fellow, fond of telling people that he had only loved once. Happening
to go to Chinhua, he took shelter in a temple to the north of the
city; very nice as far as ornamentation went, but overgrown with grass
taller than a man’s head, and evidently not much frequented. On either
side were the priest’s apartments, the doors of which were ajar, with
the exception of a small room on the south side, where the lock had a
new appearance. In the east corner he espied a group of bamboos,
growing over a large pool of water-lilies in flower; and, being much
pleased with the quiet of the place, determined to remain; more
especially as, the Grand Examiner being in the town, all lodgings had
gone up in price. So he roamed about waiting till the priests should
return; and in the evening, a gentleman came and opened the door on
the south side. Ning quickly made up to him, and with a bow informed
him of his design. “There is no one here whose permission you need
ask,” replied the stranger; “I am only lodging here, and if you don’t
object to the loneliness, I shall be very pleased to have the benefit
of your society.” Ning was delighted, and made himself a straw bed,
and put up a board for a table, as if he intended to remain some time;
and that night, by the beams of the clear bright moon, they sat
together in the verandah and talked. The stranger’s name was Yen
Ch‘ih-hsia, and Ning thought he was a student up for the provincial
examination, only his dialect was not that of a Chekiang man. On being
asked, he said he came from Shensi; and there was an air of
straightforwardness about all his remarks. By-and-by, when their
conversation was exhausted, they bade each other good night and went
to bed; but Ning, being in a strange place, was quite unable to sleep;
and soon he heard sounds of voices from the room on the north side.
Getting up, he peeped through a window, and saw, in a small court-yard
the other side of a low wall, a woman of about forty with an old
maid-servant in a long faded gown, humped-backed and feeble-looking.
They were chatting by the light of the moon; and the mistress said,
“Why doesn’t Hsiao-ch‘ien come?” “She ought to be here by now,”
replied the other. “She isn’t offended with you; is she?” asked the
lady. “Not that I know of,” answered the old servant; “but she seems
to want to give trouble.” “Such people don’t deserve to be treated
well,” said the other; and she had hardly uttered these words when up
came a young girl of seventeen or eighteen, and very nice looking. The
old servant laughed, and said, “Don’t talk of people behind their
backs. We were just mentioning you as you came without our hearing
you; but fortunately we were saying nothing bad about you. And, as far
as that goes,” added she, “if I were a young fellow why I should
certainly fall in love with you.” “If _you_ don’t praise me,” replied
the girl, “I’m sure I don’t know who will;” and then the lady and the
girl said something together, and Mr. Ning, thinking they were the
family next door, turned round to sleep without paying further
attention to them. In a little while no sound was to be heard; but, as
he was dropping off to sleep, he perceived that somebody was in the
room. Jumping up in great haste, he found it was the young lady he had
just seen; and detecting at once that she was going to attempt to
bewitch him, sternly bade her begone. She then produced a lump of gold
which he threw away, and told her to go after it or he would call his
friend. So she had no alternative but to go, muttering something about
his heart being like iron or stone. Next day, a young candidate for
the examination came and lodged in the east room with his servant. He,
however, was killed that very night, and his servant the night after;
the corpses of both shewing a small hole in the sole of the foot as if
bored by an awl, and from which a little blood came. No one knew who
had committed these murders, and when Mr. Yen came home, Ning asked
him what he thought about it. Yen replied that it was the work of
devils, but Ning was a brave fellow, and that didn’t frighten him
much. In the middle of the night Hsiao-ch‘ien appeared to him again,
and said, “I have seen many men, but none with a steel cold heart like
yours. You are an upright man, and I will not attempt to deceive you.
I, Hsiao-ch‘ien, whose family name is Nieh, died when only eighteen,
and was buried alongside of this temple. A devil then took possession
of me, and employed me to bewitch people by my beauty, contrary to my
inclination. There is now nothing left in this temple to slay, and I
fear that imps will be employed to kill you.” Ning was very frightened
at this, and asked her what he should do. “Sleep in the same room with
Mr. Yen,” replied she. “What!” asked he, “cannot the spirits trouble
Yen?” “He is a strange man,” she answered, “and they don’t like going
near him.” Ning then inquired how the spirits worked. “I bewitch
people,” said Hsiao-ch‘ien, “and then they bore a hole in the foot
which renders the victim senseless, and proceed to draw off the blood,
which the devils drink. Another method is to tempt people by false
gold, the bones of some horrid demon; and if they receive it, their
hearts and livers will be torn out. Either method is used according to
circumstances.” Ning thanked her, and asked when he ought to be
prepared; to which she replied, “To-morrow night.” At parting she
wept, and said, “I am about to sink into the great sea, with no
friendly shore at hand. But your sense of duty is boundless, and you
can save me. If you will collect my bones and bury them in some quiet
spot, I shall not again be subject to these misfortunes.” Ning said he
would do so, and asked where she lay buried. “At the foot of the
aspen-tree on which there is a bird’s nest,” replied she; and passing
out of the door, disappeared. The next day Ning was afraid that Yen
might be going away somewhere, and went over early to invite him
across. Wine and food were produced towards noon; and Ning, who took
care not to lose sight of Yen, then asked him to remain there for the
night. Yen declined, on the ground that he liked being by himself; but
Ning wouldn’t hear any excuses, and carried all Yen’s things to his
own room, so that he had no alternative but to consent. However, he
warned Ning, saying, “I know you are a gentleman and a man of honour.
If you see anything you don’t quite understand, I pray you not to be
too inquisitive; don’t pry into my boxes, or it may be the worse for
both of us.” Ning promised to attend to what he said, and by-and-by
they both lay down to sleep; and Yen, having placed his boxes on the
window-sill, was soon snoring loudly. Ning himself could not sleep;
and after some time he saw a figure moving stealthily outside, at
length approaching the window to peep through. It’s eyes flashed like
lightning, and Ning in a terrible fright was just upon the point of
calling Yen, when something flew out of one of the boxes like a strip
of white silk, and dashing against the window-sill returned at once to
the box, disappearing very much like lightning. Yen heard the noise
and got up, Ning all the time pretending to be asleep in order to
watch what happened. The former then opened the box, and took out
something which he smelt and examined by the light of the moon. It
was dazzlingly white like crystal, and about two inches in length by
the width of an onion leaf in breadth. He then wrapped it up carefully
and put it back in the broken box, saying, “A bold-faced devil that,
to come so near my box;” upon which he went back to bed; but Ning, who
was lost in astonishment, arose and asked him what it all meant,
telling at the same time what he himself had seen. “As you and I are
good friends,” replied Yen, “I won’t make any secret of it. The fact
is I am a Taoist priest. But for the window-sill the devil would have
been killed; as it is, he is badly wounded.” Ning asked him what it
was he had there wrapped up, and he told him it was his sword,[121] on
which he had smelt the presence of the devil. At Ning’s request he
produced the weapon, a bright little miniature of a sword; and from
that time Ning held his friend in higher esteem than ever.
Next day he found traces of blood outside the window which led round
to the north of the temple; and there among a number of graves he
discovered the aspen-tree with the bird’s nest at its summit. He then
fulfilled his promise and prepared to go home, Yen giving him a
farewell banquet, and presenting him with an old leather case which he
said contained a sword, and would keep at a distance from him all
devils and bogies. Ning then wished to learn a little of Yen’s art;
but the latter replied that although he might accomplish this easily
enough, being as he was an upright man, yet he was well off in life,
and not in a condition where it would be of any advantage to him. Ning
then pretending he had to go and bury his sister, collected
Hsiao-ch‘ien’s bones, and, having wrapped them up in grave-clothes,
hired a boat, and set off on his way home. On his arrival, as his
library looked towards the open country, he made a grave hard by and
buried the bones there, sacrificing, and invoking Hsiao-ch‘ien as
follows:--“In pity for your lonely ghost, I have placed your remains
near my humble cottage, where we shall be near each other, and no
devil will dare annoy you. I pray you reject not my sacrifice, poor
though it be.” After this, he was proceeding home when he suddenly
heard himself addressed from behind, the voice asking him not to
hurry; and turning round he beheld Hsiao-ch‘ien, who thanked him,
saying, “Were I to die ten times for you I could not discharge my
debt. Let me go home with you and wait upon your father and mother;
you will not repent it.” Looking closely at her, he observed that she
had a beautiful complexion, and feet as small as bamboo shoots,[122]
being altogether much prettier now that he came to see her by
daylight. So they went together to his home, and bidding her wait
awhile, Ning ran in to tell his mother, to the very great surprise of
the old lady. Now Ning’s wife had been ill for a long time, and his
mother advised him not to say a word about it to her for fear of
frightening her; in the middle of which in rushed Hsiao-ch‘ien, and
threw herself on the ground before them. “This is the young lady,”
said Ning; whereupon his mother in some alarm turned her attention to
Hsiao-ch‘ien, who cried out, “A lonely orphan, without brother or
sister, the object of your son’s kindness and compassion, begs to be
allowed to give her poor services as some return for favours shewn.”
Ning’s mother, seeing that she was a nice pleasant-looking girl, began
to lose fear of her, and replied, “Madam, the preference you shew for
my son is highly pleasing to an old body like myself; but this is the
only hope of our family, and I hardly dare agree to his taking a
devil-wife.” “I have but one motive in what I ask,” answered
Hsiao-ch‘ien, “and if you have no faith in disembodied people, then
let me regard him as my brother, and live under your protection,
serving you like a daughter.” Ning’s mother could not resist her
straightforward manner, and Hsiao-ch‘ien asked to be allowed to see
Ning’s wife, but this was denied on the plea that the lady was ill.
Hsiao-ch‘ien then went into the kitchen and got ready the dinner,
running about the place as if she had lived there all her life. Ning’s
mother was, however, much afraid of her, and would not let her sleep
in the house; so Hsiao-ch‘ien went to the library, and was just
entering when suddenly she fell back a few steps, and began walking
hurriedly backwards and forwards in front of the door. Ning seeing
this, called out and asked her what it meant; to which she replied,
“The presence of that sword frightens me, and that is why I could not
accompany you on your way home.” Ning at once understood her, and hung
up the sword-case in another place; whereupon she entered, lighted a
candle, and sat down. For some time she did not speak: at length
asking Ning if he studied at night or not--“For,” said she, “when I
was little I used to repeat the Lêng-yen _sutra_; but now I have
forgotten more than half, and, therefore, I should like to borrow a
copy, and when you are at leisure in the evening you might hear me.”
Ning said he would, and they sat silently there for some time, after
which Hsiao-ch‘ien went away and took up her quarters elsewhere.
Morning and night she waited on Ning’s mother, bringing water for her
to wash in, occupying herself with household matters, and endeavouring
to please her in every way. In the evening before she went to bed, she
would always go in and repeat a little of the _sutra_, and leave as
soon as she thought Ning was getting sleepy. Now the illness of Ning’s
wife had given his mother a great deal of extra trouble--more, in
fact, than she was equal to; but ever since Hsiao-ch‘ien’s arrival all
this was changed, and Ning’s mother felt kindly disposed to the girl
in consequence, gradually growing to regard her almost as her own
child, and forgetting quite that she was a spirit. Accordingly, she
didn’t make her leave the house at night; and Hsiao-ch‘ien, who being
a devil had not tasted meat or drink since her arrival,[123] now
began at the end of six months to take a little thin gruel. Mother and
son alike became very fond of her, and henceforth never mentioned what
she really was; neither were strangers able to detect the fact.
By-and-by, Ning’s wife died, and his mother secretly wished him to
espouse Hsiao-ch‘ien, though she rather dreaded any unfortunate
consequences that might arise. This Hsiao-ch‘ien perceived, and
seizing an opportunity said to Ning’s mother, “I have been with you
now more than a year, and you ought to know something of my
disposition. Because I was unwilling to injure travellers I followed
your son hither. There was no other motive; and, as your son has shewn
himself one of the best of men, I would now remain with him for three
years in order that he may obtain for me some mark of Imperial
approbation[124] which will do me honour in the realms below.” Ning’s
mother knew that she meant no evil, but hesitated to put the family
hopes of a posterity into jeopardy. Hsiao-ch‘ien, however, reassured
her by saying that Ning would have three sons, and that the line would
not be interrupted by his marrying her. On the strength of this the
marriage was arranged to the great joy of Ning, a feast prepared, and
friends and relatives invited; and when in response to a call the
bride herself came forth in her gay wedding-dress, the beholders took
her rather for a fairy than for a devil. After this, numbers of
congratulatory presents were given by the various female members of
the family, who vied with one another in making her acquaintance; and
these Hsiao-ch‘ien returned by gifts of paintings of flowers, done by
herself, in which she was very skilful, the receivers being extremely
proud of such marks of her friendship. One day she was leaning at the
window in a despondent mood, when suddenly she asked where the
sword-case was. “Oh,” replied Ning, “as you seemed afraid of it, I
moved it elsewhere.” “I have now been so long under the influence of
surrounding life,”[125] said Hsiao-ch‘ien, “that I shan’t be afraid of
it any more. Let us hang it on the bed.” “Why so?” asked Ning. “For the
last three days,” explained she, “I have been much agitated in mind;
and I fear that the devil at the temple, angry at my escape, may come
suddenly and carry me off.” So Ning brought the sword-case, and
Hsiao-ch‘ien, after examining it closely, remarked, “This is where the
magician puts people. I wonder how many were slain before it got old
and worn out as it is now. Even now when I look at it my flesh
creeps.” The case was then hung up, and next day removed to over the
door. At night they sat up and watched, Hsiao-ch‘ien warning Ning not
to go to sleep; and suddenly something fell down flop like a bird.
Hsiao-ch‘ien in a fright got behind the curtain; but Ning looked at
the thing, and found it was an imp of darkness, with glaring eyes and
a bloody mouth, coming straight to the door. Stealthily creeping up it
made a grab at the sword-case, and seemed about to tear it in pieces,
when bang!--the sword-case became as big as a wardrobe, and from it a
devil protruded part of his body and dragged the imp in. Nothing more
was heard, and the sword-case resumed its original size. Ning was
greatly alarmed, but Hsiao-ch‘ien came out rejoicing, and said,
“There’s an end of my troubles.” In the sword-case they found only a
few quarts of clear water; nothing else.
After these events Ning took his doctor’s degree and Hsiao-ch‘ien bore
him a son. He then took a concubine, and had one more son by each, all
of whom became in time distinguished men.
FOOTNOTES:
[121] See No. X., note 80.
[122] Which, well cooked, are a very good substitute for asparagus.
[123] See note 115 to the last story.
[124] Such as are from time to time bestowed upon virtuous widows and
wives, filial sons and daughters, and others. These consist of some
laudatory scroll or tablet, and are much prized by the family of the
recipient.
[125] See note 119 to last story.
XVII.
THE _SHUI-MANG_ PLANT.
The _shui-mang_[126] is a poisonous herb. It is a creeper, like the
bean, and has a similar red flower. Those who eat of it die, and
become _shui-mang_ devils, tradition asserting that such devils are
unable to be born again unless they can find some one else who has
also eaten of this poison to take their place.[127] These _shui-mang_
devils abound in the province of Hunan, where, by the way, the phrase
“same-year man” is applied to those born in the same year, who
exchange visits and call each other brother, their children addressing
the father’s “brother” as uncle. This has now become a regular custom
there.[128]
A young man named Chu was on his way to visit a same-year friend of
his, when he was overtaken by a violent thirst. Suddenly he came upon
an old woman sitting by the roadside under a shed and distributing
tea gratis,[129] and immediately walked up to her to get a drink. She
invited him into the shed, and presented him with a bowl of tea in a
very cordial spirit; but the smell of it did not seem like the smell
of ordinary tea, and he would not drink it, rising up to go away. The
old woman stopped him, and called out, “San-niang! bring some good
tea.” Immediately a young girl came from behind the shed, carrying in
her hands a pot of tea. She was about fourteen or fifteen years old,
and of very fascinating appearance, with glittering rings and
bracelets on her fingers and arms. As Chu received the cup from her
his reason fled; and drinking down the tea she gave him, the flavour
of which was unlike any other kind, he proceeded to ask for more.
Then, watching for a moment when the old woman’s back was turned, he
seized her wrist and drew a ring from her finger. The girl blushed and
smiled; and Chu, more and more inflamed, asked her where she lived.
“Come again this evening,” replied she, “and you’ll find me here.” Chu
begged for a handful of her tea, which he stowed away with the ring,
and took his leave. Arriving at his destination, he felt a pain in his
heart, which he at once attributed to the tea, telling his friend
what had occurred. “Alas! you are undone,” cried the other; “they were
_shui-mang_ devils. My father died in the same way, and we were unable
to save him. There is no help for you.” Chu was terribly frightened,
and produced the handful of tea, which his friend at once pronounced
to be leaves of the _shui-mang_ plant. He then shewed him the ring,
and told him what the girl had said; whereupon his friend, after some
reflection, said, “She must be San-niang, of the K‘ou family.” “How
could you know her name?” asked Chu, hearing his friend use the same
words as the old woman. “Oh,” replied he, “there was a nice-looking
girl of that name who died some years ago from eating of the same
herb. She is doubtless the girl you saw.” Here some one observed that
if the person so entrapped by a devil only knew its name, and could
procure an old pair of its shoes, he might save himself by boiling
them in water and drinking the liquor as medicine. Chu’s friend
thereupon rushed off at once to the K‘ou family, and implored them to
give him an old pair of their daughter’s shoes; but they, not wishing
to prevent their daughter from finding a substitute in Chu, flatly
refused his request. So he went back in anger and told Chu, who ground
his teeth with rage, saying, “If I die, she shall not obtain her
transmigration thereby.” His friend then sent him home; and just as he
reached the door he fell down dead. Chu’s mother wept bitterly over
his corpse, which was in due course interred; and he left behind one
little boy barely a year old. His wife did not remain a widow, but in
six months married again and went away, putting Chu’s son under the
care of his grandmother, who was quite unequal to any toil, and did
nothing but weep morning and night. One day she was carrying her
grandson about in her arms, crying bitterly all the time, when
suddenly in walked Chu. His mother, much alarmed, brushed away her
tears, and asked him what it meant. “Mother,” replied he, “down in the
realms below I heard you weeping. I am therefore come to tend you.
Although a departed spirit, I have a wife, who has likewise come to
share your toil. Therefore do not grieve.” His mother inquired who his
wife was, to which he replied, “When the K‘ou family sat still and
left me to my fate I was greatly incensed against them; and after
death I sought for San-niang, not knowing where she was. I have
recently seen my old same-year friend, and he told me where she was.
She had come to life again in the person of the baby-daughter of a
high official named Jen; but I went thither and dragged her spirit
back. She is now my wife, and we get on extremely well together.” A
very pretty and well-dressed young lady here entered, and made
obeisance to Chu’s mother, Chu saying, “This is San-niang, of the K‘ou
family;” and although not a living being, Mrs. Chu at once took a
great fancy to her. Chu sent her off to help in the work of the house,
and, in spite of not being accustomed to this sort of thing, she was
so obedient to her mother-in-law as to excite the compassion of all.
The two then took up their quarters in Chu’s old apartments, and there
they continued to remain.
Meanwhile San-niang asked Chu’s mother to let the K‘ou family know;
and this she did, notwithstanding some objections raised by her son.
Mr. and Mrs. K‘ou were much astonished at the news, and, ordering
their carriage, proceeded at once to Chu’s house. There they found
their daughter, and parents and child fell into each other’s arms.
San-niang entreated them to dry their tears; but her mother, noticing
the poverty of Chu’s household, was unable to restrain her feelings.
“We are already spirits,” cried San-niang; “what matters poverty to
us? Besides, I am very well treated here, and am altogether as happy
as I can be.” They then asked her who the old woman was; to which she
replied, “Her name was Ni. She was mortified at being too ugly to
entrap people herself, and got me to assist her. She has now been born
again at a soy-shop in the city.” Then, looking at her husband, she
added, “Come, since you are the son-in-law, pay the proper respect to
my father and mother, or what shall I think of you?” Chu made his
obeisance, and San-niang went into the kitchen to get food ready for
them, at which her mother became very melancholy, and went away home,
whence she sent a couple of maid-servants, a hundred ounces of silver,
and rolls of cloth and silk, besides making occasional presents of
food and wine, so that Chu’s mother lived in comparative comfort.
San-niang also went from time to time to see her parents, but would
never stay very long, pleading that she was wanted at home, and such
excuses; and if the old people attempted to keep her, she simply went
off by herself. Her father built a nice house for Chu with all kinds
of luxuries in it; but Chu never once entered his father-in-law’s
door.