadth. Liu was utterly bewildered and had no replies. The woman said, "I merely went to attend a single banquet at Jasper Pool. How many lifetimes have you passed through, that your intelligence has been so thoroughly exhausted!" She then ordered her attendant to bring a broth made with melted crystal and present it to him. Liu received it and drank, and suddenly felt his mind become clear and lucid. As darkness fell, the attendants all departed. They extinguished the candles and loosened their robes, and their pleasure was complete. Before dawn, the ladies had gathered again. The woman rose, her toilet as fresh as before, her hair neat and trimmed, needing no further tending. Liu clung to her and pressed her insistently for her name. She replied, "It is no harm to tell you, though I fear it will only deepen your doubts. I am of the Zhen clan. You are the reincarnation of Gonggan. In those days I was the cause of his punishment, and my heart truly could not bear it. Today's meeting is merely a small repayment for the devotion of a lover." He asked, "Where is King Wen of Wei now?" She said, "Pih was nothing but the mediocrity born of a usurper. I happened to spend a few years wandering in luxury and splendour, but once it passed, I gave it no further thought. As for him, he has long lingered in the dark realm because of Aman, and I have not heard whether he has emerged. On the contrary, Prince Si serves as keeper of the imperial archives, and I see him from time to time." Soon a dragon carriage halted in the courtyard. She gave Liu a jade ointment box, took her leave, and ascended the carriage, which was thrust aloft by clouds. From that time, Liu's literary powers advanced greatly. But as he remembered the beautiful woman, he sank into an obsession like madness. After several months, he had wasted away to the point of death. His mother knew not the cause and was greatly distressed. An old woman in the household suddenly said to Liu, "Does the young master have something on his mind?" Liu, finding her words touched the truth, told her everything. The old woman said, "If the young master writes a letter, I can deliver it for him." Liu was overjoyed. "You possess wondrous arts, and I was blind to them all along. If you can truly do this, I shall never forget it." He folded a sheet into a letter and gave it to the old woman, who departed at once. She returned in the middle of the night. "Fortunately I did not fail. When I first reached the gate, the gatekeeper took me for a demon and wished to bind me. I then produced the young master's letter, and he took it away. After a while I was summoned in, and the lady also wept, saying she could not meet him again. She was about to write a reply. I said, 'The young master is wasted with illness — a single letter cannot cure him.' The lady pondered for a long time, then set down her brush and said, 'Please report to Young Master Liu: I shall at once send a fine bride to him.' As I was leaving, she added again, 'What I said just now concerns a hundred-year plan. Only do not speak of it, and it may last forever.'" Liu waited in joyful anticipation. The next day, indeed, an old matron brought a young lady to his mother's chamber, a creature of matchless beauty. She said, "I am of the Chen clan. This girl is mine. Her name is Sixiang, and I wish to ask that she be taken as a wife." Liu's mother loved her. They discussed the betrothal, demanding no bride-price, and sat down to complete the ceremony before departing. Only Liu knew in his heart that something was uncanny. He asked the girl in private, "What relation are you to the lady?" She replied, "I am one of the old entertainers of Bronze Sparrow Terrace." Liu suspected she was a ghost. The girl said, "No. The lady and I are both enrolled in the immortal registers. We were banished to the mortal world for a transgression. The lady has already been restored to her former position. My term of exile is not yet complete, and the lady petitioned the celestial authorities to assign me to service in the meantime. Whether I stay or go is entirely in the lady's hands, and so I have been able to attend her bed for a long time." One day, a blind old woman came to their door leading a yellow dog, begging for food, singing rustic songs as she clapped her rhythm boards. The girl came out to look, and before she could steady herself, the dog broke its leash and lunged at her. The girl fled in terror, her silk skirt torn. Liu rushed to beat the dog with a staff. The dog, still enraged, bit through the torn flap and shredded it to pieces in an instant. The blind old woman seized it by the scruff of the neck and bound it, then led it away. Liu went in to see the girl, her face still pale with fright. "You are an immortal — why do you fear a dog?" The girl said, "You do not know this yourself: the dog is the transformation of old Aman. He is angry with me for not keeping the charge about the divided incense." Liu wished to buy the dog and beat it to death. The girl would not permit it. "It is Heaven's punishment — how dare you execute it on your own authority?" Two years passed. All who saw her were astonished by her beauty, yet when they examined her origins, everything remained hazy and indistinct. So they began to suspect she was a demon. Liu's mother questioned him, and Liu hinted at the strangeness. His mother was greatly frightened and warned him to break with her. Liu would not listen. His mother secretly sought out a ritual master and had him perform rites in the courtyard. He had just begun to mark out the ground for an altar when the girl said with a stricken face, "I had hoped to grow old with you. Now your own mother suspects me, and the bond between us is severed. It would not be difficult to make me leave, but I fear no incantation can send me away!" She then bound kindling and set it ablaze, hurling it down the steps. In an instant smoke engulfed the house, so thick that those within could not see each other. A sound like thunder crashed, and when the smoke cleared, they found the ritual master dead, blood streaming from his seven orifices. They went inside — the girl had vanished. They called for the old woman to ask her, but she too knew not where they had gone. Liu then told his mother, "The old woman was a fox."

The Historian of the Strange says: "Beginning with Yuan, ending with Cao, and then turning attention to Gonggan — an immortal should not act thus. Yet to judge with an impartial heart: what need has a usurper's son for a chaste wife? When the dog beheld his old entertainer, he should have been thoroughly awakened to the folly of dividing incense and selling slippers — and yet still he was jealous! Alas! The treacherous hero has no time to mourn himself, and it is left to later generations to mourn him!"

# From *Liaozhai Zhiyi*, Volume 07

Wen Ruchun came from an old and distinguished family in Qin. From a young age he had a passion for the qin (zither), and never parted with it, even while traveling. Once, on a visit to Jin, he passed by an old temple, tied his horse outside, and went in to rest briefly. Inside he found a Buddhist monk sitting in the corridor in the lotus position, with a bamboo staff leaning against the wall and a flowered cloth bag containing a qin. Wen's interest was aroused at once, and asked: "Are you also skilled at this?" The monk replied: "I am not particularly accomplished; I should like to find a true master and study under him." He then took the qin from the bag and handed it to Wen. Wen examined it and found its grain wonderfully fine; he strummed it lightly and the tone was unusually clear and bright. Delighted, he played a short melody. The monk smiled, as if not entirely pleased. Wen then exerted all his skill. The monk said with a smirk: "Not bad, not bad! But not quite good enough to be my teacher." Taking the monk's words as boastful, Wen in turn asked the monk to play. The monk took the qin onto his knee and began to pluck the strings, and Wen felt as though a gentle breeze had risen of its own accord. A moment later, flocks of birds gathered, filling the courtyard trees. Wen was astonished beyond measure and bowed, begging to be accepted as a pupil. The monk played the piece three times over, and Wen listened with rapt attention, gradually grasping its rhythm. The monk then bade him try, correcting his mistakes here and there, and said: "In this dusty world, you now have no equal." From then on Wen devoted himself to the most meticulous study and was acclaimed as a master of the art.

On his journey home, when he was still several dozen li from his house, the sun had already set and a torrential rain made it impossible to find lodging. There was a small village by the road and he hastened toward it. Without stopping to choose, he saw a gate and hurried in. He ascended the main hall but found it utterly silent and empty. Presently a young woman appeared, seventeen or eighteen years of age, with a beauty like that of an immortal. She raised her head, saw the visitor, and fled in alarm into the inner rooms. Wen was as yet unmarried, and his heart was deeply stirred.

Soon an old woman came out and asked who the visitor was. Wen gave his name and begged for a night's lodging. The woman said: "Staying the night should be no difficulty, but we have few beds. If you do not mind making do, I can spread some rushes for you." Shortly afterward she brought a candle, spread the rushes on the floor, and was most attentive. Wen asked her surname and she replied: "Zhao." He then asked: "Who is the young lady?" She said: "This is Huanniang, my brother's daughter." Wen said: "Presuming upon my humble station, I should like to ask for her hand—what would you say?" The old woman frowned and said: "That I dare not agree to." Wen pressed her for the reason, but she only said it was difficult to explain, and so the matter was dropped in disappointment.

After the old woman left, Wen saw that the rushes spread for him were damp and rotten, quite unsuitable to lie upon. He therefore sat upright and played his qin through the long night. When the rain stopped he set out through the dark to continue his journey.

In the county there was a gentleman named Lord Ge, who held a post in the Board of Rites and was fond of literary men. Wen called on him once, and at his request played the qin. Behind the screen there seemed to be someone secretly listening. Suddenly a breeze stirred the screen and it opened, revealing a girl of fifteen or sixteen, of unrivaled beauty. Lord Ge had a daughter, whose childhood name was Lianggong, who was skilled in poetry and prose and renowned for her beauty. Wen's heart was moved. He went home and spoke to his mother, who sent a matchmaker, but Lord Ge refused on account of the decline of Wen's family fortunes. However, since hearing Wen's playing, the girl had secretly admired him and often hoped to hear his music again. But Wen, disappointed in the match, was dispirited and ceased to visit Lord Ge's house.

One day, the girl found in the garden an old folded sheet of paper on which was written a poem to the tune "Lamenting the Remaining Spring":

"From resentment I turned to madness, and from madness to longing—

Day and night my heart is overturned by passion.

The drunken crab-apple, the sorrowing willow—

Both share the same tender grief.

New sorrows and old sorrows, though cut away, spring up again

Like green grass that will not die.

Since our parting, I have spent my days

In the heaven of helplessness, counting the dark and the light.

Today my brows are knotted in grief,

My eyes are worn with gazing—

I thought I had cast him away, and cast him away I must!

My scented quilt envies my dreams,

The water-clock startles my soul—

How can I sleep, even if I tried?

Do not say that the long night seems a year;

I say a year passes more slowly than a night:

Once the third watch has struck, three years have passed,

And who does not grow old?"

The girl read it several times over and was deeply pleased. She took it inside, copied it out carefully onto brocade paper, and placed it on the desk. When she looked for it some time later it was gone; she secretly supposed the wind had blown it away. It happened that Lord Ge was passing through the women's quarters and picked it up. He supposed Lianggong had written it, was shocked by its licentious tone, and burned it—but he did not bring himself to speak of it. He decided to arrange a marriage for her at once. A son of Lord Liu, a Provincial Governor from a neighboring county, had just come to ask for her hand. Lord Ge was well disposed toward him but still wished to see the young man in person. The young lord came in splendid dress, his bearing and appearance most handsome. Lord Ge was greatly pleased and entertained him with the utmost courtesy. When the young lord took his leave, he inadvertently left behind one of the girl's slippers under his seat. Lord Ge's heart was immediately repelled by his frivolous conduct and told the matchmaker the reason. The young lord vehemently protested his innocence, but Lord Ge would not listen and broke off the engagement.

Now, Lord Ge had a rare variety of green chrysanthemum that he jealously kept to himself. Lianggong had planted some in her own quarters. One day, one or two of Wen's chrysanthemums suddenly turned green. People heard of it and came to his house to admire them; Wen too prized them highly. Early one morning he went to look and found by the flower bed a sheet of paper with the same poem "Lamenting the Remaining Spring" written on it. He read and rerepeated it, quite at a loss to know where it could have come from. Since "Spring" (chun) was his own name, he was all the more intrigued. He took it to his desk and carefully annotated it in red and yellow ink, writing comments of an intimate and familiar nature. It happened that Lord Ge had heard of the transformation of Wen's chrysanthemums and was astonished. He went in person to Wen's study, saw the poem, and took it up to read. Wen, embarrassed by his intimate annotations, snatched it away and crumpled it in his hand. Lord Ge had only read the first two lines—but they were the same as the verse he had found in the women's quarters. He was deeply suspicious and concluded that the green chrysanthemum plants too must have been a gift from Lianggong. He went home and told his wife, who pressed Lianggong for an explanation. The girl wept bitterly, but since there was no evidence and no one could prove anything, the matter remained unresolved. The lady feared that the affair would become still more public and decided that it would be better to give the girl to Wen in marriage. Lord Ge agreed and sent word to Wen from afar. Wen was overjoyed. That day he invited guests to a banquet in honor of the green chrysanthemums, burned incense, and played the qin, not stopping until late into the night.

After he had retired, his page boy heard the qin playing of its own accord. At first he thought one of the servants was amusing himself with it, but when he found it was no human hand, he reported it to Wen. Wen went to investigate and found it was no delusion. The sound was halting and rough, as though someone were trying to imitate his playing but had not yet mastered it. Wen rushed in with a torch but saw no one at all. He took the qin away with him and the rest of the night was perfectly still. He supposed it was a fox spirit and understood that it wished to become his pupil. So every evening he played a piece, set up the strings for it to practice on as a teacher would, and hid nearby to listen night after night. By the sixth or seventh night, it could actually play a tune—pleasing and worthy of hearing.

After Wen had formally married Lianggong, they told each other about the poem and came to understand the cause of their union, though neither knew where the poem had originally come from. When Lianggong heard the strange story of the qin playing by itself, she went to listen and said: "This is not a fox. The melody is sorrowful and plaintive—there is the sound of a ghost in it." Wen was not entirely convinced. Lianggong then mentioned that she had at home an ancient mirror that could reveal demons and goblins. The next day she sent someone to fetch it. When the qin music began, she seized the mirror and rushed in with a torch. There was indeed a girl, cowering in a corner, unable to hide any further. Examining her closely, she was none other than Huanniang of the Zhao family. Wen was greatly alarmed.

Hanguan Yin

When pressed further, she said with tears welling up: "I acted as your go-between—was that not a kindness? Why do you press me so?" Wen asked her to remove the mirror, promising not to avoid her; she agreed. He then wrapped the mirror in a bag and placed it away. The woman sat at a distance and said: "I was the daughter of a prefect, dead now for a hundred years. In youth I loved the zither and the zheng; I have become quite proficient with the zheng, but this one art has never had a proper transmission—even in the underworld I have regarded it as a regret. When you graciously visited, I heard your refined playing and was deeply moved with admiration. Yet I grieved that, being of a different kind, I could not serve you with robes and garments. In secret I brought about a fine match for you, to repay the affection you showed me. The embroidered shoes for Master Liu's daughter, and the rustic verses of 'Lingering Spring'—all these I composed. Surely my service to my teacher cannot be called insignificant." Both husband and wife bowed and thanked her. Huanniang said: "Your art, I have thought through more than half of it; but you have not yet exhausted its spiritual principles. Please play once more for me." Wen complied, and set forth the methods in detail. Huanniang was overjoyed and said: "I have now grasped it all!" She rose and prepared to depart. Liangong had always been skilled with the zheng and, hearing of her mastery, wished to hear her play. Huanniang did not refuse; her melodies and her notation were beyond anything the mortal world could produce. Liangong beat time in admiration, then asked to become a student. The woman took up her brush and composed eighteen chapters of notation, then rose to take her leave. The husband and wife entreated her most earnestly. Huanniang said sorrowfully: "Your harmony of lute and zither is a bond of kindred spirits; one of such slender fortune as I—how could I share such blessings? If fate allows, we may meet again in another life." She then gave Wen a scroll and said: "This is my small portrait. If you do not forget your matchmaker, hang it in your bedchamber; whenever your heart is joyful, burn a single stick of incense and play a single piece, and your child shall receive the blessing." She walked out the door and vanished.

Axiu

Liu Zigu of Haizhou, at the age of fifteen, went to Gai to visit his uncle. He saw a young woman in a sundries shop of surpassing beauty, and his heart was drawn to her. He slipped to the shop and pretended to buy a fan. The woman then called for her father. When the father emerged, Liu's spirits sank, so he haggled down the price and withdrew. He watched from afar until the father went elsewhere, then returned. The woman was about to call her father again. Liu stopped her, saying: "No need—just name your price, and I will not haggle." She named a price and deliberately set it high. Liu could not bear to bargain, paid the full sum, and left. The next day he returned and the same happened again. After walking a few paces, the woman called after him: "Come back! I was only pretending just now—the price was far too high." She returned half the money. Liu was moved by her honesty and seized every opportunity to visit, and so they grew close day by day. The woman asked: "Where do you live?" He told her truthfully. He then asked her, and she said her surname was Yao. When he departed, the goods she had sold him were wrapped neatly in paper, and she sealed them with her tongue. Liu carried them home and dared not disturb them, for fear of spoiling the mark of her tongue. A month passed, and a servant discovered the secret; he and Liu's uncle by force persuaded him to return home. Liu's heart was heavy and he could not find peace. He had secretly placed the sachets, face powder, and such items he had bought in a small chest; when no one was about, he would close the door and go through them one by one, touching each and sinking deep in thought. The following year he returned to Gai. Hardly had his luggage been unpacked when he hastened to the shop—but the shop was closed and shuttered, and he returned in disappointment. Still he thought she might have gone out and not yet returned; he went again early the next day, but it was shuttered as before. He asked the neighbors and learned that Yao was originally from Guangning; because trade had not yielded sufficient profit, she had gone home for a time—but no one knew when she would return. His spirit was utterly cast down. After a few days he went back home, heavy-hearted. His mother proposed marriage for him, but he repeatedly refused; his mother was both puzzled and angry. The servant privately told his mother of the past affair, and she kept an even stricter watch over him; the road to Gai was thus cut off. Liu grew listless and ate and slept less. His mother worried and could think of no remedy; at last she decided it would be better to grant his wish. She set a date to prepare his baggage and sent him to Gai, with a message to his uncle to arrange the match. The uncle obeyed and went to the Yao household. After some time he returned and told Liu: "The matter has come to nothing! Axiu is already betrothed to a man of Guangning." Liu hung his head in dejection, his heart gray and hopeless. When he returned home, he took up his little chest and wept, yet he lingered and pondered, hoping that somewhere in the world there might be someone like her. It happened that a matchmaker came, praising in lavish terms the daughter of the Huang family of Fuzhou. Liu feared it might not be true, so he ordered a carriage and went to Fuzhou. Entering the west gate, he saw a household to the north with both doors half open; inside, a young woman who strangely resembled Axiu. He looked again—she glanced back at him as she walked and then entered—there was no mistake. Liu was deeply moved. He took lodging in the house to the east and inquired carefully, learning that the family name was Li. He turned the matter over in his mind again and again: could there truly be such a likeness in all the world? After several days he found no way to approach her; he could only watch her door hungrily day after day, hoping she might emerge again. One day, as the sun was setting in the west, the woman indeed came out. Suddenly seeing Liu, she turned and ran back, pointing behind her with her hand; then she placed her palm to her forehead and went inside. Liu was overjoyed but could not understand. After pondering for a while, he walked to the back of the house and found a desolate garden stretching far; to the west was a low wall, barely reaching shoulder height. Suddenly all became clear. He crouched down among the dew-damp grass. After a long while, someone appeared above the wall and whispered: "Have you come?" Liu assented and rose. Looking closely, it was truly Axiu. He was overcome with grief, and tears fell like a rope. The woman reached across the wall and wiped his tears with a handkerchief, comforting him deeply. Liu said: "A hundred schemes have failed—I thought my life was finished. How could I expect another evening like this? But how have you come to be here?" She said: "Master Li is my uncle on my mother's side." Liu asked to climb over the wall. The woman said: "Return home first, send your servants to lodge elsewhere, and I shall come to you." Liu did as she said and sat waiting. Before long, she entered quietly. Her adornment was not especially dazzling, and her robes and trousers were just as before. Liu took her hand and seated her, telling her all his suffering. He then asked: "You are already betrothed—why has the wedding not taken place?" The woman said: "What they said about my betrothal was a lie. My father, considering the great distance, did not wish to join in marriage with you; perhaps he instructed my uncle to use these false words to extinguish your hopes." When they lay together on the pillow, her tenderness was beyond all description, and the joy of their union could not be put into words. At the fourth watch she rose abruptly and went back over the wall. From that time Liu gave no further thought to the Huang daughter. He lingered and forgot to return, passing a whole month without going home.

One night, the servant got up to feed the horse and saw that the lamp in the room was still lit. He peeped inside and saw Azhu—greatly alarmed, he dared not speak of it to his master. At daybreak, he went out to make inquiries in the marketplace, then returned and questioned Liu: "Who is it that comes and goes at night?" Liu at first tried to deny it. The servant said: "This lodging is lonely and quiet—a lair for fox spirits and ghosts. You, young master, should take care of yourself. What is that young woman from the Yao household doing here?" Liu at last said with a blush: "The house to the west is her cousin's. What cause is there for suspicion?" The servant said: "I have investigated thoroughly: to the east there is only a lone old woman, and to the west a son who is still young—there are no other close relatives. What you have been meeting must be a ghost or demon. Otherwise, why would the same clothes she wore years ago never have changed? Moreover, her complexion is too pale, her cheeks are rather thin, and when she smiles there are no dimples—she is not as beautiful as Azhu." Liu thought it over and was greatly frightened. "Then what shall I do?" The servant plotted to wait for her to come, then burst in with a weapon to strike her together. When evening came, the woman arrived and said to Liu: "I know you are suspicious of me, but I mean no harm—I am merely fulfilling a karmic bond from the past." Before she had finished speaking, the servant pushed the door open and entered. The woman rebuked him: "Put down your weapon! Quickly bring wine—I must bid your master farewell." The servant immediately threw himself down, as if something had seized him. Liu was even more frightened and forced himself to set out food and wine. The woman chatted and laughed as usual, then raised her hand toward Liu and said: "Knowing your heart's desire, I was just about to try to help you in my humble way—why have you laid an ambush instead? Though I am not Azhu, I consider myself no less beautiful. Do you still view me as you once did?" Liu's hair stood on end on his whole body, and he was speechless with fright. The woman listened as the water clock struck the third watch, took one sip from her cup, and rose to her feet, saying: "I shall go now. After your wedding night, I will return to compare who is superior." She turned around and vanished. Liu believed the fox's words and went directly to Gai. Resenting his uncle for having deceived him, he did not stay at his uncle's house. He took lodging near the Yaos, sent a matchmaker to make overtures on his own behalf, and offered a heavy bribe. Yao's wife then said: "My young son went to Guangning to find a husband. His grandfather left for that reason—whether he will come back is uncertain. We must wait for his return before any plans can be made." Liu, hearing this, was restless and at a loss what to do. He could only hold firm and wait for the man's return. More than ten days passed when suddenly news of military troubles came. At first he suspected it was a false rumor, but as time went on the reports grew more urgent. He packed and set out. On the way he encountered the fighting; master and servant were separated and he was captured by scouts. Since Liu was a delicate scholar, they relaxed their guard. He stole a horse and fled. When he reached the border of Haizhou, he saw a woman, disheveled and soiled, who stumbled stepping out of her shoes—she could bear it no longer. Liu rode past her at speed. The woman suddenly called out: "Is not the man on horseback Young Master Liu?" Liu stopped his whip and looked carefully—it was Azhu. His heart still suspected her to be a fox. "Are you truly Azhu?" he asked. "Why do you say such a thing?" she asked. Liu recounted what he had encountered. She said: "I truly am Azhu. My father took me back from Guangning and we met soldiers and were captured. When they gave me a horse, I fell off again and again. Suddenly a woman seized my wrist and hurried me to escape. We fled wildly through the army camp, and no one questioned us. The woman ran as swiftly as a falcon; I struggled to keep up but could not, and every hundred paces my shoes fell off again. After a long while, when we heard the shouts and neighing growing distant, she released my hand and said: 'Farewell now! Ahead is all level ground—you may walk slowly. The one who loves you will arrive; you should go home together.'" Liu knew she was a fox and was moved. He then told her the reason he had stayed at Gai. She said her uncle had chosen a husband for her from the Fang family, but before the betrothal gifts could be sent, the fighting broke out. Liu now knew his uncle's words had not been false. He took the woman up on his horse and they rode double, returning home. When they entered the gate, the old mother was safe and sound—great joy. He tied up the horse and went in, explaining everything. The mother was also pleased, washed and bathed her, and finished her toilette—her beauty shone radiantly. The mother clapped her hands and said: "No wonder my foolish son could not get you out of his dreams and waking thoughts!" She then arranged bedding and had her sleep beside her. She also sent someone to Gai with a letter for Yao. In a few days, both Mr. and Mrs. Yao arrived, chose an auspicious day, and performed the wedding rites before departing. Liu took out his stored chest, its seals intact. There was a box of powder; when he opened it, it had turned to red earth. Liu was astonished. The woman covered her mouth and said: "The thief of these several years has only now been discovered. That day you let me pack your things without examining them closely for authenticity, so I played this trick on her." As they were laughing and jesting, someone lifted the curtain and entered, saying: "So delighted—shouldn't you thank the go-between?" Liu looked—it was another Azhu. He quickly called his mother. The mother and all the family gathered, but none could tell them apart. Liu himself was confused when he looked back; he stared for a long time, then bowed and thanked her. The woman asked for a mirror to look at herself, then bashfully hurried out—when they searched for her, she had vanished. The husband and wife, moved by her righteousness, set up a place in the room and sacrificed to her. One evening, Liu returned drunk. The room was dark and no one was there. He was just about to light the lamp himself when Azhu arrived. He took her hand and asked, "Where have you been?" She laughed and said: "Your stench of wine is so foul, it's unbearable! With such cross-examination, who is playing the tryst and flight?" Liu laughed and cupped her cheek. The woman said, "Tell me, my husband, who is more beautiful—I or the fox sister?" Liu said, "You surpass her, but a superficial observer cannot tell the difference." Then they closed the door and became intimate. Soon someone knocked at the door. The woman rose and laughed, saying, "You too are a superficial observer." Liu did not understand. He hurried to open the door, and Azhu entered—greatly astonished. He then realized that the one he had just been speaking with was the fox. In the darkness, laughter was heard again. The husband and wife prayed to the sky, begging her to show her form. The fox said, "I do not wish to see Azhu." They asked, "Why not transform into a different appearance?" She said, "I cannot." They asked, "Why can you not?" She said, "Azhu is my younger sister. In a previous life she died prematurely. When we were alive, our mother took us to the Heavenly Palace to see the Queen Mother of the West. We secretly admired her and, upon returning, deliberately tried to imitate her. My sister was more clever than I; in one month she was lifelike. I took three months to succeed, yet I still fell short of her. Now that a lifetime has passed, I thought I had surpassed her, but I find I am still as before. I was moved by the sincerity of you two, so I came from time to time. Now I shall go." She spoke no more. From then on she came every few days, resolving all difficult questions. When Azhu returned to visit her parents, the fox would often stay for several days and not leave, and all the family feared and avoided her. Whenever something was lost, she would sit in full dress, wearing a tortoiseshell hairpin several inches long, and say gravely to the family: "The stolen item must be returned to such and such a place by night; otherwise, a terrible headache will strike, and you will regret it too late!" By daybreak, the item was indeed found in that place. After three years, she never came again. Occasionally when gold or silk was lost, Azhu would imitate her attire and frighten the

# Yang Bayan

A hunter once lay in ambush in the mountains at night when he saw a little man, about two feet tall, trudging along the bottom of a ravine. Shortly after, another man came along, of the same height. They happened to meet and asked each other where they were going. The first said, "I'm going to visit Yang Bayan. I noticed the other day that his complexion was dark and gloomy, and he'll suffer much bad luck." The second said, "I'm going there too—you're not wrong." The hunter knew they were not human. He roared at them in a fierce voice, and both of them vanished. That night he caught a fox with a scar on its left eye, as big as a coin.

# Xiao Cui

Wang Taichang was a man of Yue. When he was a boy, he was lying on his couch one day when suddenly the sky grew dark and a tremendous clap of thunder erupted. An animal larger than a cat came and crouched beneath his body, rolling about and refusing to leave. After a while the sky cleared, and the animal went straight out. He looked at it—it was not a cat—and was frightened for the first time. He called to his elder brother from the next room. His brother, upon hearing the story, said with delight, "You are destined for great honor. This fox came to shelter itself from the thunder tribulation." In the end, he indeed passed the provincial examination at a young age and entered the censorate after serving as a county magistrate. He had a son named Yuanfeng, who was completely imbecilic. At sixteen he could not even distinguish male from female, and because of this, no families in the village were willing to give him a wife. Wang was worried about this. It happened that a woman led a young girl to his door, offering her as a wife of her own accord. He looked at the girl—she smiled with grace, truly of celestial quality. Delighted, he asked their names. She said, "My surname is Yu. The girl is Xiao Cui, sixteen years old." They discussed a bride-price. She said, "I have followed her through husks and chaff without getting enough to eat. Now she will be placed in a grand mansion, with maidservants and servants at her command, enjoying rich food and fine grain. When her heart is at ease, my wish is fulfilled. How could I sell vegetables and demand a price?" The lady of the house was overjoyed and treated them with great generosity. The woman then instructed the girl to bow to Wang and his lady, saying, "These are your father-in-law and mother-in-law. You must serve them with care. I am very busy and must leave, but I will return in three or four days." Wang ordered a servant and horse to escort her, but the woman said, "The lane is not far—no need for all this trouble." And so she left. Xiao Cui showed no sorrow or reluctance at all; she immediately began rummaging through the trousseau chest for embroidery patterns. The lady loved and delighted in her. Several days passed, and the woman did not return. They asked the girl where they lived, but she was too simple-minded to describe the road. So they prepared a separate courtyard and had the young couple perform the wedding ceremony. When the relatives heard they had picked up a poor girl to be a daughter-in-law, they all mocked them. But when they saw the girl, they were all astonished, and the gossip stopped. The girl was also very perceptive—she could read the moods of her father-in-law and mother-in-law. Lord Wang and his lady cherished her beyond all normal affection, yet they lived in constant fear that she might detest their son for his imbecility. But the girl was always cheerful and showed no displeasure. She was simply fond of pranks. She would cut cloth into a round shape and kick it about for sport. Wearing small leather boots, she would kick it dozens of paces away, then coax the young master to run and fetch it; the young master and the maids would stream with sweat without end.

One day, Wang happened by and saw her, coming in all her roundness, striking him squarely in the face. The young lady and her maid both withdrew and hid themselves, but the young master still bounded and chased after her in high spirits. Wang was furious and threw a stone at him, whereupon he crouched down and began to wail. Wang told his wife of the matter. The wife went to reproach the young lady, who lowered her head with a smile and scratched the bed with her hand. Once she had left, the young lady was as lively and playful as ever, applying powder and rouge to the young master's face until he looked like a painted demon. When the wife saw this, she was enraged and called the young lady over to scold her harshly. The young lady leaned against the table, toying with her sash, unafraid and saying nothing in reply. The wife was at her wits' end, and so she caned her son. Yuanfeng cried out piteously, and only then did the young lady's expression change. She knelt and begged for mercy. The wife's anger instantly dissipated; she put down the cane and left. The young lady smilingly led the young master inside, brushed the dust from his clothes for him, wiped away his tears, gently rubbed the welts from the cane, and fed him dates and chestnuts. Thereupon the young master dried his tears and became cheerful again. The young lady shut the courtyard gates and dressed the young master up as the Hegemon-King, then as a man of the desert wastes. She herself donned gorgeous robes, bound her slender waist, and danced gracefully as a general beneath the tent. Sometimes she stuck pheasant feathers in her hair and plucked the pipa, the notes falling one after another in a lilting stream, while laughter and chatter filled the hall. This became their daily routine.

Because the young master was a simpleton, Lord Wang could not bear to reproach his daughter-in-law too harshly. Even when he heard rumors of such things, he let them pass without comment. In the same lane lived a man named Wang the Remonstrating Censor, separated from them by some ten households, but the two families had long been on poor terms. It happened to be the year of the triennial grand assessment of officials, and the Censor, fearing that Lord Wang held the seal of Henan Circuit, wished to bring harm upon him. Lord Wang knew of his plot and was anxious, but could devise no plan to counter it. One evening, when Lord Wang had retired early, the young lady put on a court cap and robes, dressed herself up as a chief minister, cut white silk to make a thick mustache, and dressed her two maidservants as guards in dark clothing. She stole a horse from the stable and rode out, playfully declaring, "I am going to pay a call on Mr. Wang." She galloped to the Censor's gate, then whipped her attendants and declared in a loud voice, "I am calling on Remonstrator Wang—why would I call on Censor Wang?" Then she turned her horse and rode back. By the time she reached her own gate, the gatekeeper mistook her for a real dignitary and ran in haste to announce it to Lord Wang. Lord Wang quickly rose to greet the visitor, only to discover that it had been his daughter-in-law's prank. He was furious and said to his wife, "Someone is just waiting for an opportunity to find fault with me, and instead she parades our household's disgraceful behavior right to his door to announce it—my misfortune is not far off!" The wife was enraged and rushed to the young lady's chamber to berate her. The young lady merely smiled her silly smile and did not utter a single word in reply. To beat her was more than she could bear; to cast her out would leave her with no home to go to. Husband and wife fretted and fumed, and neither slept the whole night through.

At that time, a certain chief minister held great power, and his ceremonial retinue and attire bore no small resemblance to what the young lady had fabricated. Wang the Censor also mistook it for the real thing. He made repeated inquiries at Lord Wang's gate, and when it was the middle of the night and the guest had not yet emerged, he suspected that the chief minister and Lord Wang were plotting together in secret. The following morning at court, he approached Lord Wang and asked, "Did the Grand Secretary come to your residence last night?" Lord Wang suspected he was being mocked, and with a blush on his face mumbled a vague reply without speaking clearly. The Censor grew even more suspicious, but in the end dropped his scheme, and from then on became increasingly friendly toward Lord Wang. Lord Wang learned of what had happened and was secretly delighted, but he privately urged his wife to persuade the young lady to mend her ways. The young lady smiled and agreed.

The following year, the chief minister was dismissed from office. It happened that someone sent a private letter intended for Lord Wang, but it was mistakenly delivered to the Censor. The Censor was overjoyed. He first sent someone on good terms with Lord Wang to borrow ten thousand taels of silver, but Lord Wang refused. The Censor then went to Lord Wang's residence in person. Lord Wang looked for his court cap and robe but could not find them. The Censor waited for a long time and, angered by Lord Wang's rudeness, was fuming with resentment and about to leave when suddenly he saw the young master come forth, pushed out through the gate by a woman from inside, wearing imperial robes and a crown with beaded tassels. He was greatly startled, but then laughed and patted him, removed the robes and crown, and departed. Lord Wang hurried out, but the guest was already far away. When he learned what had happened, his face turned ashen with terror, and he wailed, "This is a disaster in human form! It will bring ruin upon our entire clan before long!" He and his wife seized canes and went to confront her. The young lady already knew of it; she shut the door and let them curse and rail to their hearts' content. Lord Wang, in his fury, took an axe to the door. From inside, the young lady called out to him with a smile, "Father, trouble yourself no more! Your daughter-in-law is here—any knife, saw, axe, or halberd, I shall bear it myself. I will certainly not allow harm to come to my parents-in-law. If you do this, do you mean to kill your daughter-in-law to silence her?" Lord Wang then stopped.

The Censor returned home and indeed submitted a memorial to the throne, accusing Lord Wang of treasonous conduct and citing the imperial robes and crown as evidence. The emperor was astonished and ordered an investigation. The crown with its beaded tassels turned out to be made of sorghum stalks, and the robe was nothing but a yellow cloth wrapping of coarse cotton. The emperor was furious at the false accusation. He then summoned Yuanfeng, and seeing that his foolish manner was utterly laughable, smiled and said, "Could this fellow possibly become the Son of Heaven?" He handed him over to the judiciary. The Censor further accused Lord Wang's household of harboring a sorceress. The judicial officials rigorously interrogated the servants and retainers, all of whom said there was nothing unusual—only a mad wife and a simpleton son who spent their days in play and laughter. The neighbors also reported nothing strange. The case was thus decided, and the Censor was sentenced to military exile in Yunnan. From this point on, Lord Wang regarded the young lady as extraordinary.

He also thought that since her mother had not come for so long, she must not be human. He sent his wife to question her closely, but the young lady merely smiled and said nothing. When pressed further, she covered her mouth and said, "Your daughter-in-law is a daughter of the Jade Emperor—does Mother not know?" Before long, Lord Wang was promoted to a high court office. He was over fifty and was perpetually troubled by the lack of a grandson. The young lady had been living there for three years, and every night she slept apart from the young master, seemingly without any intimacy between them. The wife had the bed removed and instructed the young master to sleep with his wife. Several days later, the young master told his mother, "After the bed was taken away, she stubbornly refuses to return it! Little Cui every night puts her feet and thighs on top of my belly, and I can barely breathe. She also has a habit of pinching the inside of my thighs." The maids and old women all could not help but laugh. The wife scolded him and shooed him away.

One day, while the young lady was bathing in her chamber, the young master caught sight of her and wished to join her. She laughingly stopped him and bade him wait for the time being. After she emerged, she had hot water poured into a large jar, made him remove his robe and trousers, and together with a maid helped him into it. The young master felt stifled and stiflingly hot, and cried out loudly that he wished to come out. She paid no heed, but covered him with a quilt. After a short while, there was nothing more to be heard. She lifted the quilt and looked—he had stopped breathing. The young lady showed no alarm, but with a composed smile dragged him out and laid him on the bed, wiped his body clean and dry, and covered him with blankets. When the lady of the house heard of this, she came in weeping and cried, "What mad slave has killed my son!" The young lady said with a cheerful smile, "A son as foolish as this—it would have been better never to have had him." The lady grew still more incensed and butted her head against the young lady, but the maids struggled to pull her away and dissuade her. In the midst of the uproar, one of the maids announced, "The young master is moaning!" The lady stopped weeping and went to tend him. His breathing was faint and ragged, but sweat poured from him, soaking through the bedding and mats. The space of a meal later, the sweat had stopped. Suddenly he opened his eyes and looked around on all sides, gazing at each member of the household as though he did not recognize them. "Now that I recall the past," he said, "it all seems like a dream. Why is that?" Because his speech no longer sounded foolish, the lady was greatly astonished. She took him to visit his father and tested him repeatedly—surely enough, he was no longer a fool. They were overjoyed, as though they had acquired a rare treasure. That evening, they returned him to his old bed and laid out fresh bedding and pillows to observe him. When the young master entered the chamber, he dismissed all the maids. When they peeped in early on, they found the bed had been set up but was empty. From this time on, his foolish antics ceased entirely, and he and his wife lived in perfect harmony, like body and shadow. After more than a year, the elder Gong was impeached and dismissed from office by the party of the Supervising Censor—a minor transgression. He had in his possession a jade vase that had been presented to him by a former Provincial Governor of Guangxi, worth a thousand pieces of gold, which he intended to sell in order to bribe those in power. The young lady was fond of it and was turning it over in her hands when she lost her grip and let it fall and shatter. Ashamed, she threw herself to the ground. The elder Lady Gong, already displeased over the dismissal from office, was furious when she heard the news, and both she and her husband cursed the young lady in unison. The young lady rushed out and said to the young master, "In your household I have preserved far more than a single vase—how can you not show me even a little consideration? I will tell you plainly: I am not human. Because my mother suffered the calamity of a thunderbolt, I was deeply indebted to your father's protection and shelter; and because the two of us were fated to be together for five years, I came to repay a former kindness and fulfill a vow from a past life. I have endured scolding and abuse—even counting every hair on my head would not suffice to number it. The reason I did not leave earlier is that five years of love had not yet been fulfilled. Now how could I possibly stay even a moment longer?" She departed in a blaze of anger, but when they pursued her, she had already vanished. The elder Gong stood bewildered, filled with regret too late to remedy. The young master entered her chamber and saw the traces of her powder and the slippers she had left behind; he wept as though he wished to die. He could neither sleep nor eat, and day by day he grew emaciated and haggard. The elder Gong was greatly distressed and hastily sought a second wife for him to ease his grief, but the young master took no pleasure in it. He sought only a skilled artist to paint a portrait of Little Jade, and day and night he offered incense and prayers before it—for nearly two years.

Once, on his way back from another village, the moon was already bright and clear. Beyond the village was a garden pavilion belonging to the Gong family. As he rode past the outer wall, he heard the sound of laughter and conversation. He halted his horse, ordered the groom to hold the reins, and mounting the saddle to look over the wall, he saw two young ladies playing within. The clouds and moonlight were dim, so he could not see them clearly. But he heard one dressed in green say, "The slave ought to be driven out the door!" One dressed in red replied, "This is my garden pavilion—who are you driving out?" The one in green said, "Have you no shame? You could not manage to be a wife, and were driven out by others—and still you presume to claim property?" The one in red said, "You are nothing but a tiresome old slave with no one to care for you!" Listening to her voice, he found it remarkably like Little Jade's, and he called out to her urgently. The one in green said, "I will not quarrel with you—your husband is here," and left. Then the one in red came forward, and it was indeed Little Jade. He was beside himself with joy. The young lady told him to climb the wall, and she caught him and lowered him down. "Two years without seeing you, and you've become nothing but skin and bones!" she said. The young master grasped her hand and wept, telling her all that had been in his heart. The young lady said, "I knew it too, but I had no face left with which to see your family again. Now that I have been playing with my elder sister and we have met once more by chance, it proves that the karma of a past life cannot be escaped." He asked her to return home with him—she refused. He asked her to stay in the garden—she agreed. The young master sent a servant to rush back and inform the lady of the house. The lady started up in alarm, got into a sedan chair, and went to the garden. She unlocked the gate and entered the pavilion. The young lady at once came down to welcome her and bow. The lady seized her arm and wept, doing her utmost to explain her former conduct, scarcely able to contain herself. "If you can bear to overlook past grievances, please return with me and comfort my old age," she said. The young lady firmly refused. The lady worried that the country pavilion would be desolate and planned to send a large retinue of servants. The young lady said, "None of your people wish to be seen—only the two maids who attended me morning and evening, for I cannot help but feel attached to them. Besides them, a single old servant to answer the door is all that is needed. Nothing else is required." The lady arranged everything as she requested. She entrusted the young master to recuperate in the garden, supplying only his daily food and drink.

The young lady repeatedly urged the young master to take another wife, but he would not consent. More than a year later, the young lady's features, voice, and appearance gradually differed from what they had been before. He brought out the portrait and compared them—they were entirely two different people. He was greatly astonished. The young lady said, "Look at me now—how do I compare to the beauty of before?" The young master said, "You are beautiful now, but compared with before, you seem somehow less so." The young lady said, "You think I have grown old!" The young master said, "You are barely over twenty—how could you age so quickly?" The young lady laughed and burned the portrait. He tried to save it, but it was already reduced to ashes.

One day, she said to the young master, "When I was at home, my father said to me that I would die without ever spinning a cocoon. Now I am old in appearance and alone, and truly I cannot bear children. I fear I may fail your line of succession. Please take a wife into the household, so that morning and evening she may serve your parents, and you may come and go between the two households—there will be no inconvenience." The young master agreed and sent betrothal gifts to the family of Grand Historian Zhong. As the wedding day drew near, the young lady made new clothes and shoes for the bride and sent them all to the mother's quarters. When the new bride entered the door, her speech, appearance, and manner of conduct were not in the slightest degree different from Little Jade's—he was greatly astonished. He went to the garden pavilion, but the young lady was nowhere to be found. He asked the maids, and one of them produced a red handkerchief. "The young lady has gone home for a brief visit," she said. "She left this for the young master." He unfolded the handkerchief and found a jade ring tied within it. Knowing in his heart that she would not return, he took the maids and went home. Although he did not forget Little Jade for even a moment, he was fortunate in that with the new bride it was as though meeting an old love. Only then did he understand that the young lady had foreseen the marriage with the Zhong family, and had therefore transformed her own appearance beforehand, to console him for the longing he would feel in days to come.

The Historian of the Strange remarks: "She was a fox, yet for a kindness bestowed without ulterior motive she still sought to requite it; while the one who had received the blessing of a new life made the sound of grief over a broken pot—how base! The moon, once waned, waxed full again; she departed with composure. Only then did I know that the feelings of an immortal are far deeper than those of the common world!"

Jin Heshang was a man of Zhucheng. His father was a scoundrel who sold him for a few hundred cash to the Wulian Mountain Temple when he was a boy. He was dull-witted and could not devote himself to the pure pursuits of monastic life; instead, he herded pigs and went to market, like a hired menial. Later, when his original master died, he came into a small sum of money. He pocketed it, left the temple, and became a peddler. He was most adept at bribing officials and scheming to take others' lands. In a few years he amassed a sudden fortune and bought fields and residences in Shuipo Village.

He gathered a large following of disciples, and the mouths he fed numbered a thousand each day. For the surrounding area, he owned fertile farmland by the hundreds of *mu*. Within the village, he built dozens of mansions—all occupied by monks, or rather, by no one; if anyone lived there, it was only the poor and landless, who brought their wives and children and rented rooms and tenant-farmed the fields. Inside each compound, four rows of connected houses stood in which these people were ranked and lived. The monk dwelt in the center: in front was a hall, with beams, pillars, and bracket sets painted in gold and azure, dazzling to the eye; in the upper hall, tables and screens shone with a crystal luster that could serve as a mirror. Behind that lay the inner chamber, with red curtains and embroidered hangings, the scent of orchids and musk overflowing and assaulting the senses. A bed was crafted from carved sandalwood and mother-of-pearl inlay; upon it lay brocade mattresses and thick quilts, folded and piled a foot and more in height. On the walls hung famous paintings of beauties and landscapes, suspended and pasted with scarcely a gap remaining.

At a single long shout from within, dozens of men outside would thunder their reply in unison. Those in fine leather boots stood gathered like crows, poised like swans. When receiving orders, they covered their mouths to whisper and tilted their ears to listen. If a guest arrived suddenly, a dozen banquets could be prepared in the time it takes to breathe. Rich meats and steaming delicacies were laid out in profusion, scattered like a misty downpour. Yet he dared not openly keep singing girls; instead, a dozen clever lads, sharp and charming, wound black gauze around their heads and sang lewd ditties—not unpleasant to hear or behold. When Jin went out, dozens of riders preceded and followed him, their bows and arrows clanking against one another. His servants all called him "Master"; the common folk of the county likewise called him "Grandfather," or "Uncle," or "Elder Brother"—never "Teacher," never "Venerable One," never by a Buddhist name.

When his disciples went out, their retinue was somewhat smaller than Jin's, yet with their wind-tossed manes and cloud-like bridles, they too were nearly the equals of noble lords. Jin, moreover, built connections far and wide; even a thousand *li* away, word could reach him. Through this he held sway over the fortunes of regional officials, and if by chance his temper was provoked, they would tremble in fear. As for his own character, he was vulgar and unlettered, from the crown of his feet to the soles of his head possessing not a trace of refinement. In all his life he had never upheld a single sutra or recited a single mantra; his feet never trod the grounds of a temple, and in his house he never kept cymbals or drums. Such things his disciples had never seen, nor even heard of.

All who rented rooms from him had wives and daughters as gaily dressed as those in the capital. Rouge, powder, and scented oils were all provided by the monk, and he did not stint them. For this reason, hundreds in the village farmed without owning land. At times a wicked tenant would kill a monk and bury the head beneath a bed; Jin would not pursue the matter too closely but simply drove the offender away—such was the custom he had established.

Jin also bought children of other surnames and treated them as his own sons. He engaged a Confucian teacher to instruct them in examination essays. One boy, intelligent and talented in writing, was sent to pass the county examination. Soon, by purchase, he was made a Imperial Academy student. Before long, he went to the northern capital for the provincial examination and succeeded. From this point on, Jin's fame spread as "Grand Master." Those who had called him "Master" now prefixed "Grand"; those who had knelt on mats now stood with hands lowered in the manner of grandsons and sons.

Before long, the Grand Master monk passed away. The successful candidate donned mourning garments, lay on a grass mat, and faced north in the manner of an orphaned son. His disciples filled the bed and couch with their staffs. Behind the mourning curtain, the only one weeping softly was the wife of the successful candidate. Wives of officials and gentry came in splendid attire to lift the curtain and offer condolences; their caps, canopies, and carriages clogged the roads.

On the day of the funeral, canopies and pavilions joined like clouds, and banners and pennants blighted the sun. Straw effigies for burial were adorned with gold and silk. There were dozens of items of ceremonial carriages and regalia; a thousand horses and a hundred sleeves' worth of beautiful women, all lifelike. Fang Bi and Fang Xiang—giants fashioned from paper shells, in black cloth and golden armor—were mounted horizontally on wooden frames, with living men hidden inside to carry them. Mechanisms were set so that they turned; their brows and beards flew about, their eyes flashed as if about to shout in rage. Spectators marveled in astonishment; when small children saw them from afar, they wept and ran away.

The underground mansion was as magnificent as an imperial palace, with towers, halls, and corridors stretching over tens of *mu* of continuous walls, thousands of gates and myriad doors—those who entered became lost and could not find their way out. The sacrificial offerings and symbolic objects were too many to name. Those who came to the burial pressed against one another; from regional officials on down, they bent their waists and entered, rising and bowing with courtly ceremony. From tribute students and registrars on down, they knelt with hands upon the ground to kowtow, daring not to trouble the young master, but troubling his uncles instead.

At this time, the entire city gazed in awe; men and women panted with sweat along the road. Those carrying wives and infants, calling for brothers or seeking sisters, made a din like boiling broth. Mixed in were the clamor of drums and music and the clatter of a hundred acrobatic performances—human voices could not be heard at all. Of the spectators, everything below their shoulders was hidden from view; only ten thousand bobbing heads could be seen. There was a pregnant woman seized with urgent labor pains; her female companions spread their skirts to form a tent and stood guard around her. They only heard the infant cry, with no time to ask whether it was male or female; they cut a strip of cloth to bind the child to her chest, then some supporting her and some pulling her away, hobbling off as they went. What a spectacle!

After the funeral, the wealth Jin had left behind was divided into two shares: one for his son, one for his disciples. The successful candidate received half, and to the south, north, west, and east of his residence, all were his fellow monks—yet they were ranked as brothers, and their joys and sorrows were still intertwined.

The Historian of the Strange writes: "This is a school of its own—unprecedented in the two branches, transmitted by none of the six patriarchs. One may truly say it opened a unique dharma gate. Yet I have heard it said: when the five skandhas are empty and the six dusts unstained, that is called a 'he-shang' (monk); when one preaches the dharma from the mouth and meditates in the seat, that is called 'he-yang' (the monk's model); when one's shoes are fragrant in the land of Chu and one's hat is heavy under the skies of Wu, that is called 'he-chuang' (the monk's wanderings); when gongs and cymbals clamor and pipes and flutes blare, that is called 'he-chang' (the monk's chanting); when one dogs and flies, scrambling for favor and wallowing in debauchery and gambling, that is called 'he-zhang' (the monk's banner). As for Jin—was he a 'shang'? A 'yang'? A 'chuang'? A 'chang'? Or was he the 'zhang' of hell?"

**Xu, Magistrate of Qidong**

In the yamen of Magistrate Xu of Qidong there was a storeroom where provisions were kept. These were frequently stolen and scattered about the floor by some unknown creature. The servants were often blamed for this, and they lay in wait to discover the culprit. They saw a spider, large as a bushel measure. Frightened, they ran to report this to the magistrate. Xu thought it extraordinary and had the maids set out food for it every day. The spider grew tamer and would come out to be near people when hungry, departing only when it had eaten its fill. After more than a year, the magistrate was one day reading documents when the spider suddenly came and rested upon his desk. Thinking it was hungry, he was just calling for a servant to bring food when he saw two snakes lying beside the spider, thin as chopsticks. The spider curled up its legs and shrank its belly, as if overcome with fear. In an instant the snakes grew enormously thick, thicker than an egg. Xu was terrified and wished to flee. A tremendous thunderclap burst forth, and his entire household was struck dead. After some time, Xu revived, but his wife, maidservants, and servants—seven in all—had been killed. Xu was ill for over a month and then died. Xu had been an upright and honest man who loved the people. On the day his coffin was sent out, the people collected money to see him off, and the sound of weeping filled the countryside.

The Historian of the Strange says: "That the dragon plays with the spider—I always thought this was merely a vulgar rumor. Could it truly have happened? When thunderbolts strike, they are supposed to strike the wicked. Why then should a virtuous and good official suffer such cruel calamity? Is not the Lord of Heaven exceedingly muddled?"

**The Merchant's Wife**

A merchant of Tianjin was about to trade in a distant place and had borrowed several hundred taels from a rich man. A thief had observed this, and when evening came he hid himself in the house waiting for the merchant's return. But the merchant, having chosen that day as auspicious, had already set out carrying his money. The thief waited a long time and only heard the merchant's wife tossing and turning in bed, as if unable to sleep. Then a small door in the wall opened, and a whole room was illuminated. A woman came out from inside, young and beautiful, holding a long sash which she approached the bed and offered to the wife. The wife pushed it away with her hand, but the woman insisted, and the wife finally took the sash, rose, and hung it from a beam. She put her neck through and hanged herself. The woman then departed, and the door in the wall closed. The thief was greatly alarmed, opened the outer bolt, and fled. When it was light, the family found the wife dead and brought the matter before the magistrate. The magistrate arrested the neighbors and tortured them until they confessed. The case was decided and execution was to take place within days. The thief, angered by this injustice, came forward himself to confess and told what he had seen that night. Upon interrogation, his account proved true, and the neighbors were freed. When inquiry was made among the locals, it was said that the former owner of the house had once had a young wife who hanged herself, and her age and appearance matched exactly what the thief had described. It was thus known that it was her ghost. Is it true that those who died by violence must seek a substitute before they can be released?

**The Feast of Yanluo**

A certain Shao of Jinghai was poor. On his mother's birthday he prepared wine and meat and offered sacrifice in the courtyard. When he had finished his obeisance and rose, he found that all the food on the table had vanished. He was greatly alarmed and told his mother. She suspected that he was too poor to provide a birthday feast and was merely making excuses. Shao was silent and could not clear himself. Soon after, the provincial examiner was due to arrive, but Shao had no money for the journey. He borrowed a small sum and set out. On the road he met a man who had been waiting by the roadside and who invited him most warmly to accompany him. Shao followed him and saw halls and pavilions stretching across the road. Entering, he found a king seated on a dais. Shao prostrated himself. The king's face cleared and he bade Shao sit, then immediately gave him a feast and wine. He said: "When I passed your humble dwelling the other day, my servants were hungry and thirsty on the road, and they partook of your generous provisions." Shao was bewildered and did not understand. The king said: "I am the King of the Underworld. Do you not remember the birthday celebration for your mother?" When the feast was over, the king brought out a package of silver and said: "This is a small return for the trouble of the pig's trotters." Shao took it and departed. The palace and its occupants vanished all at once; there were only a few large trees standing desolately by the roadside. When he examined the gift, it was genuine silver, weighing five taels. By the time the examination was over, he had spent only half of it and was able to carry the rest home to support his mother.

**Commanding Ghosts**

A certain physician of Shanxi, surnamed Yang, was skilled in acupuncture and moxibustion and could also command ghosts. When he went out, the mule-drivers and whip-bearers who accompanied him were all ghosts. One night, returning from elsewhere, he was walking with a friend when they saw two men approaching, of extraordinary height and size. The friend was greatly frightened. Yang asked, "Who are you?" They replied, "Long-Legs Wang and Big-Head Li, come to welcome our master." Yang said, "Go ahead of me as guides." The two turned on their heels and walked on. If they went slowly, they would stop and wait, like slaves.

**Xiliu**

Xi Liu Niang was the daughter of a scholar of Zhongdu. Because her slender, graceful waist was so charming, people playfully called her "Xi Liu"—"Slender Willow." She was clever from a young age, could read and write, and enjoyed books on physiognomy. All her life she was reserved and taciturn; she never spoke well or ill of anyone. But whenever a suitor appeared, she insisted on seeing the man with her own eyes before giving her answer. She had seen many men, yet found none acceptable, and by now she was nineteen. Her parents grew angry and said, "There is no decent match to be found under heaven. Do you intend to grow old with your hair in girl's plaits?" She replied, "In truth, I wished to make human effort prevail over Heaven's will. But after all this time, if nothing comes of it, it is simply my fate. From now on, I will obey my parents in all things."

At that time there was a certain Mr. Gao, a man of distinguished family and a renowned scholar. Having heard the name of Xi Liu, he sent betrothal gifts. When the marriage was consummated, the couple got on exceedingly well. Gao had a son by his first wife, a small boy named Changfu, five years old at the time. Xi Liu cared for him with the utmost devotion. When she visited her parents' home, the boy would wail and follow her, and nothing could be done to stop him. A year or so later, she gave birth to a son of her own, whom she named Changhu. When her husband asked the meaning of the name, she answered, "Nothing more. I simply hope he will stay by my knees for a long time."

She was careless about needlework and paid it little mind. But regarding the taxes on the fields to the southeast—how much land had been rented and how much was owed—she checked the records and questioned him closely, fearing she might miss some detail. After some time, she said to her husband, "Please stop troubling yourself with household affairs. Let me manage them myself. We shall see whether I am fit to run a home." Gao did as she asked. In half a year, nothing in the household had been neglected, and he thought well of her.

One day, Gao went to a neighboring village to drink. Just then a tax collector arrived, pounding on the gate and shouting abuse. He sent a servant to placate him, but the man would not leave. So Gao was hastily summoned home by a boy. When the clerk had gone, Gao laughed and said, "Xi Liu, now do you see that a clever woman is no match for a foolish man?" When she heard this, she bowed her head and wept. Gao was alarmed, took her hand, and tried to comfort her, but she remained distraught. Gao, unwilling to burden her with household management, wanted to take charge again, but she would not allow it. She rose early and slept late, managing affairs with ever greater diligence. Each year she set aside funds a year in advance for the coming year's taxes, so that throughout the year no tax collector ever darkened her door. She used the same method to plan for food and clothing, and as a result the household's resources grew more ample.

Then Gao was overjoyed and teased her, saying, "What 'slender' is there about Xi Liu? Slender brows, slender waist, slender steps on the waves—and what joy that her thoughts are yet more slender!" She replied, "Mr. Gao is indeed 'tall': tall in character, tall in ambition, tall in learning—I only wish his lifespan were taller still."

A villager had some fine timber for sale. Xi Liu did not begrudge a high price to acquire it; when the money fell short, she borrowed from relatives in many ways. Gao, thinking it an unnecessary expense, firmly urged her to stop, but she would not listen. After more than a year, a wealthy family in mourning came and redeemed the timber at twice its price. Gao urged her to sell it for the profit, but she refused. When he asked why, she said nothing. When he pressed her, her eyes glistened as if she were about to weep. He thought this strange but could not bear to cross her further, and let the matter drop.

Another year passed. Gao was now twenty-five, and Xi Liu forbade him from traveling far. If he returned home late, servants sent to fetch him would arrive in a steady stream. His friends all mocked and slandered him for it.

One day, Gao went to drink with friends. Feeling unwell, he turned for home, but midway there he fell from his horse and died. It happened to be the height of the hot, damp summer, but fortunately the burial clothes and shroud had long since been prepared. Only then did the villagers all acknowledge Xi Liu Niang's wisdom.

By now Changfu was ten and had begun to study writing. After his father's death, he grew obstinate and refused to study, constantly running off to roam with the herding boys. Scolding did no good; beating with the bamboo rod followed, but he remained as stubborn as ever. His mother, at her wits' end, called him and said, "Since you refuse to study, how can I force you? But a poor family has no room for idle mouths. Change your clothes, and work alongside the servants and laborers. If not, do not regret the whip!" She dressed him in ragged cotton wadding and sent him to tend the pigs. When he came home, he was to fetch his own earthen bowl and eat gruel with the servants. After a few days, finding it unbearable, he wept and knelt in the courtyard, begging to study again. His mother turned her back to the wall and pretended not to hear. With no other choice, he took the whip and went out, sobbing. As the end of late autumn approached, he had no clothes on his rack and no shoes on his feet. Cold rain soaked him, and he hunched his head like a beggar. The villagers who saw him pitied him. Women who entered the family as second wives all took Xi Liu Niang as a warning and spoke of her with exasperated disapproval. Xi Liu heard a little of this but paid it no mind. Unable to bear his suffering, Changfu abandoned the pigs and ran away. His mother let him go and made no inquiry at all. Months passed, and he had nowhere to beg his food.

Haggard and wasted, Fu returned home of his own accord. He dared not enter at once, but begged an old neighbor woman to go and speak to his mother. The woman told her, "If he can endure a hundred blows, he may come and see me; if not, let him leave at once." Upon hearing this, Fu rushed in, weeping bitterly, and offered to submit to the beating. His mother asked, "Do you now know to repent and reform?" He said, "I do repent." She said, "Since you know repentance, there is no need for beating. You may tend the pigs in peace; if you offend again, I will not forgive you!" Fu wailed loudly, saying, "I beg to endure a hundred blows and ask to resume my studies." The woman refused, but the old neighbor urged her, and at last she agreed. She washed his hair, gave him fresh clothes, and had him study with his brother Gu under the same teacher. Fu applied himself with diligence and keen resolve, greatly different from before. In three years, he passed the prefectural examination. Lord Yang, the Provincial Censor, having seen his writings and esteemed him, provided him a monthly stipend from the official granary to help with lamp oil. Gu was the dullest; after several years of study, he could not even remember his own name. His mother told him to abandon his books and work the land. Gu was idle and lazy and dreaded hard labor. His mother said in anger, "The four classes of people each have their proper calling. If you cannot study and cannot farm, would you rather die of starvation in a ditch?" She immediately had him beaten. From then on, he led the servants in farm work; if he rose late one morning, curses and abuse followed him. Yet in clothing and food, the mother always gave the better portions to his elder brother Fu. Though Gu dared not say anything, inwardly he harbored resentment. When the farm work was done, his mother provided capital for him to learn peddling. Gu spent it on prostitutes and gambling; whatever he put his hands on was lost and wasted. He falsely claimed that thieves had robbed him or that it was his unlucky lot, in order to deceive his mother. When she discovered the truth, she beat him nearly to death. Fu knelt at length and begged tearfully, offering to take the punishment himself, and only then did her anger abate. From that time on, whenever Gu went out, his mother would secretly investigate him. Gu's behavior became somewhat more restrained, though this was not what his heart truly desired. One day, he asked his mother for permission to go to Luoyang with several merchants. In truth, he wished to travel far to gratify his desires, but his heart trembled with fear that his request would not be granted. His mother, hearing this, showed no suspicion at all. She at once produced thirty taels of gold in pieces for his travel expenses, and then gave him an additional gold ingot, saying, "This was left over from your father's official purse. You must not spend it; it is merely to weight your luggage, for emergencies. Besides, since this is your first venture, I do not expect great profits. If you can return without losing these thirty taels, that will be enough." She gave further instructions before his departure. Gu promised and went out, delighted with his own good fortune. Upon reaching Luoyang, he cut off all companions and lodged in the house of the famous courtesan Lady Li. After some ten nights, his gold was gradually spent. Since he believed the great ingot was still in his purse, he had not the least thought of running out of money. But when he took it out and cut it open, it was counterfeit gold. He was greatly shocked and turned pale. When the old woman of the house saw this, she spoke coldly and insulted him. Gu's heart was uneasy, but with an empty purse he had nowhere to go; he still hoped that Lady Li would remember their past intimacy and not cut him off at once. Suddenly, two men entered with ropes and swiftly bound his neck. Terrified and not knowing what to do, he tearfully asked why. It turned out that Lady Li had stolen the counterfeit gold and reported him to the authorities. When brought before the magistrate, he could not defend himself and was tortured nearly to death. He was thrown into prison, but had no money for bribes, and was greatly abused by the jailers. He begged food from fellow prisoners, barely clinging to life. Before Gu had set out, his mother had said to Fu, "Remember that in twenty days I shall send you to Luoyang. I am busy with affairs and may forget." Fu asked why, his face darkened with sorrow, but he dared not inquire further and withdrew. After twenty days, he asked about it. She sighed, saying, "Your brother's dissipation today is just like your neglect of studies in the past. Had I not borne a cruel reputation, how could you be where you are today? Everyone says I am heartless, but my tears have soaked the pillow and mat, and no one knows it!" She wept. Fu stood respectfully and listened, not daring to probe further. When she had finished weeping, she said, "Since your brother's dissolute heart will not die, I gave him counterfeit gold to frustrate him. By now he must be in chains. The Provincial Censor treats you well; go and plead with him. You may be able to free him from death and rouse his shame and repentance." Fu set out at once. By the time he reached Luoyang, his brother had already been imprisoned for three days. He looked upon him through the prison bars: Gu was barely alive, his face like a ghost; seeing his elder brother, he wept uncontrollably. Fu also wept. At that time, Fu was highly favored by the Provincial Censor, so his name was known far and wide. The county magistrate, learning that he was Gu's elder brother, quickly released him. When Gu reached home, he was still afraid of his mother's anger and crawled forward on his knees. His mother turned and said, "Have your wishes been fulfilled?" Gu shed tears and dared not make another sound. Fu knelt beside him. Only then did she tell them to rise. From that time on, Gu bitterly repented of himself. In all household affairs, he managed with diligence. Even when he was occasionally lazy, his mother did not scold him. After several months, she did not speak to him of trade at all. He wished to ask permission himself but dared not, so he told his brother of his wish. His mother, hearing of it, was pleased. Together they raised a loan and gave it to him; in half a year, he doubled his capital. That year, Fu passed the provincial examination. Three years later, he passed the metropolitan examination. His brother Gu, through trade, amassed a huge fortune. A man of the county who had traveled to Luoyang caught a glimpse of the Lady of the Household: at forty years of age, she still looked no more than thirty, and her clothing and adornment were plain and simple, like those of an ordinary family.

The Historian of the Strange says: "When the 'Black Heart Talisman' appears and 'Reed Flower' transformations arise, the ancient and the modern are much the same—truly lamentable! Some, seeking to avoid such criticism, overcorrect to the extreme of standing by and allowing their children to run wild without a word of correction. How different is that from cruel treatment? It is only that when one beats one's own child, people do not think it brutal; but if one does so to a stepchild, fingers are pointed at once. It is not that Xiliu was cruel only to her first son; but had her own son been worthy, how could she have summoned such a heart to vindicate herself before the world? Yet she did not avoid suspicion, did not shun slander, and in the end caused one son to become wealthy and the other distinguished, both standing out in the world. This is not merely something for the women's quarters—surely she is among the most outstanding of men!"