much attention to his wife; and one day meeting Tai in the fields
shortly after the events narrated above, he inveigled him into
inspecting a dry well, and then pushed him down. The well was many
feet deep, and the man felt certain that Tai was killed; however, in
the middle of the night he came round, and sitting up at the bottom,
he began to shout for assistance, but could not make any one hear him.
On the following day, the neighbour, fearing that Tai might possibly
have recovered consciousness, went to listen at the mouth of the well;
and hearing him cry out for help, began to throw down a quantity of
stones. Tai took refuge in a cave at the side, and did not dare utter
another sound; but his enemy knew he was not dead, and forthwith
filled the well almost up to the top with earth. In the cave it was as
dark as pitch, exactly like the Infernal Regions; and not being able
to get anything to eat or drink, Tai gave up all hopes of life. He
crawled on his hands and knees further into the cave, but was
prevented by water from going further than a few paces, and returned
to take up his position at the old spot. At first he felt hungry;
by-and-by, however, this sensation passed away; and then reflecting
that there, at the bottom of a well, he could hardly perform any good
action, he passed his time in calling loudly on the name of
Buddha.[293] Before long he saw a number of Will-o’-the-Wisps
flitting over the water and illuminating the gloom of the cave; and
immediately prayed to them, saying, “O Will-o’-the-Wisps, I have heard
that ye are the shades of wronged and injured people. I have not long
to live, and am without hope of escape; still I would gladly relieve
the monotony of my situation by exchanging a few words with you.”
Thereupon, all the Wills came flitting across the water to him; and
among them was a man of about half the ordinary size. Tai asked him
whence he came; to which he replied, “This is an old coal-mine. The
proprietor, in working the coal, disturbed the position of some
graves;[294] and Mr. Lung-fei flooded the mine and drowned forty-three
workmen. We are the shades of those men.” He further said he did not
know who Mr. Lung-fei was, except that he was secretary to the City
God, and that in compassion for the misfortunes of the innocent
workmen, he was in the habit of sending them a quantity of gruel every
three or four days. “But the cold water,” added he, “soaks into our
bones, and there is but small chance of ever getting them removed. If,
Sir, you some day return to the world above, I pray you fish up our
decaying bones and bury them in some public burying-ground. You will
thus earn for yourself boundless gratitude in the realms below.” Tai
promised that if he had the luck to escape he would do as they wished;
“but how,” cried he, “situated as I am, can I ever hope to look again
upon the light of day?” He then began to teach the Wills to say their
prayers, making for them beads[295] out of bits of mud, and repeating
to them the liturgies of Buddha. He could not tell night from morning;
he slept when he felt tired, and when he waked he sat up. Suddenly, he
perceived in the distance the light of lamps, at which the shades all
rejoiced, and said, “It is Mr. Lung-fei with our food.” They then
invited Tai to go with them; and when he said he couldn’t because of
the water, they bore him along over it so that he hardly seemed to
walk. After twisting and turning about for nearly a quarter of a mile,
he reached a place at which the Wills bade him walk by himself; and
then he appeared to mount a flight of steps, at the top of which he
found himself in an apartment lighted by a candle as thick round as
one’s arm. Not having seen the light of fire for some time, he was
overjoyed and walked in; but observing an old man in a scholar’s dress
and cap seated in the post of honour, he stopped, not liking to
advance further. But the old man had already caught sight of him, and
asked him how he, a living man, had come there. Tai threw himself on
the ground at his feet, and told him all; whereupon the old man cried
out, “My great-grandson!” He then bade him get up; and offering him a
seat, explained that his own name was Tai Ch‘ien, and that he was
otherwise known as Lung-fei. He said, moreover, that in days gone by a
worthless grandson of his named T‘ang, had associated himself with a
lot of scoundrels and sunk a well near his grave, disturbing the peace
of his everlasting night; and that therefore he had flooded the place
with salt water and drowned them. He then inquired as to the general
condition of the family at that time.
Now Tai was a descendant of one of five brothers, from the eldest of
whom T‘ang himself was also descended; and an influential man of the
place had bribed T‘ang to open a mine[296] alongside the family grave.
His brothers were afraid to interfere; and by-and-by the water rose
and drowned all the workmen; whereupon actions for damages were
commenced by the relatives of the deceased,[297] and T‘ang and his
friend were reduced to poverty, and T‘ang’s descendants to absolute
destitution. Tai was a son of one of T‘ang’s brothers, and having
heard this story from his seniors, now repeated it to the old man.
“How could they be otherwise than unfortunate,” cried the latter,
“with such an unfilial progenitor? But since you have come hither, you
must on no account neglect your studies.” The old man then provided
him with food and wine, and spreading a volume of essays according to
the old style before him, bade him study it most carefully. He also
gave him themes for composition, and corrected his essays as if he had
been his tutor. The candle remained always burning in the room, never
needing to be snuffed and never decreasing. When he was tired he went
to sleep, but he never knew day from night. The old man occasionally
went out, leaving a boy to attend to his great-grandson’s wants. It
seemed that several years passed away thus, but Tai had no troubles of
any kind to annoy him. He had no other book except the volume of
essays, one hundred in all, which he read through more than four
thousand times. One day the old man said to him, “Your term of
expiation is nearly completed, and you will be able to return to the
world above. My grave is near the coal-mine, and the grosser breeze
plays upon my bones. Remember to remove them to Tung-yüan.” Tai
promised he would see to this; and then the old man summoned all the
shades together and instructed them to escort Tai back to the place
where they had found him. The shades now bowed one after the other,
and begged Tai to think of them as well, while Tai himself was quite
at a loss to guess how he was going to get out.
Meanwhile, Tai’s family had searched for him everywhere, and his
mother had brought his case to the notice of the officials, thereby
implicating a large number of persons, but without getting any trace
of the missing man. Three or four years passed away and there was a
change of magistrate; in consequence of which the search was relaxed,
and Tai’s wife, not being happy where she was, married another
husband. Just then an inhabitant of the place set about repairing the
old well and found Tai’s body in the cave at the bottom. Touching it,
he found it was not dead, and at once gave information to the family.
Tai was promptly conveyed home, and within a day he could tell his own
story.
Since he had been down the well, the neighbour who pushed him in had
beaten his own wife to death; and his father-in-law having brought an
action against him, he had been in confinement for more than a year
while the case was being investigated.[298] When released he was a
mere bag of bones;[299] and then hearing that Tai had come back to
life, he was terribly alarmed and fled away. The family tried to
persuade Tai to take proceedings against him, but this he would not
do, alleging that what had befallen him was a proper punishment for
his own bad behaviour, and had nothing to do with the neighbour. Upon
this, the said neighbour ventured to return; and when the water in the
well had dried up, Tai hired men to go down and collect the bones,
which he put in coffins and buried all together in one place. He next
hunted up Mr. Lung-fei’s name in the family tables of genealogy, and
proceeded to sacrifice all kinds of nice things at his tomb. By-and-by
the Literary Chancellor[300] heard this strange story, and was also
very pleased with Tai’s compositions; accordingly, Tai passed
successfully through his examinations, and, having taken his master’s
degree, returned home and reburied Mr. Lung-fei at Tung-yüan,
repairing thither regularly every spring without fail.[301]
FOOTNOTES:
[292] I have already discussed the subject of drunkenness in China
(_Chinese Sketches_, pp. 113, 114), and shall not return to it here,
further than to quote a single sentence, to which I adhere as firmly
now as when the book in question was published:--“Who ever sees in
China a tipsy man reeling about a crowded thoroughfare, or lying with
his head in a ditch by the side of some country road?”
It is not, however, generally known that the Chinese, with their usual
quaintness, distinguish between five kinds of drunkenness, different
people being differently affected, according to the physical
constitution of each. Wine may fly (1) to the heart, and produce
maudlin emotions; or (2) to the liver, and incite to pugnacity; or (3)
to the stomach, and cause drowsiness, accompanied by a flushing of the
face; or (4) to the lungs, and induce hilarity; or (5) to the kidneys,
and excite desire.
[293] “The very name of Buddha, if pronounced with a devout heart
1,000 or 5,000 times, will effectually dispel all harassing thoughts,
all fightings within and fears without.”--_Eitel._
[294] A religious and social offence of the deepest dye, sure to
entail punishment in the world to come, even if the perpetrator
escapes detection in this life.
[295] The Buddhist rosary consists of 108 beads, which number is the
same as that of the compartments in the _Phrabat_ or sacred footprint
of Buddha.
[296] It here occurred to me that the word hitherto translated “well”
should have been “shaft;” but the commentator refers expressly to the
_Tso Chuan_, where the phrase for “a dry well,” as first used, is so
explained. We must accordingly fall back on the supposition that our
author has committed a trifling slip.
[297] See No. LI., note 285.
[298] That is, as to whether or not there were extenuating
circumstances, in which case no punishment would be inflicted.
[299] Such is the invariable result of confinement in a Chinese
prison, unless the prisoner has the wherewithal to purchase food.
[300] The provincial examiner for the degree of bachelor.
[301] To worship at his tomb.
LV.
THE VIRTUOUS DAUGHTER-IN-LAW.
An Ta-ch‘êng was a Chung-ch‘ing man. His father, who had gained the
master’s degree, died early; and his brother Erh-ch‘êng was a mere
boy. He himself had married a wife from the Ch‘ên family, whose name
was Shan-hu; and this young lady had much to put up with from the
violent and malicious disposition of her husband’s mother.[302]
However, she never complained; and every morning dressed herself up
smart, and went in to pay her respects to the old lady. Once when
Ta-ch‘êng was ill, his mother abused Shan-hu for dressing so nicely;
whereupon Shan-hu went back and changed her clothes; but even then
Mrs. An was not satisfied, and began to tear her own hair with rage.
Ta-ch‘êng, who was a very filial son, at once gave his wife a beating,
and this put an end to the scene. From that moment his mother hated
her more than ever, and although she was everything that a
daughter-in-law could be, would never exchange a word with her.
Ta-ch‘êng then treated her in much the same way, that his mother might
see he would have nothing to do with her; still the old lady wasn’t
pleased, and was always blaming Shan-hu for every trifle that
occurred. “A wife,” cried Ta-ch‘êng “is taken to wait upon her
mother-in-law. This state of things hardly looks like the wife doing
her duty.” So he bade Shan-hu begone,[303] and sent an old
maid-servant to see her home: but when Shan-hu got outside the
village-gate, she burst into tears, and said, “How can a girl who has
failed in her duties as a wife ever dare to look her parents in the
face? I had better die.” Thereupon she drew a pair of scissors and
stabbed herself in the throat, covering herself immediately with
blood. The servant prevented any further mischief, and supported her
to the house of her husband’s aunt, who was a widow living by herself,
and who made Shan-hu stay with her. The servant went back and told
Ta-ch‘êng, and he bade her say nothing to any one, for fear his mother
should hear of it. In a few days Shan-hu’s wound was healed, and
Ta-ch‘êng went off to ask his aunt to send her away. His aunt invited
him in, but he declined, demanding loudly that Shan-hu should be
turned out; and in a few moments Shan-hu herself came forth, and
inquired what she had done. Ta-ch‘êng said she had failed in her duty
towards his mother; whereupon Shan-hu hung her head and made no
answer, while tears of blood[304] trickled from her eyes and stained
her dress all over. Ta-ch‘êng was much touched by this spectacle, and
went away without saying any more; but before long his mother heard
all about it, and, hurrying off to the aunt’s, began abusing her
roundly. This the aunt would not stand, and said it was all the fault
of her own bad temper, adding, “The girl has already left you, and has
nothing more to do with the family. Miss Ch‘ên is staying with me, not
your daughter-in-law; so you had better mind your own business.” This
made Mrs. An furious; but she was at a loss for an answer, and, seeing
that the aunt was firm, she went off home abashed and in tears.
Shan-hu herself was very much upset, and determined to seek shelter
elsewhere, finally taking up her abode with Mrs. An’s elder sister, a
lady of sixty odd years of age, whose son had died, leaving his wife
and child to his mother’s care. This Mrs. Yü was extremely fond of
Shan-hu; and when she heard the facts of the case, said it was all her
sister’s horrid disposition, and proposed to send Shan-hu back. The
latter, however, would not hear of this, and they continued to live
together like mother and daughter; neither would Shan-hu accept the
invitation of her two brothers to return home and marry some one else,
but remained there with Mrs. Yü, earning enough to live upon by
spinning and such work.
Ever since Shan-hu had been sent away, Ta-ch‘êng’s mother had been
endeavouring to get him another wife; but the fame of her temper had
spread far and wide, and no one would entertain her proposals. In
three or four years Erh-ch‘êng had grown up, and he was married first
to a young lady named Tsang-ku, whose temper turned out to be
something fearful, and far more ungovernable even than her
mother-in-law’s. When the latter only looked angry, Tsang-ku was
already at the shrieking stage; and Erh-ch‘êng, being of a very meek
disposition, dared not side with either. Thus it came about that Mrs.
An began to be in mortal fear of Tsang-ku; and whenever her
daughter-in-law was in a rage she would try and turn off her anger
with a smile. She seemed never to be able to please Tsang-ku, who in
her turn worked her mother-in-law like a slave, Ta-ch‘êng himself not
venturing to interfere, but only assisting his mother in washing the
dishes and sweeping the floor. Mother and son would often go to some
secluded spot, and there in secret tell their griefs to one another;
but before long Mrs. An was stretched upon a sick bed with nobody to
attend to her except Ta-ch‘êng. He watched her day and night without
sleeping, until both eyes were red and inflamed; and then when he went
to summon the younger son to take his place, Tsang-ku told him to
leave the house. Ta-ch‘êng now went off to inform Mrs. Yü, hoping that
she would come and assist; and he had hardly finished his tale of woe
before Shan-hu walked in. In great confusion at seeing her, he would
have left immediately had not Shan-hu held out her arms across the door;
whereupon he bolted underneath them and escaped. He did not dare tell
his mother, and shortly afterwards Mrs. Yü arrived, to the great joy
of Ta-ch‘êng’s mother, who made her stay in the house. Every day
something nice was sent for Mrs. Yü, and even when she told the
servants that there was no occasion for it, she having all she wanted
at her sister’s, the things still came as usual. However, she kept
none of them for herself, but gave what came to the invalid, who
gradually began to improve. Mrs. Yü’s grandson also used to come by
his mother’s orders, and inquire after the sick lady’s health, besides
bringing a packet of cakes and so on for her. “Ah, me!” cried Mrs. An,
“what a good daughter-in-law you have got, to be sure. What have you
done to her?” “What sort of a person was the one you sent away?” asked
her sister in reply. “She wasn’t as bad as some one I know of,” said
Mrs. An, “though not so good as yours.” “When she was here you had but
little to do,” replied Mrs. Yü; “and when you were angry she took no
notice of it. How was she not as good?” Mrs. An then burst into tears,
and saying how sorry she was, asked if Shan-hu had married again; to
which Mrs. Yü replied that she did not know, but would make inquiries.
In a few more days the patient was quite well, and Mrs. Yü proposed to
return; her sister, however, begged her to stay, and declared she
should die if she didn’t. Mrs. Yü then advised that Erh-ch‘êng and his
wife should live in a separate house, and Erh-ch‘êng spoke about it
to his wife; but she would not agree, and abused both Ta-ch‘êng and
his mother alike. It ended by Ta-ch‘êng giving up a large share of the
property, and ultimately Tsang-ku consented, and a deed of separation
was drawn up. Mrs. Yü then went away, returning next day with a
sedan-chair to carry her sister back; and no sooner had the latter put
her foot inside Mrs. Yü’s door, than she asked to see the
daughter-in-law, whom she immediately began to praise very highly.
“Ah,” said Mrs. Yü, “she’s a good girl, with her little faults like
the rest of us; but your daughter-in-law is just as good, though you
are not aware of it.” “Alas!” replied her sister, “I must have been as
senseless as a statue not to have seen what she was.” “I wonder what
Shan-hu, whom you turned out of doors, says of you,” rejoined Mrs. Yü.
“Why, swears at me, of course,” answered Mrs. An. “If you examine
yourself honestly and find nothing which should make people swear at
you, is it at all likely you would be sworn at?” asked Mrs. Yü. “Well,
all people are fallible,” replied the other, “and as I know she is not
perfect, I conclude she would naturally swear at me.” “If a person has
just cause for resentment, and yet does not indulge that resentment,
such behaviour should meet with a grateful acknowledgment; or if any
one has just cause for leaving another and yet does not do so, such
behaviour should entitle them to kind treatment. Now, all the things
that were sent when you were ill, and all the various little
attentions, did not come from my daughter-in-law but from yours.”
Mrs. An was amazed at hearing this, and asked for some explanation;
whereupon Mrs. Yü continued, “Shan-hu has been living here for a long
time. Everything she sent to you was bought with money earned by her
spinning, and that, too, continued late into the night.” Mrs. An here
burst into tears, and begged to be allowed to see Shan-hu, who came in
at Mrs. Yü’s summons, and threw herself on the ground at her
mother-in-law’s feet. Mrs. An was much abashed, and beat her head with
shame; but Mrs. Yü made it all up between them, and they became mother
and daughter as at first. In about ten days they went home, and, as
their property was not enough to support them, Ta-ch‘êng had to work
with his pen while his wife did the same with her needle. Erh-ch‘êng
was quite well off, but his brother would not apply to him, neither
did he himself offer to help them. Tsang-ku, too, would have nothing
to do with her sister-in-law, because she had been divorced; and
Shan-hu in her turn, knowing what Tsang-ku’s temper was, made no great
efforts to be friendly. So the two brothers lived apart;[305] and when
Tsang-ku was in one of her outrageous moods, all the others would stop
their ears, till at length there was only her husband and the servants
upon whom to vent her spleen. One day a maid-servant of hers
committed suicide, and the father of the girl brought an action
against Tsang-ku for having caused her death. Erh-ch‘êng went off to
the mandarin’s to take her place as defendant, but only got a good
beating for his pains, as the magistrate insisted that Tsang-ku
herself should appear, and answer to the charge, in spite of all her
friends could do. The consequence was she had her fingers
squeezed[306] until the flesh was entirely taken off; and the
magistrate, being a grasping man, a very severe fine was inflicted as
well. Erh-ch‘êng had now to mortgage his property before he could
raise enough money to get Tsang-ku released; but before long the
mortgagee threatened to foreclose, and he was obliged to enter into
negotiations for the sale of it to an old gentleman of the village
named Jen. Now Mr. Jen, knowing that half the property had belonged to
Ta-ch‘êng, said the deed of sale must be signed by the elder brother
as well; however, when Ta-ch‘êng reached his house, the old man cried
out, “I am Mr. An, M.A., who is this Jen that he should buy my
property?” Then, looking at Ta-ch‘êng, he added, “The filial piety of
you and your wife has obtained for me in the realms below this
interview;” upon which Ta-ch‘êng said, “O father, since you have this
power, help my younger brother.” “The unfilial son and the vixenish
daughter-in-law,” said the old man, “deserve no pity. Go home and
quickly buy back our ancestral property.” “We have barely enough to
live upon,” replied Ta-ch‘êng; “where, then, shall we find the
necessary money?” “Beneath the crape myrtle-tree,”[307] answered his
father, “you will find a store of silver, which you may take and use
for this purpose.” Ta-ch‘êng would have questioned him further, but
the old gentleman said no more, recovering consciousness shortly
afterwards[308] without knowing a word of what had happened. Ta-ch‘êng
went back and told his brother, who did not altogether believe the
story; Tsang-ku, however, hurried off with a number of men, and had
soon dug a hole four or five feet deep, at the bottom of which they
found a quantity of bricks and stones, but no gold. She then gave up
the idea and returned home, Ta-ch‘êng having meanwhile warned his
mother and wife not to go near the place while she was digging. When
Tsang-ku left, Mrs. An went herself to have a look, and seeing only
bricks and earth mingled together, she, too, retraced her steps.
Shan-hu was the next to go, and she found the hole full of silver
bullion; and then Ta-ch‘êng repaired to the spot and saw that there
was no mistake about it. Not thinking it right to apply this heir-loom
to his own private use, he now summoned Erh-ch‘êng to share it; and
having obtained twice as much as was necessary to redeem the estate,
the brothers returned to their homes. Erh-ch‘êng and Tsang-ku opened
their half together, when lo! the bag was full of tiles and rubbish.
They at once suspected Ta-ch‘êng of deceiving them, and Erh-ch‘êng ran
off to see how things were going at his brother’s. He arrived just as
Ta-ch‘êng was spreading the silver on the table, and with his mother
and wife rejoicing over their acquisition; and when he had told them
what had occurred, Ta-ch‘êng expressed much sympathy for him, and at
once presented him with his own half of the treasure. Erh-ch‘êng was
delighted, and paid off the mortgage on the land, feeling very
grateful to his brother for such kindness. Tsang-ku, however, declared
it was a proof that Ta-ch‘êng had been cheating him; “for how,
otherwise,” argued she, “can you understand a man sharing anything
with another, and then resigning his own half?”