XCII.
SMELLING ESSAYS.[118]
Now as they wandered about the temple they came upon an old blind
priest sitting under the verandah, engaged in selling medicines and
prescribing for patients. “Ah!” cried Sung, “there is an extraordinary
man who is well versed in the arts of composition;” and immediately he
sent back to get the essay they had just been reading, in order to
obtain the old priest’s opinion as to its merits. At the same moment
up came their friend from Yü-hang, and all three went along together.
Wang began by addressing him as “Professor;” whereupon the priest, who
thought the stranger had come to consult him as a doctor, inquired
what might be the disease from which he was suffering. Wang then
explained what his mission was; upon which the priest smiled and said,
“Who’s been telling you this nonsense? How can a man with no eyes
discuss with you the merits of your compositions?” Wang replied by
asking him to let his ears do duty for his eyes; but the priest
answered that he would hardly have patience to sit out Wang’s three
sections, amounting perhaps to some two thousand and more words.
“However,” added he, “if you like to burn it, I’ll try what I can do
with my nose.” Wang complied, and burnt the first section there and
then; and the old priest, snuffing up the smoke, declared that it
wasn’t such a bad effort, and finally gave it as his opinion that Wang
would probably succeed at the examination. The young scholar from
Yü-hang didn’t believe that the old priest could really tell anything
by these means, and forthwith proceeded to burn an essay by one of the
old masters; but the priest no sooner smelt the smoke than he cried
out, “Beautiful indeed! beautiful indeed! I do enjoy this. The light
of genius and truth is evident here.” The Yü-hang scholar was greatly
astonished at this, and began to burn an essay of his own; whereupon
the priest said, “I had had but a taste of that one; why change so
soon to another?” “The first paragraph,” replied the young man, “was
by a friend; the rest is my own composition.” No sooner had he uttered
these words than the old priest began to retch violently, and begged
that he might have no more, as he was sure it would make him sick. The
Yü-hang scholar was much abashed at this, and went away; but in a few
days the list came out and his name was among the successful ones,
while Wang’s was not. He at once hurried off to tell the old priest,
who, when he heard the news, sighed and said, “I may be blind with my
eyes but I am not so with my nose, which I fear is the case with the
examiners. Besides,” added he, “I was talking to you about
composition: I said nothing about _destiny_.”[119]
FOOTNOTES:
[118] The following extract from a long and otherwise tedious story
tells its own tale. Wang is the modest man, and the young man from
Yü-hang the braggart. Sung is merely a friend of Wang’s.
[119] This is one of our author’s favourite shafts--a sneer at
examiners in general, and those who rejected him in particular.
XCIII.
HIS FATHER’S GHOST.
A man named T‘ien Tzŭ-ch‘êng, of Chiang-ning, was crossing the
Tung-t‘ing lake, when the boat was capsized, and he was drowned. His
son, Liang-ssŭ, who, towards the close of the Ming dynasty, took the
highest degree, was then a baby in arms; and his wife, hearing the bad
news, swallowed poison forthwith,[120] and left the child to the care
of his grandmother. When Liang-ssŭ grew up, he was appointed
magistrate in Hu-pei, where he remained about a year. He was then
transferred to Hu-nan, on military service; but, on reaching the
Tung-t‘ing lake, his feelings overpowered him, and he returned to
plead inability as an excuse for not taking up his post. Accordingly,
he was degraded to the rank of Assistant-Magistrate, which he at first
declined, but was finally compelled to accept; and thenceforward gave
himself up to roaming about on the lakes and streams of the
surrounding country, without paying much attention to his official
duties.
One night he had anchored his boat alongside the bank of a river, when
suddenly the cadence of a sweetly-played flageolet broke upon his ear;
so he strolled along by the light of the moon in the direction of the
music, until, after a few minutes’ walking, he reached a cottage
standing by itself, with a few citron-trees round it, and
brilliantly-lighted inside. Approaching a window, he peeped in, and
saw three persons sitting at a table, engaged in drinking. In the
place of honour was a graduate of about thirty years of age; an old
man played the host, and at the side sat a much younger man playing on
the flageolet. When he had finished, the old man clapped his hands in
admiration; but the graduate turned away with a sigh, as if he had not
heard a note. “Come now, Mr. Lu,” cried the old man, addressing the
latter, “kindly favour us with one of your songs, which, I know, must
be worth hearing.” The graduate then began to sing as follows:--
“Over the river the wind blows cold on lonely me:
Each flow’ret trampled under foot, all verdure gone.
At home a thousand _li_ away, I cannot be;
So towards the Bridge my spirit nightly wanders on.”
The above was given in such melancholy tones that the old man smiled
and said, “Mr. Lu, these must be experiences of your own,” and,
immediately filling a goblet, added, “I can do nothing like that; but
if you will let me, I will give you a song to help us on with our
wine.” He then sung a verse from “Li T‘ai-poh,”[121] and put them all
in a lively humour again; after which the young man said he would just
go outside and see how high the moon was, which he did, and observing
Liang-ssŭ outside, clapped his hands, and cried out to his companions,
“There is a man at the window, who has seen all we have been doing.”
He then led Liang-ssŭ in; whereupon the other two rose, and begged him
to be seated, and to join them in their wine. The wine, however, was
cold,[122] and he therefore declined; but the young man at once
perceived his reason, and proceeded to warm some for him. Liang-ssŭ
now ordered his servant to go and buy some more, but this his host
would not permit him to do. They next inquired Liang-ssŭ’s name, and
whence he came, and then the old man said, “Why, then, you are the
father and mother[123] of the district in which I live. My name is
River: I am an old resident here. This young man is a Mr. Tu, of
Kiang-si; and this gentleman,” added he, pointing to the graduate, “is
Mr. Rushten,[124] a fellow-provincial of yours.” Mr. Rushten looked
at Liang-ssŭ in rather a contemptuous way, and without taking much
notice of him; whereupon Liang-ssŭ asked him whereabouts he lived in
Chiang-ning, observing that it was strange he himself should never
have heard of such an accomplished gentleman. “Alas!” replied Rushten,
“it is many a long day since I left my home, and I know nothing even
of my own family. Alas, indeed!” These words were uttered in so
mournful a tone of voice that the old man broke in with, “Come, come,
now! talking like this, instead of drinking when we’re all so jolly
together; this will never do.” He then drained a bumper himself, and
said, “I propose a game of forfeits. We’ll throw with three dice; and
whoever throws so that the spots on one die[125] equal those on the
other two shall give us a verse with a corresponding classical
allusion in it.” He then threw himself, and turned up an ace, a two,
and a three; whereupon he sang the following lines:--
“An ace and a deuce on one side, just equal a three on the other:
For Fan a chicken was boiled, though three years had passed, by
Chang’s mother.[126]
Thus friends love to meet!”
Then the young musician threw, and turned up two twos and a four;
whereupon he exclaimed, “Don’t laugh at the feeble allusion of an
unlearned fellow like me:--
‘Two deuces are equal to a four:
Four men united their valour in the old city.[127]
Thus brothers love to meet!’”
Mr. Rushten followed with two aces and a two, and recited these
lines:--
“Two aces are equal to a two:
Lu-hsiang stretched out his two arms and embraced his father.[128]
Thus father and son love to meet!”
Liang then threw, and turned up the same as Mr. Rushten; whereupon he
said:--
“Two aces are equal to a two:
Mao-jung regaled Lin-tsung with two baskets.[129]
Thus host and guest love to meet!”
When the _partie_ was over Liang-ssŭ rose to go, but Mr. Rushten
said, “Dear me! why are you in such a hurry; we haven’t had a moment
to speak of the old place. Please stay: I was just going to ask you a
few questions.” So Liang-ssŭ sat down again, and Mr. Rushten
proceeded. “I had an old friend,” said he, “who was drowned in the
Tung-t‘ing lake. He bore the same name as yourself; was he a
relative?” “He was my father,” replied Liang-ssŭ; “how did you know
him?” “We were friends as boys together; and when he was drowned, I
recovered and buried his body by the river-side.”[130] Liang-ssŭ here
burst into tears, and thanked Mr. Rushten very warmly, begging him to
point out his father’s grave. “Come again to-morrow,” said Mr.
Rushten, “and I will shew it to you. You could easily find it
yourself. It is close by here, and has ten stalks of water-rush
growing on it.” Liang-ssŭ now took his leave, and went back to his
boat, but he could not sleep for thinking of what Mr. Rushten had told
him; and at length, without waiting for the dawn, he set out to look
for the grave. To his great astonishment, the house where he had spent
the previous evening had disappeared; but hunting about in the
direction indicated by Mr. Rushten, he found a grave with ten
water-rushes growing on it, precisely as Mr. Rushten had described. It
then flashed across him that Mr. Rushten’s name had a special meaning,
and that he had been holding converse with none other than the
disembodied spirit of his own father. And, on inquiring of the people
of the place, he learnt that twenty years before a benevolent old
gentleman, named Kao, had been in the habit of collecting the bodies
of persons found drowned, and burying them in that spot. Liang then
opened the grave, and carried off his father’s remains to his own
home, where his grandmother, to whom he described Mr. Rushten’s
appearance, confirmed the suspicion he himself had formed. It also
turned out that the young musician was a cousin of his, who had been
drowned when nineteen years of age; and then he recollected that the
boy’s father had subsequently gone to Kiang-si, and that his mother
had died there, and had been buried at the Bamboo Bridge, to which Mr.
Rushten had alluded in his song. But he did not know who the old man
was.[131]
FOOTNOTES:
[120] This would be regarded as a very meritorious act by the Chinese.
[121] The Byron of China.
[122] Chinese wine--or, more correctly, _spirits_--is always taken
hot; hence the term wine-kettle, which frequently occurs in these
pages.
[123] The Magistrate; who is supposed to be towards the people what a
father is to his children.
[124] This singularly un-Chinese surname is employed to keep up a
certain play upon words which exists in the original, and which is
important to the _dénouement_ of the story. “River” is the simple
translation of a name actually in use.
[125] Chinese dice are the exact counterpart of our own, except that
the ace and the four are coloured red: the ace because the combination
of black and white would be unlucky, and the four because this number
once turned up in response to the call of an Emperor of the T‘ang
dynasty, who particularly wanted a four to win him the _partie_. All
letters, despatches, and such documents, have invariably something
_red_ about them, this being the lucky colour, and to the Chinese,
emblematic of prosperity and joy.
[126] Alluding to an ancient story of a promise by a Mr. Fan that he
would be at his friend Chang’s house that day three years. When the
time drew near, Chang’s mother ridiculed the notion of a man keeping a
three years’ appointment; but, acceding to her son’s instances,
prepared a boiled chicken, which was barely ready when Fan arrived to
eat of it.
[127] Alluding to the celebrated oath of confederation sworn in the
peach garden between Kuan Yü, or Kuan Ti (see No. I., note 39), Chang
Fei (see No. LXIII., note 2), Liu Pei, who subsequently proclaimed
himself Emperor, A.D. 221, and Chu-ko Liang, his celebrated minister,
to whose sage counsels most of the success of the undertaking was due.
The whole story is one of the best known of Chinese historical
romances, bringing about, as it did, the downfall of the famous Han
dynasty, which had endured for over 400 years.
[128] Alluding to the story of a young man who went in search of his
missing father.
[129] Lin-tsung saw his host kill a chicken which he thought was
destined for himself. However, Mao-jung served up the dainty morsel to
his mother, while he and his guest regaled themselves with two baskets
of common vegetables. At this instance of filial piety, Lin-tsung had
the good sense to be charmed.
[130] The Chinese recognise no act more worthy a virtuous man than
that of burying stray bones, covering up exposed coffins, and so
forth. By such means the favour of the Gods is most surely obtained,
to say nothing of the golden opinions of the living.
[131] This is merely our author’s way of putting the question of the
old man’s identity. He was the Spirit of the Waters--his name, it will
be recollected, was River--just, in fact, as we say Old Father Thames.
XCIV.
THE BOAT-GIRL BRIDE.
Wang Kuli-ngan was a young man of good family. It happened once when
he was travelling southwards, and had moored his boat to the bank,
that he saw in another boat close by a young boat-girl embroidering
shoes. He was much struck by her beauty, and continued gazing at her
for some time, though she took not the slightest notice of him.
By-and-by he began singing--
“The Lo-yang lady lives over the way:
[Fifteen years is her age I should say].”[132]
to attract her attention, and then she seemed to perceive that he was
addressing himself to her; but, after just raising her head and
glancing at him, she resumed her embroidery as before. Wang then threw
a piece of silver towards her, which fell on her skirt; however she
merely picked it up, and flung it on to the bank, as if she had not
seen what it was, so Wang put it back in his pocket again. He
followed up by throwing her a gold bracelet, to which she paid no
attention whatever, never taking her eyes off her work. A few minutes
after her father appeared, much to the dismay of Wang, who was afraid
he would see the bracelet; but the young girl quietly placed her feet
over it, and concealed it from his sight. The boatman let go the
painter, and away they went down stream, leaving Wang sitting there,
not knowing what to do next. And, having recently lost his wife, he
regretted that he had not seized this opportunity to make another
match; the more so, as when he came to ask the other boat-people of
the place, no one knew anything about them. So Wang got into his own
boat, and started off in pursuit; but evening came on, and, as he
could see nothing of them, he was obliged to turn back and proceed in
the direction where business was taking him. When he had finished
that, he returned, making inquiries all the way along, but without
hearing anything about the object of his search. On arriving at home,
he was unable either to eat or to sleep, so much did this affair
occupy his mind; and about a year afterwards he went south again,
bought a boat, and lived in it as his home, watching carefully every
single vessel that passed either up or down, until at last there was
hardly one he didn’t know by sight. But all this time the boat he was
looking for never reappeared.
Some six months passed away thus, and then, having exhausted all his
funds, he was obliged to go home, where he remained in a state of
general inaptitude for anything. One night he dreamed that he entered
a village on the river-bank, and that, after passing several houses,
he saw one with a door towards the south, and a palisade of bamboos
inside. Thinking it was a garden, he walked in and beheld a beautiful
magnolia, covered with blossoms, which reminded him of the line--
“And Judas-tree in flower before her door.”[133]
A few steps farther on was a neat bamboo hedge, on the other side of
which, towards the north, he found a small house, with three columns,
the door of which was locked; and another, towards the south, with its
window shaded by the broad leaves of a plaintain-tree. The door was
barred by a clothes-horse,[134] on which was hanging an embroidered
petticoat; and, on seeing this, Wang stepped back, knowing that he had
got to the ladies’ quarters; but his presence had already been noticed
inside, and, in another moment, out came his heroine of the boat.
Overjoyed at seeing her, he was on the point of grasping her hand,
when suddenly the girl’s father arrived, and, in his consternation,
Wang waked up, and found that it was all a dream. Every incident of
it, however, remained clear and distinct in his mind, and he took care
to say nothing about it to anybody, for fear of destroying its
reality.
Another year passed away, and he went again to Chinkiang, where lived
an official, named Hsü, who was an old friend of the family, and who
invited Wang to come and take a cup of wine with him. On his way
thither, Wang lost his way, but at length reached a village which
seemed familiar to him, and which he soon found, by the door with the
magnolia inside, to be identical, in every particular, with the
village of his dream. He went in through the doorway, and there was
everything as he had seen it in his dream, even to the boat-girl
herself. She jumped up on his arrival, and, shutting the door in his
face, asked what his business was there. Wang inquired if she had
forgotten about the bracelet, and went on to tell her how long he had
been searching for her, and how, at last, she had been revealed to him
in a dream. The girl then begged to know his name and family; and when
she heard who he was, she asked what a gentleman like himself could
want with a poor boat-girl like her, as he must have a wife of his
own. “But for you,” replied Wang, “I should, indeed, have been married
long ago.” Upon which the girl told him if that was really the case,
he had better apply to her parents, “although,” added she, “they have
already refused a great many offers for me. The bracelet you gave me
is here, but my father and mother are just now away from home; they
will be back shortly. You go away now and engage a match-maker, when I
dare say it will be all right if the proper formalities are observed.”
Wang then retired, the girl calling after him to remember that her
name was Mêng Yün, and her father’s Mêng Chiang-li. He proceeded at
once on his way to Mr. Hsü’s, and after that sought out his intended
father-in-law, telling him who he was, and offering him at the same
time one hundred ounces of silver, as betrothal-money for his
daughter. “She is already promised,” replied the old man; upon which
Wang declared he had been making careful inquiries, and had heard, on
all sides, that the young lady was not engaged, winding up by begging
to know what objection there was to his suit. “I have just promised
her,” answered her father, “and I cannot possibly break my word;” so
Wang went away, deeply mortified, not knowing whether to believe it or
not. That night he tossed about a good deal; and next morning, braving
the ridicule with which he imagined his friend would view his
wished-for alliance with a boat-girl, he went off to Mr. Hsü, and told
him all about it. “Why didn’t you consult me before?” cried Mr. Hsü;
“her father is a connection of mine.” Wang then went on to give
fuller particulars, which his friend interrupted by saying, “Chang-li
is indeed poor, but he has never been a boatman. Are you sure you are
not making a mistake?” He then sent off his elder son to make
inquiries; and to him the girl’s father said, “Poor I am, but I don’t
_sell_ my daughter.[135] Your friend imagined that I should be tempted
by the sight of his money to forego the usual ceremonies, and so I
won’t have anything to do with him. But if your father desires this
match, and everything is in proper order, I will just go in and
consult with my daughter, and see if she is willing.” He then retired
for a few minutes, and when he came back he raised his hands in
congratulation, saying, “Everything is as you wish;” whereupon a day
was fixed, and the young man went home to report to his father. Wang
now sent off betrothal presents, with the usual formalities, and took
up his abode with his friend, Mr. Hsü, until the marriage was
solemnized, three days after which he bade adieu to his father-in-law,
and started on his way northwards. In the evening, as they were
sitting on the boat together, Wang said to his wife, “When I first met
you near this spot, I fancied you were not of the ordinary
boating-class. Where were you then going?” “I was going to visit my
uncle,” she replied. “We are not a wealthy family, you know, but we
don’t want anything through an improper channel; and I couldn’t help
smiling at the great eyes you were making at me, all the time trying
to tempt me with money. But when I heard you speak, I knew at once you
were a man of refinement, though I guessed you were a bit of a rake;
and so I hid your bracelet, and saved you from the wrath of my
father.” “And yet,” replied Wang, “you have fallen into my snare after
all;” adding, after a little pressure, “for I can’t conceal from you
much longer the fact that I have already a wife, belonging to a high
official family.” This she did not believe, until he began to affirm
it seriously; and then she jumped up and ran out of the cabin. Wang
followed at once, but, before he could reach her, she was already in
the river; whereupon he shouted out to boats to come to their
assistance, causing quite a commotion all round about; but nothing was
to be seen in the river, save only the reflection of the stars shining
brightly on the water. All night long Wang went sorrowfully up and
down, and offered a high reward for the body, which, however, was not
forthcoming. So he went home in despair, and then, fearing lest his
father-in-law should come to visit his daughter, he started on a visit
to a connection of his, who had an appointment in Honan. In the course
of a year or two, when on his homeward journey, he chanced to be
detained by bad weather at a roadside inn of rather cleaner appearance
than usual. Within he saw an old woman playing with a child, which, as
soon as he entered, held out its arms to him to be taken. Wang took
the child on his knee, and there it remained, refusing to go back to
its nurse; and, when the rain had stopped, and Wang was getting ready
to go, the child cried out, “Pa-pa gone!” The nurse told it to hold
its tongue, and, at the same moment, out from behind the screen came
Wang’s long-lost wife. “You bad fellow,” said she, “what am I to do
with this?” pointing to the child; and then Wang knew that the boy was
his own son. He was much affected, and swore by the sun[136] that the
words he had uttered had been uttered in jest, and by-and-by his
wife’s anger was soothed. She then explained how she had been picked
up by a passing boat, the occupant of which was the owner of the house
they were in, a man of sixty years of age, who had no children of his
own, and who kindly adopted her.[137] She also told him how she had
had several offers of marriage, all of which she had refused, and how
her child was born, and that she had called him Chi-shêng, and that he
was then a year old. Wang now unpacked his baggage again, and went in
to see the old gentleman and his wife, whom he treated as if they had
actually been his wife’s parents. A few days afterwards they set off
together towards Wang’s home, where they found his wife’s real father
awaiting them. He had been there more than two months, and had been
considerably disconcerted by the mysterious remarks of Wang’s
servants; but the arrival of his daughter and her husband made things
all smooth again, and when they told him what had happened, he
understood the demeanour of the servants which had seemed so strange
to him at first.
FOOTNOTES:
[132] From a poem by Wang Wei, a noted poet of the T‘ang dynasty. The
second line is not given in the text.
[133] From a poem by P‘an T‘ang-shên, which runs:--