carried through when the prosecutor is a man of wealth and influence.
[244] Another favourite method of revenging oneself upon an enemy, who
is in many cases held responsible for the death thus occasioned. Mr.
Alabaster told me an amusing story of a Chinese woman who deliberately
walked into a pond until the water reached her knees, and remained
there alternately putting her lips below the surface and threatening
in a loud voice to drown herself on the spot, as life had been made
unbearable by the presence of foreign barbarians. This was during the
Taiping rebellion.
[245] Valuables of some kind or other are often placed in the coffins
of wealthy Chinese; and women are almost always provided with a
certain quantity of jewels with which to adorn themselves in the
realms below.
[246] One of the most heinous offences in the Chinese Penal Code.
XLIII.
THE QUARRELSOME BROTHERS.
At K‘un-yang there lived a wealthy man named Tsêng. When he died, and
before he was put in the coffin, tears were seen to gush forth from
both eyes of the corpse, to the infinite amazement of his six sons.
His second son, T‘i, otherwise called Yu-yü, who had gained for
himself the reputation of being a scholar, said it was a bad omen, and
warned his brothers to be careful and not give cause for sorrow to the
dead,--at which the others only laughed at him as an idiot.
Tsêng’s first wife and eldest son having been carried off by the
rebels when the latter was only seven or eight years old, he married a
second wife, by whom he had three sons, Hsiao, Chung, and Hsin;
besides three other sons by a concubine--namely, the above-mentioned
T‘i, or Yu-yü, Jen, and Yi. Now the three by the second wife banded
themselves together against the three by the concubine, saying that
the latter were a base-born lot; and whenever a guest was present and
either of them happened to be in the room, Hsiao and his two brothers
would not take the slightest notice of them. This enraged Jen and Yi
very much, and they went to consult with Yu-yü as to how they should
avenge themselves for such slights. Yu-yü, however, tried every means
in his power to pacify them, and would not take part in any plot; and,
as they were much younger than he, they took his advice,[247] and did
nothing.
Hsiao had a daughter, who died shortly after her marriage to a Mr.
Chou; and her father begged Yu-yü and his other brothers to go with
him and give his late daughter’s mother-in-law a sound beating.[248]
Yu-yü would not hear of it for a moment; so Hsiao in a rage got his
brothers Chung and Hsin, with a lot of rowdies from the neighbourhood,
and went off and did it themselves, scattering the goods and chattels
of the family about, and smashing everything they could lay their
hands on. An action was immediately brought by the Chou family, and
Hsiao and his two brothers were thrown into prison by the angry
mandarin, who purposed sending the case before a higher tribunal.
Yu-yü, however, whose high character was well known to that official,
interceded for them, and himself went to the Chou family and tendered
the most humble apologies for what had occurred. The Chou family, out
of respect for Yu-yü, suffered the case to drop, and Hsiao regained
his liberty, though he did not evince the slightest gratitude for his
brother’s exertions. Shortly after, Yu-yü’s mother died; but Hsiao and
the other two refused to put on mourning for her, going on with their
usual feasting and drinking as if nothing had happened. Jen and Yi
were furious at this; but Yu-yü only observed, “What they do is their
own indecorous behaviour; it does not injure us.” Then, again, when
the funeral was about to take place, Hsiao, Chung, and Hsin stood
before the door of the vault, and would not allow the others to bury
their mother there. So Yu-yü buried her alongside the principal grave.
Before long Hsiao’s wife died, and Yu-yü told Jen and Yi to accompany
him to the house and condole with the widower; to which they both
objected, saying, “He would not wear mourning for our mother; shall we
do so for his wife?”[249] Ultimately Yu-yü had to go alone; and while
he was pouring forth his lamentations beside the bier, he heard Jen
and Yi playing drums and trumpets outside the door. Hsiao flew into a
tremendous passion, and went after them with his own two brothers to
give them a good thrashing. Yu-yü, too, seized a big stick and
accompanied them to the house where Jen and Yi were; whereupon Jen
made his escape; but as Yi was clambering over the wall, Yu-yü hit him
from behind and knocked him down. Hsiao and the others then set upon
him with their fists and sticks, and would never have stopped but that
Yu-yü interposed his body between them and made them desist. Hsiao was
very angry at this, and began to abuse Yu-yü, who said, “The
punishment was for want of decorum, for which death would be too
severe. I can neither connive at their bad behaviour, nor at your
cruelty. If your anger is not appeased, strike me.” Hsiao now turned
his fury against Yu-yü, and being well seconded by his two brothers,
they beat Yu-yü until the neighbours separated them and put an end to
the row. Yu-yü at once proceeded to Hsiao’s house to apologize for
what had occurred; but Hsiao drove him away, and would not let him
take part in the funeral ceremonies. Meanwhile, as Yi’s wounds were
very severe, and he could neither eat nor drink, his brother Jen went
on his behalf to the magistrate, stating in the petition that the
accused had not worn mourning for their father’s concubine. The
magistrate issued a warrant; and, besides causing the arrest of Hsiao,
Chung, and Hsin, he ordered Yu-yü to prosecute them as well. Yu-yü,
however, was so much cut about the head and face that he could not
appear in court, but he wrote out a petition, in which he begged that
the case might be quashed; and this the magistrate consented to do. Yi
soon got better, the feeling of hatred and resentment increasing in
the family day by day; while Jen and Yi, who were younger than the
others, complained to Yu-yü of their recent punishment, saying, “The
relationship of elder and younger brothers exists for others, why not
for us?” “Ah,” replied Yu-yü, “that is what I might well say; not
you.” Yu-yü then tried to persuade them to forget the past; but, not
succeeding in his attempt, he shut up his house, and went off with his
wife to live somewhere else, about twenty miles away. Now, although
when Yu-yü was among them he did not help the two younger ones, yet
his presence acted as some restraint upon Hsiao and the other two; but
now that he was gone their conduct was beyond all bounds. They sought
out Jen and Yi in their own houses, and not only reviled them, but
abused the memory of their dead mother, against which Jen and Yi could
only retaliate by keeping the door shut against them. However, they
determined to do them some injury, and carried knives about with them
wherever they went for that purpose.
One day the eldest brother, Ch‘êng, who had been carried off by the
rebels, returned with his wife; and, after three days’ deliberation,
Hsiao and the other two determined that, as he had been so long
separated from the family, he had no further claims upon them for
house-room, &c. Jen and Yi were secretly delighted at this result, and
at once inviting Ch‘êng to stay with them, sent news of his arrival to
Yu-yü, who came back directly, and agreed with the others to hand over
a share of the property to their elder brother. Hsiao and his clique
were much enraged at this purchase of Ch‘êng’s good will, and,
hurrying to their brothers’ houses, assailed them with every possible
kind of abuse. Ch‘êng, who had long been accustomed to scenes of
violence among the rebels, now got into a great passion, and cried
out, “When I came home none of you would give me a place to live in.
Only these younger ones recognised the ties of blood,[250] and you
would punish them for so doing. Do you think to drive me away?”
Thereupon he threw a stone at Hsiao and knocked him down; and Jen and
Yi rushed out with clubs and gave the three of them a severe
thrashing. Ch‘êng did not wait for them to lay a plaint, but set off
to the magistrate on the spot, and preferred a charge against his
three brothers. The magistrate, as before, sent for Yu-yü to ask his
opinion, and Yu-yü had no alternative but to go, entering the yamên
with downcast head, his tears flowing in silence all the while. The
magistrate inquired of him how the matter stood; to which he replied
only by begging His Honour to hear the case; which the magistrate
accordingly did, deciding that the whole of the property was to be
divided equally among the seven brothers. Thenceforth Jen and Yi
became more and more attached to Ch‘êng; and one day, in conversation,
they happened to tell him the story of their mother’s funeral. Ch‘êng
was exceedingly angry, and declared that such behaviour was that of
brute beasts, proposing at the same time that the vault should be
opened and that she should be re-buried in the proper place. Jen and
Yi went off and told this to Yu-yü, who immediately came and begged
Ch‘êng to desist from his scheme; to which, however, he paid no
attention, and fixed a day for her interment in the family vault. He
then built a hut near by, and, with a knife lopping the branches off
the trees, informed the brothers that any of them who did not appear
at the funeral in the usual mourning would be treated by him in a
manner similar to the trees. So they were all obliged to go, and the
obsequies were conducted in a fitting manner. The brothers were now at
peace together, Ch‘êng keeping them in first-rate order, and always
treating Hsiao, Chung, and Hsin with much more severity than the
others. To Yu-yü he shewed a marked deference, and, whenever he was in
a rage, would always be appeased by a word from him. Hsiao, too, was
always going to Yu-yü to complain of the treatment he received at
Ch‘êng’s hands when he did anything that Ch‘êng disapproved of; and
then, if Yu-yü quietly reproved him, he would be dissatisfied, so that
at last Yu-yü could stand it no longer, and again went away and took a
house at a considerable distance, where he remained almost entirely
cut off from the others. By the time two years had passed away Ch‘êng
had completely succeeded in establishing harmony amongst them, and
quarrels were of rare occurrence. Hsiao was then forty-six years old,
and had five sons; Chi-yeh and Chi-tê, the first and third, by his
wife; Chi-kung and Chi-chi, the second and fourth, by a concubine;
and Chi-tsu, by a slave. They were all grown up, and exactly imitated
their father’s former behaviour, banding themselves together one
against the other, and so on, without their father being able to make
them behave better. Chi-tsu had no brothers of his own, and, being the
youngest, the others bullied him dreadfully; until at length, being on
a visit to his wife’s family, who lived not far from Yu-yü’s house, he
went slightly out of his way to call and see his uncle. There he found
his three cousins living peaceably together and pursuing their
studies, and was so pleased that he remained with them some time, and
said not a word as to returning home. His uncle urged him to go back,
but he entreated to be allowed to stay; and then his uncle told him it
was not that he grudged his daily food: it was because his father and
mother did not know where he was. Chi-tsu accordingly went home, and a
few months afterwards, when he and his wife were on the point of
starting to congratulate his wife’s mother on the anniversary of her
birthday, he explained to his father that he should not come home
again. When his father asked him why not, he partly divulged his
reasons for going; whereupon his father said he was afraid his uncle
would bear malice for what happened in the past, and that he would not
be able to remain there long. “Father,” replied Chi-tsu, “uncle Yu-yü
is a good and virtuous man.” He set out with his wife, and when they
arrived Yu-yü gave them separate quarters, and made Chi-tsu rank as
one of his own sons, making him join the eldest, Chi-san, in his
studies. Chi-tsu was a clever fellow, and now enrolled himself as a
resident of the place where his uncle lived.[251]
Meanwhile, his brothers went on quarrelling among themselves as usual;
and one day Chi-kung, enraged at an insult offered to his mother,
killed Chi-yeh. He was immediately thrown into prison, where he was
severely bambooed, and in a few days he died. Chi-yeh’s wife, whose
maiden name was Fêng, now spent the days of mourning in cursing her
husband’s murderer; and when Chi-kung’s wife heard this, she flew into
a towering passion, and said to her, “If your husband is dead, mine
isn’t alive.” She then drew a knife and killed her, completing the
tragedy by herself committing suicide in a well.
Mr. Fêng, the father of the murdered woman, was very much distressed
at his daughter’s untimely end; and, taking with him several members
of the family with arms concealed under their clothes, they proceeded
to Hsiao’s house, and there gave his wife a most terrific beating. It
was now Ch‘êng’s turn to be angry. “The members of my family are dying
like sheep,” cried he; “what do you mean by this, Mr. Fêng?” He then
rushed out upon them with a roar, accompanied by all his own brothers
and their sons; and the Fêng family was utterly routed. Seizing old
Fêng himself, Ch‘êng cut off both his ears; and when his son tried to
rescue him, Chi-chi ran up and broke both his legs with an iron
crowbar. Every one of the Fêng family was badly wounded, and thus
dispersed, leaving old Fêng’s son lying in the middle of the road. The
others not knowing what to do with him, Ch‘êng took him under his arm,
and, having thrown him down in the Fêng village, returned home, giving
orders to Chi-chi to go immediately to the authorities and enter their
plaint the first.[252]
The Fêng family had, however, anticipated them, and all the Tsêngs
were accordingly thrown into prison, except Chung, who managed to
escape. He ran away to the place where Yu-yü lived, and was pacing
backwards and forwards before the door, afraid lest his brother should
not have forgiven past offences, when suddenly Yu-yü, with his son and
nephew, arrived, on their return from the examination. “What do you
want, my brother?” asked Yu-yü; whereupon Chung prostrated himself at
the roadside, and then Yu-yü, seizing his hand, led him within to make
further inquiries. “Alas! alas!” cried Yu-yü, when he had heard the
story, “I knew that some dreadful calamity would be the result of all
this wicked behaviour. But why have you come hither? I have been
absent so long that I am no more acquainted with the local
authorities; and if I now went to ask a favour of them, I should
probably only be insulted for my pains. However, if none of the Fêng
family die of their wounds, and if we three may chance to be
successful in our examination, something may perhaps be done to
mitigate this calamity.”[253] Yu-yü then kept Chung to dinner, and at
night he shared their room, which kind treatment made him at once
grateful and repentant. By the end of ten days he was so struck with
the behaviour of the father, sons, uncle, nephew, and cousins, one
toward the other, that he burst into tears, and said, “Now I know how
badly I behaved in days gone by.” His uncle was overjoyed at his
repentance, and sympathised with his feelings, when suddenly it was
announced that Yu-yü and his son had both passed the examination for
master’s degree, and that Chi-tsu was _proximé accessit_. This
delighted them all very much. They did not, however, attend the
Fu-t‘ai’s congratulatory feast,[254] but went off first to worship at
the tombs of their ancestors.
Now, at the time of the Ming dynasty a man who had taken his master’s
degree was a very considerable personage,[255] and the Fêngs
accordingly began to draw in their horns. Yu-yü, too, met them
half-way. He got a friend to convey to them presents of food and money
to help them in recovering from their injuries, and thus the
prosecution was withdrawn. Then all his brothers implored him with
tears in their eyes to return home, and, after burning incense with
them,[256] and making them enter into a bond with him that by-gones
should be by-gones, he acceded to their request. Chi-tsu, however,
would not leave his uncle; and Hsiao himself said to Yu-yü, “I don’t
deserve such a son as that. Keep him, and teach him as you have done
hitherto, and let him be as one of your own children; but if at some
future time he succeeds in his examination, then I will beg you to
return him to me.” Yu-yü consented to this; and three years afterwards
Chi-tsu did take his master’s degree, upon which he sent him back to
his own family.
Both husband and wife were very loth to leave their uncle’s house, and
they had hardly been at home three days before one of their children,
only three years old, ran away and went back, returning to his
great-uncle’s as often as he was recaptured. This induced Hsiao to
remove to the next house to Yu-yü’s, and, by opening a door between
the two, they made one establishment of the whole. Ch‘êng was now
getting old, and the family affairs devolved entirely upon Yu-yü, who
managed things so well that their reputation for filial piety and
fraternal love was soon spread far and wide.
FOOTNOTES:
[247] Deference to elder brothers is held by the Chinese to be second
only in importance to filial piety.
[248] In a volume of _Chinese Sketches_, published by me in 1876,
occur (p. 129) the following words:--“Occasionally a young wife is
driven to commit suicide by the harshness of her mother-in-law, but
this is of rare occurrence, as the consequences are terrible to the
family of the guilty woman. The blood-relatives of the deceased repair
to the chamber of death, and in the injured victim’s hand they place a
broom. They then support the corpse round the room, making its dead
arm move the broom from side to side, and thus sweep away wealth,
happiness, and longevity, from the accursed place for ever.”
[249] A wife being an infinitely less important personage than a
mother in the Chinese social scale.
[250] Literally, of hand and foot, to the mutual dependence of which
that of brothers is frequently likened by the Chinese.
[251] Any permanent change of residence must be notified to the
District Magistrate, who keeps a running census of all persons within
his jurisdiction.
[252] To be thus beforehand with one’s adversary is regarded as _primâ
facie_ evidence of being in the right.
[253] By means of the _status_ which a graduate of the second degree
would necessarily have.
[254] A sham entertainment given by the Fu-t‘ai, or governor, to all
the successful candidates. I say _sham_, because the whole thing is
merely nominal; a certain amount of food is contracted for, but there
is never anything fit to eat, most of the money being embezzled by the
underlings to whose management the banquet is entrusted.
[255] Much more so than at present.
[256] Thereby invoking the Gods as witnesses. A common method of
making up a quarrel in China is to send the aggrieved party an olive
and a piece of red paper in token that peace is restored. Why the
_olive_ should be specially employed I have in vain tried to
ascertain.
XLIV.
THE YOUNG GENTLEMAN WHO COULDN’T SPELL.[257]
At Chia-p‘ing there lived a certain young gentleman of considerable
talent and very prepossessing appearance. When seventeen years of age
he went up for his bachelor’s degree; and as he was passing the door
of a house, he saw within a pretty-looking girl, who not only riveted
his gaze, but also smiled and nodded her head at him. Quite pleased at
this, he approached the young lady and began to talk, she, meanwhile,
inquiring of him where he lived, and if alone or otherwise. He assured
her he was quite by himself; and then she said, “Well, I will come and
see you, but you mustn’t let any one know.” The young gentleman
agreed, and when he got home he sent all the servants to another part
of the house, and by-and-by the young lady arrived. She said her name
was Wên-chi, and that her admiration for her host’s noble bearing had
made her visit him, unknown to her mistress. “And gladly,” added she,
“would I be your handmaid for life.” Our hero was delighted, and
proposed to purchase her from the mistress she mentioned; and from
this time she was in the habit of coming in every other day or so. On
one occasion it was raining hard, and, after hanging up her wet cloak
upon a peg, she took off her shoes, and bade the young gentleman clean
them for her. He noticed that they were newly embroidered with all the
colours of the rainbow, but utterly spoilt by the soaking rain; and
was just saying what a pity it was, when the young lady cried out, “I
should never have asked you to do such menial work except to show my
love for you.” All this time the rain was falling fast outside, and
Wên-chi now repeated the following line:--
“A nipping wind and chilly rain fill the river and the city.”
“There,” said she, “cap that.” The young gentleman replied that he
could not, as he did not even understand what it meant. “Oh, really,”
retorted the young lady, “if you’re not more of a scholar than that, I
shall begin to think very little of you.” She then told him he had
better practice making verses, and he promised he would do so.
By degrees Miss Wên-chi’s frequent visits attracted the notice of the
servants, as also of a brother-in-law named Sung, who was likewise a
gentleman of position; and the latter begged our hero to be allowed
to have a peep at her. He was told in reply that the young lady had
strictly forbidden that any one should see her; however, he concealed
himself in the servants’ quarters, and when she arrived he looked at
her through the window. Almost beside himself, he now opened the door;
whereupon Wên-chi jumping up, vaulted over the wall and disappeared.
Sung was really smitten with her, and went off to her mistress to try
and arrange for her purchase; but when he mentioned Wên-chi’s name, he
was informed that they had once had such a girl, who had died several
years previously. In great amazement Sung went back and told his
brother-in-law, and he now knew that his beloved Wên-chi was a
disembodied spirit. So when she came again he asked her if it was so;
to which she replied, “It is; but as you wanted a nice wife and I a
handsome husband, I thought we should be a suitable pair. What matters
it that one is a mortal and the other a spirit?” The young gentleman
thoroughly coincided in her view of the case; and when his examination
was over, and he was homeward bound, Wên-chi accompanied him,
invisible to others and visible to him alone. Arriving at his parents’
house, he installed her in the library; and the day she went to pay
the customary bride’s visit to her father and mother,[258] he told his
own mother the whole story. She and his father were greatly alarmed,
and ordered him to have no more to do with her; but he would not
listen to this, and then his parents tried by all kinds of devices to
get rid of the girl, none of which met with any success.
One day our hero had left upon the table some written instructions for
one of the servants, wherein he had made a number of mistakes in
spelling, such as _paper_ for _pepper_, _jinjer_ for _ginger_, and so
on; and when Wên-chi saw this, she wrote at the foot:--
“Paper for pepper do I see?
Jinjer for ginger can it be?
Of such a husband I’m afraid;
I’d rather be a servant-maid.”
She then said to the young gentleman, “Imagining you to be a man of
culture, I hid my blushes and sought you out the first.[259] Alas,
your qualifications are on the outside; should I not thus be a
laughing-stock to all?” She then disappeared, at which the young
gentleman was much hurt; but not knowing to what she alluded, he gave
the instructions to his servant, and so made himself the butt of all
who heard the story.
FOOTNOTES:
[257] Of course there is no such thing as spelling, in our sense of
the term, in Chinese. But characters are frequently written with too
many or too few strokes, and may thus be said to be incorrectly spelt.
[258] A ceremonial visit made on the third day after marriage.
[259] Contrary to all Chinese notions of modesty and etiquette.
XLV.
THE TIGER GUEST.