five daughters, all very pretty, but the youngest, called Wu-k‘o, was
singularly beautiful, far surpassing her four sisters. She was not
betrothed to any one, when one day, as she was on her way to worship
at the family tombs, she chanced to see Chi-shêng, and at her return
home spoke about him to her mother. Her mother guessed what her
meaning was, and arranged with a match-maker, named Mrs. Yü, to call
upon Chi-shêng’s parents. This she did precisely at the time when
Chi-shêng was so ill, and forthwith told his mother that her son’s
complaint was one she, Mrs. Yü, was quite competent to cure; going on
to tell her about Miss Wu-k‘o and the proposed marriage, at which the
good lady was delighted, and sent her in to talk about it to Chi-shêng
himself. “Alas!” cried he, when he had heard Mrs. Yü’s story, “you are
bringing me the wrong medicine for my complaint.” “All depends upon
the efficacy of the medicine,” replied Mrs. Yü; “if the medicine is
good, it matters not what is the name of the doctor who administers
the draught; while to set your heart on a particular person, and to
lie there and die because that person doesn’t come, is surely foolish
in the extreme.” “Ah,” rejoined Chi-shêng, “there’s no medicine under
heaven that will do me any good.” Mrs. Yü told him his experience was
limited, and proceeded to expatiate by speaking and gesticulating on
the beauty and liveliness of Wu-k‘o. But all Chi-shêng said was that
she was not what he wanted, and, turning round his face to the wall,
would listen to no more about her. So Mrs. Yü was obliged to go away,
and Chi-shêng became worse and worse every day, until suddenly one of
the maids came in and informed him that the young lady herself was at
the door. Immediately he jumped up and ran out, and lo! there before
him stood a beautiful girl, whom, however he soon discovered not to be
Kuei-hsiu. She wore a light yellow robe with a fine silk jacket and an
embroidered petticoat, from beneath which her two little feet peeped
out; and altogether she more resembled a fairy than anything else.
Chi-shêng inquired her name; to which she replied that it was Wu-k‘o,
adding that she couldn’t understand his devoted attachment to
Kuei-hsiu, as if there was nobody else in the world. Chi-shêng
apologized, saying that he had never before seen any one so beautiful
as Kuei-hsiu, but that he was now aware of his mistake. He then swore
everlasting fidelity to her, and was just grasping her hand, when he
awoke and found his mother rubbing him. It was a dream, but so
accurately defined in all its details that he began to think if Wu-k‘o
was really such as he had seen her, there would be no further need to
try for his impracticable cousin. So he communicated his dream to his
mother; and she, only too delighted to notice this change of feeling,
offered to go to Wu-k‘o’s house herself; but Chi-shêng would not hear
of this, and arranged with an old woman who knew the family to find
some pretext for going there, and to report to him what Wu-k‘o was
like. When she arrived Wu-k‘o was ill in bed, and lay with her head
propped up by pillows, looking very pretty indeed. The old woman
approached the couch and asked what was the matter; to which Wu-k‘o
made no reply, her fingers fidgetting all the time with her waistband.
“She’s been behaving badly to her father and mother,” cried the
latter, who was in the room; “there’s many a one has offered to marry
her, but she says she’ll have none but Chi-shêng: and then when I
scold her a bit, she takes on and won’t touch her food for days.”
“Madam,” said the old woman, “if you could get that young man for your
daughter they would make a truly pretty pair; and as for him, if he
could only see Miss Wu-k‘o, I’m afraid it would be too much for him.
What do you think of my going there and getting them to make
proposals?” “No, thank you,” replied Wu-k‘o; “I would rather not risk
his refusal;” upon which the old woman declared she would succeed, and
hurried off to tell Chi-shêng, who was delighted to find from her
report that Wu-k‘o was exactly as he had seen her in his dream, though
he didn’t trust implicitly in all the old woman said. By-and-by, when
he began to get a little better, he consulted with the old woman as to
how he could see Wu-k‘o with his own eyes; and, after some little
difficulty, it was arranged that Chi-shêng should hide himself in a
room from which he would be able to see her as she crossed the yard
supported by a maid, which she did every day at a certain hour. This
Chi-shêng proceeded to do, and in a little while out she came,
accompanied by the old woman as well, who instantly drew her attention
either to the clouds or the trees, in order that she should walk more
leisurely. Thus Chi-shêng had a good look at her, and saw that she was
truly the young lady of his dream. He could hardly contain himself for
joy; and when the old woman arrived and asked if she would do instead
of Kuei-hsiu, he thanked her very warmly and returned to his own home.
There he told his father and mother, who sent off a match-maker to
arrange the preliminaries; but the latter came back and told them that
Wu-k‘o was already betrothed. This was a terrible blow for Chi-shêng,
who was soon as ill as ever, and offered no reply to his father and
mother when they charged him with having made a mistake. For several
months he ate nothing but a bowl of rice-gruel a-day, and he became as
emaciated as a fowl, when all of a sudden the old woman walked in and
asked him what was the matter. “Foolish boy,” said she, when he had
told her all; “before you wouldn’t have her, and do you imagine she is
bound to have you now? But I’ll see if I can’t help you; for were she
the Emperor’s own daughter, I should still find some way of getting
her.” Chi-shêng asked what he should do, and she then told him to send
a servant with a letter next day to Wu-k‘o’s house, to which his
father at first objected for fear of another repulse; but the old
woman assured him that Wu-k‘o’s parents had since repented, besides
which no written contract had as yet been made; “and you know the
proverb,” added she, “that those who are first at the fire will get
their dinner first.” So Chi-shêng’s father agreed, and two servants
were accordingly sent, their mission proving a complete success.
Chi-shêng now rapidly recovered his health, and thought no more of
Kuei-hsiu, who, when she heard of the intended match, became in her
turn very seriously ill, to the great anger of her father, who said
she might die for all he cared, but to the great sorrow of her mother,
who was extremely fond of her daughter. The latter even went so far as
to propose to Mr. Chang that Kuei-hsiu should go as second wife, at
which he was so enraged that he declared he would wash his hands of
the girl altogether. The mother then found out when Chi-shêng’s
wedding was to take place; and, borrowing a chair and attendants from
her brother under pretence of going to visit him, put Kuei-hsiu inside
and sent her off to her uncle’s house. As she arrived at the door, the
servants spread a carpet for her to walk on, and the band struck up
the wedding march. Chi-shêng went out to see what it was all about,
and there met a young lady in a bridal veil, from whom he would have
escaped had not her servants surrounded them, and, before he knew what
he was doing, he was making her the usual salutation of a bridegroom.
They then went in together, and, to his further astonishment, he found
that the young lady was Kuei-hsiu; and, being now unable to go and
meet Wu-k‘o, a message was sent to her father, telling him what had
occurred. He, too, got into a great rage, and vowed he would break off
the match; but Wu-k‘o herself said she would go all the same, her
rival having only got the start of her in point of time. And go she
did; and the two wives, instead of quarrelling, as was expected, lived
very happily together like sisters, and wore each other’s clothes and
shoes without distinction, Kuei-hsiu taking the place of an elder
sister as being somewhat older than Wu-k‘o.[495] One day, after these
events, Chi-shêng asked Wu-k‘o why she had refused his offer; to which
she replied that it was merely to pay him out for having previously
refused her father’s proposal. “Before you had seen me, your head was
full of Kuei-hsiu; but after you had seen me, your thoughts were
somewhat divided; and I wanted to know how I compared with her, and
whether you would fall ill on my account as you had on hers, that we
mightn’t quarrel about our looks.” “It was a cruel revenge,” said
Chi-shêng; “but how should I ever have got a sight of you had it not
been for the old woman?” “What had she to do with it?” replied Wu-k‘o;
“I knew you were behind the door all the time. When I was ill I dreamt
that I went to your house and saw you, but I looked upon it only as a
dream until I heard that you had dreamt that I had actually been
there, and then I knew that my spirit must have been with you.”
Chi-shêng now related to her the particulars of his vision, which
coincided exactly with her own; and thus, strangely enough, had the
matrimonial alliances of both father and son been brought about by
dreams.
FOOTNOTES:
[493] This story is a sequel to the last.
[494] The surnames would in this case be different, and no obstacle
could be offered on that score. See No. XV., note 109.
[495] The _dénouement_ of the _Yü-chiao-li_, a small novel which was
translated into French by Rémusat, and again by Julien under the title
of _Les Deux Cousines_, is effected by the hero of the tale marrying
both the heroines.
XCVI.
A SUPERNATURAL WIFE.
A certain Mr. Chao, of Ch‘ang-shan, lodged in a family of the name of
T‘ai. He was very badly off, and, falling sick, was brought almost to
death’s door. One day they moved him into the verandah, that it might
be cooler for him; and, when he awoke from a nap, lo! a beautiful girl
was standing by his side. “I am come to be your wife,” said the girl,
in answer to his question as to who she was; to which he replied that
a poor fellow like himself did not look for such luck as that; adding
that, being then on his death-bed, he would not have much occasion for
the services of a wife. The girl said she could cure him; but he told
her he very much doubted that; “And even,” continued he, “should you
have any good prescription, I have not the means of getting it made
up.” “I don’t want medicine to cure you with,” rejoined the girl,
proceeding at once to rub his back and sides with her hand, which
seemed to him like a ball of fire. He soon began to feel much better,
and asked the young lady what her name was, in order, as he said, that
he might remember her in his prayers. “I am a spirit,” replied she;
“and you, when alive under the Han dynasty as Ch‘u Sui-liang, were a
benefactor of my family. Your kindness being engraven on my heart, I
have at length succeeded in my search for you, and am able in some
measure to requite you.” Chao was dreadfully ashamed of his
poverty-stricken state, and afraid that his dirty room would spoil the
young lady’s dress; but she made him show her in, and accordingly he
took her into his apartment, where there were neither chairs to sit
upon, nor signs of anything to eat, saying, “You might, indeed, be
able to put up with all this; but you see my larder is empty, and I
have absolutely no means of supporting a wife.” “Don’t be alarmed
about that,” cried she; and in another moment he saw a couch covered
with costly robes, the walls papered with a silver-flecked paper, and
chairs and tables appear, the latter laden with all kinds of wine and
exquisite viands. They then began to enjoy themselves, and lived
together as husband and wife, many people coming to witness these
strange things, and being all cordially received by the young lady,
who in her turn always accompanied Mr. Chao when he went out to dinner
anywhere.[496] One day there was an unprincipled young graduate among
the company, which she seemed immediately to become aware of; and,
after calling him several bad names, she struck him on the side of the
head, causing his head to fly out of the window while his body
remained inside; and there he was, stuck fast, unable to move either
way, until the others interceded for him and he was released. After
some time visitors became too numerous, and if she refused to see them
they turned their anger against her husband. At length, as they were
sitting together drinking with some friends at the Tuan-yang
festival,[497] a white rabbit ran in, whereupon the girl jumped up and
said, “The doctor[498] has come for me;” then, turning to the rabbit,
she added, “You go on: I’ll follow you.” So the rabbit went away, and
then she ordered them to get a ladder and place it against a high tree
in the back yard, the top of the ladder overtopping the tree. The
young lady went up first and Chao close behind her; after which she
called out to anybody who wished to join them to make haste up. None
ventured to do so with the exception of a serving-boy belonging to the
house, who followed after Chao; and thus they went up, up, up, up,
until they disappeared in the clouds and were seen no more. However,
when the bystanders came to look at the ladder, they found it was only
an old door-frame with the panels knocked out; and when they went into
Mr. Chao’s room, it was the same old, dirty, unfurnished room as
before. So they determined to find out all about it from the
serving-boy when he came back; but this he never did.
FOOTNOTES:
[496] The sexes do not dine together. On the occasion of a
dinner-party, private or official, the ladies give a separate
entertainment to the wives of the various guests in the “inner” or
women’s apartments, as an adjunct to which a theatrical troupe is
often engaged, precisely as in the case of the opposite sex.
Singing-girls are, however, present at and share in the banquets of
the _roués_ of China.
[497] This occurs on the 5th of the 5th moon, and is commonly known as
the Dragon-Boat Festival, from a practice of racing on that day in
long, narrow boats. It is said to have been instituted in memory of a
patriotic statesman, whose identity, however, is not settled, some
writers giving Wu Yun (see _The Middle Kingdom_, Vol. II., p. 82),
others Ch‘ü Yüan (see _The Chinese Reader’s Manual_, p. 107), as the
hero of the day.
[498] A hare or rabbit is believed to sit at the foot of the
cassia-tree in the moon, pounding the drugs out of which is concocted
the elixir of immortality. An allusion to this occurs in the poems of
Tu Fu, one of the celebrated bards of the T‘ang dynasty:--
“The frog is not drowned in the river;
The medicine hare lives for ever.”
XCVII.
BRIBERY AND CORRUPTION.
At Pao-ting Fu there lived a young man, who having purchased the
lowest[499] degree was about to proceed to Peking, in the hope of
obtaining, by the aid of a little bribery, an appointment as District
Magistrate. His boxes were all ready packed, when he was taken
suddenly ill and was confined to his bed for more than a month. One
day the servant entered and announced a visitor; whereupon our sick
man jumped up and ran to the door as if there was nothing the matter
with him. The visitor was elegantly dressed like a man of some
position in society; and, after bowing thrice, he walked into the
house, explaining that he was Kung-sun Hsia,[500] tutor to the
Eleventh Prince, and that he had heard our Mr. So-and-so wished to
arrange for the purchase of a magistracy. “If that is really so,”
added he, “would you not do better to buy a prefecture?” So-and-so
thanked him warmly, but said his funds would not be sufficient; upon
which Mr. Kung-sun declared he should be delighted to assist him with
half the purchase-money, which he could repay after taking up the
post.[501] He went on to say that being on intimate terms with the
various provincial Governors the thing could be easily managed for
about five thousand taels; and also that at that very moment Chên-ting
Fu being vacant, it would be as well to make an early effort to get
the appointment. So-and-so pointed out that this place was in his
native province;[502] but Kung-sun only laughed at his objection, and
reminded him that money[503] could obliterate all distinctions of that
kind. This did not seem quite satisfactory; however, Kung-sun told him
not to be alarmed, as the post of which he was speaking was below in
the infernal regions. “The fact is,” said he, “that your term of life
has expired, and that your name is already on the death list; by these
means you will take your place in the world below as a man of official
position. Farewell! in three days we shall meet again.” He then went
to the door and mounted his horse and rode away. So-and-so now opened
his eyes and spoke a few parting words to his wife and children,
bidding them take money from his strong-room[504] and go buy large
quantities of paper ingots,[505] which they immediately did, quite
exhausting all the shops. This was piled in the court-yard with paper
images of men, devils, horses, &c., and burning went on day and night
until the ashes formed quite a hill. In three days Kung-sun returned,
bringing with him the money; upon which So-and-so hurried off to the
Board of Civil Office,[506] where he had an interview with the high
officials, who, after asking his name, warned him to be a pure and
upright officer, and then calling him up to the table handed him his
letter of appointment. So-and-so bowed and took his leave; but
recollecting at once that his purchased degree would not carry much
weight with it in the eyes of his subordinates,[507] he sent off to
buy elaborate chairs and a number of horses for his retinue, at the
same time despatching several devil lictors to fetch his favourite
wife in a beautifully adorned sedan-chair. All arrangements were just
completed when some of the Chên-ting staff came to meet the new
Prefect,[508] others awaiting him all along the line of road, about
half a mile in length. He was immensely gratified at this reception,
when all of a sudden the gongs before him ceased to sound and the
banners were lowered to the ground. He had hardly time to ask what was
the matter before he saw those of his servants who were on horseback
jump hastily to the ground and dwindle down to about a foot in height,
while their horses shrunk to the size of foxes or racoons. One of the
attendants near his chariot cried out in alarm, “Here’s Kuan Ti!”[509]
and then he, too, jumped out in a fright, and saw in the distance Kuan
Ti himself slowly approaching them, followed by four or five retainers
on horseback. His great beard covered the lower half of his face,
quite unlike ordinary mortals; his aspect was terrible to behold, and
his eyes reached nearly to his ears. “Who is this?” roared he to his
servants; and they immediately informed him that it was the new
Prefect of Chên-ting. “What!” cried he; “a petty fellow like that to
have a retinue like this?”[510] Whereupon So-and-so’s flesh began to
creep with fear, and in a few moments he found that he too had shrunk
to the size of a little boy of six or seven. Kuan Ti bade his
attendants bring the new Prefect with them, and went into a building
at the roadside, where he took up his seat facing the south[511] and
calling for writing materials told So-and-so to write down his name
and address. When this was handed to him he flew into a towering
passion, and said, “The scribbly scrawl of a placeman, indeed![512]
Can such a one be entrusted with the welfare of the people? Look me up
the record of his good works.” A man then advanced, and whispered
something in a low tone; upon which Kuan Ti exclaimed in a loud voice,
“The crime of the briber is comparatively trifling; the heavy guilt
lies with those who sell official posts for money.” So-and-so was now
seized by angels in golden armour, and two of them tore off his cap
and robes, and administered to him fifty blows with the bamboo until
hardly any flesh remained on his bones. He was then thrust outside the
door, and lo! his carriages and horses had disappeared, and he himself
was lying, unable to walk for pain, at no great distance from his own
house. However, his body seemed as light as a leaf, and in a day and
a night he managed to crawl home. When he arrived, he awoke as it were
from a dream, and found himself groaning upon the bed; and to the
inquiries of his family he only replied that he felt dreadfully sore.
Now he really had been dead for seven days; and when he came round
thus, he immediately asked for A-lien, which was the name of his
favourite wife. But the very day before, while chatting with the other
members of the family, A-lien had suddenly cried out that her husband
was made Prefect of Chên-ting, and that his lictors had come to escort
her thither. Accordingly she retired to dress herself in her best
clothes, and, when ready to start, she fell back and expired. Hearing
this sad story, So-and-so began to mourn and beat his breast, and he
would not allow her to be buried at once, in the hope that she might
yet come round; but this she never did. Meanwhile So-and-so got slowly
better, and by the end of six months was able to walk again. He would
often exclaim, “The ruin of my career and the punishment I
received--all this I could have endured; but the loss of my dear
A-lien is more than I can bear.”[513]
FOOTNOTES:
[499] By which he would become eligible for Government employ. The
sale of degrees has been extensively carried on under the present
dynasty, as a means of replenishing an empty Treasury.
[500] Kung-sun is an example of a Chinese double surname.
[501] Such is the common system of repaying the loan, by means of
which an indigent nominee is enabled to defray the expenses of his
journey to the post to which he has been appointed, and other calls
upon his purse. These loans are generally provided by some “western”
merchant, which term is an ellipsis for a “Shansi” banker, Shansi
being literally “west of the mountains.” Some one accompanies the
newly-made official to his post, and holds his commission in pawn
until the amount is repaid; which settlement is easily effected by the
issue of some well-understood proclamation, calling, for instance,
upon the people to close all gambling-houses within a given period.
Immediately the owners of these hells forward presents of money to the
incoming official, the Shansi banker gets his principal with interest,
perhaps at the rate of 2 per cent. _per month_, the gambling-houses
carry on as usual, and everybody is perfectly satisfied.
[502] Which fact would disqualify him from taking the post.
[503] Literally, “Square hole.” A common name for the Chinese cash.
See No. II., note 42.
[504] In the case of wealthy families these strong rooms often
contain, in addition to bullion, jewels to a very great amount
belonging to the ladies of the house; and, as a rule, the door may not
be opened unless in the presence of a certain number of the male
representatives of the house.
[505] Pieces of silver and gold paper made up to represent the
ordinary Chinese “shoes” of bullion (See No. XVIII., note 133), and
burnt for the use of the dead. Generally known to foreigners in China
as “joss-paper.”
[506] See No. VII., note 54. In this case the reference is to a
similar Board in the Infernal Regions.
[507] These would be sure to sneer at him behind his back.
[508] A compliment usually paid to an in-coming official.
[509] See No. I., note 39.
[510] The retinue of a Mandarin should be in accordance with his rank.
I have given elsewhere (See No. LVI., note 315) what would be that of
an official of the highest rank.
[511] See No. LXXVII., note 431.
[512] Good writing holds a much higher place in the estimation of the
Chinese than among western nations. The very nature of their
characters raises calligraphy almost to the rank of an art.
[513] The commentator here adds a somewhat similar case, which
actually occurred in the reign of K‘ang Hsi, of a Viceroy modestly
attended falling in with the gorgeous retinue of a Magistrate, and
being somewhat rudely treated by the servants of the latter. On
arriving at his destination, the Viceroy sent for that Magistrate, and
sternly bade him retire from office, remarking that no simple
magistrate could afford to keep such a retinue of attendants unless by
illegal exactions from the suffering people committed to his charge.
XCVIII.
A CHINESE JONAH.
A man named Sun Pi-chên was crossing the river[514] when a great
thunder-squall broke upon the vessel and caused her to toss about
fearfully, to the great terror of all the passengers. Just then, an
angel in golden armour appeared standing upon the clouds above them,
holding in his hand a scroll inscribed with certain characters, also
written in gold, which the people on the vessel easily made out to be
three in number, namely _Sun Pi-chên_. So, turning at once to their
fellow-traveller, they said to him, “You have evidently incurred the
displeasure of Heaven; get into a boat by yourself, and do not involve
us in your punishment.” And without giving him time to reply whether
he would do so or not, they hurried him over the side into a small
boat and set him adrift; but when Sun Pi-chên looked back, lo! the
vessel itself had capsized.[515]
FOOTNOTES:
[514] The Yang-tsze: sometimes spoken of as the Long River.
[515] The full point of this story can hardly be conveyed in
translation. The man’s surname was Sun, and his prænomen, Pi-chên,
(which in Chinese _follows_ the nomen) might be rendered
“Must-be-saved.” However, there is another word meaning “struck,”
precisely similar in sound and tone, though written differently, to
the above _chên_; and, as far as the ear alone is concerned, our
hero’s name might have been either _Sun Must-be-saved_ or _Sun
Must-be-struck_. That the merchants mistook the character _chên_,
“saved,” for _chên_, “struck,” is evident from the catastrophe which
overtook their vessel, while Mr. Sun’s little boat rode safely through
the storm.
XCIX.
CHANG PU-LIANG.
A certain trader who was travelling in the province of Chih-li, being
overtaken by a storm of rain and hail, took shelter among some
standing crops by the way-side. There he heard a voice from heaven,
saying, “These are Chang Pu-liang’s fields; do not injure his crops.”
The trader began to wonder who this Chang Pu-liang could be, and how,
if he was _pu liang_ (not virtuous), he came to be under divine
protection; so when the storm was over and he had reached the
neighbouring village, he made enquiries on the subject, and told the
people there what he had heard. The villagers then informed him that
Chang Pu-liang was a very wealthy farmer, who was accustomed every
spring to make loans of grain to the poor of the district, and who was
not too particular about getting back the exact amount he had
lent,--taking, in fact, whatever they brought him without discussion;
hence the sobriquet of _pu liang_ “no measure” (_i.e._, the man who
doesn’t measure the repayments of his loans).[516] After that, they
all proceeded in a body to the fields, where it was discovered that
vast damage had been done to the crops generally, with the exception
of Chang Pu-liang’s, which had escaped uninjured.
FOOTNOTE:
[516] Here again we have a play upon words similar to that in the last
story.
C.
THE DUTCH CARPET.
Formerly, when the Dutch[517] were permitted to trade with China, the
officer in command of the coast defences would not allow them, on
account of their great numbers, to come ashore. The Dutch begged very
hard for the grant of a piece of land such as a carpet would cover;
and the officer above-mentioned, thinking that this could not be very
large, acceded to their request. A carpet was accordingly laid down,
big enough for about two people to stand on; but by dint of
stretching, it was soon enough for four or five; and so they went on,
stretching and stretching, until at last it covered about an acre,
and by-and-by, with the help of their knives, they had filched a piece
of ground several miles in extent.[518]
FOOTNOTES:
[517] We read in the _History of Amoy_:--“In the year 1622 the
red-haired barbarians seized the Pescadores and attacked Amoy.” From
the Pescadores they finally retired, on a promise that trade would be
permitted, to Formosa, whence they were expelled by the famous Koxinga
in 1662. “Red-haired barbarians,” a term now commonly applied to all
foreigners, was first used in the records of the Ming dynasty to
designate the Dutch.