One day the Emperor Chia Ching called his scribe, the great and crafty
Yen Sung, and said, “I want four poems immediately, one on each of the
seasons.”
The word was sent out and within a few days poems were presented and
accepted on Summer, Autumn, and Winter, but not one written on Spring
pleased the Emperor. Again and again the literary men wrote on the
subject, but only to fail of his approbation. At last he declared in a
rage that unless a poem that could be set to music and sung by the
ladies of the palace should immediately be produced there would soon be
fewer literary men in the country, and commanded his minister to see
that his wishes were at once carried out.
Yen Sung, almost in despair, went to his steward and told him his
dilemma. Now, Nien Chi, the steward, was as bold and bad a man as his
master, shrewd and cunning withal. After a moment’s thought he said,
“Rest your heart! I know a teacher of great ability, who lives at my
inn; I will see what he can do.” He called his cart, went in great
state to the inn, and asked for a man by the name of Chi Hsiao Tang.
When Teacher Chi appeared Nien Chi with profound bows and his most
pleasing manner said, “The fame of your literary ability has come to
the ears of my master, Yen Sung, and he desires you to write
immediately a poem on Spring.”
Chi Hsiao Tang replied, “I am a man of mean ability, but that is indeed
an easy subject which you give me. Return in a few hours’ time and my
poor production shall be ready for you.”
Nien Chi thanked him and took his leave. He returned later and the poem
was awaiting him as promised. He read it with delight and said to the
author, “The gods have indeed given you a great gift. One of them must
have spoken to you from the Imperial heavens. My master will surely
call and thank you in person.” He then withdrew and hastened to the
palace of Yen Sung, who seized the manuscript and read it eagerly,
exclaiming, as he finished its perusal, “Thank the gods, we are saved!
This is simply perfect.”
Then his face fell, for on the corner of the sheet were the name and
seal of the writer. “This will never do,” said he. “I want to send it
in as my own, and how can I? Alas! I must still delay to copy it
to-night.”
The next day he presented it to the Emperor as his own “mean effort,”
and humbly begged for pardon that he could do no better for his great
and mighty sovereign. The Emperor was much pleased and gave Yen Sung
costly presents and high literary honours.
Shortly after came the triennial examinations for the advanced degrees.
Yen Sung was one of the judges of the essays. He knew that Chi Hsiao
Tang would probably be promoted as he was a man of such ability, and he
feared that the story of the poem would in some way reach the ears of
the Emperor.
After much thought as to how to avert such a calamity, he issued a
proclamation that no one by the name of Chi be admitted to the
examination.
Chi Hsiao Tang presented himself at the hall on the opening day, but
was refused a place among the aspirants for degrees, the only reason
given being that an order barring all of his surname had been issued by
the powerful minister and judge, Yen Sung. In great sorrow and
disappointment the scholar returned to his inn and wrote to his wife,
telling her to sell some of their land and come to Peking to await with
him the next opportunity for examination, three years later. This she
did. They rented a place and there, day by day, he studied, hoping to
see the ban lifted.
One day while out for a walk he saw a great crowd gathered. Drawing
near he found that a man of eminence was to be executed. He asked, “Who
is the prisoner?” and was told, “An official by the name of Pai.”
“What has he done that he should be so degraded?” asked Chi Hsiao Tang
of a man standing near. “How can you ask that?” replied the man, “when
Yen Sung is the head of the Empire. He has but to nod and officials
lose their heads.”
As the already disappointed scholar turned away he said, “What can I
hope for when such a man as that is executed?” Sadly musing, he
continued, “I had hoped to become an official, serve my country, and
receive honour, but I see the life of a minister is a most dangerous
one. If he would be upright, he has not the rest and quiet of the
common citizen. All is weakness and evil under the sun. I will no
longer mingle with men, but will go apart and seek to prepare myself
for a higher existence among those who by contemplation and
renunciation have become fit for companionship with the gods.”
He went home, told his wife what he had seen, and said, “I have given
up my plan for an official life. At our home in the country are houses
and land, all you can ever need.” “Why not return at once, care for our
property, and live in quiet?” asked his wife. “No! There is no hope for
me. I give all our possessions to you,” was his reply.
“What is your purpose?” questioned the now anxious wife. “If you will
not return to the home of your ancestors, what do you mean by giving
the land to me? Are you going to enter the Eternal?”
Chi Hsiao Tang looked thoughtful for a moment, and then said, “I will
go to some quiet place in the mountains. There will I live and purify
myself from this evil world. I care or hope no longer for earthly joy
or position. It is all vanity—vanity.”
“But what of me?” urged his wife. “Am I nothing more to you? Are you
casting me off also? This you shall not do. We will go together to the
country and there you will forget your disappointment, or I too will go
with you to the purple hills by Buddha’s help. Possibly by long years
of tears, prayers, and self-denial the great Buddha will have
compassion on me, and I too may find Peace. I cannot hope to enter into
your spirit life, I who am only a woman, but surely the effort I make
will at least be seen by the god. Do you think, because I am a woman,
my heart does not long for that which can give rest? Why do I sit every
night, hour after hour, with my tongue pressed against the roof of my
mouth, my hands and feet crossed, trying not to be conscious of any
bodily sensation. Is it not that I too may come in touch with the great
pure Holy Ones? Why do I repeat the name of the great Buddha hundreds
of times each day, before anything to eat or drink crosses my lips? Why
am I almost a cripple? Is it not because of the long hours of kneeling
on the cold brick floor praying to the Goddess of Mercy? Have I not
kept the fast days most faithfully since coming into your home? Have I
eaten meat? When you were ill did I not promise the gods that if you
recovered I would go to the highest temple on the mountains, crawling
all the way on hands and knees, and when you were restored to health
did I not fulfil my vow? Did I not wear single garments all one winter?
Did I not take flesh from my own arm to make a broth which cured our
mother when she was ill? Do none of these things appeal to the Holy
Ones? Can I not hope that I too, a poor woman, may attain to the
Eternal Rest?” The tears streamed down her cheeks as she added, “Have
compassion upon me, your wife, and let me go with you.”
Chi Hsiao Tang looked tenderly at her for a moment and then, with a
great sigh, which showed that he too suffered at the parting, replied,
“What I have said I have said! You would prevent me from seeing the
Eternal Light. You would hold me still to the earthly.” He ordered
dinner, and as he sat eating he saw a new bench drop down into his
court.
“This,” said he to himself, “must have come from the gods, whether to
help me to leave the earth or to keep me on it I will test and see.” So
he said to the bench, “If you are to help me leave the earth move up
and down three times.” This the bench immediately did. His wife coming
in at the moment, he called to her “to look at the magic bench.” She
replied in astonishment, but with a sense of relief, “What is this, are
you bereft of your senses? You a Teacher to talk of a magic bench.” He
answered gravely, “You shall see me sit on the bench and rise in the
air,” and before she realized what had befallen her, he was rising into
space and was soon beyond her sight.
“Ah!” said she as she wept; “he has gone to the purple mountains to
attain the god-life. He has left me here; I will seek it in my home.”
She called to him and a faint sound came from the distance, “The gods
have had pity upon me and taken me from the evil of the world,” and
here he was seen no more. The bench carried him to a mountain far from
all with which he was familiar, and there came to rest. He rose to his
feet and as he did so the bench disappeared. He looked north, south,
east, and west, nothing but stones and hills, not a human being in
sight.
He said to himself, “What can I do here? I will walk until I find some
living thing.” Far in the distance on a high mountain-top he saw what
appeared to be a man. After hours of weary climbing, faint with hunger
and thirst, he reached the spot. He found two men sitting on a stone;
one had on a yellow robe, white stockings, and striped shoes. His face
was very white and he wore a long beard. At his side was a cow’s tail,
used to brush away flies. The other man was dressed in black, had a
dark face, protruding eyes, and a long black beard. One was facing to
the east, the other to the west, and they were playing chess. Above
them was a beautiful spruce tree, by their side a dish of peaches and
one of pears, two wine-cups and a bottle of wine. When Chi Hsiao Tang
came up to them they did not lift their heads or look up, seemed only
interested in their game. But he thought, “These are surely two gods in
disguise,” and kneeling before them he said, “I prostrate myself to
you, my Teachers. I wish to prepare myself to join the Immortals.”
The man in yellow lifted his head and asked, “Where do you come from
and why are you not going in for the examinations, for I see that you
are a man of no mean ability?” Chi Hsiao Tang replied, “It is all
vanity.”
“You are rich; why are you not satisfied with the things which money
will buy?” was the next question. “They also are vanity,” was his
answer. “Name, honour, riches, luxury; at the end of all is death,”
continued Chi Hsiao Tang. “I have looked at it all, tasted much of it,
and it does not satisfy beyond the passing moment. I do not desire it,
and I have come to you, my Teachers, for instruction as to the way of
attaining purification and the true life.” “To attain that you must
suffer much. Can you endure?” said the sage. “I can,” was the reply.
“Difficulties are many. Can you meet them?” Still he answered, “I can.
I am not afraid of difficulties.” “But,” urged the wise man, “if you
desire to attain the true life you must be ready to save, not to
destroy men. No one can wear fine clothes like yours and put away the
world. You will have to put on coarse cloth garments. When your shoes
are worn out can you go barefooted on these rocky hillsides?” “I can in
time,” was the reply. “We have no dainty food to eat, only grain and
wild roots without salt. Can you eat these?” “Yes, this also in time.”
“At home you have wine, tea, and hot water to drink. Can you give up
all these and drink from the holes by the roadside?” “Yes! In time I
can do even this.” The sage added further, “You will have also to serve
us, dig roots, and prepare our food, you who at home have always been
served. Can you eat [1] all this bitterness, even to becoming a
servant?” Chi Hsiao said earnestly, “All this I can and will do.” “One
thing more,” said the man in yellow. “I have a dreadful sore on my
foot. You will have to wash and dress that every day. I will show it to
you!” It was indeed a shocking sight. For a moment Chi Hsiao Tang’s
heart failed him, but he resolutely put down the disgust and nausea
which the sickening sore produced, and answered as before, “I can dress
it, Worthy Teacher.” “But you must press the poison out with your lips.
Will you do that?” “Yes!” “Then try it now.” As he stooped and put his
lips to what seemed a most loathsome sore, behold! it was a beautiful
ripe and luscious peach, bound with invisible bands about the foot.
When the two Worthies saw the settled purpose of the man they said,
“You may remain with us. We will teach you how to become one of the
Perfect Ones.” At the close of his novitiate they sent him among the
mountain people to help those in distress, to cheer the sad and
discouraged, and found him always ready to serve as a messenger of the
gods. Thus in a life of unselfish service of man was he made pure,
until he reached that perfection which is absorption into the Divine.
[1] A common Chinese expression for discomfort, pain, or sorrow.