Ye who would there a pure libation pour,
Look for mud walls--a roof of rushy make--
And Judas-tree in flower before the door.”
The Chinese believe that the Judas-tree will only bloom where
fraternal love prevails.
[134] I have already observed that men and women should not let their
hands touch when passing things to each other (see No. XL., note 233);
neither is it considered proper for persons of different sexes to hang
their clothes on the same clothes-horse. (See _Appendix_, note 381.)
With regard to shaking hands, I have omitted to mention how hateful
this custom is in the eyes of the Chinese, as in vogue among
foreigners, without reference to sex. They believe that a bad man
might easily secrete some noxious drug in the palm of his hand, and so
convey it into the system of any woman, who would then be at his
mercy.
[135] Alluding to Wang’s breach of etiquette in visiting the father
himself, instead of sending a go-between, who would have offered the
same sum in due form as the usual dowry or present to the bride’s
family.
[136] Witnesses in a Chinese court of justice take no oath, in our
sense of the term. Their written depositions, however, are always
ended with the words “the above evidence is the truth!” In ordinary
life people call heaven and earth to witness, or, as in this case, the
sun; or they declare themselves willing to forfeit their lives; and so
on, if their statements are not true. “Saucer-breaking” is one of
those pleasant inductions from probably a single instance, which may
have been the fancy of a moment; at any rate, it is quite unknown in
China as a national custom. “Cock-killing” usually has reference to
the ceremonies of initiation performed by the members of the numerous
secret societies which exist over the length and breadth of the
Empire, in spite of Government prohibitions, and the penalty of death
incurred upon detection.
[137] Adoption is common all over China, and is regulated by law. For
instance, an adopted son excludes all the daughters of the family. A
man is not allowed to marry a girl whom he has adopted until he shall
have given her away to be adopted in a family of a _different surname
from his own_; after which fictitious ceremony, his marriage with her
becomes legal (see No. XV., note 109); for the child adopted takes the
same surname as that of the family into which he is adopted, and is so
far cut off from his own relations, that he would not venture even to
put on mourning for his real parents without first obtaining the
consent of those who had adopted him. A son or daughter may be sold,
but an adopted child may not; neither may the adopted child be given
away in adoption to any one else without the specific consent of his
real parents. The general object in adopting children is to leave some
one behind at death to look after the duties of ancestral worship. For
this boys are preferred; but the _Fortunate Union_ gives an instance
in which these rites were very creditably performed by the heroine of
the tale.
XCV.
THE TWO BRIDES.[138]
Now Chi-shêng, or Wang Sun, was one of the cleverest young fellows in
the district; and his father and mother, who had foreseen his ability
from the time when, as a baby in long clothes, he distinguished them
from other people, loved him very dearly. He grew up into a handsome
lad; at eight or nine he could compose elegantly, and by fourteen he
had already entered his name as a candidate for the first degree,
after which his marriage became a question for consideration. Now his
father’s younger sister, Erh-niang, had married a gentleman named
Chêng Tzŭ-ch‘iao, and they had a daughter called Kuei-hsiu, who was
extremely pretty, and with whom Chi-shêng fell deeply in love, being
soon unable either to eat or to sleep. His parents became extremely
uneasy about him, and inquired what it was that ailed him; and when he
told them, they at once sent off a match-maker to Mr. Chêng. The
latter, however, was rather a stickler for the proprieties, and
replied that the near relationship precluded him from accepting the
offer.[139] Thereupon Chi-shêng became dangerously ill, and his
mother, not knowing what to do, secretly tried to persuade Erh-niang
to let her daughter come over to their house; but Mr. Chêng heard of
it, and was so angry that Chi-shêng’s father and mother gave up all
hope of arranging the match.
At that time there was a gentleman named Chang living near by, who had
five daughters, all very pretty, but the youngest, called Wu-k‘o, was
singularly beautiful, far surpassing her four sisters. She was not
betrothed to any one, when one day, as she was on her way to worship
at the family tombs, she chanced to see Chi-shêng, and at her return
home spoke about him to her mother. Her mother guessed what her
meaning was, and arranged with a match-maker, named Mrs. Yü, to call
upon Chi-shêng’s parents. This she did precisely at the time when
Chi-shêng was so ill, and forthwith told his mother that her son’s
complaint was one she, Mrs. Yü, was quite competent to cure; going on
to tell her about Miss Wu-k‘o and the proposed marriage, at which the
good lady was delighted, and sent her in to talk about it to Chi-shêng
himself. “Alas!” cried he, when he had heard Mrs. Yü’s story, “you are
bringing me the wrong medicine for my complaint.” “All depends upon
the efficacy of the medicine,” replied Mrs. Yü; “if the medicine is
good, it matters not what is the name of the doctor who administers
the draught; while to set your heart on a particular person, and to
lie there and die because that person doesn’t come, is surely foolish
in the extreme.” “Ah,” rejoined Chi-shêng, “there’s no medicine under
heaven that will do me any good.” Mrs. Yü told him his experience was
limited, and proceeded to expatiate by speaking and gesticulating on
the beauty and liveliness of Wu-k‘o. But all Chi-shêng said was that
she was not what he wanted, and, turning round his face to the wall,
would listen to no more about her. So Mrs. Yü was obliged to go away,
and Chi-shêng became worse and worse every day, until suddenly one of
the maids came in and informed him that the young lady herself was at
the door. Immediately he jumped up and ran out, and lo! there before
him stood a beautiful girl, whom, however he soon discovered not to be
Kuei-hsiu. She wore a light yellow robe with a fine silk jacket and an
embroidered petticoat, from beneath which her two little feet peeped
out; and altogether she more resembled a fairy than anything else.
Chi-shêng inquired her name; to which she replied that it was Wu-k‘o,
adding that she couldn’t understand his devoted attachment to
Kuei-hsiu, as if there was nobody else in the world. Chi-shêng
apologized, saying that he had never before seen any one so beautiful
as Kuei-hsiu, but that he was now aware of his mistake. He then swore
everlasting fidelity to her, and was just grasping her hand, when he
awoke and found his mother rubbing him. It was a dream, but so
accurately defined in all its details that he began to think if Wu-k‘o
was really such as he had seen her, there would be no further need to
try for his impracticable cousin. So he communicated his dream to his
mother; and she, only too delighted to notice this change of feeling,
offered to go to Wu-k‘o’s house herself; but Chi-shêng would not hear
of this, and arranged with an old woman who knew the family to find
some pretext for going there, and to report to him what Wu-k‘o was
like. When she arrived Wu-k‘o was ill in bed, and lay with her head
propped up by pillows, looking very pretty indeed. The old woman
approached the couch and asked what was the matter; to which Wu-k‘o
made no reply, her fingers fidgetting all the time with her waistband.
“She’s been behaving badly to her father and mother,” cried the
latter, who was in the room; “there’s many a one has offered to marry
her, but she says she’ll have none but Chi-shêng: and then when I
scold her a bit, she takes on and won’t touch her food for days.”
“Madam,” said the old woman, “if you could get that young man for your
daughter they would make a truly pretty pair; and as for him, if he
could only see Miss Wu-k‘o, I’m afraid it would be too much for him.
What do you think of my going there and getting them to make
proposals?” “No, thank you,” replied Wu-k‘o; “I would rather not risk
his refusal;” upon which the old woman declared she would succeed, and
hurried off to tell Chi-shêng, who was delighted to find from her
report that Wu-k‘o was exactly as he had seen her in his dream, though
he didn’t trust implicitly in all the old woman said. By-and-by, when
he began to get a little better, he consulted with the old woman as to
how he could see Wu-k‘o with his own eyes; and, after some little
difficulty, it was arranged that Chi-shêng should hide himself in a
room from which he would be able to see her as she crossed the yard
supported by a maid, which she did every day at a certain hour. This
Chi-shêng proceeded to do, and in a little while out she came,
accompanied by the old woman as well, who instantly drew her attention
either to the clouds or the trees, in order that she should walk more
leisurely. Thus Chi-shêng had a good look at her, and saw that she was
truly the young lady of his dream. He could hardly contain himself for
joy; and when the old woman arrived and asked if she would do instead
of Kuei-hsiu, he thanked her very warmly and returned to his own home.
There he told his father and mother, who sent off a match-maker to
arrange the preliminaries; but the latter came back and told them that
Wu-k‘o was already betrothed. This was a terrible blow for Chi-shêng,
who was soon as ill as ever, and offered no reply to his father and
mother when they charged him with having made a mistake. For several
months he ate nothing but a bowl of rice-gruel a-day, and he became as
emaciated as a fowl, when all of a sudden the old woman walked in and
asked him what was the matter. “Foolish boy,” said she, when he had
told her all; “before you wouldn’t have her, and do you imagine she is
bound to have you now? But I’ll see if I can’t help you; for were she
the Emperor’s own daughter, I should still find some way of getting
her.” Chi-shêng asked what he should do, and she then told him to send
a servant with a letter next day to Wu-k‘o’s house, to which his
father at first objected for fear of another repulse; but the old
woman assured him that Wu-k‘o’s parents had since repented, besides
which no written contract had as yet been made; “and you know the
proverb,” added she, “that those who are first at the fire will get
their dinner first.” So Chi-shêng’s father agreed, and two servants
were accordingly sent, their mission proving a complete success.
Chi-shêng now rapidly recovered his health, and thought no more of
Kuei-hsiu, who, when she heard of the intended match, became in her
turn very seriously ill, to the great anger of her father, who said
she might die for all he cared, but to the great sorrow of her mother,
who was extremely fond of her daughter. The latter even went so far as
to propose to Mr. Chang that Kuei-hsiu should go as second wife, at
which he was so enraged that he declared he would wash his hands of
the girl altogether. The mother then found out when Chi-shêng’s
wedding was to take place; and, borrowing a chair and attendants from
her brother under pretence of going to visit him, put Kuei-hsiu inside
and sent her off to her uncle’s house. As she arrived at the door, the
servants spread a carpet for her to walk on, and the band struck up
the wedding march. Chi-shêng went out to see what it was all about,
and there met a young lady in a bridal veil, from whom he would have
escaped had not her servants surrounded them, and, before he knew what
he was doing, he was making her the usual salutation of a bridegroom.
They then went in together, and, to his further astonishment, he found
that the young lady was Kuei-hsiu; and, being now unable to go and
meet Wu-k‘o, a message was sent to her father, telling him what had
occurred. He, too, got into a great rage, and vowed he would break off
the match; but Wu-k‘o herself said she would go all the same, her
rival having only got the start of her in point of time. And go she
did; and the two wives, instead of quarrelling, as was expected, lived
very happily together like sisters, and wore each other’s clothes and
shoes without distinction, Kuei-hsiu taking the place of an elder
sister as being somewhat older than Wu-k‘o.[140] One day, after these
events, Chi-shêng asked Wu-k‘o why she had refused his offer; to which
she replied that it was merely to pay him out for having previously
refused her father’s proposal. “Before you had seen me, your head was
full of Kuei-hsiu; but after you had seen me, your thoughts were
somewhat divided; and I wanted to know how I compared with her, and
whether you would fall ill on my account as you had on hers, that we
mightn’t quarrel about our looks.” “It was a cruel revenge,” said
Chi-shêng; “but how should I ever have got a sight of you had it not
been for the old woman?” “What had she to do with it?” replied Wu-k‘o;
“I knew you were behind the door all the time. When I was ill I dreamt
that I went to your house and saw you, but I looked upon it only as a
dream until I heard that you had dreamt that I had actually been
there, and then I knew that my spirit must have been with you.”
Chi-shêng now related to her the particulars of his vision, which
coincided exactly with her own; and thus, strangely enough, had the
matrimonial alliances of both father and son been brought about by
dreams.
FOOTNOTES:
[138] This story is a sequel to the last.
[139] The surnames would in this case be different, and no obstacle
could be offered on that score. See No. XV., note 109.
[140] The _dénouement_ of the _Yü-chiao-li_, a small novel which was
translated into French by Rémusat, and again by Julien under the title
of _Les Deux Cousines_, is effected by the hero of the tale marrying
both the heroines.
XCVI.
A SUPERNATURAL WIFE.
A certain Mr. Chao, of Ch‘ang-shan, lodged in a family of the name of
T‘ai. He was very badly off, and, falling sick, was brought almost to
death’s door. One day they moved him into the verandah, that it might
be cooler for him; and, when he awoke from a nap, lo! a beautiful girl
was standing by his side. “I am come to be your wife,” said the girl,
in answer to his question as to who she was; to which he replied that
a poor fellow like himself did not look for such luck as that; adding
that, being then on his death-bed, he would not have much occasion for
the services of a wife. The girl said she could cure him; but he told
her he very much doubted that; “And even,” continued he, “should you
have any good prescription, I have not the means of getting it made
up.” “I don’t want medicine to cure you with,” rejoined the girl,
proceeding at once to rub his back and sides with her hand, which
seemed to him like a ball of fire. He soon began to feel much better,
and asked the young lady what her name was, in order, as he said, that
he might remember her in his prayers. “I am a spirit,” replied she;
“and you, when alive under the Han dynasty as Ch‘u Sui-liang, were a
benefactor of my family. Your kindness being engraven on my heart, I
have at length succeeded in my search for you, and am able in some
measure to requite you.” Chao was dreadfully ashamed of his
poverty-stricken state, and afraid that his dirty room would spoil the
young lady’s dress; but she made him show her in, and accordingly he
took her into his apartment, where there were neither chairs to sit
upon, nor signs of anything to eat, saying, “You might, indeed, be
able to put up with all this; but you see my larder is empty, and I
have absolutely no means of supporting a wife.” “Don’t be alarmed
about that,” cried she; and in another moment he saw a couch covered
with costly robes, the walls papered with a silver-flecked paper, and
chairs and tables appear, the latter laden with all kinds of wine and
exquisite viands. They then began to enjoy themselves, and lived
together as husband and wife, many people coming to witness these
strange things, and being all cordially received by the young lady,
who in her turn always accompanied Mr. Chao when he went out to dinner
anywhere.[141] One day there was an unprincipled young graduate among
the company, which she seemed immediately to become aware of; and,
after calling him several bad names, she struck him on the side of the
head, causing his head to fly out of the window while his body
remained inside; and there he was, stuck fast, unable to move either
way, until the others interceded for him and he was released. After
some time visitors became too numerous, and if she refused to see them
they turned their anger against her husband. At length, as they were
sitting together drinking with some friends at the Tuan-yang
festival,[142] a white rabbit ran in, whereupon the girl jumped up and
said, “The doctor[143] has come for me;” then, turning to the rabbit,
she added, “You go on: I’ll follow you.” So the rabbit went away, and
then she ordered them to get a ladder and place it against a high tree
in the back yard, the top of the ladder overtopping the tree. The
young lady went up first and Chao close behind her; after which she
called out to anybody who wished to join them to make haste up. None
ventured to do so with the exception of a serving-boy belonging to the
house, who followed after Chao; and thus they went up, up, up, up,
until they disappeared in the clouds and were seen no more. However,
when the bystanders came to look at the ladder, they found it was only
an old door-frame with the panels knocked out; and when they went into
Mr. Chao’s room, it was the same old, dirty, unfurnished room as
before. So they determined to find out all about it from the
serving-boy when he came back; but this he never did.
FOOTNOTES:
[141] The sexes do not dine together. On the occasion of a
dinner-party, private or official, the ladies give a separate
entertainment to the wives of the various guests in the “inner” or
women’s apartments, as an adjunct to which a theatrical troupe is
often engaged, precisely as in the case of the opposite sex.
Singing-girls are, however, present at and share in the banquets of
the _roués_ of China.
[142] This occurs on the 5th of the 5th moon, and is commonly known as
the Dragon-Boat Festival, from a practice of racing on that day in
long, narrow boats. It is said to have been instituted in memory of a
patriotic statesman, whose identity, however, is not settled, some
writers giving Wu Yun (see _The Middle Kingdom_, Vol. II., p. 82),
others Ch‘ü Yüan (see _The Chinese Reader’s Manual_, p. 107), as the
hero of the day.
[143] A hare or rabbit is believed to sit at the foot of the
cassia-tree in the moon, pounding the drugs out of which is concocted
the elixir of immortality. An allusion to this occurs in the poems of
Tu Fu, one of the celebrated bards of the T‘ang dynasty:--
“The frog is not drowned in the river;
The medicine hare lives for ever.”
XCVII.
BRIBERY AND CORRUPTION.