clad in a yellow cap and stole, and wearing the expression of a Taoist
priest. Chou was delighted, and seized his arm, saying, “Where have
you been?--letting me search for you all over the place.” “The
solitary cloud and the wild crane,” replied Ch‘êng, laughing, “have no
fixed place of abode. Since we last met my equanimity has happily been
restored.” Chou then ordered wine, and they chatted together on what
had taken place in the interval. He also tried to persuade Ch‘êng to
detach himself from the Taoist persuasion, but the latter only smiled
and answered nothing. “It is absurd!” argued Chou. “Why cast aside
your wife and child as you would an old pair of shoes?” “Not so,”
answered Ch‘êng; “a man may wish to cast aside his son, but how can he
do so?” Chou asked where he lived, to which he replied, “In the Great
Pure Mansion on Mount Lao.” They then retired to sleep on the same
bed; and by-and-by Chou dreamt that Ch‘êng was lying on his chest so
that he could not breathe. In a fright he asked him what he was doing,
but got no answer; and then he waked up with a start. Calling to
Ch‘êng and receiving no reply, he sat up and stretched out his hand to
touch him. The latter, however, had vanished, he knew not whither.
When he got calm, he found he was lying at Ch‘êng’s end of the bed,
which rather startled him. “I was not tipsy last night,” reflected he;
“how could I have got over here?” He next called his servants, and
when they came and struck a light, lo! he was Ch‘êng. Now Chou had had
a beard, so he put up his hand to feel for it, but found only a few
straggling hairs. He then seized a mirror to look at himself, and
cried out in alarm: “If this is Mr. Ch‘êng, where on earth am I?” By
this time he was wide awake, and knew that Ch‘êng had employed magic
to induce him to retire from the world. He was on the point of
entering the ladies’ apartments; but his brother, not recognising who
he was, stopped him, and would not let him go in; and as he himself
was unable to prove his own identity, he ordered his horse that he
might go in search of Ch‘êng. After some days’ journey he arrived at
Mount Lao; and, as his horse went along at a good rate, the servant
could not keep up with him. By-and-by he rested awhile under a tree,
and saw a great number of Taoist priests going backwards and forwards,
and among them was one who stared fixedly at him. So he inquired of
him where he should find Ch‘êng; whereat the priest laughed and said,
“I know the name. He is probably in the Great Pure Mansion.” When he
had given this answer he went on his way, Chou following him with his
eyes about a stone’s throw, until he saw him speak with some one else,
and, after saying a few words, proceed onwards as before. The person
whom he had spoken with came on to where Chou was, and turned out to
be a fellow-townsman of his. He was much surprised at meeting Chou,
and said, “I haven’t seen you for some years. They told me you had
gone to Mount Lao to be a Taoist priest. How is it you are still
amusing yourself among mortals?” Chou told him who he really was; upon
which the other replied, “Why, I thought the gentleman I just met was
you! He has only just left me, and can’t have got very far.” “Is it
possible,” cried Chou, “that I didn’t know my own face?” Just then
the servant came up, and away they went full speed, but could not
discover the object of their search. All around them was a vast
desert, and they were at a loss whether to go on or to return. But
Chou reflected that he had no longer any home to receive him, and
determined to carry out his design to the bitter end; but as the road
was dangerous for riding, he gave his horse to the servant, and bade
him go back. On he went cautiously by himself, until he spied a boy
sitting by the wayside alone. He hurried up to him and asked the boy
to direct him where he could find Mr. Ch‘êng. “I am one of his
disciples,” replied the lad; and, shouldering Chou’s bundle, started
off to shew the way. They journeyed on together, taking their food by
the light of the stars, and sleeping in the open air, until, after
many miles of road, they arrived in three days at their destination.
But this Great Pure locality was not like that generally spoken of in
the world. Though as late as the middle of the tenth moon, there was a
great profusion of flowers along the road, quite unlike the beginning
of winter. The lad went in and announced the arrival of a stranger,
whereupon Mr. Ch‘êng came out, and Chou recognised his own features.
Ch‘êng grasped his hand and led him inside, where he prepared wine and
food, and they began to converse together. Chou noticed many birds of
strange plumage, so tame that they were not afraid of him; and these
from time to time would alight on the table and sing with voices like
Pan-pipes. He was very much astonished at all this, but a love of
mundane pleasures had eaten into his soul, and he had no intention of
stopping. On the ground were two rush-mats, upon which Ch‘êng invited
his friend to sit down with him. Then about midnight a serene calm
stole over him; and while he was dozing off for a moment, he seemed to
change places with Ch‘êng. Suspecting what had happened, he put his
hand up to his chin, and found it covered with a beard as before. At
dawn he was anxious to return home, but Ch‘êng pressed him to stay;
and when three days had gone by Ch‘êng said to him, “I pray you take a
little rest now: to-morrow I will set you on your way.” Chou had
barely closed his eyelids before he heard Ch‘êng call out, “Everything
is ready for starting!” So he got up and followed him along a road
other than that by which he had come, and in a very short time he saw
his home in the distance. In spite of Chou’s entreaties, Ch‘êng would
not accompany him so far, but made Chou go, waiting himself by the
roadside. So the latter went alone, and when he reached his house,
knocked at the door. Receiving no answer, he determined to get over
the wall, when he found that his body was as light as a leaf, and with
one spring he was over. In the same manner he passed several inner
walls, until he reached the ladies’ apartments, where he saw by the
still burning lamp that the inmates had not yet retired for the night.
Hearing people talking within, he licked a hole in the paper
window[79] and peeped through, and saw his wife sitting drinking with
a most disreputable-looking fellow. Bursting with rage, his first
impulse was to surprise them in the act; but seeing there were two
against one, he stole away and let himself out by the entrance-gate,
hurrying off to Ch‘êng, to whom he related what he had seen, and
finally begged his assistance. Ch‘êng willingly went along with him;
and when they reached the room, Chou seized a big stone and hammered
loudly at the door. All was then confusion inside, so Chou hammered
again, upon which the door was barricaded more strongly than before.
Here Ch‘êng came forward with his sword,[80] and burst the door open
with a crash. Chou rushed in, and the man inside rushed out; but
Ch‘êng was there, and with his sword cut his arm right off. Chou
rudely seized his wife, and asked what it all meant; to which she
replied that the man was a friend who sometimes came to take a cup of
wine with them. Thereupon Chou borrowed Ch‘êng’s sword and cut off her
head,[81] hanging up the trunk on a tree in the court-yard. He then
went back with Ch‘êng. By-and-by he awaked and found himself on the
bed, at which he was somewhat disturbed, and said, “I have had a
strangely-confused dream, which has given me a fright.” “My brother,”
replied Ch‘êng, smiling, “you look upon dreams as realities: you
mistake realities for dreams.” Chou asked what he meant by these
words; and then Ch‘êng shewed him his sword besmeared with blood. Chou
was terrified, and sought to destroy himself; but all at once it
occurred to him that Ch‘êng might be deceiving him again. Ch‘êng
divined his suspicions, and made haste at once to see him home. In a
little while they arrived at the village-gate, and then Ch‘êng said,
“Was it not here that, sword in hand, I awaited you that night? I
cannot look upon the unclean spot. I pray you go on, and let me stay
here. If you do not return by the afternoon, I will depart alone.”
Chou then approached his house, which he found all shut up as if no
one was living there; so he went into his brother’s.
The latter, when he beheld Chou, began to weep bitterly, saying,
“After your departure, thieves broke into the house and killed my
sister-in-law, hanging her body upon a tree. Alas! alas! The murderers
have not yet been caught.” Chou then told him the whole story of his
dream, and begged him to stop further proceedings; at all of which his
brother was perfectly lost in astonishment. Chou then asked after his
son, and his brother told the nurse to bring him in; whereupon the
former said, “Upon this infant are centered the hopes of our
race.[82] Tend him well; for I am going to bid adieu to the world.” He
then took his leave, his brother following him all the time with tears
in his eyes to induce him to remain. But he heeded him not; and when
they reached the village-gate his brother saw him go away with Ch‘êng.
From afar he looked back and said, “Forbear, and be happy!” His
brother would have replied; but here Ch‘êng whisked his sleeve, and
they disappeared. The brother remained there for some time, and then
went back overwhelmed with grief. He was an unpractical man, and
before many years were over all the property was gone and the family
reduced to poverty. Chou’s son, who was growing up, was thus unable to
secure the services of a tutor, and had no one but his uncle to teach
him. One morning, on going into the school-room, the uncle found a
letter lying on his desk addressed to himself in his brother’s
handwriting. There was, however, nothing in it but a finger-nail about
four inches in length. Surprised at this, he laid the nail down on the
ink-slab while he went out to ask whence the letter had come. This no
one knew; but when he went back he found that the ink-stone had been
changed into a piece of shining yellow gold. More than ever
astonished, he tried the nail on copper and iron things, all of which
were likewise turned to gold. He thus became very rich, sharing his
wealth with Chou’s son; and it was bruited about that the two families
possessed the secret of transmutation.[83]
FOOTNOTES:
[73] This is a characteristic touch. Only the most intimate of friends
ever see each other’s wives.
[74] Where the women of the family live, and into which no stranger
ever penetrates. Among other names by which a Chinese husband speaks
of his wife, a very common one is “the inner [wo]man.”
[75] Until which he would be safe, by virtue of his degree, from the
degrading penalty of the bamboo.
[76] This is the instrument commonly used for flogging criminals in
China, and consists of a strip of split bamboo planed down smooth.
Strictly speaking there are two kinds, the _heavy_ and the _light_;
the former is now hardly if ever used. Until the reign of K‘ang Hsi
all strokes were given across the back; but that humane Emperor
removed the _locus operandi_ lower down, “for fear of injuring the
liver or the lungs.”
[77] See No. VII., note 54.
[78] It is a principle of Chinese jurisprudence that no sentence can
be passed until the prisoner has confessed his guilt--a principle,
however, not unfrequently set aside in practice.
[79] Wooden frames covered with a semi-transparent paper are used all
over the northern provinces of China; in the south, oyster-shells, cut
square and planed down thin, are inserted tile-fashion in the long
narrow spaces of a wooden frame made to receive them, and used for the
same purpose. But glass is gradually finding its way into the houses
of the well-to-do, large quantities being made at Canton and exported
to various parts of the empire.
[80] Every Taoist priest has a magic sword, corresponding to our
“magician’s wand.”
[81] In China, a man has the right to slay his adulterous wife, but he
must slay her paramour also; both or neither. Otherwise, he lays
himself open to a prosecution for murder. The act completed, he is
further bound to proceed at once to the magistrate of the district and
report what he has done.
[82] The importance of male offspring in Chinese social life is hardly
to be expressed in words. To the son is confided the task of
worshipping at the ancestral tombs, the care of the ancestral tablets,
and the due performance of all rites and ceremonies connected with the
departed dead. No Chinaman will die, if he can help it, without
leaving a son behind him. If his wife is childless he will buy a
concubine; and we are told on page 41, vol. xiii., of the _Liao Chai_,
that a good wife, “who at thirty years of age has not borne a child
should forthwith pawn her jewellery and purchase a concubine for her
husband; for to be without a son is hard indeed!” Another and a common
resource is to adopt a nephew; and sometimes a boy is bought from
starving parents, or from a professional kidnapper. Should a little
boy die, no matter how young, his parents do not permit even him to be
without the good offices of a son. They adopt some other child on his
behalf; and when the latter grows up it becomes his duty to perform
the proper ceremonies at his baby father’s tomb. Girls do not enjoy
the luxury of this sham posterity. They are quietly buried in a hole
near the family vault, and their disembodied spirits are left to
wander about in the realms below uncared for and unappeased. Every
mother, however, shares in the ancestral worship, and her name is
recorded on the tombstone, side by side with that of her husband.
Hence it is that Chinese tombstones are always to the memory either of
a father or of a mother, or of both, with occasionally the addition of
the grandfather and grandmother, and sometimes even that of the
generation preceding.
[83] The belief that a knowledge of alchemy is obtainable by leading
the life of a pure and perfect Taoist, is one of the numerous
additions in later ages to this ancient form of religion. See No. IV.,
note 46.
XI.
THE FIGHTING QUAILS.
Wang Ch‘êng belonged to an old family in P‘ing-yüan, but was such an
idle fellow that his property gradually disappeared, until at length
all he had left was an old tumble-down house. His wife and he slept
under a coarse hempen coverlet, and the former was far from sparing of
her reproaches. At the time of which we are speaking the weather was
unbearably hot; and Wang went to pass the night with many other of his
fellow-villagers in a pavilion which stood among some dilapidated
buildings belonging to a family named Chou. With the first streaks of
dawn his comrades departed; but Wang slept well on till about nine
o’clock, when he got up and proceeded leisurely home. All at once he
saw in the grass a gold hair-pin; and taking it up to look at it,
found engraved thereon in small characters--“The property of the
Imperial family.” Now Wang’s own grandfather had married into the
Imperial family,[84] and consequently he had formerly possessed many
similar articles; but while he was thinking it over up came an old
woman in search of the hair-pin, which Wang, who though poor was
honest, at once produced and handed to her. The old woman was
delighted, and thanked Wang very much for his goodness, observing that
the pin was not worth much in itself, but was a relic of her departed
husband. Wang asked what her husband had been; to which she replied,
“His name was Wang Chien-chih, and he was connected by marriage with
the Imperial family.” “My own grandfather!” cried Wang, in great
surprise; “how could you have known him?” “You, then,” said the old
woman, “are his grandson. I am a fox, and many years ago I was married
to your grandfather; but when he died I retired from the world.
Passing by here I lost my hair-pin, which destiny conveyed into your
hands.” Wang had heard of his grandfather’s fox-wife, and believing
therefore the old woman’s story, invited her to return with him, which
she did. Wang called his wife out to receive her; but when she came in
rags and tatters, with unkempt hair and dirty face, the old woman
sighed, and said, “Alas! Alas! has Wang Chien-chih’s grandson come to
this?” Then looking at the broken, smokeless stove, she added, “How,
under these circumstances, have you managed even to support life?”
Here Wang’s wife told the tale of their poverty, with much sobbing and
tears; whereupon the old woman gave her the hair-pin, bidding her go
pawn it, and with the proceeds buy some food, saying that in three
days she would visit them again. Wang pressed her to stay, but she
said, “You can’t even keep your wife alive; what would it benefit you
to have me also dependent on you?” So she went away, and then Wang
told his wife who she was, at which his wife felt very much alarmed;
but Wang was so loud in her praises, that finally his wife consented
to treat her with all proper respect. In three days she returned as
agreed, and, producing some money, sent out for a hundred-weight of
rice and a hundred-weight of corn. She passed the night with them,
sleeping with Mrs. Wang, who was at first rather frightened, but who
soon laid aside her suspicions when she found that the old lady meant
so well towards them. Next day, the latter addressed Wang, saying, “My
grandson, you must not be so lazy. You should try to make a little
money in some way or other.” Wang replied that he had no capital; upon
which the old lady said, “When your grandfather was alive, he allowed
me to take what money I liked; but not being a mortal, I had no use
for it, and consequently did not draw largely upon him. I have,
however, saved from my pin-money the sum of forty ounces of silver,
which has long been lying idle for want of an investment. Take it, and
buy summer cloth, which you may carry to the capital and re-sell at a
profit.” So Wang bought some fifty pieces of summer cloth; and the old
lady made him get ready, calculating that in six or seven days he
would reach the capital. She also warned him, saying,
“Be neither lazy nor slow--
For if a day too long you wait,
Repentance comes a day too late.”
Wang promised all obedience, and packed up his goods and went off. On
the road he was overtaken by a rain-storm which soaked him through to
the skin; and as he was not accustomed to be out in bad weather, it
was altogether too much for him. He accordingly sought shelter in an
inn, but the rain went on steadily till night, running over the eaves
of the house like so many ropes. Next morning the roads were in a
horrible state; and Wang, watching the passers-by slipping about in
the slush, unable to see any path, dared not face it all, and remained
until noon, when it began to dry up a little. Just then, however, the
clouds closed over again, and down came the rain in torrents, causing
him to stay another night before he could go on. When he was nearing
the capital, he heard to his great joy that summer cloth was at a
premium; and on arrival proceeded at once to take up his quarters at
an inn. There the landlord said it was a pity he had come so late, as
communications with the south having been only recently opened, the
supply of summer cloth had been small; and there being a great demand
for it among the wealthy families of the metropolis, its price had
gone up to three times the usual figure. “But,” he added, “two days
ago several large consignments arrived, and the price went down again,
so that the late comers have lost their market.” Poor Wang was thus
left in the lurch, and as every day more summer cloth came in, the
value of it fell in a corresponding ratio. Wang would not part with
his at a loss, and held on for some ten days, when his expenses for
board and lodging were added to his present distress. The landlord
urged him to sell even at a loss, and turn his attention to something
else, which he ultimately did, losing over ten ounces of silver on his
venture. Next day he rose in the morning to depart, but on looking in
his purse found all his money gone. He rushed away to tell the
landlord, who, however, could do nothing for him. Some one then
advised him to take out a summons and make the landlord reimburse him;
but he only sighed, and said, “It is my destiny, and no fault of the
landlord’s.” Thereupon the landlord was very grateful to him, and gave
him five ounces of silver to enable him to go home. He did not care,
however, to face his grandmother empty-handed, and remained in a very
undecided state, until suddenly he saw a quail-catcher winning heaps
of money by fighting his birds, and selling them at over 100 _cash_
a-piece. He then determined to lay out his five ounces of silver in
quails, and pay back the landlord out of the profits. The latter
approved very highly of this plan, and not only agreed to lend him a
room but also to charge him little or nothing for his board. So Wang
went off rejoicing, and bought two large baskets of quails, with which
he returned to the city, to the great satisfaction of the landlord
who advised him to lose no time in disposing of them. All that night
it poured in torrents, and the next morning the streets were like
rivers, the rain still continuing to fall. Wang waited for it to clear
up, but several days passed and still there were no signs of fine
weather. He then went to look at his quails, some of which he found
dead and others dying. He was much alarmed at this, but was quite at a
loss what to do; and by the next day a lot more had died, so that only
a few were left, which he fed all together in one basket. The day
after this he went again to look at them, and lo! there remained but a
single quail. With tears in his eyes he told the landlord what had
happened, and he, too, was much affected. Wang then reflected that he
had no money left to carry him home, and that he could not do better
than cease to live. But the landlord spoke to him and soothed him, and
they went together to look at the quail. “This is a fine bird,” said
the landlord, “and it strikes me that it has simply killed the others.
Now, as you have got nothing to do, just set to work and train it; and
if it is good for anything, why you’ll be able to make a living out of
it.” Wang did as he was told; and when the bird was trained, the
landlord bade him take it into the street and gamble for something to
eat. This, too, he did, and his quail won every main; whereupon the
landlord gave him some money to bet with the young fellows of the
neighbourhood. Everything turned out favourably, and by the end of six
months he had saved twenty ounces of silver, so that he became quite
easy in his mind and looked upon the quail as a dispensation of his
destiny.
Now one of the princes was passionately fond of quail-fighting, and
always at the Feast of Lanterns anybody who owned quails might go and
fight them in the palace against the prince’s birds. The landlord
therefore said to Wang, “Here is a chance of enriching yourself by a
single stroke; only I can’t say what your luck will do for you.” He
then explained to him what it was, and away they went together, the
landlord saying, “If you lose, burst out into lamentations; but if you
are lucky enough to win, and the prince wishes, as he will, to buy
your bird, don’t consent. If he presses you very much watch for a nod
from me before you agree.” This settled, they proceeded to the palace
where they found crowds of quail-fighters already on the ground; and
then the prince came forth, heralds proclaiming to the multitude that
any who wished to fight their birds might come up. Some man at once
stepped forward, and the prince gave orders for the quails to be
released; but at the first strike the stranger’s quail was knocked out
of time. The prince smiled, and by-and-by won several more mains,
until at last the landlord said, “Now’s our time,” and went up
together with Wang. The Prince looked at their bird and said, “It has
a fierce-looking eye and strong feathers. We must be careful what we
are doing.” So he commanded his servants to bring out Iron Beak to
oppose Wang’s bird; but, after a couple of strikes, the prince’s quail
was signally defeated. He sent for a better bird, but that shared the
same fate; and then he cried out, “Bring the Jade Bird from the
palace!” In a little time it arrived, with pure white feathers like an
egret, and an unusually martial appearance. Wang was much alarmed, and
falling on his knees prayed to be excused this main, saying, “Your
highness’s bird is too good. I fear lest mine should be wounded, and
my livelihood be taken from me.” But the Prince laughed and said, “Go
on. If your quail is killed I will make it up to you handsomely.” Wang
then released his bird and the prince’s quail rushed at it at once;
but when the Jade bird was close by, Wang’s quail awaited its coming
head down and full of rage. The former made a violent peck at its
adversary, and then sprung up to swoop down on it. Thus they went on
up and down, backwards and forwards, until at length they got hold of
each other, and the prince’s bird was beginning to show signs of
exhaustion. This enraged it all the more, and it fought more violently
than ever; but soon a perfect snowstorm of feathers began to fall,
and, with drooping wings, the Jade bird made its escape. The
spectators were much moved by the result; and the prince himself,
taking up Wang’s bird, examined it closely from beak to claws, finally
asking if it was for sale. “My sole dependence,” replied Wang, “is
upon this bird. I would rather not part with it.” “But,” said the
prince, “if I give you as much as the capital, say of an ordinary
tradesman, will not that tempt you?” Wang thought some time, and then
answered, “I would rather not sell my bird; but as your highness has
taken a fancy to it I will only ask enough to find me in food and
clothes.” “How much do you want?” inquired the prince; to which Wang
replied that he would take a thousand ounces of silver. “You fool!”
cried the Prince; “do you think your bird is such a jewel as all
that?” “If your highness,” said Wang, “does not think the bird a
jewel, I value it more than that stone which was priced at fifteen
cities.” “How so?” asked the prince. “Why,” said Wang, “I take my bird
every day into the market-place. It there wins for me several ounces
of silver, which I exchange for rice; and my family, over ten in
number, has nothing to fear from either cold or hunger. What jewel
could do that?” “You shall not lose anything,” replied the prince; “I
will give you two hundred ounces.” But Wang would not consent, and
then the prince added another hundred; whereupon Wang looked at the
landlord, who, however, made no sign. Wang then offered to take nine
hundred; but the prince ridiculed the idea of paying such a price for
a quail, and Wang was preparing to take his leave with the bird, when
the prince called him back, saying, “Here! here! I will give you six
hundred. Take it or leave it as you please.” Wang here looked at the
landlord, and the landlord remained motionless as before. However,
Wang was satisfied himself with this offer, and being afraid of
missing his chance, said to his friend, “If I get this price for it I
shall be quite content. If we go on haggling and finally come to no
terms, that will be a very poor end to it all.” So he took the
prince’s offer, and the latter, overjoyed, caused the money to be
handed to him. Wang then returned with his earnings; but the landlord
said to him, “What did I say to you? You were in too much of a hurry
to sell. Another minute, and you would have got eight hundred.” When
Wang got back he threw the money on the table and told the landlord to
take what he liked; but the latter would not, and it was only after
some pressing that he would accept payment for Wang’s board. Wang then
packed up and went home, where he told his story and produced his
silver to the great delight of all of them. The old lady counselled
the purchase of a quantity of land, the building of a house, and the
purchase of implements; and in a very short time they became a wealthy
family. The old lady always got up early in the morning and made Wang
attend to the farm, his wife to her spinning; and rated them soundly
at any signs of laziness. The husband and wife henceforth lived in
peace, and no longer abused each other, until at the expiration of
three years the old lady declared her intention of bidding them adieu.
They both tried to stop her, and with the aid of tears succeeded in
persuading her; but the next day she had disappeared.[85]
FOOTNOTES:
[84] The direct issue of the Emperors of the present dynasty and their
descendants in the male line for ever are entitled to wear a yellow
girdle in token of their relationship to the Imperial family, each
generation becoming a degree lower in rank, but always retaining this
distinctive badge. Members of the collateral branches wear a red
girdle, and are commonly known as _gioros_. With the lapse of two
hundred and fifty years, the wearers of these badges have become
numerous, and in many cases disreputable; and they are now to be found
even among the lowest dregs of Chinese social life.
[85] Quail fighting is not so common now in China as it appears to
have been formerly. Cricket-fighting is, however, a very favourite
form of gambling, large quantities of these insects being caught every
year for this purpose, and considerable sums frequently staked on the
result of a contest between two champions.
XII.
THE PAINTED SKIN.