the guitar; and the nuts of the instrument she used were of warm
jade,[281] so that when played upon there was a general feeling of
warmth throughout the room. The young lady was extremely careful of
this treasure, and never produced it for any one to see unless on
receipt of the Prince’s written order. One night, in the middle of a
banquet, a guest begged to be allowed to see this wonderful guitar;
but the Prince, being in a lazy mood, said it should be exhibited to
him on the following day. Pao-chu, who was standing by, then observed
that he could get it without troubling the Prince to write an order.
Some one was therefore sent off beforehand to instruct all the
officials to be on the watch, and then the Prince told Pao-chu he
might go; and after scaling numerous walls the latter found himself
near the lady’s room. Lamps were burning brightly within; the doors
were bolted and barred, and it was impossible to effect an entrance.
Under the verandah, however, was a cockatoo fast asleep on its perch;
and Pao-chu first mewing several times like a cat, followed it up by
imitating the voice of the bird, and cried out as though in distress,
“The cat! the cat!” He then heard the concubine call to one of the
slave girls, and bid her go rescue the cockatoo which was being
killed; and, hiding himself in a dark corner, he saw a girl come forth
with a light in her hand. She had barely got outside the door when he
rushed in, and there he saw the lady sitting with the guitar on a
table before her. Seizing the instrument he turned and fled; upon
which the concubine shrieked out, “Thieves! thieves!” And the guard,
seeing a man making off with the guitar, at once started in pursuit.
Arrows fell round Pao-chu like drops of rain, but he climbed up one of
a number of huge ash trees growing there, and from its top leaped on
to the top of the next, and so on, until he had reached the
furthermost tree, when he jumped on to the roof of a house, and from
that to another, more as if he were flying than anything else. In a
few minutes he had disappeared, and before long presented himself
suddenly at the banquet-table with the guitar in his hand, the
entrance-gate having been securely barred all the time, and not a dog
or a cock aroused.
FOOTNOTES:
[280] A.D. 1675. His full name was Wu San-kuei.
[281] Such is the literal translation of a term which I presume to be
the name of some particular kind of jade, which is ordinarily
distinguished from the imitation article by its comparative
_coldness_.
L.
A FLOOD.
In the twenty-first year of K‘ang Hsi[282] there was a severe drought,
not a green blade appearing in the parched ground all through the
spring and well into the summer. On the 13th of the 6th moon a little
rain fell, and people began to plant their rice. On the 18th there was
a heavy fall, and beans were sown.
Now at a certain village there was an old man, who, noticing two
bullocks fighting on the hills, told the villagers that a great flood
was at hand, and forthwith removed with his family to another part of
the country. The villagers all laughed at him; but before very long
rain began to fall in torrents, lasting all through the night, until
the water was several feet deep, and carrying away the houses. Among
the others was a man who, neglecting to save his two children, with
his wife assisted his aged mother to reach a place of safety, from
which they looked down at their old home, now only an expanse of
water, without hope of ever seeing the children again. When the flood
had subsided, they went back, to find the whole place a complete ruin;
but in their own house they discovered the two boys playing and
laughing on the bed as if nothing had happened. Some one remarked that
this was a reward for the filial piety of the parents. It happened on
the 20th of the 6th moon.[283]
FOOTNOTES:
[282] A.D. 1682; that is, three years after the date of our author’s
preface. See _Introduction_.
[283] A curious note here follows in the original, not however from
the pen of the great commentator, I Shih-shih:--“In 1696 a severe
earthquake occurred at P‘ing-yang, and out of seventeen or eighteen
cities destroyed, only one room remained uninjured--a room inhabited
by a certain filial son. And thus, when in the crash of a collapsing
universe, filial piety is specially marked out for protection, who
shall say that God Almighty does not know black from white?”
LI.
DEATH BY LAUGHING.
A Mr. Sun Ching-hsia, a marshal of undergraduates,[284] told me that
in his village there was a certain man who had been killed by the
rebels when they passed through the place. The man’s head was left
hanging down on his chest; and as soon as the rebels had gone, his
servants secured the body and were about to bury it. Hearing, however,
a sound of breathing, they looked more closely, and found that the
windpipe was not wholly severed; and, setting his head in its proper
place, they carried him back home. In twenty-four hours he began to
moan; and by dint of carefully feeding him with a spoon, within six
months he had quite recovered.
Some ten years afterwards he was chatting with a few friends, when one
of them made a joke which called forth loud applause from the others.
Our hero, too, clapped his hands; but, as he was bending backwards and
forwards with laughter, the seam on his neck split open, and down fell
his head with a gush of blood. His friends now found that he was
quite dead, and his father immediately commenced an action against the
joker;[285] but a sum of money was subscribed by those present and
given to the father, who buried his son and stopped further
proceedings.
FOOTNOTES:
[284] Or “Director of Studies.”
[285] The Chinese distinguish five degrees of homicide, of which
accidental homicide is one (see _Penal Code_, Book VI.) Thus, if a gun
goes off of itself in a man’s hand and kills a bystander, the holder
of the gun is guilty of homicide; but were the same gun lying on a
table, it would be regarded as the will of Heaven. Similarly, a man is
held responsible for any death caused by an animal belonging to him;
though in such cases the affair can usually be hushed up by a money
payment, no notice being taken of crimes in general unless at the
instigation of a prosecutor, at whose will the case may be
subsequently withdrawn. Where the circumstances are purely accidental,
the law admits of a money compensation.
LII.
PLAYING AT HANGING.
A number of wild young fellows were one day out walking when they saw
a young lady approach, riding on a pony.[286] One of them said to the
others, “I’ll back myself to make that girl laugh,” and a supper was
at once staked by both sides on the result. Our hero then ran out in
front of the pony, and kept on shouting “I’m going to die! I’m going
to die!” at the same time pulling out from over the top of a wall a
stalk of millet, to which he attached his own waistband, and tying the
latter round his neck, made a pretence of hanging himself. The young
lady did laugh as she passed by, to the great amusement of the
assembled company; but as when she was already some distance off their
friend did not move, the others laughed louder than ever. However, on
going up to him they saw that his tongue protruded, and that his eyes
were glazed; he was, in fact, quite dead. Was it not strange that a
man should be able to hang himself on a millet stalk?[287] It is a
good warning against practical joking.
FOOTNOTES:
[286] Women in China ride _à califourchon_.
[287] Which, although tolerably stout and strong, is hardly capable of
sustaining a man’s weight.
LIII.
THE RAT WIFE.
Hsi Shan was a native of Kao-mi, and a trader by occupation. He
frequently slept at a place called Mêng-i. One day he was delayed on
the road by rain, and when he arrived at his usual quarters it was
already late in the night. He knocked at all the doors, but no one
answered; and he was walking backwards and forwards in the piazza when
suddenly a door flew open and an old man came out. He invited the
traveller to enter, an invitation to which Hsi Shan gladly responded;
and, tying up his mule, he went in. The place was totally unfurnished;
and the old man began by saying that it was only out of compassion
that he had asked him in, as his house was not an inn. “There are only
three or four of us,” added he; “and my wife and daughter are fast
asleep. We have some of yesterday’s food, which I will get ready for
you; you must not object to its being cold.” He then went within, and
shortly afterwards returned with a low couch, which he placed on the
ground, begging his guest to be seated, at the same time hurrying back
for a low table, and soon for a number of other things, until at last
Hsi Shan was quite uncomfortable, and entreated his host to rest
himself awhile. By-and-by a young lady came out, bringing some wine;
upon which the old man said, “Oh, our A-ch‘ien has got up.” She was
about sixteen or seventeen, a slender and pretty-looking girl; and as
Hsi Shan had an unmarried brother, he began to think directly that she
would do for him. So he inquired of the old man his name and address,
to which the latter replied that his name was Ku, and that his
children had all died save this one daughter. “I didn’t like to wake
her just now, but I suppose my wife told her to get up.” Hsi Shan then
asked the name of his son-in-law, and was informed that the young lady
was not yet engaged,--at which he was secretly very much pleased. A
tray of food was now brought in, evidently the remains from the day
before; and when he had finished eating, Hsi Shan began respectfully
to address the old man as follows:--“I am only a poor wayfarer, but I
shall never forget the kindness with which you have treated me. Let me
presume upon it, and submit to your consideration a plan I have in my
head. My younger brother, San-lang, is seventeen years old. He is a
student, and by no means unsteady or dull. May I hope that you will
unite our families together, and not think it presumption on my part?”
“I, too, am but a temporary sojourner,” replied the old man,
rejoicing; “and if you will only let me have a part of your house, I
shall be very glad to come and live with you.” Hsi Shan consented to
this, and got up and thanked him for the promise of his daughter; upon
which the old man set to work to make him comfortable for the night,
and then went away. At cock-crow he was outside, calling his guest to
come and have a wash; and when Hsi Shan had packed up ready to go, he
offered to pay for his night’s entertainment. This, however, the old
man refused, saying, “I could hardly charge a stranger anything for a
single meal; how much less could I take money from my intended
son-in-law?” They then separated, and in about a month Hsi Shan
returned; but when he was a short distance from the village he met an
old woman with a young lady, both dressed in deep mourning. As they
approached he began to suspect it was A-ch‘ien; and the young lady,
after turning round to look at him, pulled the old woman’s sleeve, and
whispered something in her ear, which Hsi Shan himself did not hear.
The old woman stopped immediately, and asked if she was addressing Mr.
Hsi; and when informed that she was, she said mournfully, “Alas! my
husband has been killed by the falling of a wall. We are going to bury
him to-day. There is no one at home; but please wait here, and we will
be back by-and-by.” They then disappeared among the trees; and,
returning after a short absence, they walked along together in the
dusk of the evening. The old woman complained bitterly of their lonely
and helpless state, and Hsi Shan himself was moved to compassion by
the sight of her tears. She told him that the people of the
neighbourhood were a bad lot, and that if he thought of marrying the
poor widow’s daughter, he had better lose no time in doing so. Hsi
Shan said he was willing; and when they reached the house the old
woman, after lighting the lamp and setting food before him, proceeded
to speak as follows:--“Knowing, Sir, that you would shortly arrive, we
sold all our grain except about twenty piculs. We cannot take this
with us so far; but a mile or so to the north of the village, at the
first house you come to, there lives a man named T‘an Erh-ch‘üan, who
often buys grain from me. Don’t think it too much trouble to oblige me
by taking a sack with you on your mule and proceeding thither at once.
Tell Mr. T‘an that the old lady of the southern village has several
piculs of grain which she wishes to sell in order to get money for a
journey, and beg him to send some animals to carry it.” The old woman
then gave him a sack of grain; and Hsi Shan, whipping up his mule, was
soon at the place; and, knocking at the door, a great fat fellow came
out, to whom he told his errand. Emptying the sack he had brought, he
went back himself first; and before long a couple of men arrived
leading five mules. The old woman took them into the granary, which
was a cellar below ground, and Hsi Shan, going down himself, handed up
the bags to the mother and daughter, who passed them on from one to
the other. In a little while the men had got a load, with which they
went off, returning altogether four times before all the grain was
exhausted. They then paid the old woman, who kept one man and two
mules, and, packing up her things, set off towards the east. After
travelling some seven miles day began to break; and by-and-by they
reached a market town, where the old woman hired animals and sent back
T‘an’s servant. When they arrived at Hsi Shan’s home he related the
whole story to his parents, who were very pleased at what had
happened, and provided separate apartments for the old lady, at the
same time engaging a fortune-teller to fix on a lucky day for
A-ch‘ien’s marriage with their son San-lang. The old woman prepared a
handsome trousseau; and as for A-ch‘ien herself, she spoke but little,
seldom losing her temper, and if any one addressed her she would only
reply with a smile. She employed all her time in spinning, and thus
became a general favourite with all alike. “Tell your brother,” said
she to San-lang, “that when he happens to pass our old residence he
will do well not to make any mention of my mother and myself.”
In three or four years’ time the Hsi family had made plenty of money,
and San-lang had taken his bachelor’s degree, when one day Hsi Shan
happened to pass a night with the people who lived next door to the
house where he had met A-ch‘ien. After telling them the story of his
having had nowhere to sleep, and taking refuge with the old man and
woman, his host said to him, “You must make a mistake, Sir; the house
you allude to belongs to my uncle, but was abandoned three years ago
in consequence of its being haunted. It has now been uninhabited for a
long time. What old man and woman can have entertained you there?” Hsi
Shan was very much astonished at this, but did not put much faith in
what he heard; meanwhile his host continued, “For ten years no one
dared enter the house; however, one day the back wall fell down, and
my uncle, going to look at it, found, half-buried underneath the
ruins, a large rat, almost as big as a cat. It was still moving, and
my uncle went off to call for assistance, but when he got back the rat
had disappeared. Everyone suspected some supernatural agency to be at
work, though on returning to the spot ten days afterwards nothing was
to be either heard or seen; and about a year subsequently the place
was inhabited once more.” Hsi Shan was more than ever amazed at what
he now heard, and on reaching home told the family what had occurred;
for he feared that his brother’s wife was not a human being, and
became rather anxious about him. San-lang himself continued to be much
attached to A-ch‘ien; but by-and-by the other members of the family
let A-ch‘ien perceive that they had suspicions about her. So one night
she complained to San-lang, saying, “I have been a good wife to you
for some years: now I have become an object of contempt. I pray you
give me my divorce,[288] and seek for yourself some worthier mate.”
She then burst into a flood of tears; whereupon San-lang said, “You
should know my feelings by this time. Ever since you entered the
house the family has prospered; and that prosperity is entirely due to
you. Who can say it is not so?” “I know full well,” replied A-ch‘ien,
“what you feel; still there are the others, and I do not wish to share
the fate of an autumn fan.”[289] At length San-lang succeeded in
pacifying her; but Hsi Shan could not dismiss the subject from his
thoughts, and gave out that he was going to get a first-rate mouser,
with a view to testing A-ch‘ien. She did not seem very frightened at
this, though evidently ill at ease; and one night she told San-lang
that her mother was not very well, and that he needn’t come to bid her
good night as usual. In the morning mother and daughter had
disappeared; at which San-lang was greatly alarmed, and sent out to
look for them in every direction. No traces of the fugitives could be
discovered, and San-lang was overwhelmed with grief, unable either to
eat or to sleep. His father and brother thought it was a lucky thing
for him, and advised him to console himself with another wife. This,
however, he refused to do; until, about a year afterwards, nothing
more having been heard of A-ch‘ien, he could not resist their
importunities any longer, and bought himself a concubine. But he never
ceased to think of A-ch‘ien; and some years later, when the prosperity
of the family was on the wane, they all began to regret her loss.
Now San-lang had a step-brother, named Lan, who, when travelling to
Chiao-chou on business, passed a night at the house of a relative
named Lu. He noticed that during the night sounds of weeping and
lamentation proceeded from their next-door neighbours, but he did not
inquire the reason of it; however, on his way back he heard the same
sounds, and then asked what was the cause of such demonstrations. Mr.
Lu told him that a few years ago an old widow and her daughter had
come there to live, and that the mother had died about a month
previously, leaving her child quite alone in the world. Lan inquired
what her name was, and Mr. Lu said it was Ku; “But,” added he, “the
door is closely barred, and as they never had any communication with
the village, I know nothing of their antecedents.” “It’s my
sister-in-law,” cried Lan, in amazement, and at once proceeded to
knock at the door of the house. Some one came to the front door, and
said, in a voice that betokened recent weeping, “Who’s there? There
are no men in this house.”[290] Lan looked through a crack, and saw
that the young lady really was his sister-in-law; so he called out,
“Sister, open the door. I am your step-brother A-sui.” A-ch‘ien
immediately opened the door and asked him in, and recounted to him the
whole story of her troubles. “Your husband,” said Lan, “is always
thinking of you. For a trifling difference you need hardly have run
away so far from him.” He then proposed to hire a vehicle and take her
home; but A-ch‘ien replied, “I came hither with my mother to hide
because I was held in contempt, and should make myself ridiculous by
now returning thus. If I am to go back, my elder brother Hsi Shan must
no longer live with us; otherwise, I will assuredly poison myself.”
Lan then went home and told San-lang, who set off and travelled all
night until he reached the place where A-ch‘ien was. Husband and wife
were overjoyed to meet again, and the following day San-lang notified
the landlord of the house where A-ch‘ien had been living. Now this
landlord had long desired to secure A-ch‘ien as a concubine for
himself; and, after making no claim for rent for several years, he
began to hint as much to her mother. The old lady, however, refused
flatly; but shortly afterwards she died, and then the landlord thought
that he might be able to succeed. At this juncture San-lang arrived,
and the landlord sought to hamper him by putting in his claim for
rent; and, as San-lang was anything but well off at the moment, it
really did annoy him very much. A-ch‘ien here came to the rescue,
showing San-lang a large quantity of grain she had in the house, and
bidding him use it to settle accounts with the landlord. The latter
declared he could not accept grain, but must be paid in silver;
whereupon A-ch‘ien sighed and said it was all her unfortunate self
that had brought this upon them, at the same time telling San-lang of
the landlord’s former proposition. San-lang was very angry, and was
about to take out a summons against him, when Mr. Lu interposed, and,
by selling the grain in the neighbourhood, managed to collect
sufficient money to pay off the rent. San-lang and his wife then
returned home; and the former, having explained the circumstances to
his parents, separated his household from that of his brother.
A-ch‘ien now proceeded to build, with her own money, a granary, which
was a matter of some astonishment to the family, there not being a
hundredweight of grain in the place. But in about a year the granary
was full,[291] and before very long San-lang was a rich man, Hsi Shan
remaining as poor as before. Accordingly, A-ch‘ien persuaded her
husband’s parents to come and live with them, and made frequent
presents of money to the elder brother; so that her husband said,
“Well, at any rate, you bear no malice.” “Your brother’s behaviour,”
replied she, “was from his regard for you. Had it not been for him,
you and I would never have met.” After this there were no more
supernatural manifestations.
FOOTNOTES:
[288] The Chinese acknowledge seven just causes for putting away a
wife. (1) Bad behaviour towards the husband’s father and mother. (2)
Adultery. (3) Jealousy. (4) Garrulity. (5) Theft. (6) Disease. (7)
Barrenness. The right of divorce may not, however, be enforced if the
husband’s father and mother have died since the marriage, as thus it
would be inferred that the wife had served them well up to the time of
their death; or if the husband has recently risen to wealth and power
(hence the saying, “The wife of my poverty shall not go down from my
hall”); or thirdly, if the wife’s parents and brothers are dead, and
she has no home in which she can seek shelter.
[289] This elegant simile is taken from a song ascribed to Pan
Chieh-yü, a favourite of the Emperor Ch‘êng Ti of the Han dynasty,
written when her influence with the Son of Heaven began to wane. I
venture to reproduce it here.
“O fair white silk, fresh from the weaver’s loom;
Clear as the frost, bright as the winter’s snow!
See! friendship fashions out of thee a fan,
Round as the round moon shines in heaven above.
At home, abroad, a close companion thou,
Stirring at every move the grateful gale.
And yet I fear, ah, me! that autumn chills,
Cooling the dying summer’s torrid rage,
Will see thee laid neglected on the shelf,
All thought of by-gone days, like them, by-gone.”
[290] Signifying that it would be impossible for him to enter.
[291] The result of A-ch‘ien’s depredations as a rat.
LIV.
THE MAN WHO WAS THROWN DOWN A WELL.
Mr. Tai, of An-ch‘ing, was a wild fellow when young. One day as he was
returning home tipsy,[292] he met by the way a dead cousin of his
named Chi; and having, in his drunken state, quite forgotten that his
cousin was dead, he asked him where he was going. “I am already a
disembodied spirit,” replied Chi; “don’t you remember?” Tai was a
little disturbed at this; but, being under the influence of liquor,
he was not frightened, and inquired of his cousin what he was doing in
the realms below. “I am employed as scribe,” said Chi, “in the court
of the Great King.” “Then you must know all about our happiness and
misfortunes to come,” cried Tai. “It is my business,” answered his
cousin, “so of course I know. But I see such an enormous mass that,
unless of special reference to myself or family, I take no notice of
any of it. Three days ago, by the way, I saw your name in the
register.” Tai immediately asked what there was about himself, and his
cousin replied, “I will not deceive you; your name was put down for a
dark and dismal hell.” Tai was dreadfully alarmed, and at the same
time sobered, and entreated his cousin to assist him in some way. “You
may try,” said Chi, “what merit will do for you as a means of
mitigating your punishment; but the register of your sins is as thick
as my finger, and nothing short of the most deserving acts will be of
any avail. What can a poor fellow like myself do for you? Were you to
perform one good act every day, you would not complete the necessary
total under a year and more, and it is now too late for that. But
henceforth amend your ways, and there may still be a chance of escape
for you.” When Tai heard these words he prostrated himself on the
ground, imploring his cousin to help him; but, on raising his head,
Chi had disappeared; he therefore returned sorrowfully home, and set
to work to cleanse his heart and order his behaviour.