Strange Stories from a Chinese Studio (Volumes 1 and 2)

IX.
MAGICAL ARTS.

A certain Mr. Yü was a spirited young fellow, fond of boxing and trials of strength. He was able to take two kettles and swing them round about with the speed of the wind. Now, during the reign of Ch‘ung Chêng,[67] when up for the final examination at the capital, his servant became seriously ill. Much troubled at this, he applied to a necromancer in the market-place[68] who was skilful at determining the various leases of life allotted to men. Before he had uttered a word, the necromancer asked him, saying, “Is it not about your servant, Sir, that you would consult me?” Mr. Yü was startled at this, and replied that it was. “The sick man,” continued the necromancer, “will come to no harm; you, Sir, are the one in danger.” Mr. Yü then begged him to cast his nativity, which he proceeded to do, finally saying to Mr. Yü, “You have but three days to live!” Dreadfully frightened, he remained some time in a state of stupefaction, when the necromancer quietly observed that he possessed the power of averting this calamity by magic, and would exert it for the sum of ten ounces of silver. But Mr. Yü reflected that Life and Death are already fixed,[69] and he didn’t see how magic could save him. So he refused, and was just going away, whereupon the necromancer said, “You grudge this trifling outlay. I hope you will not repent it.” Mr. Yü’s friends also urged him to pay the money, advising him rather to empty his purse than not secure the necromancer’s compassion. Mr. Yü, however, would not hear of it and the three days slipped quickly away. Then he sat down calmly in his inn to see what was going to happen. Nothing did happen all day, and at night he shut his door and trimmed the lamp; then, with a sword at his side, he awaited the approach of death.

By-and-by, the clepsydra[70] shewed that two hours had already gone without bringing him any nearer to dissolution; and he was thinking about lying down, when he heard a scratching at the window, and then saw a tiny little man creep through, carrying a spear on his shoulder, who, on reaching the ground, shot up to the ordinary height. Mr. Yü seized his sword and at once struck at it; but only succeeded in cutting the air. His visitor instantly shrunk down small again, and made an attempt to escape through the crevice of the window; but Yü redoubled his blows and at last brought him to the ground. Lighting the lamp, he found only a paper man,[71] cut right through the middle. This made him afraid to sleep, and he sat up watching, until in a little time he saw a horrid hobgoblin creep through the same place. No sooner did it touch the ground than he assailed it lustily with his sword, at length cutting it in half. Seeing, however, that both halves kept on wriggling about, and fearing that it might get up again, he went on hacking at it. Every blow told, giving forth a hard sound, and when he came to examine his work, he found a clay image all knocked to pieces. Upon this he moved his seat near to the window, and kept his eye fixed upon the crack. After some time, he heard a noise like a bull bellowing outside the window, and something pushed against the window-frame with such force as to make the whole house tremble and seem about to fall. Mr. Yü, fearing he should be buried under the ruins, thought he could not do better than fight outside; so he accordingly burst open the door with a crash and rushed out. There he found a huge devil, as tall as the house, and he saw by the dim light of the moon that its face was as black as coal. Its eyes shot forth yellow fire: it had nothing either upon its shoulders or feet; but held a bow in its hand and had some arrows at its waist. Mr. Yü was terrified; and the devil discharged an arrow at him which he struck to the ground with his sword. On Mr. Yü preparing to strike, the devil let off another arrow which the former avoided by jumping aside, the arrow quivering in the wall beyond with a smart crack. The devil here got very angry, and drawing his sword flourished it like a whirlwind, aiming a tremendous blow at Mr. Yü. Mr. Yü ducked, and the whole force of the blow fell upon the stone wall of the house, cutting it right in two. Mr. Yü then ran out from between the devil’s legs, and began hacking at its back—whack! —whack! The devil now became furious, and roared like thunder, turning round to get another blow at his assailant. But Mr. Yü again ran between his legs, the devil’s sword merely cutting off a piece of his coat. Once more he hacked away—whack! —whack! —and at length the devil came tumbling down flat. Mr. Yü cut at him right and left, each blow resounding like the watchman’s wooden gong;[72] and then, bringing a light, he found it was a wooden image about as tall as a man. The bow and arrows were still there, the latter attached to its waist. Its carved and painted features were most hideous to behold; and wherever Mr. Yü had struck it with his sword, there was blood. Mr. Yü sat with the light in his hand till morning, when he awaked to the fact that all these devils had been sent by the necromancer in order to kill him, and so evidence his own magical power. The next day, after having told the story far and wide, he went with some others to the place where the necromancer had his stall; but the latter, seeing them coming, vanished in the twinkling of an eye. Some one observed that the blood of a dog would reveal a person who had made himself invisible, and Mr. Yü immediately procured some and went back with it. The necromancer disappeared as before, but on the spot where he had been standing they quickly threw down the dog’s blood. Thereupon they saw his head and face all smeared over with the blood, his eyes glaring like a devil’s; and at once seizing him, they handed him over to the authorities, by whom he was put to death.

X.
JOINING THE IMMORTALS.

A Mr. Chou, of Wên-têng, had in his youth been fellow-student with a Mr. Ch‘êng, and a firm friendship was the result.The latter was poor, and depended very much upon Chou, who was the elder of the two.He called Chou’s wife his “sister,” and had the run of the house just as if he was one of the family.Now this wife happening to die in child-bed, Chou married another named Wang; but as she was quite a young girl, Ch‘êng did not seek to be introduced.[73] One day her younger brother came to visit her, and was being entertained in the “inner” apartments[74] when Ch‘êng chanced to call. The servant announced his arrival, and Chou bade him ask Mr. Ch‘êng in. But Ch‘êng would not enter, and took his leave. Thereupon Chou caused the entertainment to be moved into the public part of the house, and, sending after Ch‘êng, succeeded in bringing him back. They had hardly sat down before some one came in to say that a former servant of the establishment had been severely beaten at the magistrate’s yamên; the facts of the case being that a cow-boy of the Huang family connected with the Board of Rites had driven his cattle across the Chou family’s land, and that words had arisen between the two servants in consequence; upon which the Huang family’s servant had complained to his master, who had seized the other and had sent him in to the magistrate’s, where he had been bambooed. When Mr. Chou found out what the matter was, he was exceedingly angry, and said, “How dares this pig-boy fellow behave thus? Why, only a generation ago his master was my father’s servant! He emerges a little from his obscurity, and immediately thinks himself I don’t know what!” Swelling with rage, he rose to go in quest of Huang, but Ch‘êng held him back, saying, “The age is corrupt: there is no distinction between right and wrong. Besides, the officials of the day are half of them thieves, and you will only get yourself into hot water.” Chou, however, would not listen to him; and it was only when tears were added to remonstrances that he consented to let the matter drop. But his anger did not cease, and he lay tossing and turning all night. In the morning he said to his family, “I can stand the insults of Mr. Huang; but the magistrate is an officer of the Government, and not the servant of influential people. If there is a case of any kind, he should hear both plaintiff and defendant, and not act like a dog, biting anybody he is set upon. I will bring an action against the cow-boy, and see what the magistrate will do to him.” As his family rather egged him on, he accordingly proceeded to the magistrate’s and entered a formal plaint; but that functionary tore up his petition, and would have nothing to do with it. This roused Chou’s anger, and he told the magistrate plainly what he thought of him, in return for which contempt of court he was at once seized and bound. During the forenoon Mr. Ch‘êng called at his house, where he learnt that Chou had gone into the city to prosecute the cow-boy, and immediately hurried after him with a view to stop proceedings. But his friend was already in the gaol, and all he could do was to stamp his foot in anger. Now it happened that three pirates had just been caught; and the magistrate and Huang, putting their heads together, bribed these fellows to say that Chou was one of their gang, whereupon the higher authorities were petitioned to deprive him of his status as a graduate,[75] and the magistrate then had him most unmercifully bambooed.[76] Mr. Ch‘êng gained admittance to the gaol, and, after a painful interview, proposed that a petition should be presented direct to the Throne. “Alas!” cried Chou, “here am I bound and guarded, like a bird in a cage. I have indeed a young brother, but it is as much as he can do to provide me with food.” Then Ch‘êng stepped forward, saying, “I will perform this service. Of what use are friends who will not assist in the hour of trouble?” So away he went, and Chou’s son provided him with money to defray his expenses. After a long journey he arrived at the capital, where he found himself quite at a loss as to how he should get the petition presented. However, hearing that the Emperor was about to set out on a hunting tour, he concealed himself in the market-place, and when His Majesty passed by, prostrated himself on the ground with loud cries and gesticulations. The Emperor received his petition, and sent it to the Board of Punishments,[77] desiring to be furnished with a report on the case. It was then more than ten months since the beginning of the affair, and Chou, who had been made to confess[78] to this false charge, was already under sentence of death; so that the officers of the Board were very much alarmed when they received the Imperial instructions, and set to work to re-hear the case in person. Huang was also much alarmed, and devised a plan for killing Mr. Chou by bribing the gaolers to stop his food and drink; so that when his brother brought provisions he was rudely thrust back and prevented from taking them in. Mr. Ch‘êng complained of this to the Viceroy of the province, who investigated the matter himself, and found that Chou was in the last stage of starvation, for which the gaolers were bambooed to death. Terrified out of his wits, Huang, by dint of bribing heavily, succeeded in absconding and escaping a just punishment for his crimes. The magistrate, however, was banished for perversion of the law, and Chou was permitted to return home, his affection for Ch‘êng being now very much increased. But ever after the prosecution and his friend’s captivity, Mr. Ch‘êng took a dismal view of human affairs, and one day invited Chou to retire with him from the world. The latter, who was deeply attached to his young wife, threw cold water on the proposition, and Mr. Ch‘êng pursued the subject no farther, though his own mind was fully made up. Not seeing him for some days afterwards, Mr. Chou sent to inquire about him at his house; but there they all thought he was at Chou’s, neither family, in fact, having seen anything of him. This looked suspicious, and Chou, aware of his peculiarity, sent off people to look for him, bidding them search all the temples and monasteries in the neighbourhood. He also from time to time supplied Ch‘êng’s son with money and other necessaries.

Eight or nine years had passed away when suddenly Ch‘êng re-appeared, clad in a yellow cap and stole, and wearing the expression of a Taoist priest. Chou was delighted, and seized his arm, saying, “Where have you been? —letting me search for you all over the place.” “The solitary cloud and the wild crane,” replied Ch‘êng, laughing, “have no fixed place of abode. Since we last met my equanimity has happily been restored.” Chou then ordered wine, and they chatted together on what had taken place in the interval. He also tried to persuade Ch‘êng to detach himself from the Taoist persuasion, but the latter only smiled and answered nothing. “It is absurd!” argued Chou. “Why cast aside your wife and child as you would an old pair of shoes?” “Not so,” answered Ch‘êng; “a man may wish to cast aside his son, but how can he do so?” Chou asked where he lived, to which he replied, “In the Great Pure Mansion on Mount Lao.” They then retired to sleep on the same bed; and by-and-by Chou dreamt that Ch‘êng was lying on his chest so that he could not breathe. In a fright he asked him what he was doing, but got no answer; and then he waked up with a start. Calling to Ch‘êng and receiving no reply, he sat up and stretched out his hand to touch him. The latter, however, had vanished, he knew not whither. When he got calm, he found he was lying at Ch‘êng’s end of the bed, which rather startled him. “I was not tipsy last night,” reflected he; “how could I have got over here?” He next called his servants, and when they came and struck a light, lo! he was Ch‘êng. Now Chou had had a beard, so he put up his hand to feel for it, but found only a few straggling hairs. He then seized a mirror to look at himself, and cried out in alarm: “If this is Mr. Ch‘êng, where on earth am I?” By this time he was wide awake, and knew that Ch‘êng had employed magic to induce him to retire from the world. He was on the point of entering the ladies’ apartments; but his brother, not recognising who he was, stopped him, and would not let him go in; and as he himself was unable to prove his own identity, he ordered his horse that he might go in search of Ch‘êng. After some days’ journey he arrived at Mount Lao; and, as his horse went along at a good rate, the servant could not keep up with him. By-and-by he rested awhile under a tree, and saw a great number of Taoist priests going backwards and forwards, and among them was one who stared fixedly at him. So he inquired of him where he should find Ch‘êng; whereat the priest laughed and said, “I know the name. He is probably in the Great Pure Mansion.” When he had given this answer he went on his way, Chou following him with his eyes about a stone’s throw, until he saw him speak with some one else, and, after saying a few words, proceed onwards as before. The person whom he had spoken with came on to where Chou was, and turned out to be a fellow-townsman of his. He was much surprised at meeting Chou, and said, “I haven’t seen you for some years. They told me you had gone to Mount Lao to be a Taoist priest. How is it you are still amusing yourself among mortals?” Chou told him who he really was; upon which the other replied, “Why, I thought the gentleman I just met was you! He has only just left me, and can’t have got very far.” “Is it possible,” cried Chou, “that I didn’t know my own face?” Just then the servant came up, and away they went full speed, but could not discover the object of their search. All around them was a vast desert, and they were at a loss whether to go on or to return. But Chou reflected that he had no longer any home to receive him, and determined to carry out his design to the bitter end; but as the road was dangerous for riding, he gave his horse to the servant, and bade him go back. On he went cautiously by himself, until he spied a boy sitting by the wayside alone. He hurried up to him and asked the boy to direct him where he could find Mr. Ch‘êng. “I am one of his disciples,” replied the lad; and, shouldering Chou’s bundle, started off to shew the way. They journeyed on together, taking their food by the light of the stars, and sleeping in the open air, until, after many miles of road, they arrived in three days at their destination. But this Great Pure locality was not like that generally spoken of in the world. Though as late as the middle of the tenth moon, there was a great profusion of flowers along the road, quite unlike the beginning of winter. The lad went in and announced the arrival of a stranger, whereupon Mr. Ch‘êng came out, and Chou recognised his own features. Ch‘êng grasped his hand and led him inside, where he prepared wine and food, and they began to converse together. Chou noticed many birds of strange plumage, so tame that they were not afraid of him; and these from time to time would alight on the table and sing with voices like Pan-pipes. He was very much astonished at all this, but a love of mundane pleasures had eaten into his soul, and he had no intention of stopping. On the ground were two rush-mats, upon which Ch‘êng invited his friend to sit down with him. Then about midnight a serene calm stole over him; and while he was dozing off for a moment, he seemed to change places with Ch‘êng. Suspecting what had happened, he put his hand up to his chin, and found it covered with a beard as before. At dawn he was anxious to return home, but Ch‘êng pressed him to stay; and when three days had gone by Ch‘êng said to him, “I pray you take a little rest now: to-morrow I will set you on your way.” Chou had barely closed his eyelids before he heard Ch‘êng call out, “Everything is ready for starting!” So he got up and followed him along a road other than that by which he had come, and in a very short time he saw his home in the distance. In spite of Chou’s entreaties, Ch‘êng would not accompany him so far, but made Chou go, waiting himself by the roadside. So the latter went alone, and when he reached his house, knocked at the door. Receiving no answer, he determined to get over the wall, when he found that his body was as light as a leaf, and with one spring he was over. In the same manner he passed several inner walls, until he reached the ladies’ apartments, where he saw by the still burning lamp that the inmates had not yet retired for the night. Hearing people talking within, he licked a hole in the paper window[79] and peeped through, and saw his wife sitting drinking with a most disreputable-looking fellow. Bursting with rage, his first impulse was to surprise them in the act; but seeing there were two against one, he stole away and let himself out by the entrance-gate, hurrying off to Ch‘êng, to whom he related what he had seen, and finally begged his assistance. Ch‘êng willingly went along with him; and when they reached the room, Chou seized a big stone and hammered loudly at the door. All was then confusion inside, so Chou hammered again, upon which the door was barricaded more strongly than before. Here Ch‘êng came forward with his sword,[80] and burst the door open with a crash. Chou rushed in, and the man inside rushed out; but Ch‘êng was there, and with his sword cut his arm right off. Chou rudely seized his wife, and asked what it all meant; to which she replied that the man was a friend who sometimes came to take a cup of wine with them. Thereupon Chou borrowed Ch‘êng’s sword and cut off her head,[81] hanging up the trunk on a tree in the court-yard. He then went back with Ch‘êng. By-and-by he awaked and found himself on the bed, at which he was somewhat disturbed, and said, “I have had a strangely-confused dream, which has given me a fright.” “My brother,” replied Ch‘êng, smiling, “you look upon dreams as realities: you mistake realities for dreams.” Chou asked what he meant by these words; and then Ch‘êng shewed him his sword besmeared with blood. Chou was terrified, and sought to destroy himself; but all at once it occurred to him that Ch‘êng might be deceiving him again. Ch‘êng divined his suspicions, and made haste at once to see him home. In a little while they arrived at the village-gate, and then Ch‘êng said, “Was it not here that, sword in hand, I awaited you that night? I cannot look upon the unclean spot. I pray you go on, and let me stay here. If you do not return by the afternoon, I will depart alone.” Chou then approached his house, which he found all shut up as if no one was living there; so he went into his brother’s.

The latter, when he beheld Chou, began to weep bitterly, saying, “After your departure, thieves broke into the house and killed my sister-in-law, hanging her body upon a tree. Alas! alas! The murderers have not yet been caught.” Chou then told him the whole story of his dream, and begged him to stop further proceedings; at all of which his brother was perfectly lost in astonishment. Chou then asked after his son, and his brother told the nurse to bring him in; whereupon the former said, “Upon this infant are centered the hopes of our race.[82] Tend him well; for I am going to bid adieu to the world.” He then took his leave, his brother following him all the time with tears in his eyes to induce him to remain. But he heeded him not; and when they reached the village-gate his brother saw him go away with Ch‘êng. From afar he looked back and said, “Forbear, and be happy!” His brother would have replied; but here Ch‘êng whisked his sleeve, and they disappeared. The brother remained there for some time, and then went back overwhelmed with grief. He was an unpractical man, and before many years were over all the property was gone and the family reduced to poverty. Chou’s son, who was growing up, was thus unable to secure the services of a tutor, and had no one but his uncle to teach him. One morning, on going into the school-room, the uncle found a letter lying on his desk addressed to himself in his brother’s handwriting. There was, however, nothing in it but a finger-nail about four inches in length. Surprised at this, he laid the nail down on the ink-slab while he went out to ask whence the letter had come. This no one knew; but when he went back he found that the ink-stone had been changed into a piece of shining yellow gold. More than ever astonished, he tried the nail on copper and iron things, all of which were likewise turned to gold. He thus became very rich, sharing his wealth with Chou’s son; and it was bruited about that the two families possessed the secret of transmutation.[83]

XI.
THE FIGHTING QUAILS.

Wang Ch‘êng belonged to an old family in P‘ing-yüan, but was such an idle fellow that his property gradually disappeared, until at length all he had left was an old tumble-down house. His wife and he slept under a coarse hempen coverlet, and the former was far from sparing of her reproaches. At the time of which we are speaking the weather was unbearably hot; and Wang went to pass the night with many other of his fellow-villagers in a pavilion which stood among some dilapidated buildings belonging to a family named Chou. With the first streaks of dawn his comrades departed; but Wang slept well on till about nine o’clock, when he got up and proceeded leisurely home. All at once he saw in the grass a gold hair-pin; and taking it up to look at it, found engraved thereon in small characters—“The property of the Imperial family.” Now Wang’s own grandfather had married into the Imperial family,[84] and consequently he had formerly possessed many similar articles; but while he was thinking it over up came an old woman in search of the hair-pin, which Wang, who though poor was honest, at once produced and handed to her. The old woman was delighted, and thanked Wang very much for his goodness, observing that the pin was not worth much in itself, but was a relic of her departed husband. Wang asked what her husband had been; to which she replied, “His name was Wang Chien-chih, and he was connected by marriage with the Imperial family.” “My own grandfather!” cried Wang, in great surprise; “how could you have known him?” “You, then,” said the old woman, “are his grandson. I am a fox, and many years ago I was married to your grandfather; but when he died I retired from the world. Passing by here I lost my hair-pin, which destiny conveyed into your hands.” Wang had heard of his grandfather’s fox-wife, and believing therefore the old woman’s story, invited her to return with him, which she did. Wang called his wife out to receive her; but when she came in rags and tatters, with unkempt hair and dirty face, the old woman sighed, and said, “Alas! Alas! has Wang Chien-chih’s grandson come to this?” Then looking at the broken, smokeless stove, she added, “How, under these circumstances, have you managed even to support life?” Here Wang’s wife told the tale of their poverty, with much sobbing and tears; whereupon the old woman gave her the hair-pin, bidding her go pawn it, and with the proceeds buy some food, saying that in three days she would visit them again. Wang pressed her to stay, but she said, “You can’t even keep your wife alive; what would it benefit you to have me also dependent on you?” So she went away, and then Wang told his wife who she was, at which his wife felt very much alarmed; but Wang was so loud in her praises, that finally his wife consented to treat her with all proper respect. In three days she returned as agreed, and, producing some money, sent out for a hundred-weight of rice and a hundred-weight of corn. She passed the night with them, sleeping with Mrs. Wang, who was at first rather frightened, but who soon laid aside her suspicions when she found that the old lady meant so well towards them. Next day, the latter addressed Wang, saying, “My grandson, you must not be so lazy. You should try to make a little money in some way or other.” Wang replied that he had no capital; upon which the old lady said, “When your grandfather was alive, he allowed me to take what money I liked; but not being a mortal, I had no use for it, and consequently did not draw largely upon him. I have, however, saved from my pin-money the sum of forty ounces of silver, which has long been lying idle for want of an investment. Take it, and buy summer cloth, which you may carry to the capital and re-sell at a profit.” So Wang bought some fifty pieces of summer cloth; and the old lady made him get ready, calculating that in six or seven days he would reach the capital. She also warned him, saying,

Wang promised all obedience, and packed up his goods and went off. On the road he was overtaken by a rain-storm which soaked him through to the skin; and as he was not accustomed to be out in bad weather, it was altogether too much for him. He accordingly sought shelter in an inn, but the rain went on steadily till night, running over the eaves of the house like so many ropes. Next morning the roads were in a horrible state; and Wang, watching the passers-by slipping about in the slush, unable to see any path, dared not face it all, and remained until noon, when it began to dry up a little. Just then, however, the clouds closed over again, and down came the rain in torrents, causing him to stay another night before he could go on. When he was nearing the capital, he heard to his great joy that summer cloth was at a premium; and on arrival proceeded at once to take up his quarters at an inn. There the landlord said it was a pity he had come so late, as communications with the south having been only recently opened, the supply of summer cloth had been small; and there being a great demand for it among the wealthy families of the metropolis, its price had gone up to three times the usual figure. “But,” he added, “two days ago several large consignments arrived, and the price went down again, so that the late comers have lost their market.” Poor Wang was thus left in the lurch, and as every day more summer cloth came in, the value of it fell in a corresponding ratio. Wang would not part with his at a loss, and held on for some ten days, when his expenses for board and lodging were added to his present distress. The landlord urged him to sell even at a loss, and turn his attention to something else, which he ultimately did, losing over ten ounces of silver on his venture. Next day he rose in the morning to depart, but on looking in his purse found all his money gone. He rushed away to tell the landlord, who, however, could do nothing for him. Some one then advised him to take out a summons and make the landlord reimburse him; but he only sighed, and said, “It is my destiny, and no fault of the landlord’s.” Thereupon the landlord was very grateful to him, and gave him five ounces of silver to enable him to go home. He did not care, however, to face his grandmother empty-handed, and remained in a very undecided state, until suddenly he saw a quail-catcher winning heaps of money by fighting his birds, and selling them at over 100 cash a-piece. He then determined to lay out his five ounces of silver in quails, and pay back the landlord out of the profits. The latter approved very highly of this plan, and not only agreed to lend him a room but also to charge him little or nothing for his board. So Wang went off rejoicing, and bought two large baskets of quails, with which he returned to the city, to the great satisfaction of the landlord who advised him to lose no time in disposing of them. All that night it poured in torrents, and the next morning the streets were like rivers, the rain still continuing to fall. Wang waited for it to clear up, but several days passed and still there were no signs of fine weather. He then went to look at his quails, some of which he found dead and others dying. He was much alarmed at this, but was quite at a loss what to do; and by the next day a lot more had died, so that only a few were left, which he fed all together in one basket. The day after this he went again to look at them, and lo! there remained but a single quail. With tears in his eyes he told the landlord what had happened, and he, too, was much affected. Wang then reflected that he had no money left to carry him home, and that he could not do better than cease to live. But the landlord spoke to him and soothed him, and they went together to look at the quail. “This is a fine bird,” said the landlord, “and it strikes me that it has simply killed the others. Now, as you have got nothing to do, just set to work and train it; and if it is good for anything, why you’ll be able to make a living out of it.” Wang did as he was told; and when the bird was trained, the landlord bade him take it into the street and gamble for something to eat. This, too, he did, and his quail won every main; whereupon the landlord gave him some money to bet with the young fellows of the neighbourhood. Everything turned out favourably, and by the end of six months he had saved twenty ounces of silver, so that he became quite easy in his mind and looked upon the quail as a dispensation of his destiny.

Now one of the princes was passionately fond of quail-fighting, and always at the Feast of Lanterns anybody who owned quails might go and fight them in the palace against the prince’s birds. The landlord therefore said to Wang, “Here is a chance of enriching yourself by a single stroke; only I can’t say what your luck will do for you.” He then explained to him what it was, and away they went together, the landlord saying, “If you lose, burst out into lamentations; but if you are lucky enough to win, and the prince wishes, as he will, to buy your bird, don’t consent. If he presses you very much watch for a nod from me before you agree.” This settled, they proceeded to the palace where they found crowds of quail-fighters already on the ground; and then the prince came forth, heralds proclaiming to the multitude that any who wished to fight their birds might come up. Some man at once stepped forward, and the prince gave orders for the quails to be released; but at the first strike the stranger’s quail was knocked out of time. The prince smiled, and by-and-by won several more mains, until at last the landlord said, “Now’s our time,” and went up together with Wang. The Prince looked at their bird and said, “It has a fierce-looking eye and strong feathers. We must be careful what we are doing.” So he commanded his servants to bring out Iron Beak to oppose Wang’s bird; but, after a couple of strikes, the prince’s quail was signally defeated. He sent for a better bird, but that shared the same fate; and then he cried out, “Bring the Jade Bird from the palace!” In a little time it arrived, with pure white feathers like an egret, and an unusually martial appearance. Wang was much alarmed, and falling on his knees prayed to be excused this main, saying, “Your highness’s bird is too good. I fear lest mine should be wounded, and my livelihood be taken from me.” But the Prince laughed and said, “Go on. If your quail is killed I will make it up to you handsomely.” Wang then released his bird and the prince’s quail rushed at it at once; but when the Jade bird was close by, Wang’s quail awaited its coming head down and full of rage. The former made a violent peck at its adversary, and then sprung up to swoop down on it. Thus they went on up and down, backwards and forwards, until at length they got hold of each other, and the prince’s bird was beginning to show signs of exhaustion. This enraged it all the more, and it fought more violently than ever; but soon a perfect snowstorm of feathers began to fall, and, with drooping wings, the Jade bird made its escape. The spectators were much moved by the result; and the prince himself, taking up Wang’s bird, examined it closely from beak to claws, finally asking if it was for sale. “My sole dependence,” replied Wang, “is upon this bird. I would rather not part with it.” “But,” said the prince, “if I give you as much as the capital, say of an ordinary tradesman, will not that tempt you?” Wang thought some time, and then answered, “I would rather not sell my bird; but as your highness has taken a fancy to it I will only ask enough to find me in food and clothes.” “How much do you want?” inquired the prince; to which Wang replied that he would take a thousand ounces of silver. “You fool!” cried the Prince; “do you think your bird is such a jewel as all that?” “If your highness,” said Wang, “does not think the bird a jewel, I value it more than that stone which was priced at fifteen cities.” “How so?” asked the prince. “Why,” said Wang, “I take my bird every day into the market-place. It there wins for me several ounces of silver, which I exchange for rice; and my family, over ten in number, has nothing to fear from either cold or hunger. What jewel could do that?” “You shall not lose anything,” replied the prince; “I will give you two hundred ounces.” But Wang would not consent, and then the prince added another hundred; whereupon Wang looked at the landlord, who, however, made no sign. Wang then offered to take nine hundred; but the prince ridiculed the idea of paying such a price for a quail, and Wang was preparing to take his leave with the bird, when the prince called him back, saying, “Here! here! I will give you six hundred. Take it or leave it as you please.” Wang here looked at the landlord, and the landlord remained motionless as before. However, Wang was satisfied himself with this offer, and being afraid of missing his chance, said to his friend, “If I get this price for it I shall be quite content. If we go on haggling and finally come to no terms, that will be a very poor end to it all.” So he took the prince’s offer, and the latter, overjoyed, caused the money to be handed to him. Wang then returned with his earnings; but the landlord said to him, “What did I say to you? You were in too much of a hurry to sell. Another minute, and you would have got eight hundred.” When Wang got back he threw the money on the table and told the landlord to take what he liked; but the latter would not, and it was only after some pressing that he would accept payment for Wang’s board. Wang then packed up and went home, where he told his story and produced his silver to the great delight of all of them. The old lady counselled the purchase of a quantity of land, the building of a house, and the purchase of implements; and in a very short time they became a wealthy family. The old lady always got up early in the morning and made Wang attend to the farm, his wife to her spinning; and rated them soundly at any signs of laziness. The husband and wife henceforth lived in peace, and no longer abused each other, until at the expiration of three years the old lady declared her intention of bidding them adieu. They both tried to stop her, and with the aid of tears succeeded in persuading her; but the next day she had disappeared.[85]

XII.
THE PAINTED SKIN.

At T‘ai-yüan there lived a man named Wang. One morning he was out walking when he met a young lady carrying a bundle and hurrying along by herself. As she moved along with some difficulty,[86] Wang quickened his pace and caught her up, and found she was a pretty girl of about sixteen. Much smitten he inquired whither she was going so early, and no one with her. “A traveller like you,” replied the girl, “cannot alleviate my distress; why trouble yourself to ask?” “What distress is it?” said Wang; “I’m sure I’ll do anything I can for you.” “My parents,” answered she, “loved money, and they sold me as concubine into a rich family, where the wife was very jealous, and beat and abused me morning and night. It was more than I could stand, so I have run away.” Wang asked her where she was going; to which she replied that a runaway had no fixed place of abode. “My house,” said Wang, “is at no great distance; what do you say to coming there?” She joyfully acquiesced; and Wang, taking up her bundle, led the way to his house. Finding no one there, she asked Wang where his family were; to which he replied that that was only the library. “And a very nice place, too,” said she; “but if you are kind enough to wish to save my life, you mustn’t let it be known that I am here.” Wang promised he would not divulge her secret, and so she remained there for some days without anyone knowing anything about it. He then told his wife, and she, fearing the girl might belong to some influential family, advised him to send her away. This, however, he would not consent to do; when one day, going into the town, he met a Taoist priest, who looked at him in astonishment, and asked him what he had met. “I have met nothing,” replied Wang. “Why,” said the priest, “you are bewitched; what do you mean by not having met anything?” But Wang insisted that it was so, and the priest walked away, saying, “The fool! Some people don’t seem to know when death is at hand.” This startled Wang, who at first thought of the girl; but then he reflected that a pretty young thing as she was couldn’t well be a witch, and began to suspect that the priest merely wanted to do a stroke of business. When he returned, the library door was shut, and he couldn’t get in, which made him suspect that something was wrong; and so he climbed over the wall, where he found the door of the inner room shut too. Softly creeping up, he looked through the window and saw a hideous devil, with a green face and jagged teeth like a saw, spreading a human skin upon the bed and painting it with a paint-brush. The devil then threw aside the brush, and giving the skin a shake out, just as you would a coat, threw it over its shoulders, when, lo! it was the girl. Terrified at this, Wang hurried away with his head down in search of the priest who had gone he knew not whither; subsequently finding him in the fields, where he threw himself on his knees and begged the priest to save him. “As to driving her away,” said the priest, “the creature must be in great distress to be seeking a substitute for herself;[87] besides, I could hardly endure to injure a living thing.”[88] However, he gave Wang a fly-brush, and bade him hang it at the door of the bedroom, agreeing to meet again at the Ch‘ing-ti temple. Wang went home, but did not dare enter the library; so he hung up the brush at the bedroom door, and before long heard a sound of footsteps outside. Not daring to move, he made his wife peep out; and she saw the girl standing looking at the brush, afraid to pass it. She then ground her teeth and went away; but in a little while came back, and began cursing, saying, “You priest, you won’t frighten me. Do you think I am going to give up what is already in my grasp?” Thereupon, she tore the brush to pieces, and bursting open the door, walked straight up to the bed, where she ripped open Wang and tore out his heart, with which she went away. Wang’s wife screamed out, and the servant came in with a light; but Wang was already dead and presented a most miserable spectacle. His wife, who was in an agony of fright, hardly dared cry for fear of making a noise; and next day she sent Wang’s brother to see the priest. The latter got into a great rage, and cried out, “Was it for this that I had compassion on you, devil that you are?” proceeding at once with Wang’s brother to the house, from which the girl had disappeared without anyone knowing whither she had gone. But the priest, raising his head, looked all round, and said, “Luckily she’s not far off.” He then asked who lived in the apartments on the south side, to which Wang’s brother replied that he did; whereupon the priest declared that there she would be found. Wang’s brother was horribly frightened and said he did not think so; and then the priest asked him if any stranger had been to the house. To this he answered that he had been out to the Ch‘ing-ti temple and couldn’t possibly say; but he went off to inquire, and in a little while came back and reported that an old woman had sought service with them as a maid-of-all-work, and had been engaged by his wife. “That is she,” said the priest, as Wang’s brother added she was still there; and they all set out to go to the house together. Then the priest took his wooden sword, and standing in the middle of the court-yard, shouted out, “Base-born fiend, give me back my fly-brush!” Meanwhile the new maid-of-all-work was in a great state of alarm, and tried to get away by the door; but the priest struck her and down she fell flat, the human skin dropped off, and she became a hideous devil. There she lay grunting like a pig, until the priest grasped his wooden sword and struck off her head. She then became a dense column of smoke curling up from the ground, when the priest took an uncorked gourd and threw it right into the midst of the smoke. A sucking noise was heard, and the whole column was drawn into the gourd; after which the priest corked it up closely and put it in his pouch.[89] The skin, too, which was complete even to the eyebrows, eyes, hands, and feet, he also rolled up as if it had been a scroll, and was on the point of leaving with it, when Wang’s wife stopped him, and with tears entreated him to bring her husband to life. The priest said he was unable to do that; but Wang’s wife flung herself at his feet, and with loud lamentations implored his assistance. For some time he remained immersed in thought, and then replied, “My power is not equal to what you ask. I myself cannot raise the dead; but I will direct you to some one who can, and if you apply to him properly you will succeed.” Wang’s wife asked the priest who it was; to which he replied, “There is a maniac in the town who passes his time grovelling in the dirt. Go, prostrate yourself before him, and beg him to help you. If he insults you, shew no sign of anger.” Wang’s brother knew the man to whom he alluded, and accordingly bade the priest adieu, and proceeded thither with his sister-in-law.

They found the destitute creature raving away by the road side, so filthy that it was all they could do to go near him. Wang’s wife approached him on her knees; at which the maniac leered at her, and cried out, “Do you love me, my beauty?” Wang’s wife told him what she had come for, but he only laughed and said, “You can get plenty of other husbands. Why raise the dead one to life?” But Wang’s wife entreated him to help her; whereupon he observed, “It’s very strange: people apply to me to raise their dead as if I was king of the infernal regions.” He then gave Wang’s wife a thrashing with his staff, which she bore without a murmur, and before a gradually increasing crowd of spectators. After this he produced a loathsome pill which he told her she must swallow, but here she broke down and was quite unable to do so. However, she did manage it at last, and then the maniac crying out, “How you do love me!” got up and went away without taking any more notice of her. They followed him into a temple with loud supplications, but he had disappeared, and every effort to find him was unsuccessful. Overcome with rage and shame, Wang’s wife went home, where she mourned bitterly over her dead husband, grievously repenting the steps she had taken, and wishing only to die. She then bethought herself of preparing the corpse, near which none of the servants would venture; and set to work to close up the frightful wound of which he died.

While thus employed, interrupted from time to time by her sobs, she felt a rising lump in her throat, which by-and-by came out with a pop and fell straight into the dead man’s wound. Looking closely at it, she saw it was a human heart; and then it began as it were to throb, emitting a warm vapour like smoke. Much excited, she at once closed the flesh over it, and held the sides of the wound together with all her might. Very soon, however, she got tired, and finding the vapour escaping from the crevices, she tore up a piece of silk and bound it round, at the same time bringing back circulation by rubbing the body and covering it up with clothes. In the night, she removed the coverings, and found that breath was coming from the nose; and by next morning her husband was alive again, though disturbed in mind as if awaking from a dream and feeling a pain in his heart. Where he had been wounded, there was a cicatrix about as big as a cash, which soon after disappeared.

XIII.
THE TRADER’S SON.

In the province of Hunan there dwelt a man who was engaged in trading abroad; and his wife, who lived alone, dreamt one night that some one was in her room. Waking up, she looked about, and discovered a small creature which on examination she knew to be a fox; but in a moment the thing had disappeared, although the door had not been opened. The next evening she asked the cook-maid to come and keep her company; as also her own son, a boy of ten, who was accustomed to sleep elsewhere. Towards the middle of the night, when the cook and the boy were fast asleep, back came the fox; and the cook was waked up by hearing her mistress muttering something as if she had nightmare. The former then called out, and the fox ran away; but from that moment the trader’s wife was not quite herself. When night came she dared not blow out the candle, and bade her son be sure and not sleep too soundly. Later on, her son and the old woman having taken a nap as they leant against the wall, suddenly waked up and found her gone. They waited some time, but she did not return, and the cook was too frightened to go and look after her; so her son took a light, and at length found her fast asleep in another room. She didn’t seem aware that anything particular had happened, but she became queerer and queerer every day, and wouldn’t have either her son or the cook to keep her company any more. Her son, however, made a point of running at once into his mother’s room if he heard any unusual sounds; and though his mother always abused him for his pains, he paid no attention to what she said. At the same time, the more people urged him on to keep a sharp look-out, the more eccentric were his mother’s ways. One day she played at being a mason, and piled up stones upon the window-sill, in spite of all that was said to her; and if anyone took away a stone, she threw herself on the ground, and cried like a child, so that nobody dared go near her. In a few days she had got both windows blocked up and the light excluded; and then she set to filling up the chinks with mud. She worked hard all day without minding the trouble, and when it was finished she smoothed it off with the kitchen chopper. Everyone who saw her was disgusted with such antics, and would take no notice of her. At night her son darkened his lamp, and, with a knife concealed on his person, sat waiting for his mother to mutter. As soon as she began he uncovered his light, and, blocking up the doorway, shouted out at the top of his voice. Nothing, however, happened, and he moved from the door a little way, when suddenly out rushed something like a fox, which was disappearing through the door, when he made a quick movement and cut off about two inches of its tail, from which the warm blood was still dripping as he brought the light to bear upon it. His mother hereupon cursed and reviled him, but he pretended not to hear her, regretting only as he went to bed that he hadn’t hit the brute fair. But he consoled himself by thinking that although he hadn’t killed it outright, he had done enough to prevent it coming again. On the morrow he followed the tracks of blood over the wall and into the garden of a family named Ho; and that night, to his great joy, the fox did not reappear. His mother was meanwhile prostrate, with hardly any life in her, and in the midst of it all his father came home. The boy told him what had happened, at which he was much alarmed, and sent for a doctor to attend his wife; but she only threw the medicine away, and cursed and swore horribly. So they secretly mixed the medicine with her tea and soup, and in a few days she began to get better, to the inexpressible delight of both her husband and son. One night, however, her husband woke up and found her gone; and after searching for her with the aid of his son, they discovered her sleeping in another room. From that time she became more eccentric than ever, and was always being found in strange places, cursing those who tried to remove her. Her husband was at his wits’ end. It was no use keeping the door locked, for it opened of itself at her approach; and he had called in any number of magicians to exorcise the fox, but without obtaining the slightest result. One evening her son concealed himself in the Ho family garden, and lay down in the long grass with a view to detecting the fox’s retreat. As the moon rose he heard the sound of voices, and, pushing aside the grass, saw two people drinking, with a long-bearded servant pouring out their wine, dressed in an old dark-brown coat. They were whispering together, and he could not make out what they said; but by-and-by he heard one of them remark, “Get some white wine for to-morrow,” and then they went away, leaving the long-bearded servant alone. The latter then threw off his coat, and lay down to sleep on the stones; whereupon the trader’s son eyed him carefully, and saw that he was like a man in every respect except that he had a tail. The boy would then have gone home; but he was afraid the fox might hear him, and accordingly remained where he was till near dawn, when he saw the other two come back, one at a time, and then they all disappeared among the bushes. On reaching home his father asked him where he had been, and he replied that he had stopped the night with the Ho family. He then accompanied his father to the town, where he saw hanging up at a hat-shop a fox’s tail, and finally, after much coaxing, succeeded in making his father buy it for him. While the latter was engaged in a shop, his son, who was playing about beside him, availed himself of a moment when his father was not looking and stole some money from him, and went off and bought a quantity of white wine, which he left in charge of the wine-merchant. Now an uncle of his, who was a sportsman by trade, lived in the city, and thither he next betook himself. His uncle was out, but his aunt was there, and inquired after the health of his mother. “She has been better the last few days,” replied he; “but she is now very much upset by a rat having gnawed a dress of hers, and has sent me to ask for some poison.” His aunt opened the cupboard and gave him about the tenth of an ounce in a piece of paper, which he thought was very little; so, when his aunt had gone to get him something to eat, he took the opportunity of being alone, opened the packet, and abstracted a large handful. Hiding this in his coat, he ran to tell his aunt that she needn’t prepare anything for him, as his father was waiting in the market, and he couldn’t stop to eat it. He then went off; and having quietly dropped the poison into the wine he had bought, went sauntering about the town. At nightfall he returned home, and told his father that he had been at his uncle’s. This he continued to do for some time, until one day he saw amongst the crowd his long-bearded friend. Marking him closely, he followed him, and at length entered into conversation, asking him where he lived. “I live at Pei-ts‘un,” said he; “where do you live?” “I,” replied the trader’s son, falsely, “live in a hole on the hill-side.” The long-bearded man was considerably startled at his answer, but much more so when he added, “We’ve lived there for generations: haven’t you?” The other then asked his name, to which the boy replied, “My name is Hu.[90] I saw you with two gentlemen in the Ho family garden, and haven’t forgotten you.” Questioning him more fully, the long-bearded man was still in a half-and-half state of belief and doubt, when the trader’s son opened his coat a little bit, and showed him the end of the tail he had bought, saying, “The like of us can mix with ordinary people, but unfortunately we can never get rid of this.” The long-bearded man then asked him what he was doing there, to which he answered that his father had sent him to buy wine; whereupon the former remarked that that was exactly what he had come for, and the boy then inquired if he had bought it yet or not. “We are poor,” replied the stranger, “and as a rule I prefer to steal it.” “A difficult and dangerous job,” observed the boy. “I have my master’s instructions to get some,” said the other, “and what am I to do?” The boy then asked him who his masters were, to which he replied that they were the two brothers the boy had seen that night. “One of them has bewitched a lady named Wang; and the other, the wife of a trader who lives near. The son of the last-mentioned lady is a violent fellow, and cut off my master’s tail, so that he was laid up for ten days. But he is putting her under spells again now.” He was then going away, saying he should never get his wine; but the boy said to him, “It’s much easier to buy than steal. I have some at the wine-shop there which I will give to you. My purse isn’t empty, and I can buy some more.” The long-bearded man hardly knew how to thank him; but the boy said, “We’re all one family. Don’t mention such a trifle. When I have time I’ll come and take a drink with you.” So they went off together to the wine-shop, where the boy gave him the wine and they then separated. That night his mother slept quietly and had no fits, and the boy knew that something must have happened. He then told his father, and they went to see if there were any results; when lo! they found both foxes stretched out dead in the arbour. One of the foxes was lying on the grass, and out of its mouth blood was still trickling. The wine-bottle was there; and on shaking it they heard that some was left. Then his father asked him why he had kept it all so secret; to which the boy replied that foxes were very sagacious, and would have been sure to scent the plot. Thereupon his father was mightily pleased, and said he was a perfect Ulysses[91] for cunning. They then carried the foxes home, and saw on the tail of one of them the scar of a knife-wound. From that time they were left in peace; but the trader’s wife became very thin, and though her reason returned, she shortly afterwards died of consumption. The other lady, Mrs. Wang, began to get better as soon as the foxes had been killed; and as to the boy, he was taught riding and archery[92] by his proud parent, and subsequently rose to high rank in the army.

XIV.
JUDGE LU.

At Ling-yang there lived a man named Chu Erh-tan, whose literary designation[93] was Hsiao-ming. He was a fine manly fellow, but an egregious dunce, though he tried hard to learn. One day he was taking wine with a number of fellow-students, when one of them said to him, by way of a joke, “People credit you with plenty of pluck. Now, if you will go in the middle of the night to the Chamber of Horrors,[94] and bring back the Infernal Judge from the left-hand porch, we’ll all stand you a dinner.” For at Ling-yang there was a representation of the Ten Courts of Purgatory, with the Gods and devils carved in wood, and almost life-like in appearance; and in the eastern vestibule there was a full-length image of the Judge with a green face, and a red beard, and a hideous expression in his features. Sometimes sounds of examination under the whip were heard to issue during the night from both porches, and persons who went in found their hair standing on end from fear; so the other young men thought it would be a capital test for Mr. Chu. Thereupon Chu smiled, and rising from his seat went straight off to the temple; and before many minutes had elapsed they heard him shouting outside, “His Excellency has arrived!” At this they all got up, and in came Chu with the image on his back, which he proceeded to deposit on the table, and then poured out a triple libation in its honour. His comrades who were watching what he did, felt ill at ease, and did not like to resume their seats; so they begged him to carry the Judge back again. But he first poured some wine upon the ground, invoking the image as follows:—“I am only a fool-hardy, illiterate fellow: I pray Your Excellency excuse me. My house is close by, and whenever Your Excellency feels so disposed I shall be glad to take a cup of wine with you in a friendly way.” He then carried the Judge back, and the next day his friends gave him the promised dinner, from which he went home half-tipsy in the evening. But not feeling that he had had enough, he brightened up his lamp, and helped himself to another cup of wine, when suddenly the bamboo curtain was drawn aside, and in walked the Judge. Mr. Chu got up and said, “Oh, dear! Your Excellency has come to cut off my head for my rudeness the other night.” The Judge parted his thick beard, and smiling, replied, “Nothing of the kind. You kindly invited me last night to visit you; and as I have leisure this evening, here I am.” Chu was delighted at this, and made his guest sit down, while he himself wiped the cups and lighted a fire.[95] “It’s warm weather,” said the Judge; “let’s drink the wine cold.” Chu obeyed, and putting the bottle on the table, went out to tell his servants to get some supper. His wife was much alarmed when she heard who was there, and begged him not to go back; but he only waited until the things were ready, and then returned with them. They drank out of each other’s cups,[96] and by-and-by Chu asked the name of his guest. “My name is Lu,” replied the Judge; “I have no other names.” They then conversed on literary subjects, one capping the other’s quotation as echo responds to sound. The Judge then asked Chu if he understood composition; to which he answered that he could just tell good from bad; whereupon the former repeated a little infernal poetry which was not very different from that of mortals. He was a deep drinker, and took off ten goblets at a draught; but Chu who had been at it all day, soon got dead drunk and fell fast asleep with his head on the table. When he waked up the candle had burnt out and day was beginning to break, his guest having already departed; and from this time the Judge was in the habit of dropping in pretty often, until a close friendship sprang up between them. Sometimes the latter would pass the night at the house, and Chu would show him his essays, all of which the Judge scored and underlined as being good for nothing. One night Chu got tipsy and went to bed first, leaving the Judge drinking by himself. In his drunken sleep he seemed to feel a pain in his stomach, and waking up he saw that the Judge, who was standing by the side of the bed, had opened him, and was carefully arranging his inside. “What harm have I done you?” cried Chu, “that you should thus seek to destroy me?” “Don’t be afraid,” replied the Judge, laughing, “I am only providing you with a more intelligent heart.”[97] He then quietly put back Chu’s viscera, and closed up the opening, securing it with a bandage tied tightly round his waist. There was no blood on the bed, and all Chu felt was a slight numbness in his inside. Here he observed the Judge place a piece of flesh upon the table, and asked him what it was. “Your heart,” said the latter, “which wasn’t at all good at composition, the proper orifice being stuffed up.[98] I have now provided you with a better one, which I procured from Hades, and I am keeping yours to put in its place.”[99] He then opened the door and took his leave. In the morning Chu undid the bandage, and looked at his waist, the wound on which had quite healed up, leaving only a red seam. From that moment he became an apt scholar, and found his memory much improved; so much so, that a few days afterwards he showed an essay to the Judge for which he was very much commended. “However,” said the latter, “your success will be limited to the master’s degree. You won’t get beyond that.” “When shall I take it?” asked Chu. “This year,” replied the Judge. And so it turned out. Chu passed first on the list for the bachelor’s degree, and then among the first five for the master’s degree. His old comrades, who had been accustomed to make a laughing-stock of him, were now astonished to find him a full blown M.A., and when they learned how it had come about, they begged Chu to speak to the Judge on their behalf. The Judge promised to assist them, and they made all ready to receive him; but when in the evening he did come, they were so frightened at his red beard and flashing eyes that their teeth chattered in their heads, and one by one they stole away. Chu then took the Judge home with him to have a cup together, and when the wine had mounted well into his head, he said, “I am deeply grateful to Your Excellency’s former kindness in arranging my inside; but there is still another favour I venture to ask which possibly may be granted.” The Judge asked him what it was; and Chu replied, “If you can change a person’s inside, you surely could also change his face. Now my wife is not at all a bad figure, but she is very ugly. I pray Your Excellency try the knife upon her.” The Judge laughed, and said he would do so, only it would be necessary to give him a little time. Some days subsequently, the Judge knocked at Chu’s door towards the middle of the night; whereupon the latter jumped up and invited him in. Lighting a candle, it was evident that the Judge had something under his coat, and in answer to Chu’s inquiries, he said, “It’s what you asked me for. I have had great trouble in procuring it.” He then produced the head of a nice-looking young girl, and presented it to Chu, who found the blood on the neck was still warm. “We must make haste,” said the Judge, “and take care not to wake the fowls or dogs.”[100] Chu was afraid his wife’s door might be bolted; but the Judge laid his hand on it and it opened at once. Chu then led him to the bed where his wife was lying asleep on her side; and the Judge, giving Chu the head to hold, drew from his boot a steel blade shaped like the handle of a spoon. He laid this across the lady’s neck, which he cut through as if it had been a melon, and the head fell over the back of the pillow. Seizing the head he had brought with him, he now fitted it on carefully and accurately, and pressing it down to make it stick, bolstered the lady up with pillows placed on either side. When all was finished, he bade Chu put his wife’s old head away, and then took his leave. Soon after Mrs. Chu waked up, and perceived a curious sensation about her neck, and a scaly feeling about the jaws. Putting her hand to her face, she found flakes of dry blood; and much frightened called a maid-servant to bring water to wash it off. The maid-servant was also greatly alarmed at the appearance of her face, and proceeded to wash off the blood, which coloured a whole basin of water; but when she saw her mistress’s new face she was almost frightened to death. Mrs. Chu took a mirror to look at herself, and was staring at herself in utter astonishment, when her husband came in and explained what had taken place. On examining her more closely, Chu saw that she had a well-featured pleasant face, of a medium order of beauty; and when he came to look at her neck, he found a red seam all round, with the parts above and below of a different coloured flesh. Now the daughter of an official named Wu was a very nice-looking girl who, though nineteen years of age, had not yet been married, two gentlemen who were engaged to her having died before the day.[101] At the Feast of Lanterns,[102] this young lady happened to visit the Chamber of Horrors, whence she was followed home by a burglar, who that night broke into the house and killed her. Hearing a noise, her mother told the servant to go and see what was the matter; and the murder being thus discovered, every member of the family got up. They placed the body in the hall, with the head alongside, and gave themselves up to weeping and wailing the livelong night. Next morning, when they removed the coverings, the corpse was there but the head had disappeared. The waiting-maids were accordingly flogged for neglect of duty, and consequent loss of the head, and Mr. Wu brought the matter to the notice of the Prefect. This officer took very energetic measures, but for three days no clue could be obtained; and then the story of the changed head in the Chu family gradually reached Mr. Wu’s ears. Suspecting something, he sent an old woman to make inquiries; and she at once recognised her late young mistress’s features, and went back and reported to her master. Thereupon Mr. Wu, unable to make out why the body should have been left, imagined that Chu had slain his daughter by magical arts, and at once proceeded to the house to find out the truth of the matter; but Chu told him that his wife’s head had been changed in her sleep, and that he knew nothing about it, adding that it was unjust to accuse him of the murder. Mr. Wu refused to believe this, and took proceedings against him; but as all the servants told the same story, the Prefect was unable to convict him. Chu returned home and took counsel with the Judge, who told him there would be no difficulty, it being merely necessary to make the murdered girl herself speak. That night Mr. Wu dreamt that his daughter came and said to him, “I was killed by Yang Ta-nien, of Su-ch‘i. Mr. Chu had nothing to do with it; but desiring a better-looking face for his wife, Judge Lu gave him mine, and thus my body is dead while my head still lives. Bear Chu no malice.” When he awaked, he told his wife, who had dreamt the same dream; and thereupon he communicated these facts to the officials. Subsequently, a man of that name was captured, who confessed under the bamboo that he had committed the crime; so Mr. Wu went off to Chu’s house, and asked to be allowed to see his wife, regarding Chu from that time as his son-in-law. Mrs. Chu’s old head was fitted on to the young lady’s body, and the two parts were buried together.

Subsequent to these events Mr. Chu tried three times for his doctor’s degree, but each time without success, and at last he gave up the idea of entering into official life.Then when thirty years had passed away, Judge Lu appeared to him one night, and said, “My friend, you cannot live for ever.Your hour will come in five days’ time.”Chu asked the Judge if he could not save him; to which he replied, “The decrees of Heaven cannot be altered to suit the purposes of mortals.Besides, to an intelligent man life and death are much the same.[103] Why necessarily regard life as a boon and death as a misfortune?” Chu could make no reply to this, and forthwith proceeded to order his coffin and shroud;[104] and then, dressing himself in his grave-clothes, yielded up the ghost. Next day, as his wife was weeping over his bier, in he walked at the front door, to her very great alarm. “I am now a disembodied spirit,” said Chu to her, “though not different from what I was in life; and I have been thinking much of the widow and orphan I left behind.” His wife, hearing this, wept till the tears ran down her face, Chu all the time doing his best to comfort her. “I have heard tell,” said she, “of dead bodies returning to life; and since your vital spark is not extinct, why does it not resume the flesh?” “The ordinances of Heaven,” replied her husband, “may not be disobeyed.” His wife here asked him what he was doing in the infernal regions; and he said that Judge Lu had got him an appointment as Registrar, with a certain rank attached, and that he was not at all uncomfortable. Mrs. Chu was proceeding to inquire further, when he interrupted her, saying, “The Judge has come with me; get some wine ready and something to eat.” He then hurried out, and his wife did as he had told her, hearing them laughing and drinking in the guest chamber just like old times come back again. About midnight she peeped in, and found that they had both disappeared; but they came back once in every two or three days, often spending the night, and managing the family affairs as usual. Chu’s son was named Wei, and was about five years old; and whenever his father came he would take the little boy upon his knee. When he was about eight years of age, Chu began to teach him to read; and the boy was so clever that by the time he was nine he could actually compose. At fifteen he took his bachelor’s degree, without knowing all this time that he had no father. From that date Chu’s visits became less frequent, occurring not more than once or so in a month; until one night he told his wife that they were never to meet again. In reply to her inquiry as to whither he was going, he said he had been appointed to a far-off post, where press of business and distance would combine to prevent him from visiting them any more. The mother and son clung to him, sobbing bitterly; but he said, “Do not act thus. The boy is now a man, and can look after your affairs. The dearest friends must part some day.” Then, turning to his son, he added, “Be an honourable man, and take care of the property. Ten years hence we shall meet again.” With this he bade them farewell, and went away.

Later on, when Wei was twenty-two years of age, he took his doctor’s degree, and was appointed to conduct the sacrifices at the Imperial tombs.On his way thither he fell in with a retinue of an official, proceeding along with all the proper insignia,[105] and, looking carefully at the individual sitting in the carriage, he was astonished to find that it was his own father. Alighting from his horse, he prostrated himself with tears at the side of the road; whereupon his father stopped and said, “You are well spoken of. I now take leave of this world.” Wei remained on the ground, not daring to rise; and his father, urging on his carriage, hurried away without saying any more. But when he had gone a short distance, he looked back, and unloosing a sword from his waist, sent it as a present to his son, shouting out to him, “Wear this and you will succeed.” Wei tried to follow him; but, in an instant, carriage, retinue, and horses, had vanished with the speed of wind. For a long time his son gave himself up to grief, and then seizing the sword began to examine it closely. It was of exquisite workmanship, and on the blade was engraved this legend:—“Be bold, but cautious; round in disposition, square in action.”[106] Wei subsequently rose to high honours, and had five sons named Ch‘ên, Ch‘ien, Wu, Hun, and Shên. One night he dreamt that his father told him to give the sword to Hun, which he accordingly did; and Hun rose to be a Viceroy of great administrative ability.

XV.
MISS YING-NING; OR, THE LAUGHING GIRL.

At Lo-tien, in the province of Shantung, there lived a youth named Wang Tzŭ-fu, who had been left an orphan when quite young. He was a clever boy, and took his bachelor’s degree at the age of fourteen, being quite his mother’s pet, and not allowed by her to stray far away from home. One young lady to whom he had been betrothed having unhappily died, he was still in search of a wife when, on the occasion of the Feast of Lanterns, his cousin Wu asked him to come along for a stroll. But they had hardly got beyond the village before one of his uncle’s servants caught them up and told Wu he was wanted. The latter accordingly went back; but Wang, seeing plenty of nice girls about and being in high spirits himself, proceeded on alone. Amongst others, he noticed a young lady with her maid. She had just picked a sprig of plum-blossom, and was the prettiest girl he had ever heard of—a perfect bunch of smiles. He stared and stared at her quite regardless of appearances; and when she had passed by, she said to her maid, “That young fellow has a wicked look in his eyes.” As she was walking away, laughing and talking, the flower dropped out of her hand; and Wang, picking it up, stood there disconsolate as if he had lost his wits. He then went home in a very melancholy mood; and, putting the flower under his pillow, lay down to sleep. He would neither talk nor eat; and his mother became very anxious about him, and called in the aid of the priests.[107] By degrees, he fell off in flesh and got very thin; and the doctor felt his pulse and gave him medicines to bring out the disease. Occasionally, he seemed bewildered in his mind, but in spite of all his mother’s inquiries would give no clue as to the cause of his malady. One day when his cousin Wu came to the house, Wang’s mother told him to try and find out what was the matter; and the former, approaching the bed, gradually and quietly led up to the point in question. Wang, who had wept bitterly at the sight of his cousin, now repeated to him the whole story, begging him to lend some assistance in the matter. “How foolish you are, cousin,” cried Wu; “there will be no difficulty at all, I’ll make inquiries for you. The girl herself can’t belong to a very aristocratic family to be walking alone in the country. If she’s not already engaged, I have no doubt we can arrange the affair; and even if she is unwilling, an extra outlay will easily bring her round.[108] You make haste and get well: I’ll see to it all.” Wang’s features relaxed when he heard these words; and Wu left him to tell his mother how the case stood, immediately setting on foot inquiries as to the whereabouts of the girl. All his efforts, however, proved fruitless, to the great disappointment of Wang’s mother; for since his cousin’s visit Wang’s colour and appetite had returned. In a few days Wu called again, and in answer to Wang’s questions falsely told him that the affair was settled. “Who do you think the young lady is?” said he. “Why, a cousin of ours, who is only waiting to be betrothed; and though you two are a little near,[109] I daresay the circumstances of the case will be allowed to overrule this objection.” Wang was overjoyed, and asked where she lived; so Wu had to tell another lie, and say, “On the south-west hills, about ten miles from here.” Wang begged him again and again to do his best for him, and Wu undertook to get the betrothal satisfactorily arranged. He then took leave of his cousin, who from this moment was rapidly restored to health. Wang drew the flower from underneath his pillow, and found that, though dried up, the leaves had not fallen away. He often sat playing with this flower and thinking of the young lady; but by-and-by, as Wu did not reappear, he wrote a letter and asked him to come. Wu pleaded other engagements, being unwilling to go; at which Wang got in a rage and quite lost his good spirits; so that his mother, fearing a relapse, proposed to him a speedy betrothal in another quarter. Wang shook his head at this, and sat day after day waiting for Wu, until his patience was thoroughly exhausted. He then reflected that ten miles was no great distance, and that there was no particular reason for asking anybody’s aid; so, concealing the flower in his sleeve, he went off in a huff by himself without letting it be known. Having no opportunity of asking the way, he made straight for the hills; and after about ten miles walking found himself right in the midst of them, enjoying their exquisite verdure, but meeting no one, and with nothing better than mountain paths to guide him. Away down in the valley below, almost buried under a densely luxuriant growth of trees and flowers, he espied a small hamlet, and began to descend the hill and make his way thither. He found very few houses, and all built of rushes, but otherwise pleasant enough to look at. Before the door of one, which stood at the northern end of the village, were a number of graceful willow trees, and inside the wall plenty of peach and apricot trees, with tufts of bamboo between them, and birds chirping on the branches. As it was a private house he did not venture to go in, but sat down to rest himself on a huge smooth stone opposite the front door. By-and-by he heard a girl’s voice from within calling out Hsiao-jung; and, noticing that it was a sweet-toned voice, set himself to listen, when a young lady passed with a bunch of apricot-flowers in her hand, and occupied in putting hair-pins into her downcast head. As soon as she raised her face she saw Wang, and stopped putting in hair-pins; then, smothering a laugh, picked a few flowers and ran in. Wang perceived to his intense delight that she was none other than his heroine of the Feast of Lanterns; but recollecting that he had no right to follow her in, was on the point of calling after her as his cousin. There was no one, however, in the street, and he was afraid lest he might have made a mistake; neither was there anybody at the door of whom he could make inquiries. So he remained there in a very restless state till the sun was well down in the west, and his hopes were almost at an end, forgetting all about food and drink. He then saw the young lady peep through the door, apparently very much astonished to find him still there; and in a few minutes out came an old woman leaning on a stick, who said to him, “Whence do you come, Sir? I hear you have been here ever since morning. What is it you want? Aren’t you hungry?” Wang got up, and making a bow, replied that he was in search of some relatives of his; but the old woman was deaf and didn’t catch what he said, so he had to shout it out again at the top of his voice. She asked him what their names were, but he was unable to tell her; at which she laughed and said, “It is a funny thing to look for people when you don’t know their names. I am afraid you are an unpractical gentleman. You had better come in and have something to eat; we’ll give you a bed and you can go back to-morrow and find out the names of the people you are in quest of.” Now Wang was just beginning to get hungry, and, besides, this would bring him nearer to the young lady; so he readily accepted and followed the old woman in. They walked along a paved path banked on both sides with hibiscus, the leaves of which were scattered about on the ground; and passing through another door, entered a court-yard full of trained creepers and other flowers. The old woman showed Wang into a small room with beautifully white walls and a branch of a crab-apple tree coming through the window, the furniture being also nice and clean. They had hardly sat down when it was clear that some one was taking a peep through the window; whereupon the old woman cried out, “Hsiao-jung! make haste and get dinner,” and a maid from outside immediately answered “Yes, ma’am.” Meanwhile, Wang had been explaining who he was; and then the old lady said, “Was your maternal grandfather named Wu?” “He was,” replied Wang. “Well, I never!” cried the old woman, “he was my uncle, and your mother and I are cousins. But in consequence of our poverty, and having no sons, we have kept quite to ourselves, and you have grown to be a man without my knowing you.” “I came here,” said Wang, “about my cousin, but in the hurry I forgot your name.” “My name is Ch‘in,” replied the old lady; “I have no son: only a girl, the child of a concubine, who, after my husband’s death, married again[110] and left her daughter with me. She’s a clever girl, but has had very little education; full of fun and ignorant of the sorrows of life. I’ll send for her by-and-by to make your acquaintance.” The maid then brought in the dinner—a large dish full of choice morsels of fowl—and the old woman pressed him to eat. When they had finished, and the things were taken away, the old woman said, “Call Miss Ning,” and the maid went off to do so. After some time there was a giggling at the door, and the old woman cried out, “Ying-ning! your cousin is here.” There was then a great tittering as the maid pushed her in, stopping her mouth all the time to try and keep from laughing. “Don’t you know better than to behave like that?” asked the old woman, “and before a stranger, too.” So Ying-ning controlled her feelings, and Wang made her a bow, the old woman saying, “Mr. Wang is your cousin: you have never seen him before. Isn’t that funny?” Wang asked how old his cousin was, but the old woman didn’t hear him, and he had to say it again, which sent Ying-ning off into another fit of laughter. “I told you,” observed the old woman, “she hadn’t much education; now you see it. She is sixteen years old, and as foolish as a baby.” “One year younger than I am,” remarked Wang. “Oh, you’re seventeen are you? Then you were born in the year ——, under the sign of the horse.”[111] Wang nodded assent, and then the old woman asked who his wife was, to which Wang replied that he had none. “What! a clever, handsome young fellow of seventeen not yet engaged?[112] Ying-ning is not engaged either: you two would make a nice pair if it wasn’t for the relationship.” Wang said nothing, but looked hard at his cousin; and just then the maid whispered to her, “It is the fellow with the wicked eyes! He’s at his old game.” Ying-ning laughed, and proposed to the maid that they should go and see if the peaches were in blossom or not; and off they went together, the former with her sleeve stuffed into her mouth until she got outside, where she burst into a hearty fit of laughing. The old woman gave orders for a bed to be got ready for Wang, saying to him, “It’s not often we meet: you must spend a few days with us now you are here, and then we’ll send you home. If you are at all dull, there’s a garden behind where you can amuse yourself, and books for you to read.” So next day Wang strolled into the garden, which was of moderate size, with a well-kept lawn and plenty of trees and flowers. There was also an arbour consisting of three posts with a thatched roof, quite shut in on all sides by the luxurious vegetation. Pushing his way among the flowers, Wang heard a noise from one of the trees, and looking up saw Ying-ning, who at once burst out laughing and nearly fell down. “Don’t! don’t!” cried Wang, “you’ll fall!” Then Ying-ning came down, giggling all the time, until, when she was near the ground, she missed her hold, and tumbled down with a run. This stopped her merriment, and Wang picked her up, gently squeezing her hand as he did so. Ying-ning began laughing again, and was obliged to lean against a tree for support, it being some time before she was able to stop. Wang waited till she had finished, and then drew the flower out of his sleeve and handed it to her. “It’s dead,” said she; “why do you keep it?” “You dropped it, cousin, at the Feast of Lanterns,” replied Wang, “and so I kept it.” She then asked him what was his object in keeping it, to which he answered, “To show my love, and that I have not forgotten you. Since that day when we met, I have been very ill from thinking so much of you, and am quite changed from what I was. But now that it is my unexpected good fortune to meet you, I pray you have pity on me.” “You needn’t make such a fuss about a trifle,” replied she, “and with your own relatives, too. I’ll give orders to supply you with a whole basketful of flowers when you go away.” Wang told her she did not understand, and when she asked what it was she didn’t understand, he said, “I didn’t care for the flower itself; it was the person who picked the flower.” “Of course,” answered she, “everybody cares for their relations; you needn’t have told me that.” “I wasn’t talking about ordinary relations,” said Wang, “but about husbands and wives.” “What’s the difference?” asked Ying-ning. “Why,” replied Wang, “husband and wife are always together.” “Just what I shouldn’t like,” cried she, “to be always with anybody.”[113] At this juncture up came the maid, and Wang slipped quietly away. By-and-by they all met again in the house, and the old woman asked Ying-ning where they had been; whereupon she said they had been talking in the garden. “Dinner has been ready a long time. I can’t think what you have had to say all this while,” grumbled the old woman. “My cousin,” answered Ying-ning, “has been talking to me about husbands and wives.” Wang was much disconcerted, and made a sign to her to be quiet, so she smiled and said no more; and the old woman luckily did not catch her words, and asked her to repeat them. Wang immediately put her off with something else, and whispered to Ying-ning that she had done very wrong. The latter did not see that; and when Wang told her that what he had said was private, answered him that she had no secrets from her old mother. “Besides,” added she, “what harm can there be in talking on such a common topic as husbands and wives?” Wang was angry with her for being so dull, but there was no help for it; and by the time dinner was over he found some of his mother’s servants had come in search of him, bringing a couple of donkeys with them. It appeared that his mother, alarmed at his non-appearance, had made strict search for him in the village; and when unable to discover any traces of him, had gone off to the Wu family to consult. There her nephew, who recollected what he had previously said to young Wang, advised that a search should be instituted in the direction of the hills; and accordingly the servants had been to all the villages on the way until they had at length recognised him as he was coming out of the door. Wang went in and told the old woman, begging that he might be allowed to take Ying-ning with him. “I have had the idea in my head for several days,” replied the old woman, overjoyed; “but I am a feeble old thing myself, and couldn’t travel so far. If, however, you will take charge of my girl and introduce her to her aunt, I shall be very pleased.” So she called Ying-ning, who came up laughing as usual; whereupon the old woman rebuked her, saying, “What makes you always laugh so? You would be a very good girl but for that silly habit. Now, here’s your cousin, who wants to take you away with him. Make haste and pack up.” The servants who had come for Wang were then provided with refreshment, and the old woman bade them both farewell, telling Ying-ning that her aunt was quite well enough off to maintain her, and that she had better not come back. She also advised her not to neglect her studies, and to be very attentive to her elders, adding that she might ask her aunt to provide her with a good husband. Wang and Ying-ning then took their leave; and when they reached the brow of the hill, they looked back and could just discern the old woman leaning against the door and gazing towards the north. On arriving at Wang’s home, his mother, seeing a nice-looking young girl with him, asked in astonishment who she might be; and Wang at once told her the whole story. “But that was all an invention of your cousin Wu’s,” cried his mother; “I haven’t got a sister, and consequently I can’t have such a niece.” Ying-ning here observed, “I am not the daughter of the old woman; my father was named Ch‘in and died when I was a little baby, so that I can’t remember anything.” “I had a sister,” said Wang’s mother, “who actually did marry a Mr. Ch‘in, but she died many years ago, and can’t be still living, of course.” However, on inquiring as to facial appearance and characteristic marks, Wang’s mother was obliged to acknowledge the identity, wondering at the same time how her sister could be alive when she had died many years before. Just then in came Wu, and Ying-ning retired within; and when he heard the story, remained some time lost in astonishment, and then said, “Is this young lady’s name Ying-ning?” Wang replied that it was, and asked Wu how he came to know it. “Mr. Ch‘in,” answered he, “after his wife’s death was bewitched by a fox, and subsequently died. The fox had a daughter named Ying-ning, as was well known to all the family; and when Mr. Ch‘in died, as the fox still frequented the place, the Taoist Pope[114] was called in to exorcise it. The fox then went away, taking Ying-ning with it, and now here she is.” While they were thus discussing, peals of laughter were heard coming from within, and Mrs. Wang took occasion to remark what a foolish girl she was. Wu begged to be introduced, and Mrs. Wang went in to fetch her, finding her in an uncontrollable fit of laughter, which she subdued only with great difficulty, and by turning her face to the wall. By-and-by she went out; but, after making a bow, ran back and burst out laughing again to the great discomfiture of all the ladies. Wang then said he would go and find out for them all about Ying-ning and her queer story, so as to be able to arrange the marriage; but when he reached the spot indicated, village and houses had all vanished, and nothing was to be seen except hill-flowers scattered about here and there. Wu recollected that Mrs. Ch‘in had been buried at no great distance from that spot; he found, however, that the grave had disappeared, and he was no longer able to determine its position. Not knowing what to make of it all, he returned home, and then Mrs. Wang told him she thought the girl must be a disembodied spirit. Ying-ning shewed no signs of alarm at this remark; neither did she cry at all when Mrs. Wang began to condole with her on no longer having a home. She only laughed in her usual silly way, and fairly puzzled them all. Sharing Miss Wang’s room, she now began to take her part in the duties of a daughter of the family; and as for needlework, they had rarely seen anything like hers for fineness. But she could not get over that trick of laughing, which, by the way, never interfered with her good looks, and consequently rather amused people than otherwise, amongst others a young married lady who lived next door. Wang’s mother fixed an auspicious day for the wedding, but still feeling suspicious about Ying-ning, was always secretly watching her. Finding, however, that she had a proper shadow,[115] and that there was nothing extraordinary in her behaviour, she had her dressed up when the day came, in all the finery of a bride; and would have made her perform the usual ceremonies, only Ying-ning laughed so much she was unable to kneel down.[116] They were accordingly obliged to excuse her, but Wang began to fear that such a foolish girl would never be able to keep the family counsel. Luckily, she was very reticent and did not indulge in gossip; and moreover, when Mrs. Wang was in trouble or out of temper, Ying-ning could always bring her round with a laugh. The maid-servants, too, if they expected a whipping for anything, would always ask her to be present when they appeared before their mistress, and thus they often escaped punishment. Ying-ning had a perfect passion for flowers. She got all she could out of her relations, and even secretly pawned her jewels to buy rare specimens; and by the end of a few months the whole place was one mass of flowers. Behind the house there was one especial tree[117] which belonged to the neighbours on that side; but Ying-ning was always climbing up and picking the flowers, for which Mrs. Wang rebuked her severely, though without any result. One day the owner saw her, and gazed at her some time in rapt astonishment; however, she didn’t move, deigning only to laugh. The gentleman was much smitten with her; and when she smilingly descended the wall on her own side, pointing all the time with her finger to a spot hard by, he thought she was making an assignation. So he presented himself at nightfall at the same place, and sure enough Ying-ning was there. Seizing her hand, to tell his passion, he found that he was grasping only a log of wood which stood against the wall; and the next thing he knew was that a scorpion had stung him violently on the finger. There was an end of his romance, except that he died of the wound during the night, and his family at once commenced an action against Wang for having a witch-wife. The magistrate happened to be a great admirer of Wang’s talent, and knew him to be an accomplished scholar; he therefore refused to grant the summons, and ordered the prosecutor to be bambooed for false accusation.[118] Wang interposed and got him off this punishment, and returned home himself. His mother then scolded Ying-ning well, saying, “I knew your too playful disposition would some day bring sorrow upon you. But for our intelligent magistrate we should have been in a nice mess. Any ordinary hawk-like official would have had you publicly interrogated in court; and then how could your husband ever have held up his head again?” Ying-ning looked grave and did not laugh this time; and Mrs. Wang continued, “There’s no harm in laughing as long as it is seasonable laughter;” but from that moment Ying-ning laughed no more, no matter what people did to make her, though at the same time her expression was by no means gloomy. One evening she went in tears to her husband, who wanted to know what was the matter. “I couldn’t tell you before,” said she, sobbing; “we had known each other such a short time. But now that you and your mother have been so kind to me, I will keep nothing from you, but tell you all. I am the daughter of a fox. When my mother went away she put me in the charge of the disembodied spirit of an old woman, with whom I remained for a period of over ten years. I have no brothers: only you to whom I can look. And now my foster-mother is lying on the hill-side with no one to bury her and appease her discontented shade. If not too much, I would ask you to do this, that her spirit may be at rest, and know that it was not neglected by her whom she brought up.” Wang consented, but said he feared they would not be able to find her grave; on which Ying-ning said there was no danger of that, and accordingly they set forth together. When they arrived, Ying-ning pointed out the tomb in a lonely spot amidst a thicket of brambles, and there they found the old woman’s bones. Ying-ning wept bitterly, and then they proceeded to carry her remains home with them, subsequently interring them in the Ch‘in family vault. That night Wang dreamt that the old woman came to thank him, and when he waked he told Ying-ning, who said that she had seen her also, and had been warned by her not to frighten Mr. Wang. Her husband asked why she had not detained the old lady; but Ying-ning replied, “She is a disembodied spirit, and would be ill at ease for any time surrounded by so much life.”[119] Wang then enquired after Hsiao-jung, and his wife said, “She was a fox too, and a very clever one. My foster-mother kept her to wait on me, and she was always getting fruit and cakes for me, so that I have a friendship for her and shall never forget her. My foster-mother told me yesterday she was married.”

After this, whenever the great fast-day[120] came round, husband and wife went off without fail to worship at the Ch‘in family tomb; and by the time a year had passed she gave birth to a son, who wasn’t a bit afraid of strangers, but laughed at everybody, and in fact took very much after his mother.

XVI.
THE MAGIC SWORD.

Ning Lai-ch‘ên was a Chekiang man, and a good-natured, honourable fellow, fond of telling people that he had only loved once. Happening to go to Chinhua, he took shelter in a temple to the north of the city; very nice as far as ornamentation went, but overgrown with grass taller than a man’s head, and evidently not much frequented. On either side were the priest’s apartments, the doors of which were ajar, with the exception of a small room on the south side, where the lock had a new appearance. In the east corner he espied a group of bamboos, growing over a large pool of water-lilies in flower; and, being much pleased with the quiet of the place, determined to remain; more especially as, the Grand Examiner being in the town, all lodgings had gone up in price. So he roamed about waiting till the priests should return; and in the evening, a gentleman came and opened the door on the south side. Ning quickly made up to him, and with a bow informed him of his design. “There is no one here whose permission you need ask,” replied the stranger; “I am only lodging here, and if you don’t object to the loneliness, I shall be very pleased to have the benefit of your society.” Ning was delighted, and made himself a straw bed, and put up a board for a table, as if he intended to remain some time; and that night, by the beams of the clear bright moon, they sat together in the verandah and talked. The stranger’s name was Yen Ch‘ih-hsia, and Ning thought he was a student up for the provincial examination, only his dialect was not that of a Chekiang man. On being asked, he said he came from Shensi; and there was an air of straightforwardness about all his remarks. By-and-by, when their conversation was exhausted, they bade each other good night and went to bed; but Ning, being in a strange place, was quite unable to sleep; and soon he heard sounds of voices from the room on the north side. Getting up, he peeped through a window, and saw, in a small court-yard the other side of a low wall, a woman of about forty with an old maid-servant in a long faded gown, humped-backed and feeble-looking. They were chatting by the light of the moon; and the mistress said, “Why doesn’t Hsiao-ch‘ien come?” “She ought to be here by now,” replied the other. “She isn’t offended with you; is she?” asked the lady. “Not that I know of,” answered the old servant; “but she seems to want to give trouble.” “Such people don’t deserve to be treated well,” said the other; and she had hardly uttered these words when up came a young girl of seventeen or eighteen, and very nice looking. The old servant laughed, and said, “Don’t talk of people behind their backs. We were just mentioning you as you came without our hearing you; but fortunately we were saying nothing bad about you. And, as far as that goes,” added she, “if I were a young fellow why I should certainly fall in love with you.” “If you don’t praise me,” replied the girl, “I’m sure I don’t know who will;” and then the lady and the girl said something together, and Mr. Ning, thinking they were the family next door, turned round to sleep without paying further attention to them. In a little while no sound was to be heard; but, as he was dropping off to sleep, he perceived that somebody was in the room. Jumping up in great haste, he found it was the young lady he had just seen; and detecting at once that she was going to attempt to bewitch him, sternly bade her begone. She then produced a lump of gold which he threw away, and told her to go after it or he would call his friend. So she had no alternative but to go, muttering something about his heart being like iron or stone. Next day, a young candidate for the examination came and lodged in the east room with his servant. He, however, was killed that very night, and his servant the night after; the corpses of both shewing a small hole in the sole of the foot as if bored by an awl, and from which a little blood came. No one knew who had committed these murders, and when Mr. Yen came home, Ning asked him what he thought about it. Yen replied that it was the work of devils, but Ning was a brave fellow, and that didn’t frighten him much. In the middle of the night Hsiao-ch‘ien appeared to him again, and said, “I have seen many men, but none with a steel cold heart like yours. You are an upright man, and I will not attempt to deceive you. I, Hsiao-ch‘ien, whose family name is Nieh, died when only eighteen, and was buried alongside of this temple. A devil then took possession of me, and employed me to bewitch people by my beauty, contrary to my inclination. There is now nothing left in this temple to slay, and I fear that imps will be employed to kill you.” Ning was very frightened at this, and asked her what he should do. “Sleep in the same room with Mr. Yen,” replied she. “What!” asked he, “cannot the spirits trouble Yen?” “He is a strange man,” she answered, “and they don’t like going near him.” Ning then inquired how the spirits worked. “I bewitch people,” said Hsiao-ch‘ien, “and then they bore a hole in the foot which renders the victim senseless, and proceed to draw off the blood, which the devils drink. Another method is to tempt people by false gold, the bones of some horrid demon; and if they receive it, their hearts and livers will be torn out. Either method is used according to circumstances.” Ning thanked her, and asked when he ought to be prepared; to which she replied, “To-morrow night.” At parting she wept, and said, “I am about to sink into the great sea, with no friendly shore at hand. But your sense of duty is boundless, and you can save me. If you will collect my bones and bury them in some quiet spot, I shall not again be subject to these misfortunes.” Ning said he would do so, and asked where she lay buried. “At the foot of the aspen-tree on which there is a bird’s nest,” replied she; and passing out of the door, disappeared. The next day Ning was afraid that Yen might be going away somewhere, and went over early to invite him across. Wine and food were produced towards noon; and Ning, who took care not to lose sight of Yen, then asked him to remain there for the night. Yen declined, on the ground that he liked being by himself; but Ning wouldn’t hear any excuses, and carried all Yen’s things to his own room, so that he had no alternative but to consent. However, he warned Ning, saying, “I know you are a gentleman and a man of honour. If you see anything you don’t quite understand, I pray you not to be too inquisitive; don’t pry into my boxes, or it may be the worse for both of us.” Ning promised to attend to what he said, and by-and-by they both lay down to sleep; and Yen, having placed his boxes on the window-sill, was soon snoring loudly. Ning himself could not sleep; and after some time he saw a figure moving stealthily outside, at length approaching the window to peep through. It’s eyes flashed like lightning, and Ning in a terrible fright was just upon the point of calling Yen, when something flew out of one of the boxes like a strip of white silk, and dashing against the window-sill returned at once to the box, disappearing very much like lightning. Yen heard the noise and got up, Ning all the time pretending to be asleep in order to watch what happened. The former then opened the box, and took out something which he smelt and examined by the light of the moon. It was dazzlingly white like crystal, and about two inches in length by the width of an onion leaf in breadth. He then wrapped it up carefully and put it back in the broken box, saying, “A bold-faced devil that, to come so near my box;” upon which he went back to bed; but Ning, who was lost in astonishment, arose and asked him what it all meant, telling at the same time what he himself had seen. “As you and I are good friends,” replied Yen, “I won’t make any secret of it. The fact is I am a Taoist priest. But for the window-sill the devil would have been killed; as it is, he is badly wounded.” Ning asked him what it was he had there wrapped up, and he told him it was his sword,[121] on which he had smelt the presence of the devil. At Ning’s request he produced the weapon, a bright little miniature of a sword; and from that time Ning held his friend in higher esteem than ever.

Next day he found traces of blood outside the window which led round to the north of the temple; and there among a number of graves he discovered the aspen-tree with the bird’s nest at its summit. He then fulfilled his promise and prepared to go home, Yen giving him a farewell banquet, and presenting him with an old leather case which he said contained a sword, and would keep at a distance from him all devils and bogies. Ning then wished to learn a little of Yen’s art; but the latter replied that although he might accomplish this easily enough, being as he was an upright man, yet he was well off in life, and not in a condition where it would be of any advantage to him. Ning then pretending he had to go and bury his sister, collected Hsiao-ch‘ien’s bones, and, having wrapped them up in grave-clothes, hired a boat, and set off on his way home. On his arrival, as his library looked towards the open country, he made a grave hard by and buried the bones there, sacrificing, and invoking Hsiao-ch‘ien as follows:—“In pity for your lonely ghost, I have placed your remains near my humble cottage, where we shall be near each other, and no devil will dare annoy you. I pray you reject not my sacrifice, poor though it be.” After this, he was proceeding home when he suddenly heard himself addressed from behind, the voice asking him not to hurry; and turning round he beheld Hsiao-ch‘ien, who thanked him, saying, “Were I to die ten times for you I could not discharge my debt. Let me go home with you and wait upon your father and mother; you will not repent it.” Looking closely at her, he observed that she had a beautiful complexion, and feet as small as bamboo shoots,[122] being altogether much prettier now that he came to see her by daylight. So they went together to his home, and bidding her wait awhile, Ning ran in to tell his mother, to the very great surprise of the old lady. Now Ning’s wife had been ill for a long time, and his mother advised him not to say a word about it to her for fear of frightening her; in the middle of which in rushed Hsiao-ch‘ien, and threw herself on the ground before them. “This is the young lady,” said Ning; whereupon his mother in some alarm turned her attention to Hsiao-ch‘ien, who cried out, “A lonely orphan, without brother or sister, the object of your son’s kindness and compassion, begs to be allowed to give her poor services as some return for favours shewn.” Ning’s mother, seeing that she was a nice pleasant-looking girl, began to lose fear of her, and replied, “Madam, the preference you shew for my son is highly pleasing to an old body like myself; but this is the only hope of our family, and I hardly dare agree to his taking a devil-wife.” “I have but one motive in what I ask,” answered Hsiao-ch‘ien, “and if you have no faith in disembodied people, then let me regard him as my brother, and live under your protection, serving you like a daughter.” Ning’s mother could not resist her straightforward manner, and Hsiao-ch‘ien asked to be allowed to see Ning’s wife, but this was denied on the plea that the lady was ill. Hsiao-ch‘ien then went into the kitchen and got ready the dinner, running about the place as if she had lived there all her life. Ning’s mother was, however, much afraid of her, and would not let her sleep in the house; so Hsiao-ch‘ien went to the library, and was just entering when suddenly she fell back a few steps, and began walking hurriedly backwards and forwards in front of the door. Ning seeing this, called out and asked her what it meant; to which she replied, “The presence of that sword frightens me, and that is why I could not accompany you on your way home.” Ning at once understood her, and hung up the sword-case in another place; whereupon she entered, lighted a candle, and sat down. For some time she did not speak: at length asking Ning if he studied at night or not—“For,” said she, “when I was little I used to repeat the Lêng-yen sutra; but now I have forgotten more than half, and, therefore, I should like to borrow a copy, and when you are at leisure in the evening you might hear me.” Ning said he would, and they sat silently there for some time, after which Hsiao-ch‘ien went away and took up her quarters elsewhere. Morning and night she waited on Ning’s mother, bringing water for her to wash in, occupying herself with household matters, and endeavouring to please her in every way. In the evening before she went to bed, she would always go in and repeat a little of the sutra, and leave as soon as she thought Ning was getting sleepy. Now the illness of Ning’s wife had given his mother a great deal of extra trouble—more, in fact, than she was equal to; but ever since Hsiao-ch‘ien’s arrival all this was changed, and Ning’s mother felt kindly disposed to the girl in consequence, gradually growing to regard her almost as her own child, and forgetting quite that she was a spirit. Accordingly, she didn’t make her leave the house at night; and Hsiao-ch‘ien, who being a devil had not tasted meat or drink since her arrival,[123] now began at the end of six months to take a little thin gruel. Mother and son alike became very fond of her, and henceforth never mentioned what she really was; neither were strangers able to detect the fact. By-and-by, Ning’s wife died, and his mother secretly wished him to espouse Hsiao-ch‘ien, though she rather dreaded any unfortunate consequences that might arise. This Hsiao-ch‘ien perceived, and seizing an opportunity said to Ning’s mother, “I have been with you now more than a year, and you ought to know something of my disposition. Because I was unwilling to injure travellers I followed your son hither. There was no other motive; and, as your son has shewn himself one of the best of men, I would now remain with him for three years in order that he may obtain for me some mark of Imperial approbation[124] which will do me honour in the realms below.” Ning’s mother knew that she meant no evil, but hesitated to put the family hopes of a posterity into jeopardy. Hsiao-ch‘ien, however, reassured her by saying that Ning would have three sons, and that the line would not be interrupted by his marrying her. On the strength of this the marriage was arranged to the great joy of Ning, a feast prepared, and friends and relatives invited; and when in response to a call the bride herself came forth in her gay wedding-dress, the beholders took her rather for a fairy than for a devil. After this, numbers of congratulatory presents were given by the various female members of the family, who vied with one another in making her acquaintance; and these Hsiao-ch‘ien returned by gifts of paintings of flowers, done by herself, in which she was very skilful, the receivers being extremely proud of such marks of her friendship. One day she was leaning at the window in a despondent mood, when suddenly she asked where the sword-case was. “Oh,” replied Ning, “as you seemed afraid of it, I moved it elsewhere.” “I have now been so long under the influence of surrounding life,”[125] said Hsiao-ch‘ien, “that I shan’t be afraid of it any more. Let us hang it on the bed.” “Why so?” asked Ning. “For the last three days,” explained she, “I have been much agitated in mind; and I fear that the devil at the temple, angry at my escape, may come suddenly and carry me off.” So Ning brought the sword-case, and Hsiao-ch‘ien, after examining it closely, remarked, “This is where the magician puts people. I wonder how many were slain before it got old and worn out as it is now. Even now when I look at it my flesh creeps.” The case was then hung up, and next day removed to over the door. At night they sat up and watched, Hsiao-ch‘ien warning Ning not to go to sleep; and suddenly something fell down flop like a bird. Hsiao-ch‘ien in a fright got behind the curtain; but Ning looked at the thing, and found it was an imp of darkness, with glaring eyes and a bloody mouth, coming straight to the door. Stealthily creeping up it made a grab at the sword-case, and seemed about to tear it in pieces, when bang! —the sword-case became as big as a wardrobe, and from it a devil protruded part of his body and dragged the imp in. Nothing more was heard, and the sword-case resumed its original size. Ning was greatly alarmed, but Hsiao-ch‘ien came out rejoicing, and said, “There’s an end of my troubles.” In the sword-case they found only a few quarts of clear water; nothing else.

After these events Ning took his doctor’s degree and Hsiao-ch‘ien bore him a son.He then took a concubine, and had one more son by each, all of whom became in time distinguished men.

XVII.
THE SHUI-MANG PLANT.

The shui-mang[126] is a poisonous herb. It is a creeper, like the bean, and has a similar red flower. Those who eat of it die, and become shui-mang devils, tradition asserting that such devils are unable to be born again unless they can find some one else who has also eaten of this poison to take their place.[127] These shui-mang devils abound in the province of Hunan, where, by the way, the phrase “same-year man” is applied to those born in the same year, who exchange visits and call each other brother, their children addressing the father’s “brother” as uncle. This has now become a regular custom there.[128]

A young man named Chu was on his way to visit a same-year friend of his, when he was overtaken by a violent thirst. Suddenly he came upon an old woman sitting by the roadside under a shed and distributing tea gratis,[129] and immediately walked up to her to get a drink. She invited him into the shed, and presented him with a bowl of tea in a very cordial spirit; but the smell of it did not seem like the smell of ordinary tea, and he would not drink it, rising up to go away. The old woman stopped him, and called out, “San-niang! bring some good tea.” Immediately a young girl came from behind the shed, carrying in her hands a pot of tea. She was about fourteen or fifteen years old, and of very fascinating appearance, with glittering rings and bracelets on her fingers and arms. As Chu received the cup from her his reason fled; and drinking down the tea she gave him, the flavour of which was unlike any other kind, he proceeded to ask for more. Then, watching for a moment when the old woman’s back was turned, he seized her wrist and drew a ring from her finger. The girl blushed and smiled; and Chu, more and more inflamed, asked her where she lived. “Come again this evening,” replied she, “and you’ll find me here.” Chu begged for a handful of her tea, which he stowed away with the ring, and took his leave. Arriving at his destination, he felt a pain in his heart, which he at once attributed to the tea, telling his friend what had occurred. “Alas! you are undone,” cried the other; “they were shui-mang devils. My father died in the same way, and we were unable to save him. There is no help for you.” Chu was terribly frightened, and produced the handful of tea, which his friend at once pronounced to be leaves of the shui-mang plant. He then shewed him the ring, and told him what the girl had said; whereupon his friend, after some reflection, said, “She must be San-niang, of the K‘ou family.” “How could you know her name?” asked Chu, hearing his friend use the same words as the old woman. “Oh,” replied he, “there was a nice-looking girl of that name who died some years ago from eating of the same herb. She is doubtless the girl you saw.” Here some one observed that if the person so entrapped by a devil only knew its name, and could procure an old pair of its shoes, he might save himself by boiling them in water and drinking the liquor as medicine. Chu’s friend thereupon rushed off at once to the K‘ou family, and implored them to give him an old pair of their daughter’s shoes; but they, not wishing to prevent their daughter from finding a substitute in Chu, flatly refused his request. So he went back in anger and told Chu, who ground his teeth with rage, saying, “If I die, she shall not obtain her transmigration thereby.” His friend then sent him home; and just as he reached the door he fell down dead. Chu’s mother wept bitterly over his corpse, which was in due course interred; and he left behind one little boy barely a year old. His wife did not remain a widow, but in six months married again and went away, putting Chu’s son under the care of his grandmother, who was quite unequal to any toil, and did nothing but weep morning and night. One day she was carrying her grandson about in her arms, crying bitterly all the time, when suddenly in walked Chu. His mother, much alarmed, brushed away her tears, and asked him what it meant. “Mother,” replied he, “down in the realms below I heard you weeping. I am therefore come to tend you. Although a departed spirit, I have a wife, who has likewise come to share your toil. Therefore do not grieve.” His mother inquired who his wife was, to which he replied, “When the K‘ou family sat still and left me to my fate I was greatly incensed against them; and after death I sought for San-niang, not knowing where she was. I have recently seen my old same-year friend, and he told me where she was. She had come to life again in the person of the baby-daughter of a high official named Jen; but I went thither and dragged her spirit back. She is now my wife, and we get on extremely well together.” A very pretty and well-dressed young lady here entered, and made obeisance to Chu’s mother, Chu saying, “This is San-niang, of the K‘ou family;” and although not a living being, Mrs. Chu at once took a great fancy to her. Chu sent her off to help in the work of the house, and, in spite of not being accustomed to this sort of thing, she was so obedient to her mother-in-law as to excite the compassion of all. The two then took up their quarters in Chu’s old apartments, and there they continued to remain.

Meanwhile San-niang asked Chu’s mother to let the K‘ou family know; and this she did, notwithstanding some objections raised by her son. Mr. and Mrs. K‘ou were much astonished at the news, and, ordering their carriage, proceeded at once to Chu’s house. There they found their daughter, and parents and child fell into each other’s arms. San-niang entreated them to dry their tears; but her mother, noticing the poverty of Chu’s household, was unable to restrain her feelings. “We are already spirits,” cried San-niang; “what matters poverty to us? Besides, I am very well treated here, and am altogether as happy as I can be.” They then asked her who the old woman was; to which she replied, “Her name was Ni. She was mortified at being too ugly to entrap people herself, and got me to assist her. She has now been born again at a soy-shop in the city.” Then, looking at her husband, she added, “Come, since you are the son-in-law, pay the proper respect to my father and mother, or what shall I think of you?” Chu made his obeisance, and San-niang went into the kitchen to get food ready for them, at which her mother became very melancholy, and went away home, whence she sent a couple of maid-servants, a hundred ounces of silver, and rolls of cloth and silk, besides making occasional presents of food and wine, so that Chu’s mother lived in comparative comfort. San-niang also went from time to time to see her parents, but would never stay very long, pleading that she was wanted at home, and such excuses; and if the old people attempted to keep her, she simply went off by herself. Her father built a nice house for Chu with all kinds of luxuries in it; but Chu never once entered his father-in-law’s door.

Subsequently a man of the village who had eaten shui-mang, and had died in consequence, came back to life, to the great astonishment of everybody. However, Chu explained it, saying, “I brought him back to life. He was the victim of a man named Li Chiu; but I drove off Li’s spirit when it came to make the other take his place.” Chu’s mother then asked her son why he did not get a substitute for himself; to which he replied, “I do not like to do this. I am anxious to put an end to, rather than take advantage of, such a system. Besides, I am very happy waiting on you, and have no wish to be born again.” From that time all persons who had poisoned themselves with shui-mang were in the habit of feasting Chu and obtaining his assistance in their trouble. But in ten years’ time his mother died, and he and his wife gave themselves up to sorrow, and would see no one, bidding their little boy put on mourning, beat his breast, and perform the proper ceremonies. Two years after Chu had buried his mother, his son married the granddaughter of a high official named Jen. This gentleman had had a daughter by a concubine, who had died when only a few months old; and now, hearing the strange story of Chu’s wife, came to call on her and arrange the marriage. He then gave his granddaughter to Chu’s son, and a free intercourse was maintained between the two families. However, one day Chu said to his son, “Because I have been of service to my generation, God has appointed me Keeper of the Dragons; and I am now about to proceed to my post.” Thereupon four horses appeared in the court-yard, drawing a carriage with yellow hangings, the flanks of the horses being covered with scale-like trappings. Husband and wife came forth in full dress, and took their seats, and, while son and daughter-in-law were weeping their adieus, disappeared from view. That very day the K‘ou family saw their daughter arrive, and, bidding them farewell, she told them the same story. The old people would have kept her, but she said, “My husband is already on his way,” and, leaving the house, parted from them for ever. Chu’s son was named Ngo, and his literary name was Li-ch‘ên. He begged San-niang’s bones from the K‘ou family, and buried them by the side of his father’s.

XVIII.
LITTLE CHU.

A man named Li Hua dwelt at Ch‘ang-chou. He was very well off, and about fifty years of age, but he had no sons; only one daughter, named Hsiao-hui, a pretty child on whom her parents doted. When she was fourteen she had a severe illness and died, leaving their home desolate and depriving them of their chief pleasure in life. Mr. Li then bought a concubine, and she by-and-by bore him a son, who was perfectly idolised, and called Chu, or the Pearl. This boy grew up to be a fine manly fellow, though so extremely stupid that when five or six years old he didn’t know pulse from corn, and could hardly talk plainly. His father, however, loved him dearly, and did not observe his faults.

Now it chanced that a one-eyed priest came to collect alms in the town, and he seemed to know so much about everybody’s private affairs that the people all looked upon him as superhuman. He himself declared he had control over life, death, happiness, and misfortune; and consequently no one dared refuse him whatever sum he chose to ask of them. From Li he demanded one hundred ounces of silver, but was offered only ten, which he refused to receive. This sum was increased to thirty ounces, whereupon the priest looked sternly at Li and said, “I must have one hundred; not a fraction less.” Li now got angry, and went away without giving him any, the priest, too, rising up in a rage and shouting after him, “I hope you won’t repent.” Shortly after these events little Chu fell sick, and crawled about the bed scratching the mat, his face being of an ashen paleness. This frightened his father, who hurried off with eighty ounces of silver, and begged the priest to accept them. “A large sum like this is no trifling matter to earn,” said the priest, smiling; “but what can a poor recluse like myself do for you?” So Li went home, to find that little Chu was already dead; and this worked him into such a state that he immediately laid a complaint before the magistrate. The priest was accordingly summoned and interrogated; but the magistrate wouldn’t accept his defence, and ordered him to be bambooed. The blows sounded as if falling on leather, upon which the magistrate commanded his lictors to search him; and from about his person they drew forth two wooden men, a small coffin, and five small flags. The magistrate here flew into a passion, and made certain mystic signs with his fingers, which when the priest saw he was frightened, and began to excuse himself; but the magistrate would not listen to him, and had him bambooed to death. Li thanked him for his kindness, and, taking his leave, proceeded home. In the evening, after dusk, he was sitting alone with his wife, when suddenly in popped a little boy, who said, “Pa! why did you hurry on so fast? I couldn’t catch you up.” Looking at him more closely, they saw that he was about seven or eight years old, and Mr. Li, in some alarm, was on the point of questioning him, when he disappeared, re-appearing again like smoke, and, curling round and round, got upon the bed. Li pushed him off, and he fell down without making any sound, crying out, “Pa! why do you do this?” and in a moment he was on the bed again. Li was frightened, and ran away with his wife, the boy calling after them, “Pa! Ma! boo-oo-oo.” They went into the next room, bolting the door after them; but there was the little boy at their heels again. Li asked him what he wanted, to which he replied, “I belong to Su-chou; my name is Chan; at six years of age I was left an orphan; my brother and his wife couldn’t bear me, so they sent me to live at my maternal grandfather’s. One day, when playing outside, a wicked priest killed me by his black art underneath a mulberry-tree, and made of me an evil spirit, dooming me to everlasting devildom without hope of transmigration. Happily you exposed him; and I would now remain with you as your son.” “The paths of men and devils,” replied Li, “lie in different directions. How can we remain together?” “Give me only a tiny room,” cried the boy, “a bed, a mattress, and a cup of cold gruel every day. I ask for nothing more.” So Li agreed, to the great delight of the boy, who slept by himself in another part of the house, coming in the morning and walking in and out like any ordinary person. Hearing Li’s concubine crying bitterly, he asked how long little Chu had been dead, and she told him seven days. “It’s cold weather now,” said he, “and the body can’t have decomposed. Have the grave opened, and let me see it; if not too far gone, I can bring him to life again.” Li was only too pleased, and went off with the boy; and when they opened the grave they found the body in perfect preservation; but while Li was controlling his emotions, lo! the boy had vanished from his sight. Wondering very much at this, he took little Chu’s body home, and had hardly laid it on the bed when he noticed the eyes move. Little Chu then called for some broth, which put him into a perspiration, and then he got up. They were all overjoyed to see him come to life again; and, what is more, he was much brighter and cleverer than before. At night, however, he lay perfectly stiff and rigid, without shewing any signs of life; and, as he didn’t move when they turned him over and over, they were much frightened, and thought he had died again. But towards daybreak he awaked as if from a dream, and in reply to their questions said that when he was with the wicked priest there was another boy named Ko-tzŭ;[130] and that the day before, when he had been unable to catch up his father, it was because he had stayed behind to bid adieu to Ko-tzŭ; that Ko-tzŭ was now the son of an official in Purgatory named Chiang, and very comfortably settled; and that he had invited him (Chan) to go and play with him that evening, and had sent him back on a white-nosed horse. His mother then asked him if he had seen little Chu in Purgatory; to which he replied, “Little Chu has already been born again. He and our father here had not really the destiny of father and son. Little Chu was merely a man named Yen Tzŭ-fang, from Chin-ling, who had come to reclaim an old debt.”[131] Now Mr. Li had formerly traded to Chin-ling, and actually owed money for goods to a Mr. Yen; but he had died, and no one else knew anything about it, so that he was now greatly alarmed when he heard this story. His mother next asked (the quasi) little Chu if he had seen his sister, Hsiao-hui; and he said he had not, promising to go again and inquire about her. A few days afterwards he told his mother that Hsiao-hui was very happy in Purgatory, being married to a son of one of the Judges; and that she had any quantity of jewels,[132] and crowds of attendants when she went abroad. “Why doesn’t she come home to see her parents?” asked his mother. “Well,” replied the boy, “dead people, you know, haven’t got any flesh or bones; however, if you can only remind them of something that happened in their past lives, their feelings are at once touched. So yesterday I managed, through Mr. Chiang, to get an interview with Hsiao-hui; and we sat together on a coral couch, and I spoke to her of her father and mother at home, all of which she listened to as if she was asleep. I then remarked, ‘Sister, when you were alive you were very fond of embroidering double-stemmed flowers; and once you cut your finger with the scissors, and the blood ran over the silk, but you brought it into the picture as a crimson cloud. Your mother has that picture still, hanging at the head of her bed, a perpetual souvenir of you. Sister, have you forgotten this?’ Then she burst into tears, and promised to ask her husband to let her come and visit you.” His mother asked when she would arrive; but he said he could not tell. However, one day he ran in and cried out, “Mother, Hsiao-hui has come, with a splendid equipage and a train of servants; we had better get plenty of wine ready.” In a few moments he came in again, saying, “Here is my sister,” at the same time asking her to take a seat and rest. He then wept; but none of those present saw anything at all. By-and-by he went out and burnt a quantity of paper money[133] and made offerings of wine outside the door, returning shortly and saying he had sent away her attendants for a while. Hsiao-hui then asked if the green coverlet, a small portion of which had been burnt by a candle, was still in existence. “It is,” replied her mother, and, going to a box, she at once produced the coverlet. “Hsiao-hui would like a bed made up for her in her old room,” said her (quasi) brother; “she wants to rest awhile, and will talk with you again in the morning.”

Now their next-door neighbour, named Chao, had a daughter who was formerly a great friend of Hsiao-hui’s, and that night she dreamt that Hsiao-hui appeared with a turban on her head and a red mantle over her shoulders, and that they talked and laughed together precisely as in days gone by. “I am now a spirit,” said Hsiao-hui, “and my father and mother can no more see me than if I was far separated from them. Dear sister, I would borrow your body, from which to speak to them. You need fear nothing.” On the morrow when Miss Chao met her mother, she fell on the ground before her and remained some time in a state of unconsciousness, at length saying, “Madam, it is many years since we met; your hair has become very white.” “The girl’s mad,” said her mother, in alarm; and, thinking something had gone wrong, proceeded to follow her out of the door. Miss Chao went straight to Li’s house, and there with tears embraced Mrs. Li, who did not know what to make of it all. “Yesterday,” said Miss Chao, “when I came back, I was unhappily unable to speak with you. Unfilial wretch that I was, to die before you, and leave you to mourn my loss. How can I redeem such behaviour?” Her mother thereupon began to understand the scene, and, weeping, said to her, “I have heard that you hold an honourable position, and this is a great comfort to me; but, living as you do in the palace of a Judge, how is it you are able to get away?” “My husband,” replied she, “is very kind; and his parents treat me with all possible consideration. I experience no harsh treatment at their hands.” Here Miss Chao rested her cheek upon her hand, exactly as Hsiao-hui had been wont to do when she was alive; and at that moment in came her brother to say that her attendants were ready to return. “I must go,” said she, rising up and weeping bitterly all the time; after which she fell down, and remained some time unconscious as before.

Shortly after these events Mr. Li became dangerously ill, and no medicines were of any avail, so that his son feared they would not be able to save his life.Two devils sat at the head of his bed, one holding an iron staff, the other a nettle-hemp rope four or five feet in length.Day and night his son implored them to go, but they would not move; and Mrs. Li in sorrow began to prepare the funeral clothes.[134] Towards evening her son entered and cried out, “Strangers and women, leave the room! My sister’s husband is coming to see his father-in-law.” He then clapped his hands, and burst out laughing. “What is the matter?” asked his mother. “I am laughing,” answered he, “because when the two devils heard my sister’s husband was coming, they both ran under the bed, like terrapins, drawing in their heads.” By-and-by, looking at nothing, he began to talk about the weather, and ask his sister’s husband how he did, and then he clapped his hands, and said, “I begged the two devils to go, but they would not; it’s all right now.” After this he went out to the door and returned, saying, “My sister’s husband has gone. He took away the two devils tied to his horse. My father ought to get better now. Besides, Hsiao-hui’s husband said he would speak to the Judge, and obtain a hundred years’ lease of life both for you and my father.” The whole family rejoiced exceedingly at this, and, when night came, Mr. Li was better, and in a few days quite well again. A tutor was engaged for (the quasi) little Chu, who shewed himself an apt pupil, and at eighteen years of age took his bachelor’s degree. He could also see things of the other world; and when anyone in the village was ill, he pointed out where the devils were, and burnt them out with fire, so that everybody got well. However, before long he himself became very ill, and his flesh turned green and purple; whereupon he said, “The devils afflict me thus because I let out their secrets. Henceforth I shall never divulge them again.”