told me this story could not remember; he belonged to a good family,
though now somewhat falling into decay. Now a certain man, who caught
turtles, owed him some money which he could not pay, but whenever he
captured any turtles he used to send one to Mr. Fêng. One day he took
him an enormous creature, with a white spot on its forehead; but Fêng
was so struck with something in its appearance, that he let it go
again. A little while afterwards he was returning home from his
son-in-law’s, and had reached the banks of the river,[22] when in the
dusk of the evening he saw a drunken man come rolling along, attended
by two or three servants. No sooner did he perceive Fêng than he
called out, “Who are you?” to which Fêng replied that he was a
traveller. “And haven’t you got a name?” shouted out the drunken man
in a rage, “that you must call yourself a traveller?” To this Fêng
made no reply, but tried to pass by; whereupon he found himself seized
by the sleeve and unable to move. His adversary smelt horribly of
wine, and at length Fêng asked him, saying, “And pray who are you?”
“Oh, I am the late magistrate at Nan-tu,” answered he; “what do you
want to know for?” “A nice disgrace to society you are, too,” cried
Fêng; “however, I am glad to hear you are only _late_ magistrate, for
if you had been present magistrate there would be bad times in store
for travellers.” This made the drunken man furious, and he was
proceeding to use violence, when Fêng cried out, “My name is
So-and-so, and I’m not the man to stand this sort of thing from
anybody.” No sooner had he uttered these words than the drunken man’s
rage was turned into joy, and, falling on his knees before Fêng, he
said, “My benefactor! pray excuse my rudeness.” Then getting up, he
told his servants to go on ahead and get something ready; Fêng at
first declining to go with him, but yielding on being pressed. Taking
his hand, the drunken man led him along a short distance until they
reached a village, where there was a very nice house and grounds,
quite like the establishment of a person of position. As his friend
was now getting sober, Fêng inquired what might be his name. “Don’t be
frightened when I tell you,” said the other; “I am the Eighth Prince
of the T‘iao river. I have just been out to take wine with a friend,
and somehow I got tipsy; hence my bad behaviour to you, which please
forgive.” Fêng now knew that he was not of mortal flesh and blood;
but, seeing how kindly he himself was treated, he was not a bit
afraid. A banquet followed, with plenty of wine, of which the Eighth
Prince drank so freely that Fêng thought he would soon be worse than
ever, and accordingly said he felt tipsy himself, and asked to be
allowed to go to bed. “Never fear,” answered the Prince, who perceived
Fêng’s thoughts; “many drunkards will tell you that they cannot
remember in the morning the extravagances of the previous night, but I
tell you this is all nonsense, and that in nine cases out of ten those
extravagances are committed wittingly and with malice prepense.[23]
Now, though I am not the same order of being as yourself, I should
never venture to behave badly in your good presence; so pray do not
leave me thus.” Fêng then sat down again and said to the Prince,
“Since you are aware of this, why not change your ways?” “Ah,” replied
the Prince, “when I was a magistrate I drank much more than I do now;
but I got into disgrace with the Emperor and was banished here, since
which time, ten years and more, I have tried to reform. Now, however,
I am drawing near the wood,[24] and being unable to move about much,
the old vice has come upon me again; I have found it impossible to
stop myself, but perhaps what you say may do me some good.” While they
were thus talking, the sound of a distant bell broke upon their ears;
and the Prince, getting up and seizing Fêng’s hand, said, “We cannot
remain together any longer; but I will give you something by which I
may in part requite your kindness to me. It must not be kept for any
great length of time; when you have attained your wishes, then I will
receive it back again.” Thereupon he spit out of his mouth a tiny man,
no more than an inch high, and scratching Fêng’s arm with his nails
until Fêng felt as if the skin was gone, he quickly laid the little
man upon the spot. When he let go, the latter had already sunk into
the skin, and nothing was to be seen but a cicatrix well healed over.
Fêng now asked what it all meant, but the Prince only laughed, and
said, “It’s time for you to go,” and forthwith escorted him to the
door. The prince here bade him adieu, and when he looked round,
Prince, village, and house had all disappeared together, leaving
behind a great turtle which waddled down into the water, and
disappeared likewise. He could now easily account for the Prince’s
present to him; and from this moment his sight became intensely keen.
He could see precious stones lying in the bowels of the earth, and was
able to look down as far as Hell itself; besides which he suddenly
found that he knew the names of many things of which he had never
heard before. From below his own bedroom he dug up many hundred ounces
of pure silver, upon which he lived very comfortably; and once when a
house was for sale, he perceived that in it lay concealed a vast
quantity of gold, so he immediately bought it, and so became immensely
rich in all kinds of valuables. He secured a mirror, on the back of
which was a phœnix, surrounded by water and clouds, and portraits of
the celebrated wives of the Emperor Shun,[25] so beautifully executed
that each hair of the head and eyebrows could easily be counted. If
any woman’s face came upon the mirror, there it remained indelibly
fixed and not to be rubbed out; but if the same woman looked into the
mirror again, dressed in a different dress, or if some other woman
chanced to look in, then the former face would gradually fade away.
Now the third princess in Prince Su’s family was very beautiful; and
Fêng, who had long heard of her fame, concealed himself on the
K‘ung-tung hill, when he knew the Princess was going there. He waited
until she alighted from her chair, and then getting the mirror full
upon her, he walked off home. Laying it on the table, he saw therein a
lovely girl in the act of raising her handkerchief, and with a sweet
smile playing over her face; her lips seemed about to move, and a
twinkle was discernible in her eyes.[26] Delighted with this picture,
he put the mirror very carefully away; but in about a year his wife
had let the story leak out, and the Prince, hearing of it, threw Fêng
into prison, and took possession of the mirror. Fêng was to be
beheaded; however, he bribed one of the Prince’s ladies to tell His
Highness that if he would pardon him all the treasures of the earth
might easily become his; whereas, on the other hand, his death could
not possibly be of any advantage to the Prince. The Prince now thought
of confiscating all his goods and banishing him; but the third
princess observed, that as he had already seen her, were he to die ten
times over it would not give her back her lost face, and that she had
much better marry him. The Prince would not hear of this, whereupon
his daughter shut herself up and refused all nourishment, at which the
ladies of the palace were dreadfully alarmed, and reported it at once
to the Prince. Fêng was accordingly liberated, and was informed of the
determination of the Princess, which, however, he declined to fall in
with, saying that he was not going thus to sacrifice the wife of his
days of poverty,[27] and would rather die than carry out such an
order. He added that if His Highness would consent, he would purchase
his liberty at the price of everything he had. The Prince was
exceedingly angry at this, and seized Fêng again; and meanwhile one of
the concubines got Fêng’s wife into the palace, intending to poison
her. Fêng’s wife, however, brought her a beautiful present of a coral
stand for a looking-glass, and was so agreeable in her conversation,
that the concubine took a great fancy to her, and presented her to the
Princess, who was equally pleased, and forthwith determined that they
would both be Fêng’s wives.[28] When Fêng heard of this plan, he said
to his wife, “With a Prince’s daughter there can be no distinctions of
first and second wife;” but Mrs. Fêng paid no heed to him, and
immediately sent off to the Prince such an enormous quantity of
valuables that it took a thousand men to carry them, and the Prince
himself had never before heard of such treasures in his life. Fêng was
now liberated once more, and solemnized his marriage with the
Princess.
One night after this he dreamt that the Eighth Prince came to him and
asked him to return his former present, saying that to keep it too
long would be injurious to his chances of life. Fêng asked him to
take a drink, but the Eighth Prince said that he had forsworn wine,
acting under Fêng’s advice, for three years. He then bit Fêng’s arm,
and the latter waked up with the pain to find that the cicatrix on his
arm was no longer there.
FOOTNOTES:
[22] The name here used is the _Hêng_ or “ceaseless” river, which is
applied by the Chinese to the Ganges. A certain number, extending to
fifty-three places of figures, is called “Ganges sand,” in allusion to
a famous remark that “Buddha and the Bôdhisatvas knew of the creation
and destruction of every grain of dust in Jambudwipa (the universe);
how much more the number of the sand-particles in the river Ganges?”
[23] Drunkenness is not recognised in China as an extenuating
circumstance; neither, indeed, is insanity,--a lunatic who takes
another man’s life being equally liable with ordinary persons to the
forfeiture of his own.
[24] A favourite Chinese figure expressive of old age. It dates back
to the celebrated commentary by Tso Ch‘iu Ming on Confucius’ _Spring
and Autumn_ (See No. XLI., note 237):--“Hsi is twenty-three and I am
twenty-five; and marrying thus we shall approach the wood together;”
the “wood” being, of course, that of the coffin.
[25] See No. VIII., note 63.
[26]
“... Move these eyes?
... Here are severed lips.”
--_Merchant of Venice_, Act iii., sc. 2.
[27] See No. LIII., note 288.
[28] This method of arranging a matrimonial difficulty is a common one
in Chinese fiction, but I should say quite unknown in real life.
LXVII.
THE MAGIC PATH.
In the province of Kuangtung there lived a scholar named Kuo, who was
one evening on his way home from a friend’s, when he lost his way
among the hills. He got into a thick jungle, where, after about an
hour’s wandering, he suddenly heard the sound of laughing and talking
on the top of the hill. Hurrying up in the direction of the sound, he
beheld some ten or a dozen persons sitting on the ground engaged in
drinking. No sooner had they caught sight of Kuo than they all cried
out, “Come along! just room for one more; you’re in the nick of time.”
So Kuo sat down with the company, most of whom, he noticed, belonged
to the literati,[29] and began by asking them to direct him on his way
home; but one of them cried out, “A nice sort of fellow you are, to
be bothering about your way home, and paying no attention to the fine
moon we have got to-night.” The speaker then presented him with a
goblet of wine of exquisite bouquet, which Kuo drank off at a draught,
and another gentleman filled up again for him at once. Now, Kuo was
pretty good in that line, and being very thirsty withal from his long
walk, tossed off bumper after bumper, to the great delight of his
hosts, who were unanimous in voting him a jolly good fellow. He was,
moreover, full of fun, and could imitate exactly the note of any kind
of bird; so all of a sudden he began on the sly to twitter like a
swallow, to the great astonishment of the others, who wondered how it
was a swallow could be out so late. He then changed his note to that
of a cuckoo, sitting there laughing and saying nothing, while his
hosts were discussing the extraordinary sounds they had just heard.
After a while he imitated a parrot, and cried, “Mr. Kuo is very drunk:
you’d better see him home;” and then the sounds ceased, beginning
again by-and-by, when at last the others found out who it was, and all
burst out laughing. They screwed up their mouths and tried to whistle
like Kuo, but none of them could do so; and soon one of them observed,
“What a pity Madam Ch‘ing isn’t with us: we must rendezvous here again
at mid-autumn, and you, Mr. Kuo, must be sure and come.” Kuo said he
would, whereupon another of his hosts got up and remarked that, as he
had given them such an amusing entertainment, they would try to shew
him a few acrobatic feats. They all arose, and one of them planting
his feet firmly, a second jumped up on to his shoulders, a third on to
the second’s shoulders, and a fourth on to his, until it was too high
for the rest to jump up, and accordingly they began to climb as though
it had been a ladder. When they were all up, and the topmost head
seemed to touch the clouds, the whole column bent gradually down until
it lay along the ground transformed into a path. Kuo remained for some
time in a state of considerable alarm, and then, setting out along
this path, ultimately reached his own home. Some days afterwards he
revisited the spot, and saw the remains of a feast lying about on the
ground, with dense bushes on all sides, but no sign of a path. At
mid-autumn he thought of keeping his engagement; however, his friends
persuaded him not to go.
FOOTNOTE:
[29] This term, while really including all literary men, of no matter
what rank or standing, is more usually confined to that large section
of unemployed scholarship made up of (1) those who are waiting to get
started in an official career, (2) those who have taken one or more
degrees and are preparing for the next, (3) those who have failed to
distinguish themselves at the public examinations, and eke out a small
patrimony by taking pupils, and (4) scholars of sufficiently high
qualifications who have no taste for official life.
LXVIII.
THE FAITHLESS WIDOW.[30]
Mr. Niu was a Kiangsi man who traded in piece goods. He married a wife
from the Chêng family, by whom he had two children, a boy and a girl.
When thirty-three years of age he fell ill and died, his son Chung
being then only twelve and his little girl eight or nine. His wife did
not remain faithful to his memory, but, selling off all the property,
pocketed the proceeds and married another man, leaving her two
children almost in a state of destitution with their aunt, Niu’s
sister-in-law, an old lady of sixty, who had lived with them
previously, and had now nowhere to seek a shelter. A few years later
this aunt died, and the family fortunes began to sink even lower than
before; Chung, however, was now grown up, and determined to carry on
his father’s trade, only he had no capital to start with. His sister
marrying a rich trader named Mao, she begged her husband to lend Chung
ten ounces of silver, which he did, and Chung immediately started for
Nanking. On the road he fell in with some bandits, who robbed him of
all he had, and consequently he was unable to return; but one day when
he was at a pawnshop he noticed that the master of the shop was
wonderfully like his late father, and on going out and making
inquiries he found that this pawnbroker bore precisely the same names.
In great astonishment, he forthwith proceeded to frequent the place
with no other object than to watch this man, who, on the other hand,
took no notice of Chung; and by the end of three days, having
satisfied himself that he really saw his own father, and yet not
daring to disclose his own identity, he made application through one
of the assistants, on the score of being himself a Kiangsi man, to be
employed in the shop. Accordingly, an indenture was drawn up; and when
the master noticed Chung’s name and place of residence he started, and
asked him whence he came. With tears in his eyes Chung addressed him
by his father’s name, and then the pawnbroker became lost in a deep
reverie, by-and-by asking Chung how his mother was. Now Chung did not
like to allude to his father’s death, and turned the question by
saying, “My father went away on business six years ago, and never came
back; my mother married again and left us, and had it not been for my
aunt our corpses would long ago have been cast out in the kennel.”
Then the pawnbroker was much moved, and cried out, “I am your father!”
seizing his son’s hand and leading him within to see his step-mother.
This lady was about twenty-two, and, having no children of her own,
was delighted with Chung, and prepared a banquet for him in the inner
apartments. Mr. Niu himself was, however, somewhat melancholy, and
wished to return to his old home; but his wife, fearing that there
would be no one to manage the business, persuaded him to remain; so he
taught his son the trade, and in three months was able to leave it all
to him. He then prepared for his journey, whereupon Chung informed his
step-mother that his father was really dead, to which she replied in
great consternation that she knew him only as a trader to the place,
and that six years previously he had married her, which proved
conclusively that he couldn’t be dead. He then recounted the whole
story, which was a perfect mystery to both of them; and twenty-four
hours afterwards in walked his father, leading a woman whose hair was
all dishevelled. Chung looked at her and saw that she was his own
mother; and Niu took her by the ear and began to revile her, saying,
“Why did you desert my children?” to which the wretched woman made no
reply. He then bit her across the neck, at which she screamed to Chung
for assistance, and he, not being able to bear the sight, stepped in
between them. His father was more than ever enraged at this, when, lo!
Chung’s mother had disappeared. While they were still lost in
astonishment at this strange scene, Mr. Niu’s colour changed; in
another moment his empty clothes had dropped upon the ground, and he
himself became a black vapour and also vanished from their sight. The
step-mother and son were much overcome; they took Niu’s clothes and
buried them, and after that Chung continued his father’s business and
soon amassed great wealth. On returning to his native place he found
that his mother had actually died on the very day of the above
occurrence, and that his father had been seen by the whole family.
FOOTNOTE:
[30] Unless under exceptional circumstances it is not considered
creditable in China for widows to marry again. It may here be
mentioned that the honorary tablets conferred from time to time by His
Imperial Majesty upon virtuous widows are only given to women who,
widowed before the age of thirty, have remained in that state for a
period of thirty years. The meaning of this is obvious: temptations
are supposed to be fewer and less dangerous after thirty, which is the
equivalent of forty with us; and it is wholly improbable that thirty
years of virtuous life, at which period the widow would be at least
fifty, would be followed by any act that might cast a stain upon the
tablet thus bestowed.
LXIX.
THE PRINCESS OF THE TUNG-T‘ING LAKE.
Ch‘ên Pi-chiao was a Pekingese; and being a poor man he attached
himself as secretary to the suite of a high military official named
Chia. On one occasion, while anchored on the Tung-t‘ing lake, they saw
a dolphin[31] floating on the surface of the water; and General Chia
took his bow and shot at it, wounding the creature in the back. A fish
was hanging on to its tail, and would not let go; so both were pulled
out of the water together, and attached to the mast. There they lay
gasping, the dolphin opening its mouth as if pleading for life, until
at length young Ch‘ên begged the General to let them go again; and
then he himself half jokingly put a piece of plaster upon the
dolphin’s wound, and had the two thrown back into the water, where
they were seen for some time afterwards diving and rising again to the
surface. About a year afterwards, Ch‘ên was once more crossing the
Tung-t‘ing lake on his way home, when the boat was upset in a squall,
and he himself only saved by clinging to a bamboo crate, which
finally, after floating about all night, caught in the overhanging
branch of a tree, and thus enabled him to scramble on shore.
By-and-by, another body floated in, and this turned out to be his
servant; but on dragging him out, he found life was already extinct.
In great distress, he sat himself down to rest, and saw beautiful
green hills and waving willows, but not a single human being of whom
he could ask the way. From early dawn till the morning was far
advanced he remained in that state; and then, thinking he saw his
servant’s body move, he stretched out his hand to feel it, and before
long the man threw up several quarts of water and recovered his
consciousness. They now dried their clothes in the sun, and by noon
these were fit to put on; at which period the pangs of hunger began to
assail them, and accordingly they started over the hills in the hope
of coming upon some habitation of man. As they were walking along, an
arrow whizzed past, and the next moment two young ladies dashed by on
handsome palfreys. Each had a scarlet band round her head, with a
bunch of pheasant’s feathers stuck in her hair, and wore a purple
riding-jacket with small sleeves, confined by a green embroidered
girdle round the waist. One of them carried a cross-bow for shooting
bullets, and the other had on her arm a dark-coloured bow-and-arrow
case. Reaching the brow of the hill, Ch‘ên beheld a number of riders
engaged in beating the surrounding cover, all of whom were beautiful
girls and dressed exactly alike. Afraid to advance any further, he
inquired of a youth who appeared to be in attendance, and the latter
told him that it was a hunting party from the palace; and then, having
supplied him with food from his wallet, he bade him retire quickly,
adding that if he fell in with them he would assuredly be put to
death. Thereupon Ch‘ên hurried away; and descending the hill, turned
into a copse where there was a building which he thought would in all
probability be a monastery. On getting nearer, he saw that the place
was surrounded by a wall, and between him and a half-open red-door was
a brook spanned by a stone bridge leading up to it. Pulling back the
door, he beheld within a number of ornamental buildings circling in
the air like so many clouds, and for all the world resembling the
Imperial pleasure-grounds; and thinking it must be the park of some
official personage, he walked quietly in, enjoying the delicious
fragrance of the flowers as he pushed aside the thick vegetation which
obstructed his way. After traversing a winding path fenced in by
balustrades, Ch‘ên reached a second enclosure, wherein were a quantity
of tall willow-trees which swept the red eaves of the buildings with
their branches. The note of some bird would set the petals of the
flowers fluttering in the air, and the least wind would bring the
seed-vessels down from the elm-trees above; and the effect upon the
eye and heart of the beholder was something quite unknown in the world
of mortals. Passing through a small kiosque, Ch‘ên and his servant
came upon a swing which seemed as though suspended from the clouds,
while the ropes hung idly down in the utter stillness that
prevailed.[32] Thinking by this that they were approaching the ladies’
apartments,[33] Ch‘ên would have turned back, but at that moment he
heard sounds of horses’ feet at the door, and what seemed to be the
laughter of a bevy of girls. So he and his servant hid themselves in a
bush; and by-and-by, as the sounds came nearer, he heard one of the
young ladies say, “We’ve had but poor sport to-day;” whereupon another
cried out, “If the princess hadn’t shot that wild goose, we should
have taken all this trouble for nothing.” Shortly after this, a number
of girls dressed in red came in escorting a young lady, who went and
sat down under the kiosque. She wore a hunting costume with tight[34]
sleeves, and was about fourteen or fifteen years old. Her hair looked
like a cloud of mist at the back of her head, and her waist seemed as
though a breath of wind might snap it[35]--incomparable for beauty,
even among the celebrities of old. Just then the attendants handed her
some exquisitely fragrant tea, and stood glittering round her like a
bank of beautiful embroidery. In a few moments the young lady arose
and descended the kiosque; at which one of her attendants cried out,
“Is your Highness too fatigued by riding to take a turn in the swing?”
The princess replied that she was not; and immediately some supported
her under the shoulders, while others seized her arms, and others
again arranged her petticoats, and brought her the proper shoes.[36]
Thus they helped her into the swing, she herself stretching out her
shining arms, and putting her feet into a suitable pair of slippers;
and then--away she went, light as a flying-swallow, far up into the
fleecy clouds. As soon as she had had enough, the attendants helped
her out, and one of them exclaimed, “Truly, your Highness is a
perfect angel!” At this the young lady laughed, and walked away, Ch‘ên
gazing after her in a state of semi-consciousness, until, at length,
the voices died away, and he and his servant crept forth. Walking up
and down near the swing, he suddenly espied a red handkerchief near
the paling, which he knew had been dropped by one of the young ladies;
and, thrusting it joyfully into his sleeve, he walked up and entered
the kiosque. There, upon a table, lay writing materials, and taking
out the handkerchief he indited upon it the following lines:--
“What form divine was just now sporting nigh?--
’Twas she, I trow of ‘golden lily’ fame;
Her charms the moon’s fair denizens might shame,
Her fairy footsteps bear her to the sky.”