at the age of fifty and odd years. His family at once proceeded to put
on their mourning robes, when suddenly they heard the dead man cry
out. Rushing up to the coffin, they found that he had come to life
again; and began, full of joy, to ask him all about it. But the old
gentleman replied only to his wife, saying, “When I died I did not
expect to come back. However, by the time I had got a few miles on my
way, I thought of the poor old body I was leaving behind me, dependent
for everything on others, and with no more enjoyment of life. So I
made up my mind to return, and take you away with me.” The bystanders
thought this was only the disconnected talk of a man who had just
regained consciousness, and attached no importance to it; but the old
man repeated it, and then his wife said, “It’s all very well, but you
have only just come to life; how can you go and die again directly?”
“It is extremely simple,” replied her husband; “you go and pack up
everything ready.” The old lady laughed and did nothing; upon which
Mr. Chu urged her again to prepare, and then left the house. In a
short time he returned, and his wife pretended that she had done what
he wanted. “Then you had better dress,” said he; but Mrs. Chu did not
move until he pressed her again and again, after which she did not
like to cross him, and by-and-by came out all fully equipped. The
other ladies of the family were laughing on the sly, when Mr. Chu laid
his head upon the pillow, and told his wife to do likewise. “It’s too
ridiculous,” she was beginning to say, when Mr. Chu banged the bed
with his hand, and cried out, “What is there to laugh at in dying?”
upon which the various members of the family, seeing the old gentleman
was in a rage, begged her to gratify his whim. Mrs. Chu then lay down
alongside of her husband, to the infinite amusement of the spectators;
but it was soon noticed that the old lady had ceased to smile, and
by-and-by her two eyes closed. For a long time not a sound was heard,
as if she was fast asleep; and when some of those present approached
to touch her, they found she was as cold as ice, and no longer
breathing; then, turning to her husband, they perceived that he also
had passed away.
This story was fully related by a younger sister-in-law of Mr. Chu’s,
who, in the twenty-first year of the reign K‘ang Hsi,[141] was
employed in the house of a high official named Pi.
FOOTNOTE:
[141] A.D. 1682.
XXI.
THE MAGNANIMOUS GIRL.
At Chin-ling there lived a young man named Ku, who had considerable
ability but was very poor; and having an old mother, he was very loth
to leave home. So he employed himself in writing or painting[142] for
people, and gave his mother the proceeds, going on thus till he was
twenty-five years of age without taking a wife. Opposite to their
house was another building, which had long been untenanted; and one
day an old woman and a young girl came to occupy it, but there being
no gentleman with them young Ku did not make any inquiries as to who
they were or whence they hailed. Shortly afterwards it chanced that
just as Ku was entering the house he observed a young lady come out of
his mother’s door. She was about eighteen or nineteen, very clever
and refined looking, and altogether such a girl as one rarely sets
eyes on; and when she noticed Mr. Ku, she did not run away, but seemed
quite self-possessed. “It was the young lady over the way; she came to
borrow my scissors and measure,” said his mother, “and she told me
that there was only her mother and herself. They don’t seem to belong
to the lower classes. I asked her why she didn’t get married, to which
she replied that her mother was old. I must go and call on her
to-morrow, and find out how the land lies. If she doesn’t expect too
much, you could take care of her mother for her.” So next day Ku’s
mother went, and found that the girl’s mother was deaf, and that they
were evidently poor, apparently not having a day’s food in the house.
Ku’s mother asked what their employment was, and the old lady said
they trusted for food to her daughter’s ten fingers. She then threw
out some hints about uniting the two families, to which the old lady
seemed to agree; but, on consultation with her daughter, the latter
would not consent. Mrs. Ku returned home and told her son, saying,
“Perhaps she thinks we are too poor. She doesn’t speak or laugh, is
very nice-looking, and as pure as snow; truly no ordinary girl.” There
ended that; until one day, as Ku was sitting in his study, up came a
very agreeable young fellow, who said he was from a neighbouring
village, and engaged Ku to draw a picture for him. The two youths soon
struck up a firm friendship and met constantly, when it happened that
the stranger chanced to see the young lady of over the way. “Who is
that?” said he, following her with his eyes. Ku told him, and then he
said, “She is certainly pretty, but rather stern in her appearance.”
By-and-by Ku went in, and his mother told him the girl had come to beg
a little rice, as they had had nothing to eat all day. “She’s a good
daughter,” said his mother, “and I’m very sorry for her. We must try
and help them a little.” Ku thereupon shouldered a peck of rice, and,
knocking at their door, presented it with his mother’s compliments.
The young lady received the rice but said nothing; and then she got
into the habit of coming over and helping Ku’s mother with her work
and household affairs, almost as if she had been her daughter-in-law,
for which Ku was very grateful to her, and whenever he had anything
nice he always sent some of it in to her mother, though the young lady
herself never once took the trouble to thank him. So things went on
until Ku’s mother got an abscess on her leg, and lay writhing in agony
day and night. Then the young lady devoted herself to the invalid,
waiting on her and giving her medicine with such care and attention
that at last the sick woman cried out, “Oh, that I could secure such a
daughter-in-law as you, to see this old body into its grave!” The
young lady soothed her, and replied, “Your son is a hundred times more
filial than I, a poor widow’s only daughter.” “But even a filial son
makes a bad nurse,” answered the patient; “besides, I am now drawing
towards the evening of my life, when my body will be exposed to the
mists and the dews, and I am vexed in spirit about our ancestral
worship and the continuance of our line.” As she was speaking Ku
walked in; and his mother, weeping, said, “I am deeply indebted to
this young lady; do not forget to repay her goodness.” Ku made a low
bow, but the young lady said, “Sir, when you were kind to my mother, I
did not thank you; why, then, thank me?” Ku thereupon became more than
ever attached to her; but could never get her to depart in the
slightest degree from her cold demeanour towards himself. One day,
however, he managed to squeeze her hand, upon which she told him never
to do so again; and then for some time he neither saw nor heard
anything of her. She had conceived a violent dislike to the young
stranger above-mentioned; and one evening when he was sitting talking
with Ku, the young lady reappeared. After a while she got angry at
something he said, and drew from her robe a glittering knife about a
foot long. The young man, seeing her do this, ran out in a fright and
she after him, only to find that he had vanished. She then threw her
dagger up into the air, and whish! a streak of light like a rainbow,
and something came tumbling down with a flop. Ku got a light, and ran
to see what it was; and lo! there lay a white fox, head in one place
and body in another. “There is your _friend_,” cried the girl; “I knew
he would cause me to destroy him sooner or later.” Ku dragged it into
the house, and said, “Let us wait till to-morrow to talk it over; we
shall then be more calm.” Next day the young lady arrived, and Ku
inquired about her knowledge of the black art; but she told Ku not to
trouble himself about such affairs, and to keep it secret or it might
be prejudicial to his happiness. Ku then entreated her to consent to
their union, to which she replied that she had already been as it were
a daughter-in-law to his mother, and there was no need to push the
thing further. “Is it because I am poor?” asked Ku. “Well, I am not
rich,” answered she, “but the fact is I had rather not.” She then took
her leave, and the next evening when Ku went across to their house to
try once more to persuade her, the young lady had disappeared, and was
never seen again.
FOOTNOTE:
[142] The usual occupation of poor scholars who are ashamed to go into
trade, and who have not enterprise enough to start as doctors or
fortune-tellers. Besides painting pictures and fans, and illustrating
books, these men write fancy scrolls in the various ornamental styles
so much prized by the Chinese; they keep accounts for people, and
write or read business and private letters for the illiterate masses.
XXII.
THE BOON-COMPANION.
Once upon a time there was a young man named Ch‘ê, who was not
particularly well off, but at the same time very fond of his wine; so
much so, that without his three stoups of liquor every night, he was
quite unable to sleep, and bottles were seldom absent from the head of
his bed. One night he had waked up and was turning over and over, when
he fancied some one was in the bed with him; but then, thinking it was
only the clothes which had slipped off, he put out his hand to feel,
and, lo! he touched something silky like a cat, only larger. Striking
a light, he found it was a fox, lying in a drunken sleep like a dog;
and then looking at his wine bottle he saw that it had been emptied.
“A boon-companion,” said he, laughing, as he avoided startling the
animal, and covering it up, lay down to sleep with his arm across it,
and the candle alight so as to see what transformation it might
undergo. About midnight, the fox stretched itself, and Ch‘ê cried,
“Well, to be sure, you’ve had a nice sleep!” He then drew off the
clothes, and beheld an elegant young man in a scholar’s dress; but the
young man jumped up, and making a low obeisance, returned his host
many thanks for not cutting off his head. “Oh,” replied Ch‘ê, “I am
not averse to liquor myself; in fact they say I’m too much given to
it. You shall play Pythias to my Damon;[143] and if you have no
objection, we’ll be a pair of bottle-and-glass chums.” So they lay
down and went to sleep again, Ch‘ê urging the young man to visit him
often, and saying that they must have faith in each other. The fox
agreed to this, but when Ch‘ê awoke in the morning his bedfellow had
already disappeared. So he prepared a goblet of first-rate wine in
expectation of his friend’s arrival, and at nightfall sure enough he
came. They then sat together drinking, and the fox cracked so many
jokes that Ch‘ê said he regretted he had not known him before. “And
truly I don’t know how to repay your kindness,” replied the former,
“in preparing all this nice wine for me.” “Oh,” said Ch‘ê, “what’s a
pint or so of wine?--nothing worth speaking of.” “Well,” rejoined the
fox, “you are only a poor scholar, and money isn’t so easily to be
got. I must try if I can’t secure a little wine capital for you.” Next
evening when he arrived, he said to Ch‘ê, “Two miles down towards the
south-east you will find some silver lying by the wayside. Go early in
the morning and get it.” So on the morrow Ch‘ê set off and actually
obtained two lumps of silver with which he bought some choice morsels
to help them out with their wine that evening. The fox now told him
that there was a vault in his back-yard which he ought to open; and
when he did so, he found therein more than a hundred strings of
cash.[144] “Now then,” cried Ch‘ê, delighted, “I shall have no more
anxiety about funds for buying wine with all this in my purse.” “Ah,”
replied the fox, “the water in a puddle is not inexhaustible. I must
do something further for you.” Some days afterwards the fox said to
Ch‘ê, “Buckwheat is very cheap in the market just now. Something is to
be done in this line.” Accordingly, Ch‘ê bought over forty tons, and
thereby incurred general ridicule; but by-and-by there was a bad
drought and all kinds of grain and beans were spoilt. Only buckwheat
would grow, and Ch‘ê sold off his stock at a profit of one thousand
per cent. His wealth thus began to increase; he bought two hundred
acres of rich land, and always planted his crops, corn, millet, or
what not, upon the advice of the fox secretly given him beforehand.
The fox looked on Ch‘ê’s wife as a sister, and on Ch‘ê’s children as
his own; but when, subsequently, Ch‘ê died, it never came to the house
again.
FOOTNOTES:
[143] Kuan Chung and Pao Shu are the Chinese types of friendship. They
were two statesmen of considerable ability, who flourished in the
seventh century B.C.
[144] Say about £10. See No. II., note 42.
XXIII.
MISS LIEN-HSIANG.
There was a young man named Sang Tzŭ-ming, a native of I-chou, who had
been left an orphan when quite young. He lived near the Saffron
market, and kept himself very much to himself, only going out twice a
day for his meals to a neighbour’s close by, and sitting quietly at
home all the rest of his time. One day the said neighbour called, and
asked him in joke if he wasn’t afraid of devil-foxes, so much alone as
he was. “Oh,” replied Sang, laughing, “what has the superior man[145]
to fear from devil-foxes. If they come as men, I have here a sharp
sword for them; and if as women, why, I shall open the door and ask
them to walk in.” The neighbour went away, and having arranged with a
friend of his, they got a young lady of their acquaintance to climb
over Sang’s wall with the help of a ladder, and knock at the door.
Sang peeped through, and called out, “Who’s there?” to which the girl
answered, “A devil!” and frightened Sang so dreadfully that his teeth
chattered in his head. The girl then ran away, and next morning when
his neighbour came to see him, Sang told him what had happened, and
said he meant to go back to his native place. The neighbour then
clapped his hands, and said to Sang, “Why didn’t you ask her in?”
Whereupon Sang perceived that he had been tricked, and went on quietly
again as before.
Some six months afterwards, a young lady knocked at his door; and
Sang, thinking his friends were at their old tricks, opened it at
once, and asked her to walk in. She did so; and he beheld to his
astonishment a perfect Helen for beauty.[146] Asking her whence she
came, she replied that her name was Lien-hsiang, and that she lived
not very far off, adding that she had long been anxious to make his
acquaintance. After that she used to drop in every now and again for a
chat; but one evening when Sang was sitting alone expecting her,
another young lady suddenly walked in. Thinking it was Lien-hsiang,
Sang got up to meet her, but found that the new-comer was somebody
else. She was about fifteen or sixteen years of age, wore very full
sleeves, and dressed her hair after the fashion of unmarried girls,
being otherwise very stylish-looking and refined, and apparently
hesitating whether to go on or go back. Sang, in a great state of
alarm, took her for a fox; but the young lady said, “My name is Li,
and I am of a respectable family. Hearing of your virtue and talent, I
hope to be accorded the honour of your acquaintance.” Sang laughed,
and took her by the hand, which he found was as cold as ice; and when
he asked the reason, she told him that she had always been delicate,
and that it was very chilly outside. She then remarked that she
intended to visit him pretty frequently, and hoped it would not
inconvenience him; so he explained that no one came to see him except
another young lady, and that not very often. “When she comes, I’ll
go,” replied the young lady, “and only drop in when she’s not here.”
She then gave him an embroidered slipper, saying that she had worn it,
and that whenever he shook it she would know that he wanted to see
her, cautioning him at the same time never to shake it before
strangers. Taking it in his hand he beheld a very tiny little shoe
almost as fine pointed as an awl, with which he was much pleased; and
next evening, when nobody was present, he produced the shoe and shook
it, whereupon the young lady immediately walked in. Henceforth,
whenever he brought it out, the young lady responded to his wishes and
appeared before him. This seemed so strange that at last he asked her
to give him some explanation; but she only laughed, and said it was
mere coincidence. One evening after this Lien-hsiang came, and said in
alarm to Sang, “Whatever has made you look so melancholy?” Sang
replied that he did not know, and by-and-by she took her leave,
saying, they would not meet again for some ten days. During this
period Miss Li visited Sang every day, and on one occasion asked him
where his other friend was. Sang told her; and then she laughed and
said, “What is your opinion of me as compared with Lien-hsiang?” “You
are both of you perfection,” replied he, “but you are a little
_colder_ of the two.” Miss Li didn’t much like this, and cried out,
“_Both of us perfection_ is what you say to _me_. Then she must be a
downright Cynthia,[147] and I am no match for her.” Somewhat out of
temper, she reckoned that Lien-hsiang’s ten days had expired, and said
she would have a peep at her, making Sang promise to keep it all
secret. The next evening Lien-hsiang came, and while they were talking
she suddenly exclaimed, “Oh, dear! how much worse you seem to have
become in the last ten days. You must have encountered something bad.”
Sang asked her why so; to which she answered, “First of all your
appearance; and then your pulse is very thready.[148] You’ve got the
devil-disease.”
The following evening when Miss Li came, Sang asked her what she
thought of Lien-hsiang. “Oh,” said she, “there’s no question about her
beauty; but she’s a fox. When she went away I followed her to her hole
on the hill side.” Sang, however, attributed this remark to jealousy,
and took no notice of it; but the next evening when Lien-hsiang came,
he observed, “I don’t believe it myself, but some one has told me you
are a fox.” Lien-hsiang asked who had said so, to which Sang replied
that he was only joking; and then she begged him to explain what
difference there was between a fox and an ordinary person. “Well,”
answered Sang, “foxes frighten people to death, and, therefore, they
are very much dreaded.” “Don’t you believe that!” cried Lien-hsiang;
“and now tell me who has been saying this of me.” Sang declared at
first that it was only a joke of his, but by-and-by yielded to her
instances, and let out the whole story. “Of course I saw how changed
you were,” said Lien-hsiang; “she is surely not a human being to be
able to cause such a rapid alteration in you. Say nothing, to-morrow
I’ll watch her as she watched me.” The following evening Miss Li came
in; and they had hardly interchanged half-a-dozen sentences when a
cough was heard outside the window, and Miss Li ran away. Lien-hsiang
then entered and said to Sang, “You are lost! She is a devil, and if
you do not at once forbid her coming here, you will soon be on the
road to the other world.” “All jealousy,” thought Sang, saying
nothing, as Lien-hsiang continued, “I know that you don’t like to be
rude to her; but I, for my part, cannot see you sacrificed, and
to-morrow I will bring you some medicine to expel the poison from your
system. Happily, the disease has not yet taken firm hold of you, and
in ten days you will be well again.” The next evening she produced a
knife and chopped up some medicine for Sang, which made him feel much
better; but, although he was very grateful to her, he still persisted
in disbelieving that he had the devil-disease. After some days he
recovered and Lien-hsiang left him, warning him to have no more to do
with Miss Li. Sang pretended that he would follow her advice, and
closed the door and trimmed his lamp. He then took out the slipper,
and on shaking it Miss Li appeared, somewhat cross at having been kept
away for several days. “She merely attended on me these few nights
while I was ill,” said Sang; “don’t be angry.” At this Miss Li
brightened up a little; but by-and-by Sang told her that people said
she was a devil. “It’s that nasty fox,” cried Miss Li, after a pause,
“putting these things into your head. If you don’t break with her, I
won’t come here again.” She then began to sob and cry, and Sang had
some trouble in pacifying her. Next evening Lien-hsiang came and found
out that Miss Li had been there again; whereupon she was very angry
with Sang, and told him he would certainly die. “Why need you be so
jealous?” said Sang, laughing; at which she only got more enraged, and
replied, “When you were nearly dying the other day and I saved you, if
I had not been jealous, where would you have been now?” Sang pretended
he was only joking, and said that Miss Li had told him his recent
illness was entirely owing to the machinations of a fox; to which she
replied, “It’s true enough what you say, only you don’t see _whose_
machinations. However, if any thing happens to you, I should never
clear myself even had I a hundred mouths; we will, therefore, part. A
hundred days hence I shall see you on your bed.” Sang could not
persuade her to stay, and away she went; and from that time Miss Li
became a regular visitor.