In the reign of Chia Ching, Emperor of China from 1522 to 1537 A.D.,
there lived in Peking a powerful official by the name of Tu (“Du”).
Unknown to him he had a great enemy whose daughter was one of the wives
of the Emperor and who was himself the teacher of the Emperor. This
man, Yen Sung, was the most powerful man in the Empire at that time,
and also one of the most unscrupulous. He made and unmade officials and
no appointment could be secured except through his influence. He was
very rich, and lived in one of the largest and finest palaces. His
entertainments were second only to the Emperor’s.
Mr. Tu was appointed to superintend the distribution of famine relief
in the province of Shan Tung. The silver was inclosed in logs, and
loaded on long carts. The caravan had just reached the city gate when
they were met by Yen Sung and his riders, just returning from a feast.
He inquired of Mr. Tu when he was going, and on learning that the
relief caravan was just starting, he said:
“It is too late for you to go to-night; come to my palace, all of you,
carts and all, and spend the night. We will have a big feast, and you
can get an early start in the morning.”
There seemed no harm in this, and as no one liked to refuse Yen Sung
anything, they decided to accept his invitation.
That night after the great feast was over and, much under the influence
of wine, all were sleeping, Yen Sung, with his steward and henchmen,
removed the relief money from the logs, placed broken bricks in the
holes, and closed the logs as they were before.
Early in the morning the caravan started, and when but a short distance
from the city they were overtaken by Yen Sung and his servants, who
inquired how much silver was being taken, also made the demand to see
it. Mr. Tu said that he had in his charge forty thousand pieces of
silver; and caused the logs to be opened as proof, only to find to his
dismay the silver gone and brick in its place. Yen Sung immediately
seized him, took him before the Emperor, accused him of using the
funds, and punishment by death was pronounced. A few days later he was
secretly beheaded and his body was placed in a temple near one of the
city gates.
Mr. Tu had a son, who was married to the daughter of a well-known
official who, on the murder of the father-in-law of his daughter, came
forward and saved the family from the murderous hands of Yen Sung. The
Emperor punished the family by changing their name to Kao and this son
was called Kao Ching Chi. He was a student by nature, and on the death
of his father and the confiscation of his property, spent all of his
time at the “Hall of Classics,” studying for promotion.
His young wife, Yü Yüch Ying, was very beautiful, according to
tradition in song and story one of the most beautiful in all the
Empire; not only noted for her beauty of face and form, but even more
beautiful character. (The story of her life, set in song and always
sung in tears, praises her in words seldom given to any woman.)
One day after the death of her father-in-law she took a serving-woman
with her, and went in her chair to weep at his grave, and burn incense
for his departed spirit. On the road her chair passed Nien Chi, the
wicked steward of Yen Sung, who was out with some of his companions for
a ride. He caught a glimpse of the beautiful woman inside, and said to
his companions:
“Come on; we will follow her and see who she is and where she is
going.”
When they reached the temple he saw her at the altar, prostrating
herself and worshipping; kneeling beside her he said:
“I too have come for worship.”
Yü Yüch Ying immediately rose and went to the grave of her
father-in-law, followed by the servant. Together they wept and knocked
their heads, but only to be joined almost at once by Nien Chi. They
moved to the other side of the grave, and again he followed, upon which
she said to her woman:
“This man means to annoy us; he is an evil man.”
The serving-woman turned on him and said:
“You are annoying my lady, you certainly lack all marks of the superior
man,” and with that she threw a handful of incense ashes in his eyes,
and taking her lady by the hand, they ran to the chair and told the
chairmen to go home at once as fast as possible.
Nien Chi was very angry, his eyes pained him furiously, and as soon as
he could open them with any comfort he called to his friend:
“Mount at once and give chase.”
Some of his companions did not want to, but he insisted and, owing to
this delay and the ashes in his eyes, they did not overtake the chair
till just as it entered the gate of the ladies’ home.
The gatekeeper closed the gate and did not notice the horsemen just
entering their street. Nien Chi inquired of a “street keeper” who lived
in the place, and great was his delight when he heard that it was the
family hated by his master. He sought the latter on returning home,
told of his morning’s experience, of the beauty of the lady, and his
desire to secure her if possible.
Yen Sung was greatly pleased, and soon a way was opened to degrade the
official who had saved his enemy’s family. He said to his steward,
“This is well; you shall have her for wife, and I will help you and
thus reward your many efforts in my behalf.” Together these two
black-hearted men plotted against the life and happiness of the one
little woman, who did not tell her student-husband of the experiences
of the day, as she did not like to trouble him when his heart was so
sad.
A few days later a servant of Nien Chi’s came with a letter and some
very beautiful presents. The servant said “his master had heard much of
the wisdom of young Mr. Kao; he was most desirous of calling on him,
making his acquaintance, and would he please accept the small,
insignificant gifts as an expression of friendship.” Mr. Kao inquired
who his master was, and when he learned it was the steward of the great
Yen Sung, who was almost as powerful as the Emperor, and at whose word
a man was made an official or deposed, he was greatly troubled, but he
did not dare refuse. A day was set when Nien Chi was to call, and he
came in great pomp and glory, and was invited to the guest house, where
Mr. Kao received him.
Together they talked on the surface of many questions, Nien Chi, in a
most subtle manner, praising the wisdom and great insight of his host.
Much wine was consumed, especially by Mr. Kao.
The latter part of the call Nien Chi said, “Shall we not seal our
friendship by the rite of blood brother? You are older than I, so
according to our custom it would be proper for you to introduce me to
your wife, my sister, if indeed you will stoop to accept so stupid a
man as a brother.”
To this Mr. Kao replied, “The lady, your sister, is in the inner court
with her women, another day you may meet her.”
Nien Chi urged Mr. Kao to introduce him that day, but the latter
changed the subject of conversation, and then Nien Chi proposed that
they should see who could take the most wine.
Alas! Mr. Kao did not dream of his plan, and very soon was fast asleep;
seeing this, Nien Chi went to the family court in the rear and seeing
her with her women, he said:
“Most beautiful of great sisters, I salute you.”
Yü Yüch Ying immediately arose, and seeing the man who had troubled her
so, there in her own court, she said:
“Who are you, and how do you dare to come into this inner court?” and
then turning to a servant, she said, “Call your master.”
Nien Chi smiled and said, “Don’t be anxious, lady, your husband is my
good brother by rite of blood. We have drank the wine and made the
compact and that, you know, as he is older than I, gives me a right to
meet you and call you ‘sister.’ My great brother is now asleep. He is a
poor, stupid man who cannot let wine alone. Now, most beautiful and
virtuous of all women, leave him to his books and marry me. You shall
have, by promise of my master, the great Yen Sung, the finest of the
land, in robes of silk and satin, servants by tens, jewels fit for an
empress, and a most royal home.”
In great fear and rage the lady spurned him, and called to her women to
bring her husband, asleep or awake.
The loud voices had awakened him, and when the women met him, telling
of the fright of their lady, he picked up a stick and, entering the
court, demanded how he had dared enter there.
Yü Yüch Ying said to him, “How did you dare enter friendship’s bonds
with such as he? Take him from my court and presence at once. He is
more hateful to me than a serpent.”
Nien Chi saw his plan had failed and, with rage and vowing vengeance,
he took his departure and once again sought his master.
That night a slave in the home was bound and killed and taken in the
early morning and placed against the gate of Mr. Kao’s house. Mr. Kao
always went early to the “Hall of the Classics,” and that morning when
he opened the gate the dead body fell into Kao’s court; Nien Chi and
soldiers were waiting just around the corner for this moment, and
immediately, before Mr. Kao had taken in the situation, they had seized
him and thrown him into prison, on charge of killing one of the great
Sung’s servants. He was tried and condemned to death.
The beautiful Yü Yüch Ying saw through the plan and disposed of the
place at once for a small sum of money and, taking one loyal, good
serving-woman, she sought her father.
Everything was done that could be done to save her husband; her father
had lost much of his property and standing, and could help but little.
It seemed as though nothing could be done to save him when, at the last
moment, a “great day of forgiveness” was announced on the birth of an
heir to the throne. This did not mean freedom, but instead of death
came banishment for life to some other and distant province.
The news was made known to the wife by a Mr. Wang, an old-time friend
of the family, and he arranged with her a plan by which she might have
a parting visit with her husband; this was to be in a cemetery just out
of Peking and off a little from the great road over which his cart was
to go. She had not been allowed to see him in prison, though she had
used every means possible.
When the day set to take him away came, she went with her woman to the
place arranged, and then waited, with sad and heavy heart, for the cart
which was to bring her husband for a short talk and then take him away
from her forever. When Mr. Wang told Mr. Kao of the plan, he said, “She
won’t come; a woman is like a garment that one can take off at pleasure
and it is all the same to them.”
Little he knew the true-hearted woman, or how she would prove her
fidelity, that would hand her name down to all coming wives as the
pattern of all that is most truly virtuous.
When the cart reached the place, by the use of a little money Mr. Wang
arranged with the carter and escort soldiers to allow Mr. Kao to get
out of the cart and have this quiet last talk with his wife.
Much to his surprise, Mr. Kao found his wife waiting for him. She came
forward and, kneeling before him, she said, “We are about to separate,
possibly forever; what commands have you for me? I will follow them to
the letter.”
“I have no commands,” replied her husband. “Our affairs have reached
this state: we can do nothing and be nothing to each other. I am
banished for life; you cannot go with me, and I cannot help you. There
is no use in our talking. You will forget me. Our fate is unlucky, the
gods and man are against us.”
With tears streaming from her eyes, and her beautiful face full of
trouble, she said, “Alas! alas! You do not believe in and trust me,
that I will be true to you. What can I do to prove to you that I mean
what I say? You say I am beautiful; the gods have made me so. Because I
am so you think that fair promises of wealth and luxury will buy me. If
I were homely no one would want me; see, this I do to show how true is
my heart to you,” and before he saw what she was about she took some
scissors from her sleeve and dug out one of her beautiful eyes, and
then, raising her poor disfigured face to his, she said, as she tried
to smile, “Do you believe me, is it not proof enough? Would anybody
want me now?”
Her husband was greatly moved and, as he tried to stop the flow of
blood, said, “You are a daughter of the gods, the most true of all
women.”
They then talked over their sorrows, and she said, “If in a few months’
time the gods give us a son, what is your wish to name him? If a little
daughter comes, name her also and your wishes.”
“I have no wishes or commands, you are able to instruct and have wisdom
for all. If the gods give us a son, call him Ting Lang.”
The wife said, “Alas! I may not follow you into exile, I shall go to my
old home, but if the child is a son, when he is old enough I shall send
him to you.”
Then she took from her sleeve a small mirror, a comb, and a
handkerchief. These she divided into two parts, gave one part to her
husband, and placed the other in her inner pocket.
“When a boy finds you, producing these, you will know who he is, and
wherever you are you must own him.”
With this and many tears they embraced each other, then with much
weeping she knelt before him, and touching her head to the ground three
times, she said her good-bye.
Her husband raised her and gave her into the command of the
serving-woman, with many words of instruction to the latter, who was in
great distress at the condition of her mistress’s eye. He told her what
medicine to get, and how to care for it, and made her promise to stay
with her lady as long as she lived. And then the friend came and
promised the wife to stay by her husband to the end of the journey and
care for him, and urged her to go home as it was late and the cart must
be starting.
With one hand covering the poor wounded eye, the two women watched the
cart until it was lost in a bend of the road, and the servant said, “My
great lady, return to your home. Sad, indeed, is your fate, but the
gods know all.” Together they went back to the city, and some weeks
later the poor heart was comforted by the birth of her little son.
Years passed; Yü Yüch Ying’s parents died, after great reverses and
reduced to poverty, all by their powerful enemy. The mother took in
sewing and washing and most of all gave herself to the care of her son,
and in this quiet manner twelve years came and went. No word had come
from her husband and no word of their life-story did the mother tell
her son. Their great enemy year by year grew richer, and more powerful,
and more unscrupulous.
The year little Ting Lang was twelve the display of the Lantern Feast,
the fifteenth of the first month, was most beautiful, and among all
displays none exceeded Yen Sung’s. Hither little Ting Lang bent his
steps, and as he was running along he pushed against a small boy who
fell down, and at once began in great anger to revile Ting Lang’s
father. Little Ting Lang did not understand what he said, as his mother
always told him that his father was away on government business. He no
longer cared to see the beautiful lanterns. Home he went as fast as he
could, and rushing in, he prostrated himself before his mother, and
implored her to tell him who his father was and why he didn’t come
back.
The mother’s heart was centred in the boy. He was “the point of her
heart,” as fond Chinese mothers say when the Western mother would say
“my sweetheart.” Taking him by the hand she raised him up, and said,
with all the mother-love shining in her eyes, “My son, you are too
young yet to know all. Some day when you are a little older I will tell
you the history of our sad lives. We have a great and powerful enemy
and it is only by this quiet living that you and I have lived in peace.
Wait a little longer, son, and you shall know all.”
The boy was quick and impetuous and said, “Mother, unless you tell me
now I cannot live. I am no longer a child. I will to know now.”
“Not now, my son,” was the quiet but sad reply.
Hearing this, the boy rushed from the room and out into the back court
where there was a well and, as he ran by, he kicked a brick into the
well and dashed into a grape arbour.
The mother, rushing out after him, only able to see with one eye, and
not seeing her boy, but only hearing the splash as the brick struck the
water, concluded that he had jumped into the well. Sitting down by the
well, she exclaimed:
“Ai, ja. What have I to live for now? My son is in the well, his father
in banishment in Hsiang Yang, all is gone. I cannot keep my promise and
send him to his father. Alas! alas! My fate is indeed bitter. I too
will end my sorrows in the well. At least in death I can be with my
boy. His shall also be my grave,” and rising, she gathered her skirt
about her head preparatory to jumping in, when Ting Lang rushed out
from his hiding-place and, grasping her, shouted:
“Mother, don’t. I am alive. I hid to frighten you. Why is my father in
banishment? What promise did you make him about me? Tell me, or I truly
will beat my brains out against the bricks.”
Seeing the desperate look in his eyes, she said, as she took him in her
arms, “Little son, you were nearly the death of your mother, but never
mind, you shall know all. I see, indeed, you are not a child,” and
leading him into the house, she told him the sad, sad story from first
to last, showed him the priceless keepsakes. As he looked at them and
at the dear, patient, disfigured face, he said:
“Mother, I am going now to seek my father. You must not prevent me.”
Could she let him go, out into the great unknown world, her little boy,
her baby; how could she? And yet her promise to his father; her vow
that she had lived over every day of his precious little life. “Yes,
the boy should go.” What mattered her sorrow at the parting? With
breaking heart and bitter, sad tears she gave her consent, and pawned
almost everything she had to give him money to use on the journey.
When the morning came for him to leave her, she got his breakfast,
feeling as though the life was going out of her, and yet, with words of
wisdom and many instructions, she clasped him to her, then allowed him
to make his prostration, and the door closed.
As Ting Lang went down the steps he heard a fall and, going back, found
the dear mother like unto one dead. He called to her and wept and
plead, and at last the dear eye once more looked into his, and he said:
“You must not grieve thus. I must fulfil your promise to my father. I
will tell you a plan; you buy a coffin and put it under your window.
Put all my old clothes and shoes into it, and when you are lonely and
miss me and must weep, you go to the coffin and say, ‘My son is dead.
Here will I weep for him.’ Consider me as dead and here, and you will
be comforted.”
The mother replied, “You are wise, my dear, beyond your years; I will
do as you say, and weep for you there.”
“If I live, my mother, I will come back for you if I can find my
father.”
The boy went by boat down the Grand Canal for Tientsin. On the boat
were some wicked men who took his money and clothing, and when they
reached Lui Ching, sold him to a theatre man.
This man was very unkind to him, and he was determined to make his
escape; one day he was less carefully watched, and taking the open
moment, he ran to the river bank just as some men were landing from a
boat. The boy sought their protection, told his story, and before he
was through, he was in the arms of one of the men, who proved to be the
friend, Mr. Wang, who had taken his father to the place of banishment.
The theatre man came up and declared the boy was his; upon which Mr.
Wang quarrelled with him, and in the fight that followed the man was
killed. Mr. Wang was arrested, but managed first to get the boy out of
the city and, giving him a little money, went back to stand his trial.
After many long, weary days of travel, but without serious trouble, the
hungry, footsore, and weary boy found his way to the city to which he
had been directed.
Let us turn and follow the footsteps of the father during the twelve
sad years. Mr. Kao was greatly depressed by his many sorrows, and when
he parted from his wife, he felt he should never see her again, neither
did he even then comprehend what a true and remarkable wife was his.
After reaching the city of Hsiang Yang, to which he had been banished,
he was obliged to walk about with chain and ball attached to his feet,
carrying a gun on his shoulder. For food he was given permission to
take a handful of grain from each bag of tribute rice that he saw on
carts passing through the city. This he could cook and so keep from
starving. This kind of life was very trying to him and he endured it
for some months, and then, being a proud, spirited man, he determined
that he would either die or change for the better in some way. He
begged a few bits of money, bought a pen, ink, and some paper, and as
he was a very beautiful writer, he employed his time in writing Chinese
characters and selling them on the street. This was a wise change, and
as he sat writing day by day by the roadside, his fame spread all over
the city.
One day a very rich old gentleman, who had been observing him quietly
for many days, drew near and entered into conversation. After passing
the time of day, he remarked on the beauty of Mr. Kao’s writing and his
evident familiarity with the Chinese Classics; “Neither do you look to
me to be a man of the common people or one who should be in this prison
dress.”
As he talked his kindly manner warmed the heart of Mr. Kao, who had
come to feel that all the world, even the gods, were against him, and
little by little he told the story of his father’s life and their
deadly enemy, the great Yen Sung. He did not tell of his wife and the
great sorrow of his family life, but said his father’s enemy had been
the cause of his banishment for life.
The old gentleman said, “My name is Hu. I have been observing you for
days though you did not know it, and I was certain that you could not
be a guilty man. Have you any family in the north?”
“No,” said the unhappy Kao. “All is lost to me. I am alone in the
world.” On hearing this the gentleman said, “I have a proposition to
make to you; I am a rich man and have large estates, but I have no son
to inherit them or care for me when I am old. I have a beautiful
daughter; will you marry her, come and live with us, take my cares upon
you; when I am old care for me? If so, when I am gone all shall be
yours.”
The young man could hardly believe his ears, and looked in amazement,
and at last said, “How can that be? I am a criminal, under sentence of
the government, a man whose very name has been changed.”
“That is easy for me,” said Mr. Hu. “Did I not tell you I was rich; is
there anything money will not do? I can buy your freedom at the
magistrate’s here and if you are ready and willing we will receive you
into our family. I ask you again only this: have you a family in the
north?”
Again Mr. Kao replied, “No, I am alone.”
“All is well then,” replied Mr. Hu. “I will see to the rest,” and in a
few days what seemed as a dream to Mr. Kao, or Mr. Tu, as he took back
his old name, became a reality.
Mr. Tu was much overcome; the temptation to a life of luxury after his
suffering had been too great, and after his marriage to the beautiful
daughter of the “House of Hu” he did not dare to tell of the brave,
true-hearted wife and mother in the city of Peking. He put it off from
month to month, but it did not become any easier as time went by, and
the riches, beautiful home, and family were driving all that dark past
more and more from his mind. Their home was all the heart could desire,
and later a little son came to share it with them, and then indeed were
the bitter days of the past cast out of heart and mind as far as
possible.
Thus, in comfort and joy, the twelve years passed away; Mr. Hu thanking
the gods for giving him such a son, content that old age should come to
him and his old wife under these most auspicious circumstances. How
different a life was this from that of the wife and mother in the far
north.
One day Mr. Tu went with some companions for a ride outside of the
city. As they neared the gate they saw a lot of people gathered about a
young lad of remarkably fine face and form, but in very poor clothing.
He had in his hand a broken comb and, spread out before him, a part of
a silk handkerchief and a broken mirror, and with tears in his eyes Mr.
Tu waved the men aside and asked the boy who he was and where he came
from.
The boy said, “I am Ting Lang and am come in search of my father, Tu
Ching Ling, known by the name of Kao. He was banished to this city and
I am in search of him. He came here twelve years ago. If any of you
know him or where I can find him, will you please tell me.”
Not a word was spoken for a moment, then Mr. Tu said, pointing to the
keepsakes, “What are those things? Do you call such stuff treasure?”
“Yes,” said Ting Lang. “My mother gave them to me, the other half of
each my father has and he was to know me by these.”
A man standing near said, “This must be your son. You have not told us
all the truth about yourself.”
Mr. Tu was angry then and also afraid, and striking the boy with his
riding-whip, he said, as he threw him some silver, “Get you gone, you
are an impostor; you are not my son, but because you are a poor boy I
will help you a little and not put you in prison.” Saying this, he rode
on, followed by his friends.
As the men rode away, the bystanders all said, “That is your father. He
is Tu Ching Ling, also Kao Ching Chi. He was banished here twelve years
ago.”
When the boy heard this, he gathered his treasures together, and went
into a temple near, where he sat down to think. What had he to live
for? His father had disowned him; had struck him.
“Alas!” said he. “There is for me no living road, I will end it here. I
have failed in my promise to my mother.”
Taking his girdle, he was fastening it about a beam in the temple when
an old priest came in and said, “Son, what would you do? I may be able
to help you.”
The poor lad poured out his sad story, and at its close the priest
said:
“Son, listen to me; I will help you find your father again, and a plan
by which he must own you. You dry your tears and stay here with me a
few days, and I promise you, you will yet be a happy boy.” Then he
thought a while and at last disclosed his plan in part to the lad.
He taught the boy some songs and helped him put his own life-story into
rhyme, and one day said, “I want you to sing for the ‘foundation
beaters,’ who are preparing the ground for a beautiful pavilion in a
flower garden belonging to a rich man. They are in need of a leading
voice such as you have, and you can sing for them; you may also sing
your own song at that place.”
Ting Lang went with him, and his beautiful voice and handsome face won
the hearts of all the workmen, and they joined in the choruses with a
will, throwing all their strength into the work.
For a day or two he caught no glimpse of the family, and his heart was
sad and heavy; so also was the heart of the father, had he but known
it. The sight of the boy had brought back the memory of his early life
and the parting with the boy’s mother. The boy was in the city; people
would know all and talk and it would come to his father-in-law’s ears,
yet he could not bring himself to tell him first.
The third day Ting Lang was singing he caught sight of a lady sitting
by the window listening. She was greatly interested in this
child-singer as she had heard him leading the workmen, and what was her
horror when she saw one of her servants go up and strike the child a
sharp blow, knocking him from the bench on which he was standing.
Seeing the child did not get up, she called to the servant and berated
him soundly for his brutality.
“Why did you strike him?”
To which the servant answered, “He used the name of my master.”
“Fool,” said the lady, “you are more than stupid. Can there not be many
by your master’s name in all these provinces? Go and bring the boy in
here at once and revive him, and I will pardon you this cruelty.”
The servant obeyed her, and the boy was brought to the lady’s room.
After he revived and was quite himself again, she asked him who he was
and how old; why he had left his mother and come to another province,
as she could tell by his voice that he was from the north. He told her
he was twelve years old; had come from his home in the north to seek
his father, and then he went on and told her how his mother fainted
when he left her, and of his own sad and lonely journey.
“How old is your mother?” asked the lady.
“She is thirty-six,” was his reply.
“And your father, how old is he?”
“I remember hearing my mother say that he was older than she by two
years, and so he should be thirty-eight.”
“What is your father’s name?” was her next question.
“Tu Ching Ling,” was the answer.
The room was quiet a moment, and then came the question, “How does your
mother live?”
To this Ting Lang replied, “At first we were supported by my
grandparents, but they are dead now; died poor, and my mother, for some
time, has had to take in washing. She has only one eye, so she cannot
see to do fine sewing. She is reduced almost to a beggar.”
“Have you any proof of your father?” was the next question.
“Yes, I have the three mementos. The half of each are in my father’s
possession. These I have are the half my mother kept, and I was to
present them when I found my father.”
“When she gave you these, did she tell you when she gave the other half
to your father?”
Ting Lang said, “Yes.” Then he told of their parting as he had learned
it from the lips of his mother. Then he went on and told how he came to
start out in search of his father, the long, lonely road; how and why
his father was banished. It was with many sobs and tears that the story
was told, and before he was through the lady was weeping with him. As
he closed she put her arm around him and said:
“I am your second mother.”
When the boy heard this he was frightened and said, “Alas! alas! what
have I done!”
“Nothing,” was the reply; “rest your heart, you are indeed my son, for
I also am your father’s wife.” Then she told him the story of his
father’s coming to the city, her father’s interest in him, and her
marriage. “He said he had no family when we asked him and I could not
know of your mother. You have a younger brother, my little son, who is
nine years old. His name is Kan Lang; that corresponds with the name
your father left you, and I believe all your story. The mistake is all
your father’s. You are indeed his son.”
Ting Lang knelt and knocked his head to his second mother.
As she raised him up she said, “You have indeed suffered; you are the
best and bravest boy I ever heard of; you shall never leave us.”
This mother, Hu Yüch Ying, was also a very beautiful character, and her
sweet, gentle manners won the heart of Ting Lang and he believed her
word. She sent a servant to call her own little son, Kan Lang, and when
he came he asked, “Did you call me, mother?”
“Yes,” she said. “This is your older brother. Greet him first.”
“But, mother, I never saw or heard of him before,” was the reply of Kan
Lang.
“Greet him as I tell you, and afterward I will explain matters to you.”
The boys then bent the knee to each other and then the mother told her
son that she was a second wife; that the first wife was the mother of
Ting Lang, and she was also his mother; that Ting Lang was also her
son, and they were to care tenderly for each other. Then she sent a
servant to find his master and invite him to come to her apartments.
When he came in she asked, “Do you know this lad?” Her husband replied,
“I saw him outside the gate of the city. Who is he and what does he
want here?” Then his wife said:
“You are an ungrateful man. You deserve the severest punishment Heaven
can give. When I asked you if I had an ‘older sister’ you said no! My
father and mother treated you as a piece of fine gold. You had nothing
when you came to them. You should have told them the truth, and after
marriage told me the truth. You dress in silk, satin, and broadcloth;
you eat the best of the land, live in a great house, read, write, and
have tens of servants to wait at your door. You go out; it is either on
horse, in chair, or by cart, and ever with your outriders. You left my
poor sister in sorrow and poverty for twelve long years, while you have
lived in luxury and pleasures. Twelve years for her of bitterness and
death, forgotten by the man she trusted and for whom she gave her
beauty of person. You with your four seasons’ clothing, she almost a
beggar. Look at this your son, and think of his twelve years; ah! they
have made him a stronger man, though a boy yet, than his father. Think
of the long, weary way he has come seeking you; ah! the heart of an
iron or a stone man must have cried out at such sorrow as has been
theirs. How can you call yourself a man? How can you see my parents?
Above all, how will you ever be able to look in the face of my sister,
the mother of Ting Lang?” Then turning to the latter she said:
“Son, your father is not worthy, but kneel to him and make your
greeting and give him your mother’s message.”
Ting Lang knelt at his father’s feet, and when the father saw him there
he felt as though a knife had entered his heart. He put out his hand
and said:
“My virtuous and filial son, son of my suffering wife,” and then fell
back in a swoon.
The boys and the mother sprang forward and caught him and placed him in
a chair, a son standing at either side of the chair, the sweet mother
at the back.
As he came to and opened his eyes and saw them thus, he took his wife’s
hand and said:
“I have sinned against you and your house. I was afraid to tell you all
the truth. Ah, you are a better woman than I am a man. You are a great
daughter of a great house.”
Then Hu Yüch Ying said, “If indeed you will listen to me, I will
forgive you.”
He replied, “Whatever you say I will do.”
Meantime the old father and mother, having heard the crying and loud
voices, came to the door. It was opened and they came in, saying, “For
the first time we have heard what sounded like a quarrel, and have come
to see what it is about.”
Their son-in-law came and, kneeling at his father’s feet, said,
“Honoured and great father, I have sinned!” Then came the daughter and,
kneeling before her mother, she said, “His sins are my sins,” and after
that the two boys, who said as they knelt, “Our parents’ sins are
ours,” and the four wept with loud and bitter tears. The old man said:
“Arise, my children, all of you,” and lifted up his son-in-law; the
mother took her daughter in her arms, and two servants came forward and
lifted up the boys.
“Now,” said old Mr. Hu, “tell me all the trouble.” Then said Tu Ching
Ling:
“I have lied to you.”
“What about, my son?” asked Mr. Hu. “What could you possibly do that I
could not forgive?” Tu Ching Ling told of his wife, how he had lied
about her, of her virtue, and all the sad, miserable story, including
his fear to own his son, and sending him off. He concluded with:
“I am not worthy to be your son. Your goodness is as high as Heaven and
as deep as the earth.” As he closed the old gentleman looked at Ting
Lang and said:
“Thank the gods, thank the gods, that from your house has come forth
such a son. My house is honoured in him. You are forgiven.”
Then the father called Ting Lang to prostrate himself before his
grandparents, which he did, knocking his head to each three times. As
old Mr. Hu looked at him his eyes filled and he said, “He has the
virtues of Heaven and the strength of the gods; this is a son for the
gods, and the glory of his father, grandfather, and most worthy mother;
be comforted, son-in-law, we cannot divide the house; the child to seek
his father was ready to die, and to our house has come glory, and
because of the virtues of this boy the broken household shall be
reunited. To-day is a great day in our family. To honour this event,
for three days the workmen shall feast on meat and flour, and we will
have a great house-feast for three days, that all the friends and
relatives may know of our joy. We will call the best teacher in the
land and the boys shall study together;” then again he put his hand on
Ting Lang’s shoulder and said:
“You need not mourn for your mother. I will send for her. She shall
come in state and live in luxury all the rest of her life.”
Thus were husband, wife, and children all comforted, and made ready for
the great feast and theatre in honour of the oldest son. After which
the oldest family servants were sent north to Peking with letters for
the mother of Ting Lang.
Hu Yüch Ying wrote a beautiful letter of invitation to her, telling of
the home that awaited her, of herself, the little sister who would care
for her, of two sons instead of one, who longed for her instruction and
help. She wrote of the comforts she could have and the welcome that
awaited her.
When the servants reached Peking they had a hard time to find the small
court where she had her little room. They asked for “Lady Yü,” which
much surprised her neighbours. They said:
“The only one in that court by that name is an old woman who is almost
a beggar; she has a small son, but he is off seeking his father.”
“Please call her,” said the head steward, and the neighbours went and
said, “Mrs. Yü, some men at the gate are seeking you. They seem to
belong to some big man, but their dialect is not of this province.”
Yü Yüch Ying said, “Tell them my room is small, I have no man at home,
and it is not, therefore, proper for them to enter my place. Whatever
business they have they are to tell you.”
As they returned to the gate the neighbours said, “Although she is so
poor, she is most particular as to observing good customs.”
Then the servants sent in the two letters. She read the one from her
husband, asking her pardon for his neglect, saying he had no means of
expressing his deep regret, telling of his present circumstances and
comforts, and thanking her for sending the son. He said he had no words
to praise her virtue, it was as high as Heaven; told of the son’s
finding him and how he was studying under a great teacher who
pronounced him a remarkable scholar. Then he urged her “ten thousand
times to come and live with them. The servants had come to bring her,
and he and her sister would only be happy when she came. They hoped for
her day and night, and their hearts were hungry for her friendship,
even as her two sons needed her instruction.”
As she closed the letter she said, “Thanks to the gods who took my
child in safety. My husband has then a wife and son. My own son is
provided for; my heart is at rest.” She then wrote the following
letter:
“My little sister and virtuous husband: your letters of invitation are
at hand. I cannot thank you enough for your goodness to my boy. I do
not desire comforts and luxuries for myself. I only desire his best
good. That has come. I have suffered only that the boy and his father
might be united. You need not be anxious about me. I am entirely
satisfied. The Superior Man may be poor in bodily comforts, but he is
not poor in wisdom or virtue. The tiger may be very thin, but the
strength of his heart is not diminished.” Then she called the servants,
who came and gave her a greeting. They said they had everything ready
to take her back with them. Also two women-servants were waiting in the
cart for her. Yü Yüch Ying said:
“I am poor, I have nothing to give you for all your long, weary
journey. Please return and take this letter; I will not go with you
now.” The servants all urged her and plead with her; showed her the
boxes of garments, the silver sent for the journey; praised the
beautiful home waiting for her, told of the kind old people, and most
charming younger sister. To all she turned a deaf ear.
“My son has found his father; the latter has comforts and riches; I
will abide here; here where I have suffered will I live my life; I care
not for riches; although I am poor I am not covetous. Our great sage
said, The Superior Man may be poor, but he will never be covetous.
Although I am poor you must not try to make me ashamed, and you need
not praise their riches; I may not always be poor and they may not
always be rich. The gods deal out to men their lives, I am content. In
the spring the grass sends up its shoots; autumn comes and the leaves
fall. In the autumn of life we will compare our fates.”
As she said this the tears came; all the years of loneliness and
sadness swept over her; she could not accept comforts from him who had
been untrue to her, or from the one who had her place. The servants
said:
“Lady Yü, you are indeed a Superior Woman. If we go back without you,
you must at least keep the garments and the money.”
These she at first refused, but at last, to satisfy them, as she knew
that the servants would suffer if she did not, she said:
“I do not want the silks and velvets; take those back with you. How
would I, a beggar, look in such garments. Give me a few changes of
cotton garments; they will fit my station better and I will not appear
to be other than I am.”
This was done after much protesting; then she accepted a few ounces of
silver, and told them they might use the rest on the journey back. They
said:
“We have a plenty for all; we will put this in the care of a big store
here; our master is part owner in it, and you must go to him for it
when you need it. You must promise us this for the sake of your son.
You must not cause him to weep, and be sad, because of your living in
useless poverty.” She promised them she would go when she had need of
money and get from the store for her use, and with great reluctance the
servants, again prostrating themselves, left her; they returned to the
south and she entered her poor little room.
Years came and went; to all the letters Lady Yü returned an answer that
she was in need of nothing and would not leave her native city. The
boys grew up together. They were very bright, and year by year took
high honours in the examinations. In all the province there was no
other student equal to Ting Lang. He was the talk of the city; and
people predicted a great fortune for him.
When he was seventeen, he and his brother went to Peking to take the
examinations for the higher degrees; for these they not only wrote the
three-page essay, but also a two-page “Chin Tsin,” or a short account
of the family, going back several generations and giving the official
positions of any of their ancestors.
When Ting Lang entered his name and his brother’s for the examinations
they had given the name of Hu and as he had not sought out his mother,
no one knew that the much-talked-of young student was of the old house
of Tu. His enemy, Yen Sung, had no thought of fear from the family. He
was the great examiner, the head of the Hau Lin College. In all the
Empire no one could write such characters as he. (At the present time,
characters written by him hang in the Hall of Classics in Peking as a
model of perfect writing.) Year by year his power had grown until the
Emperor was almost a figurehead and hated him, yet no one dared to
impeach him.
Ting Lang came with three hundred and fifty-nine other men who had the
degree of “Chin Shib,” to be examined for “Chuang Yuan,” the highest
degree in the Empire, and a degree only given to one man once in three
years. This year it came to Ting Lang and the degree of “Pang Yen” to
his brother. Ting Lang’s writing was pronounced perfect by the Emperor,
the style most elegant.
At the close of the examinations a great feast was given; among those
present was a powerful official by name of Hai Jui. He was noted as a
man of great ability and as an honest and upright minister. He knew the
story of Ting Lang’s life; felt that the time had come to expose the
great Yen Sung, so at the great feast following the examinations he
wrote the following on slips of paper and sent them quietly among the
students:
“A great man has come among us in our new ‘Chuang Yuan.’ Although a boy
in years, he is a man, yes a son of a god in ability and talent. He
will be of great use to his country. There are officials—yes, great
ones—who are traitors to the good of their country; these we must put
down and give men of ability a chance.”
Every one knew this referred to Yen Sung though no name was given.
After the feast the students all waited outside the Hall for Yen Sung
to come for audience with the Emperor. As he came near to his chair,
Ting Lang walked up to him and said:
“You great traitor to your country; you crafty minister; you control
and insult the Emperor, hold under as slaves all officials of the
Empire; you oppressor of the people, your sun is set. Your sons are
like you in wickedness; your steward is a devil, and you plan with him.
Your great literary name is wild and worthless; judgment awaits you,
the judgment of Heaven.”
The great Yen Sung looked around; not a friendly face; his own grew a
little fearful, and yet in a loud voice he called out:
“What does this mean?” and turning to the officials he had created he
said, “You stand there and see me reviled; you make no motion to help
me; life and death are in my hands and you will suffer.” With that he
attempted to get into his chair, when Ting Lang and all his student
friends set upon him. They tore off his audience cap, his royal robes,
beat him, reviled him, and were in the midst of a free fight with him
and his chair-bearers, when Hai Jui came from the audience hall. In a
few words quiet was restored, and the great Yen Sung, torn and
tattered, beaten, and raging like a lion, rushed into the audience hall
and, bending before the Emperor, cried out for revenge. The Emperor had
heard the commotion outside and had asked who and what it was. They had
told him that the three hundred and sixty literary men who had been at
the feast had set upon and were beating Yen Kë Lao. When the Emperor
heard this he said:
“For literary men, men of high degree, to do such a thing means, can
but mean, that they have a good clear reason, otherwise they would not
act like beasts,” so he waited, and was waiting when Yen Sung rushed
in.
“Great Emperor,” said he, “I have been beaten by the students, and
without cause. There is going to be a rebellion, have a care, your
Majesty.” When he was through the Emperor said:
“How could so many people attack one man unless there was a good
reason? We will examine into this thing. Call the new ‘Chuang Yuan,’ I
will ask him.” Ting Lang came and knocked his head and said:
“My lord, live ten thousand years; I have sinned, I have beaten a ‘Kë
Lao.’ I ought to die.” The Emperor said:
“You are a new and very young Chuang Yuan. How can you have a death
sin?” Then, turning to another official he said, “Call Hai Jui, I will
have his witness.” Hai Jui knelt and said:
“I dare not look on thy face, great Lord; for a Chuang Yuan to beat a
Kë Lao, there must always be a reason.” The Emperor replied:
“That is right and fair; to attack just outside of my door, there must
be a clear reason and a great one,” then he turned and commanded Ting
Lang to tell at once. Ting Lang said:
“Most mighty one, one word would not explain; I have it all in a
document which I have here and would beg your Majesty to read. It will
explain all.” He held out his document and, at a bow from the Emperor,
a eunuch came forward, took it, and placed it on the table by the
Emperor’s side. The latter took it up and read it: the sad story of the
three generations. He read as in a dream the entire paper; he saw, as
one thing after another came before his mind, how for years he had been
a tool of his minister, Yen Sung. Saw how he had kept back and brought
to death many a good, worthy official. At last, lifting his head, he
looked at the trembling Yen Sung and said:
“Ai, ya! This is true, all of it. I know it; you are the greatest
traitor under the heavens. I give to Hai Jui power to strip you of all
rank, and hand you over to the Board of Punishments. You shall be tried
and punished for your evil deeds.” Then, turning to Hai Jui, he
commanded him to call soldiers, to then and there take him to prison;
to see that a day was appointed for trial. Then he commanded that a
palace be found and put in order for the new Chuang Yuan and his
brother; that in the third day all officials were to call on him and
make his acquaintance.
With great luxury was the palace prepared, for all rejoiced at the
downfall of the great Yen Sung, and all desired to do homage to the
great son of the old official house of Tu.
During these days in the city, Ting Lang had not dared to seek out his
mother, as he wanted first to expose their enemy; he came to the city
under the name of Hu, and while Lady Yü had heard of the very wonderful
young man, she did not dare to even hope that it might be her son; she
asked no questions and no one mentioned the downfall of Yen Sung. The
next day a steward came and told her he suspected the young man was her
son; but she said:
“No, that cannot be; no such glory awaits our house. I have heard a
little of the two brothers, but you have made a mistake.” The day after
the downfall she was busy at home when a neighbour came in and said:
“Some great men have just entered our street and are coming this way.”
Just then a servant rushed in and said:
“They have come to get the Great Lady.”
The neighbours laughed and said, “What great lady? There is no great
lady in this street.”
But the horsemen drew near the gate and awaited the chairs. The servant
came and said:
“The great man, the new Chuang Yuan, has come for his honoured mother,
the Lady Yü.” Then came the other servants one after another. Yü Yüch
Ying put up her hand and protested:
“I am but a poor lone woman, living my life quietly. You have made a
mistake, there is no great Lady Yü here.” Then in came Ting Lang,
followed by his brother. In beautiful robes and special official cap,
that told of his high rank, with all the glory of his position, she
knew him; knew her boy who left her a little lad, returning to her with
glory honestly won. As the sages truly say, “The son, though he goes
thousands of miles from home, never leaves his mother’s heart; the son,
though separated from his mother years, never forgets her, but carries
her in his heart.” He now sprang forward and knelt before her, saying:
“Honoured mother, don’t come a step, I am unworthy.” To test his heart
she said:
“And who are you that call me mother?”
“Only your own small son, Ting Lang, my mother.”
Kan Lang came and knelt beside him and said, “Great mother, I do you
reverence. I also am your son.” Yü Yüch Ying came to put both hands on
her son’s shoulders and said:
“Ah, son! son! I have longed for you to the death; did you not think,
while you were away, of my sadness and loneliness?” Thus she put out
her hand and took the hand of the younger boy, and together they wept.
“My mother, if you weep to your illness, of what joy is my promotion?
Word has already gone to the southern home, and they will come to us.
Our sorrows, yours are over; I shall never leave you or you me. The
bitterness is over and the sweet has come, be comforted and we will all
rejoice together.” Yü Yüch Ying lifted her hands and said:
“I thank Heaven and the gods that the mother and son are united again.
I thank Heaven that I also have a younger son. I thank Heaven and Earth
for giving such an honour to poor sightless me.”
The sons lifted her from her knees, called the servants who took her to
her room, and after arranging her still beautiful black hair, they
robed her in garments of honour brought by her son. When all was ready
the sons came and, bending the knee, said:
“We invite our mother to take her chair, leaving this little court and
room, and go with us to enjoy the pleasures and blessings granted by
Heaven to the restored House of Tu.” The mother said:
“My sons, these poor neighbours have been kind to me always. Thank them
for me.” This the sons did in a most respectful manner and promised to
reward them. She herself then thanked them, and they escorted her to
her chair, and to the palace where she was given great honour.
Later in the day, father, mother, and grandparents of Kan Lang came,
and thus, after eighteen weary years, the family was reunited, and joy
came in every form to them for many long years. Yü Yüch Ying lived to
see and hold her great grandchildren, and to see great glory come to
their house. Their great enemy was tried and punished by loss of all
rank and estate; his last days spent in poverty and seclusion.
Tradition says he was given a silver bowl and made to beg from door to
door for the rest of his life, and a small street called “Silver
Street” is said to have been named for his bowl and the fact that there
he died on the street a beggar. History only records the loss of rank
and estate. His steward, Nien Chi, was tried at the same time, and was
sentenced to be burned alive in the street,—“A fine lamp for one dark
night.” Thus was meted out punishment to the enemies of the House of
Tu.