morning when they waked up, lo! all her hair was gone. The whole
establishment was in dismay, no one knowing what to make of such an
occurrence. But the letter above-mentioned contained that hair,
accompanied by the following words:--“Ever since you first entered
into public life your career has been one of peculation and avarice.
The six hundred thousand ounces of silver are safely stored in my
treasury. Make good this sum from your own accumulated extortions. The
officer you charged with the treasure is innocent; he must not be
wrongly punished. On a former occasion I took your wife’s hair as a
gentle warning. If now you disobey my injunctions, it will not be long
before I have your head. Herewith I return the hair as an evidence of
what I say.” When the Governor was dead, his family divulged the
contents of the letter; and some of his subordinates sent men to
search for the city, but they only found range upon range of
inaccessible mountains, with nothing like a road or path.
FOOTNOTES:
[219] Which ended some sixteen hundred years ago.
[220] Corresponding with our five “senses,” the heart taking the place
of the brain, and being regarded by Chinese doctors as the seat not
only of intelligence and the passions, but also of all sensation.
XXXVII.
ENGAGED TO A NUN.
At I-ling, in Hupei, there lived a young man named Chên Yü, the son of
a graduate. He was a good scholar and a handsome fellow, and had made
a reputation for himself even before he arrived at manhood. When quite
a boy, a physiognomist had predicted that he would marry a Taoist nun;
but his parents regarded it only as a joke, and made several attempts
to get him a different kind of wife. Their efforts, however, had not
hitherto proved successful, the difficulty being to find a suitable
match.
Now his maternal grandmother lived at Huang-kang; and on one occasion,
when young Chên was paying her a visit, he heard some one say that of
the four Yüns at Huang-chou the youngest had no peer. This remark
referred to some very nice-looking nuns who lived in a temple[221] a
few miles from his grandmother’s house; and accordingly Chên secretly
set off to see them, and, knocking at the door, was very cordially
received by the four ladies, who were persons of considerable
refinement. The youngest was a girl of incomparable beauty, and Chên
could not keep his eyes off her, until at last she put her hand up to
her face and looked the other way. Her companions now going out of the
room to get tea for their visitor, Chên availed himself of the
opportunity to ask the young lady’s name; to which she replied that
she was called Yün-ch‘i, and that her surname was Ch‘ên. “How
extraordinary!” cried Chên; “and mine is P‘an.”[222] This made her
blush very much, and she bent her head down and made no answer;
by-and-by rising up and going away. The tea then came in, accompanied
by some nice fruit, and the nuns began telling him their names. One
was Pai Yün-shên, and thirty odd years of age; another was Shêng
Yün-mien, just twenty; and the third was Liang Yün-tung, twenty-four
or five years old, but the junior in point of religious standing.[223]
Yün-ch‘i did not re-appear, and at length Chên grew anxious to see her
again, and asked where she was. Miss Pai told him her sister was
afraid of strangers, and Chên then got up and took his leave in spite
of their efforts to detain him. “If you want to see Yün-ch‘i you had
better come again to-morrow,” said Miss Pai; and Chên, who went home
thinking of nothing but Yün-ch‘i, did return to the temple on the
following day. All the nuns were there except Yün-ch‘i, but he hardly
liked to begin by inquiring after her; and then they pressed him to
stay and take dinner with them, accepting no excuses, Miss Pai herself
setting food and chop-sticks before him, and urging him to eat. When
he asked where Yün-ch‘i was, they said she would come directly; but
evening gradually drew on and Chên rose to go home. Thereupon they all
entreated him to stay, promising that if he did so they would make
Yün-ch‘i come in. Chên then agreed to remain; the lamps were lighted,
and wine was freely served round, until at last he said he was so
tipsy he couldn’t take any more. “Three bumpers more,” cried Miss Pai,
“and then we will send for Yün-ch‘i.” So Chên drank off his three
cups, whereupon Miss Liang said he must also drink three with her,
which he did, turning his wine-cup down on the table[224] and
declaring that he would have no more. “The gentleman won’t condescend
to drink with us,” said Miss Pai to Miss Liang, “so you had better
call in Yün-ch‘i, and tell the fair Eloïsa that her Abelard is
awaiting her.” In a few moments Miss Liang came back and told Chên
that Yün-ch‘i would not appear; upon which he went off in a huff,
without saying a word to either of them, and for several days did not
go near the place again. He could not, however, forget Yün-ch‘i, and
was always hanging about on the watch, until one afternoon he observed
Miss Pai go out, at which he was delighted, for he wasn’t much afraid
of Miss Liang, and at once ran up to the temple and knocked at the
door. Yün-mien answered his knock, and from her he discovered that
Miss Liang had also gone out on business. He then asked for Yün-ch‘i,
and Yün-mien led him into another court-yard, where she called out,
“Yün-ch‘i! here’s a visitor.” At this the door of the room was
immediately slammed, and Yün-mien laughed and told Chên she had locked
herself in. Chên was on the point of saying something, when Yün-mien
moved away, and a voice was heard from the other side of the window,
“They all declare I’m setting my cap at you, Sir; and if you come here
again, I cannot answer for my safety. I do not wish to remain a nun,
and if I could only meet with a gentleman like you, Mr. P‘an, I would
be a handmaid to him all the days of my life.” Chên offered his hand
and heart to the young lady on the spot; but she reminded him that her
education for the priesthood had not been accomplished without
expense, “and if you truly love me,” added she, “bring twenty ounces
of silver wherewith to purchase my freedom. I will wait for you three
years with the utmost fidelity.” Chên assented to this, and was about
to tell her who he really was, when Yün-mien returned and they all
went out together, Chên now bidding them farewell and going back to
his grandmother’s. After this he always had Yün-ch‘i in his thoughts,
and wanted very much to get another interview with her and be near
her once again, but at this juncture he heard that his father was
dangerously ill, and promptly set off on his way home, travelling day
and night. His father died, and his mother who then ruled the
household was such a severe person that he dared not tell her what was
nearest to his heart. Meanwhile he scraped together all the money he
could; and refused all proposals of marriage on the score of being in
mourning for his father.[225] His mother, however, insisted on his
taking a wife; and he then told her that when he was with his
grandmother at Huang-kang, an arrangement had been made that he was to
marry a Miss Ch‘ên, to which he himself was quite ready to accede; and
that now, although his father’s death had stopped all communications
on the subject, he could hardly do better than pay a visit to his
grandmother and see how matters stood, promising that if the affair
was not actually settled he would obey his mother’s commands. His
mother consented to this, and off he started with the money he had
saved; but when he reached Huang-kang and went off to the temple, he
found the place desolate and no longer what it had been. Entering in,
he saw only one old priestess employed in cooking her food; and on
making inquiries of her, she told him that the Abbess had died in the
previous year, and that the four nuns had gone away in different
directions. According to her, Yün-ch‘i was living in the northern
quarter of the city, and thither he proceeded forthwith; but after
asking for her at all the temples in the neighbourhood, he could get
no news of her, and returned sorrowfully home, pretending to his
mother that his uncle had said Mr. Ch‘ên had gone away, and that as
soon as he came back they would send a servant to let him know.
Some months after these events, Chên’s mother went on a visit to her
own home, and mentioned this story in conversation with her old
mother, who, to her astonishment, knew nothing at all about it, but
suggested that Chên and his uncle must have concocted the thing
together. Luckily, however, for Chên his uncle was away at that time,
and they had no means of getting at the real truth. Meanwhile, Chên’s
mother went away to the Lily Hill to fulfil a vow she had made, and
remained all night at an inn at the foot of the hill. That evening the
landlord knocked at her door and ushered in a young priestess to share
the room. The girl said her name was Yün-ch‘i; and when she heard that
Chên’s mother lived at I-ling, she went and sat by her side, and
poured out to her a long tale of tribulation, finishing up by saying
that she had a cousin named P‘an, at I-ling, and begging Chên’s mother
to send some one to tell him where she would be found. “Every day I
suffer,” added she, “and each day seems like a year. Tell him to come
quickly, or I may be gone.” Chên’s mother inquired what his other name
might be, but she said she did not know; to which the old lady replied
that it was of no consequence, as, being a graduate, it would be easy
to find him out. Early in the morning Chên’s mother bade the girl
farewell, the latter again begging her not to forget; and when she
reached home she told Chên what had occurred. Chên threw himself on
his knees, and told his mother that he was the P‘an to whom the young
lady alluded; and after hearing how the engagement had come about, his
mother was exceedingly angry, and said, “Undutiful boy! how will you
face your relations with a nun for a wife?” Chên hung his head and
made no reply; but shortly afterwards when he went up for his
examination, he presented himself at the address given by
Yün-ch‘i--only, however, to find that the young lady had gone away a
fortnight before. He then returned home and fell into a bad state of
health, when his grandmother died and his mother set off to assist at
her funeral. On her way back she missed the right road and reached the
house of some people named Ching, who turned out to be cousins of
hers. They invited her in, and there she saw a young girl of about
eighteen sitting in the parlour, and as great a beauty as she had ever
set eyes on. Now, as she was always thinking of making a good match
for her son, and curing him of his settled melancholy, she asked who
the young lady might be; and they told her that her name was
Wang,--that she was a connection of their own, and that her father and
mother being dead, she was staying temporarily with them. Chên’s
mother inquired the name of Miss Wang’s betrothed, but they said she
was not engaged; and then taking her hand, she entered into
conversation, and was very much charmed with her. Passing the night
there, Chên’s mother took her cousin into her confidence, and the
latter agreed that it would be a capital match; “but,” added she,
“this young lady is somewhat ambitious, or she would hardly have
remained single so long. We must think about it.” Meanwhile, Chên’s
mother and Miss Wang got on so extremely well together that they were
already on the terms of mother and daughter; and Miss Wang was invited
to accompany her home. This invitation she readily accepted, and next
day they went back; Chên’s mother, who wished to see her son free from
his present trouble, bidding one of the servants tell him that she had
brought home a nice wife for him; Chên did not believe this; but on
peeping through the window beheld a young lady much prettier even than
Yün-ch‘i herself. He now began to reflect that the three years agreed
upon had already expired; that Yün-ch‘i had gone no one knew whither,
and had probably by this time found another husband; so he had no
difficulty in entertaining the thought of marrying this young lady,
and soon regained his health. His mother then caused the young people
to meet, and be introduced to one another; saying to Miss Wang, when
her son had left the room, “Did you guess why I invited you to come
home with me?” “I did,” replied the young lady, “but I don’t think you
guessed what was _my_ object in coming. Some years ago I was betrothed
to a Mr. P‘an, of I-ling. I have heard nothing of him for a long time.
If he has found another wife I will be your daughter-in-law; if not, I
will ever regard you as my own mother, and endeavour to repay you for
your kindness to me.” “As there is an actual engagement,” replied
Chên’s mother, “I will say no more; but when I was at the Lily Hill
there was a Taoist nun inquiring after this Mr. P‘an, and now you
again, though, as a matter of fact, there is no Mr. P‘an in I-ling at
all.” “What!” cried Miss Wang, “are you that lady I met? I am the
person who inquired for Mr. P‘an.” “If that is so,” replied Chên’s
mother with a smile, “then your Mr. P‘an is not far off.” “Where is
he?” said she; and then Chên’s mother bade a maid-servant lead her out
to her son and ask him. “Is your name Yün-ch‘i?” said Chên, in great
astonishment; and when the young lady asked him how he knew it, he
told her the whole story of his pretending to be a Mr. P‘an. But when
Yün-ch‘i found out to whom she was talking, she was abashed, and went
back and told his mother, who inquired how she came to have two names.
“My real name is Wang,” replied the young lady; “but the old Abbess,
being very fond of me, made me take her own name.” Chên’s mother was
overjoyed at all this, and an auspicious day was immediately fixed for
the celebration of their marriage.
FOOTNOTES:
[221] These nunneries, of which there are plenty in China, are well
worth visiting, and may be freely entered by both sexes. Sometimes
there are as many as a hundred nuns living together in one temple, and
to all appearances devoting their lives to religious exercises;
report, however, tells many tales of broken vows, and makes sad havoc
generally with the reputation of these fair vestals.
[222] In corresponding English, this would be:--The young lady said
her name was Eloïsa. “How funny!” cried Chên, “and mine is Abelard.”
[223] That is, she was the last to take the vows.
[224] The usual signal that a person does not wish to take any more
wine.
[225] This would carry him well on into the third of the years during
which Yün-ch‘i had promised to wait for him.
XXXVIII.
THE YOUNG LADY OF THE TUNG-T‘ING LAKE.
The spirits of the Tung-t‘ing lake[226] are very much in the habit of
borrowing boats. Sometimes the cable of an empty junk will cast itself
off, and away goes the vessel over the waves to the sound of music in
the air above. The boatmen crouch down in one corner and hide their
faces, not daring to look up until the trip is over and they are once
more at their old anchorage.
Now a certain Mr. Lin, returning home after having failed at the
examination for Master’s degree, was lying down very tipsy on the deck
of his boat, when suddenly strains of music and singing began to be
heard. The boatmen shook Mr. Lin, but failing to rouse him, ran down
and hid themselves in the hold below. Then some one came and lifted
him up, letting him drop again on to the deck, where he was allowed to
remain in the same drunken sleep as before. By-and-by the noise of
the various instruments became almost deafening, and Lin, partially
waking up, smelt a delicious odour of perfumes filling the air around
him. Opening his eyes, he saw that the boat was crowded with a number
of beautiful girls; and knowing that something strange was going on,
he pretended to be fast asleep. There was then a call for Chih-ch‘eng,
upon which a young waiting-maid came forward and stood quite close to
Mr. Lin’s head. Her stockings were the colour of the kingfisher’s
wing, and her feet encased in tiny purple shoes, no bigger than one’s
finger. Much smitten with this young lady, he took hold of her
stocking with his teeth, causing her, the next time she moved, to fall
forward flat on her face. Some one, evidently in authority, asked what
was the matter; and when he heard the explanation, was very angry, and
gave orders to take off Mr. Lin’s head. Soldiers now came and bound
Lin, and on getting up he beheld a man sitting with his face to the
south, and dressed in the garments of a king. “Sire,” cried Lin, as he
was being led away, “the king of the Tung-t‘ing lake was a mortal
named Lin; your servant’s name is Lin also. His Majesty was a
disappointed candidate; your servant is one too. His Majesty met the
Dragon Lady, and was made immortal; your servant has played a trick
upon this girl, and he is to die. Why this inequality of fortunes?”
When the king heard this, he bade them bring him back, and asked him,
saying, “Are you, then, a disappointed candidate?” Lin said he was;
whereupon the king handed him writing materials, and ordered him to
compose an ode upon a lady’s head-dress. Some time passed before Lin,
who was a scholar of some repute in his own neighbourhood, had done
more than sit thinking about what he should write; and at length the
king upbraided him, saying, “Come, come, a man of your reputation
should not take so long.” “Sire,” replied Lin, laying down his pen,
“it took ten years to complete the Songs of the Three Kingdoms;
whereby it may be known that the value of compositions depends more
upon the labour given to them than the speed with which they are
written.” The king laughed and waited patiently from early morning
till noon, when a copy of the verses was put into his hand, with which
he declared himself very pleased. He now commanded that Lin should be
served with wine; and shortly after there followed a collation of all
kinds of curious dishes, in the middle of which an officer came in and
reported that the register of people to be drowned had been made up.
“How many in all?” asked the king. “Two hundred and twenty-eight,” was
the reply; and then the king inquired who had been deputed to carry it
out; whereupon he was informed that the generals Mao and Nan had been
appointed to do the work. Lin here rose to take leave, and the king
presented him with ten ounces of pure gold and a crystal square,[227]
telling him that it would preserve him from any danger he might
encounter on the lake. At this moment the king’s retinue and horses
ranged themselves in proper order upon the surface of the lake; and
His Majesty, stepping from the boat into his sedan-chair, disappeared
from view.
When everything had been quiet for a long time, the boatmen emerged
from the hold, and proceeded to shape their course northwards. The
wind, however, was against them, and they were unable to make any
headway; when all of a sudden an iron cat appeared floating on the top
of the water. “General Mao has come,” cried the boatmen, in great
alarm; and they and all the passengers on board fell down on their
faces. Immediately afterwards a great wooden beam stood up from the
lake, nodding itself backwards and forwards, which the boatmen, more
frightened than ever, said was General Nan. Before long a tremendous
sea was raging, the sun was darkened in the heavens, and every vessel
in sight was capsized. But Mr. Lin sat in the middle of the boat, with
the crystal square in his hand, and the mighty waves broke around
without doing them any harm. Thus were they saved, and Lin returned
home; and whenever he told his wonderful story he would assert that,
although unable to speak positively as to the facial beauty of the
young lady he had seen, he dared say that she had the most exquisite
pair of feet in the world.
Subsequently, having occasion to visit the city of Wu-ch‘ang, he heard
of an old woman who wished to sell her daughter, but was unwilling to
accept money, giving out that any one who had the fellow of a certain
crystal square in her possession should be at liberty to take the
girl. Lin thought this very strange; and taking his square with him
sought out the old woman, who was delighted to see him, and told her
daughter to come in. The young lady was about fifteen years of age,
and possessed of surpassing beauty; and after saying a few words of
greeting, she turned round and went within again. Lin’s reason had
almost fled at the sight of this peerless girl, and he straightway
informed the old woman that he had such an article as she required,
but could not say whether it would match hers or not. So they compared
their squares together, and there was not a fraction of difference
between them, either in length or breadth. The old woman was
overjoyed, and inquiring where Lin lived, bade him go home and get a
bridal chair, leaving his square behind him as a pledge of his good
faith. This he refused to do; but the old woman laughed, and said,
“You are too cautious, Sir; do you think I should run away for a
square?” Lin was thus constrained to leave it behind him, and hurrying
away for a chair, made the best of his way back. When, however, he got
there, the old woman was gone. In great alarm he inquired of the
people who lived near as to her whereabouts; no one, however, knew;
and it being already late he returned disconsolately to his boat. On
the way, he met a chair coming towards him, and immediately the screen
was drawn aside, and a voice cried out, “Mr. Lin! why so late?”
Looking closely, he saw that it was the old woman, who, after asking
him if he hadn’t suspected her of playing him false, told him that
just after he left she had had the offer of a chair; and knowing that
he, being only a stranger in the place, would have some trouble in
obtaining one, she had sent her daughter on to his boat. Lin then
begged she would return with him, to which she would not consent; and
accordingly, not fully trusting what she said, he hurried on himself
as fast as he could, and, jumping into the boat, found the young lady
already there. She rose to meet him with a smile, and then he was
astonished to see that her stockings were the colour of a kingfisher’s
wing, her shoes purple, and her appearance generally like that of the
girl he had met on the Tung-t‘ing lake. While he was still confused,
the young lady remarked, “You stare, Sir, as if you had never seen me
before!” but just then Lin noticed the tear in her stocking made by
his own teeth, and cried out in amazement, “What! are you
Chih-ch‘eng?” The young lady laughed at this; whereupon Lin rose, and,
making her a profound bow, said, “If you are that divine creature, I
pray you tell me at once, and set my anxiety at rest.” “Sir,” replied
she, “I will tell you all. That personage you met on the boat was
actually the king of the Tung-t‘ing lake. He was so pleased with your
talent that he wished to bestow me upon you; but, because I was a
great favourite with Her Majesty the Queen, he went back to consult
with her. I have now come at the Queen’s own command.” Lin was highly
pleased; and washing his hands, burnt incense, with his face towards
the lake, as if it were the Imperial Court, and then they went home
together.
Subsequently, when Lin had occasion to go to Wu-ch‘ang, his wife asked
to be allowed to avail herself of the opportunity to visit her
parents; and when they reached the lake, she drew a hair-pin from her
hair, and threw it into the water. Immediately a boat rose from the
lake, and Lin’s wife, stepping into it, vanished from sight like a
bird on the wing. Lin remained waiting for her on the prow of his
vessel, at the spot where she had disappeared; and by-and-by, he
beheld a house-boat approach, from the window of which there flew a
beautiful bird which was no other than Chih-ch‘eng. Then some one
handed out from the same window gold and silk, and precious things in
great abundance, all presents to them from the Queen. After this,
Chih-ch‘eng went home regularly twice every year, and Lin soon became
a very rich man, the things he had being such as no one had ever
before seen or heard of.
FOOTNOTES:
[226] The celebrated lake in Hu-nan, round which has gathered so much
of the folk-lore of China.
[227] The instrument used by masons is here meant.
XXXIX.
THE MAN WHO WAS CHANGED INTO A CROW.