by Pu Songling
The Daoist pulled his guest up onto the platform, ordering a boy servant to set up a feast to which he then invited Wang. A dazzling spread of several dozen separate banquets had been set out. The Daoist changed into splendid attire, and then they were served.
Shortly, a variety of visitors flew in as Wang himself had, one riding a dragon, another on a tiger, and the other on a phoenix, every steed unique. Each of the riders also brought along a musical instrument. There was a woman, a man, and another person with bare feet. Between the latter two was a beauty straddling the colorful phoenix, dressed in palace garb; a small boy servant appeared there, carrying a musical instrument in his arms for her that was about five chi in length, but was neither qin nor se, so Wang didn’t know what it was called.
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Five dou bag: A dou is a measure equal to as much as a decaliter, so the stick feels to Wang like it’s becoming very large indeed.
Zhang: A measure equal to 3.33 meters.
Chi: A measure equal to 1/3 meter.
Qin . . . se: The qin is a zither-like instrument with seven strings, which is played horizontally on a table, the strings plucked with the right hand while the left presses down the strings. The se is a similarly plucked instrument, possessing either twenty-five or twenty-six strings.
Wine was brought out to complement the great variety of fine dishes, and the delicacies were sweet and fragrant in the mouth, altogether rare and delicious. Wang sat quietly, without speaking, focusing his eyes exclusively on the beauty; he’d fallen in love with her, and hence he wanted to hear her play some music, but he secretly feared she might refuse to play a single note.
After they’d finished their wine, an old man initiated the next activity, saying, “You high immortals have been called together for this encounter in what can be said to be a distinguished gathering today, so you should enjoy yourselves completely. Please take your instruments so you can join in harmony, and play some songs together.”
Thereupon, each of them joined the others in ensemble. The sounds of their music spread as far as the Milky Way. But the talent of the playing from the girl sitting on the phoenix had no match. When the group finished playing, the servant boy began to open an embroidered bag, and spread it out on top of a small table.
The beauty then revealed her lovely wrist and forearm, and it was as though she was playing a zheng, its sound several times as bright and clear as a qin’s, strong enough to open up the emotions, though soft enough to move the spirit. The sound of her plucking resonated for a long time before a silence fell over the hall, uninterrupted by even a cough.
After those notes had ceased, there came a ringing sound, like someone striking stone chimes. They all joined in praise, saying “The Yunhe maiden plays with consummate skill!” Everyone in the group stood up to bid farewell, and accompanied by the cries of cranes and the roaring of dragons, in moments they all vanished.
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Zheng: Another zither-like instrument, with fifteen or sixteen strings, and a little less than four feet long.
Yunhe: Zhu identifies it as a mountain (2:946n17), a common setting for narratives involving Daoists who withdraw from the world and achieve immortality.
The Daoist had a place prepared for Wang to sleep, with a bejewelled bed and a brocade quilt set up for him. When Wang first observed the beauty who’d visited, his feelings were powerfully stirred; but after hearing her music, he was especially smitten. He thought about his own talents, and how becoming a high official would be as easy for him as picking mustard leaves, and after he became wealthy and esteemed, there’d be nothing he couldn’t ask for. Instantly he experienced a hundred emotions at once, ranging from disheveled confusion to numbness.
The Daoist recognized what was going on, and told him, “As children in a previous life, we were schoolmates, but because your determination wasn’t strong, you became mired in worldly concerns. Since I don’t consider you a complete stranger, truly I’ve wanted to extract you from this foulness; unexpectedly, you descended into the darkness so completely that I couldn’t help to guide your consciousness out of the confusion. But now I have to see you off. We may see each other again in the future, yet if you want to become an immortal, you must accept your inexorable destiny.”
Then he pointed down the steps to the long stone monolith underneath them, and directed Wang to shut his eyes and sit down, strongly urging him that he must not peek. Once Wang was seated, the Daoist whipped the stone into motion. The stone began to rise up, with the sound of the wind filling it, though Wang couldn’t tell how far he’d travelled.
Suddenly he thought about everything below, and the fact that he hadn’t taken a careful look at it; so when he secretly opened his eyes no more than a thread’s width, he saw a vast, open sea, that was utterly without limit. Terrified, he closed his eyes again, but by then he was already falling with the stone, making a loud noise, like a seagull diving into the ocean.
Fortunately, he entered the water near shore, and Wang was somewhat skilled as a swimmer. He heard someone applauding and calling out, “The self-satisfied fellow has taken a tumble!” Then just as he was most urgently in great danger, a girl helped him climb up into a boat, and she further remarked, “What luck, what luck, the xiucai has ‘passed the test’!” As he looked closely at her, he could see that she was about sixteen or seventeen, and gorgeously attractive.
Wang was shivering with cold as she pulled him from the water, and begged for a fire where he might warm himself. “Follow me home,” the girl told him, “and I should be able to find something for you. If that’s agreeable, don’t forget me.”
“What kind of way is that to talk!” Wang cried. “I’m a gifted scholar from the central plains who happens to find himself in quite a predicament, and then you raise this issue to me—I’ll repay you anything, let alone forget about you!”
The girl took an oar and rapidly propelled their boat, quickly as a passing rainstorm, and moments later, they’d already reached the shore. From within the boat’s cabin, the girl brought out a lotus flower that she’d picked, and then, asking Wang to hold it, she led him as they left together.
About half a li from there, they entered a village, where Wang saw some red doors that were open to the south, and as they approached each of the heavy doors, one by one, the girl quickly rushed in by herself. After a little while, a brave-looking man, whose age appeared to be forty or so, came out to meet Wang, and after bowing respectfully to him, led him up some stairs, where the man ordered a servant to take Wang’s cap, stockings, and shoes, and to bring him a change of clothes.
Afterwards, the man asked him about his homeland and his background. “I’m not trying to deceive you,” Wang replied, “but almost everyone’s heard of my reputation for talent. The immortal at Cui feels an attachment to me, and has invited me to ascend to become a heavenly official. I’d always believed that achieving academic honors was as easy as turning over my hand, so I’d never have chosen to become a hermit.”
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‘Passed the test’: Pu is punning here, for 中式 (zhongshi) means to pass the imperial civil service examination; the zhongshi here, 中湿, would suggest that he has “passed” the “wetness” test. A xiucai is a scholar who’s passed the civil service examination at the county level.
Li: A distance equal to 1/3 mile.
The imposing man stood up and respectfully said, “This place is called the Island of the Immortals, far away and cut off from the mortal world. I’m a scholar like you, and my surname is Huan. We have lived here peacefully in seclusion for many generations, and have been most fortunate to attract distinguished personages like you.” Thereupon, he solicitously provided a feast for Wang.
Then he leisurely mentioned, “I have two daughters, and the elder, Fangyun, who’s sixteen, hasn’t met anyone so far who’d be a good match for her. I’d like to have her marry you—how would that be?” Wang wondered
whether this must have been the girl who’d plucked the lotus, so after thanking Huan, he left the banquet. Huan meanwhile directed someone to one of the village communities, to deliver an invitation to two or three venerable individuals there.
Wang looked left and right, then stood and called for Fangyun. In no time, a rare fragrance spread throughout the room as more than ten lovely women appeared and gathered around Fangyun as she came out, radiantly bright and beautiful, like the morning sun shining on lotus flowers.
When they finished their obeisance to her, she proceeded to take a seat. The group of beauties lined up, ready to serve her, and among them was the girl who’d plucked the lotus. The wine went around several times, and there was a girl, only about ten years old, wearing her hair loose and hanging down, who came out, carrying herself with an elegant grace, and stood at Fangyun’s elbow, laughing in accord with her, her bright glance moving flirtatiously in Wang’s direction.
“Since you’re not in your room,” Huan remarked to her, “what business brings you out here?”
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Cui: Located in Shandong province.
Then he turned to Wang and said, “This is Luyun, my younger daughter. She’s quite kind, and she can recall the entirety of the Books of the Three Emperors and the Five Rulers.” Accordingly, he ordered her to treat their guest to a recitation of poetry. Then she recited three chapters’ worth of poems, delicate and lovely to the ear. Afterwards, he directed her to take a seat in the corner near Fangyun.
Huan subsequently declared to him, “Master Wang is a man of unique gifts, and your previous writings are certainly rich sources, so could I ask to hear some of your erudition?”
Wang then expansively recited one of his recent works, glancing in self-aggrandizement all around the room. Two lines of his verse went like this: “When all that remains of a man are his eyebrows and beard, / A few drinks can make a great depression disappear.” An old man nearby gave three interpretations of the lines.
Fangyun lowered her voice and explained to the old man, “The first line refers to Sun Wukong coming across the Red Boy at Fire-Cloud Cave, and the second line is about Zhubajie’s experience with the Child and Mother River.” The seated listeners applauded her understanding of Wang’s poem.
Huan invited Wang to recite some more verses. Wang began narrating some poetry about waterbirds: “From the end of the pool comes what sounds like the cry of the partridge—” and suddenly he forgot the second line. Just as he began to mutter to himself in frustration, Fangyun turned to Luyun, whispered some words in her ear, then covered her mouth and giggled.
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Books of the Three Emperors and the Five Rulers: Legendary lost books of ancient historical records. The three emperors, or three divine sovereigns, are Fuxi (legendary innovator of political governance), Nüwa (a goddess), and Shennong (legendary developer of agriculture and herbal medicine). The five rulers, or five august emperors, include Huangdi (the Yellow Emperor), Zhuanxu (god of the north), Di Ku (inventor of musical instruments), Yao (the first of the three sage kings, including Shun and Yu), and Shun (second of the three sage kings). See Yang and An (262-6).
Sun Wukong . . . Child and Mother River: Sun Wukong, aka the Handsome Monkey King, is the central figure in The Journey to the West (xi you ji). In chapter 41, he encounters Red Boy, a fire demon, and his body is shocked into a death-like state when he plunges into a frigid stream to douse his burning body. In chapter 53, Zhubajie, sometimes translated as Pigsy, learns that he has drunk from the Child and Mother River, where only the local women go to drink, because its waters provoke pregnancy, and is forced to trust monkey to bring back water from the Abortion Stream in a cave on Male Undoing Mountain to cure his condition.
Luyun told her father, “If he’s going to be big sister’s husband, he has to add the other line. It goes: ‘But it’s just the fart of a dog nearby.’” The whole assemblage laughed joyously. Wang, however, looked shame-faced. Huan turned to Fangyun, darting an angry glance at her.
As Wang’s embarrassment settled somewhat, Huan then prevailed upon him to demonstrate his own literary talent. Wang figured that these individuals existing outside the mundane world surely wouldn’t be familiar with the eight-part essays of the civil service examination system, and hence they’d be dazzled by what he’d written to achieve the top score on the subject, “The Filial Son, Min Ziqian,” and so he meant to give two lines as a brief statement of his theme: “Confucius supported filial piety as the act of a greatly able and virtuous person—“
Luyun turned to her father and said, “Confucius didn’t ask a single one of his disciples to write down his words, so ‘The Filial Son . . .’ should be assumed to be public opinion.”
When Wang heard this, his previous enthusiasm for his work cooled considerably. Huan smiled and exclaimed, “What does a child know! That’s not the topic for now, since we’re only discussing literary work.” Wang then continued reciting. Every few lines, Fangyun and Luyun would whisper words in each other’s ear, apparently passing judgment on Wang’s words, mumbling so he couldn’t make out what they were saying.
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Min Ziqian: A disciple of Confucius and one of the twenty-four Confucian epitomes of filial piety. Min Ziqian, abused by his stepmother and subjected to bitter cold in flimsy clothing, begged his enraged father to be merciful with her, and not to send her away.
As Wang recited some lines that he thought were particularly distinguished, he quoted the academic scholar’s maxim, “every word was chosen with cutting pain.”
Luyun told her father, “Big sister says, ‘He should eliminate the word “cutting” from the saying.’” No one in the group understood what she was getting at. Huan was worried that her words might humiliate Wang, so he didn’t dare probe any further.
When Wang finished his recitation, he made an overall appraisal of it, stating, “With each cadence of the drum, ten thousand flower petals fell.” Fangyun then covered her mouth as she whispered to Luyun, and the two of them giggled together, unable to control themselves.
Luyun consequently told everyone, “Big sister says, ‘Each cadence of the drum should be four beats.’” Again the others had no idea what she meant.
As Luyun was opening her mouth, wanting to say something else, Fangyun stifled a laugh and scolded her, “How dare you say that, I should beat you!” The others were quite curious, each of them trying to guess at the meaning of the sisters’ words.
Luyun couldn’t bear it. “Remove the word ‘cutting,’” she said then, “and you’re left with ‘pain,’ which ‘doesn’t make sense’ there. Beat four drum cadences, and they sound like ‘nonsense, nonsense.’” The others roared with laughter. Huan angrily scolded her. Thereupon she got up and filled Wang’s wine goblet, effusively apologizing for her discourtesy.
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Each cadence of the drum: Poets often struck a small drum to mark the cadence of their verse as they were reciting. Fangyun’s comment through Luyun suggests that Wang’s poetry is long-winded—or boring.
The others roared with laughter: By removing the character qie, Wang’s first assertion becomes that “every word was chosen with pain,” suggesting that his choice of words was painful to his listeners. Pu plays upon the similar sounds of the characters tong (痛) meaning “pain,” and tong (通) meaning “go through.” He negates the latter tong, and butong means “makes no sense” (literally, “is obstructed”), so four drum cadences are enough to beat out “butong, butong” twice.
Originally, Wang had proliferated his own reputation for talent by bragging about himself, that truly no one in any age was his equal; now he was so disheartened for being overweening, all he could do was sweat profusely. Huan tried to flatter and console him by saying, “It’s appropriate that there’s a saying that I can ask you all to accept here: ‘When Master Wang is nearby, / No one else so closely resembles such a gem
.’”
The group hadn’t yet decided how to react to this, so Luyun responded: “When the old creature exerts itself to stick its head back out, / Previously withdrawn halfway, it again becomes a turtle.” Fangyun couldn’t stop herself from laughing, gasping as her sides shook with mirth repeatedly.
Luyun extricated herself from the situation and started to walk away, then turned back to her father and said, “How was it any of your business! You tease him over and over and didn’t feel there was anything improper about that, so why won’t you allow anyone else to recite a verse?” When Huan sputtered in anger, she started laughing and then left. An elderly gentleman nearby also took his leave.
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Master Wang . . . gem: Huan plays on the fact that this reference to Wang, wang zi (王子), can also be read as wangzi, or “the prince.” Furthermore, the character for Wang is separated by only a single dot from the character for jade or gem (玉), so the praise that would befit a prince is applied to Wang here.
The old creature . . . turtle: The phrase “to exert oneself” (minmian) incorporates the character for Wang’s first name, Mian (勉), and the character min (黾), or turtle, a synonym for gui (龟), such that the former character can be imagined to look like it has a head extended at its top that is still partially withdrawn in the latter.
The maidservants then led the couple to their bedroom, lit candles for them by the screen near the bed, and laid out everything they would need. Then as Wang scrutinized the bridal chamber, he saw shelves full of letters with ivory seals, and also including books. These letter documents were obviously sent as part of a serious ongoing discussion that seemed to have prompted an infinite number of replies. At this point, Wang began to feel ashamed of his own superficiality.
Fangyun called for “Mingdang,” and the girl who’d plucked the lotus hastened to reply, so it was from this that Wang learned her name.
