Strange Tales from Liaozhai--Volume 4

by Pu Songling

  They lived there for two years, and everyone was struck by Sixiang’s beauty, but as they watched her, they noticed she was always extremely distracted, and as a result, they began to wonder whether she was really some kind of evil spirit. Liu’s mother asked Liu about it, and he also began to think there was something particularly weird going on. His mother began to feel quite fearful, and warned him that he should do something to get rid of her. But Liu wouldn’t hear of it.

  His mother secretly sought out a sorcerer and had him come to exercise his magic arts in their courtyard. When he had marked out an area on the ground and built an altar, Sixiang savagely exclaimed, “Before, I expected that we could be together until death. But now, since your mother has grown suspicious, it’s our destiny to be split up. She wants me to leave, and I can certainly do so, but it’s not because the sorcerer’s making me do it!”

  Then she quickly used her powers to cause some wood to burst into flames, and flung it downstairs into the courtyard. In a flash, smoke enveloped the house, and everything before them was obscured. Suddenly there was a shuddering sound like thunder. As soon as the smoke cleared, they could see the sorcerer’s blood gushing from his eyes, ears, mouth and nose, until he was dead.

  They entered the house, but Sixiang had already vanished. They called for the old maidservant to ask her about it, but she, too, had disappeared, and no one knew where she was. Liu went and informed his mother. It turned out that the old woman servant was a fox.

  The collector of these strange tales remarks, “It began with a Yuan and ended with a Cao, but then it involved Liu, which the immortal Zhen shouldn’t have allowed to happen. And regarding Pi, the son of Cao Cao: why should he have a chaste wife? The dog could see that Sixiang had been a wicked woman, but it still made an overzealous response—shouldn’t it have known that she was only doing what is expected of a concubine? Alas! A wicked Cao Cao is still too busy to lament his own evil, so some descendant will have to do it for him!”

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  A Yuan . . . a Cao: That is, Zhen Ji was the wife of Yuan Xi, son of Yuan Shao, before becoming associated with Cao Pi.

  285. Huanniang

  Wen Ruchun came from an influential family in Shaanxi. When he was young, he was absolutely obsessed with playing the qin, and even when staying at an inn, he’d never let it out of his sight, not even briefly. As he was traveling through Shanxi, he happened by an ancient temple, and after tying up his horse outside the gate, he stopped to rest for a bit.

  As he entered, he met a Daoist wearing a robe of patched cloth, who was sitting cross-legged on the veranda with a bamboo cane leaning against the wall, and a qin in a colorful cloth bag. Wen’s enthusiasm was stirred, prompting him to ask, “So you’re also fond of the instrument?”

  “I’m not really very good,” the Daoist replied, “but I’d like to study with someone who’s good at it, to learn to play properly.”

  Then he took the bag off of the qin and handed it to Wen, who examined it closely, finding its wood grain of excellent quality, then lightly plucked it, the sound resonating with an extraordinary clarity. He happily strummed the qin, performing a short musical piece. The Daoist smiled as though not terribly impressed, so Wen proceeded to spare no effort in demonstrating his mastery of the instrument.

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  Qin: A seven-stringed, zither-like instrument, made of lacquered wood and played flat by plucking strings with the right hand while they’re pressed or bent with the left hand, which has a range of four octaves.

  Shaanxi . . . Shanxi: The two provinces share a common border.

  “That’s fine, that’s fine!” declared the smiling Daoist. “However, you’re not really good enough to be my teacher.” Wen took his words to be mere bragging, passing the qin back and asking the Daoist to play something.

  Placing the instrument across his knees, as the Daoist touched the strings lightly, Wen felt a gentle breeze begin to stir; then in moments, hundreds of birds began to gather in flocks, filling the courtyard’s trees. Dumbfounded, Wen acknowledged the Daoist’s superior skill and asked to become his student. The Daoist played the song another three times. Wen tilted his head and focused his mind, till gradually he was able to sense its rhythms.

  The Daoist then tested Wen’s playing, providing a precise beat for him and commenting on each juncture of the piece, before concluding, “In this world, you’re already beyond compare.” Wen henceforth practiced the qin meticulously, so he could be called a consummate master.

  After he’d begun the journey homeward, but was still dozens of li away, and the sun was starting to set, a violent rainstorm struck and he had nowhere to stay. Beside the road there was a small village, so he hastened there. There wasn’t time enough to choose carefully, so as soon as he saw a gate, he quickly dashed to enter it.

  He walked up to the courtyard, which was silent and deserted. Presently a young lady came out, seventeen or eighteen years old, whose appearance was that of an immortal. When she raised her head and saw that she had a guest, she grew frightened and ran inside. Wen, who wasn’t married at the time, found his feelings profoundly stirred.

  Just then an old woman came out and asked if he was the guest. Wen introduced himself and inquired whether he might lodge there for the night. “There’s no reason for you not to stay here,” the old woman told him, “but there are too few beds; if you don’t mind a little unevenness, you can sleep on some straw.”

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  Li: A distance equal to 1/3 mile.

  Before long, she brought a candle, and spread straw on the ground till it was piled nice and thick. He asked her surname, and she replied, “My name’s Zhao.”

  “Who’s the young lady?” he inquired.

  “That’s Huanniang,” she answered, “my niece.”

  “I know my resources are quite modest, but I wanted to ask—what do you think about me possibly marrying her?” wondered Wen.

  The old woman knitted her brows and told him, “I really can’t consider agreeing to it.” Wen asked her why, but she said it was difficult to explain, which disappointed him so much that he ceased his inquiry.

  Once the old woman left, Wen could see that the straw was moldy and damp, so since he couldn’t bear to lie down on it, he just sat up rigidly playing his qin to pass the long night. When the rain let up, he took his chances and headed out to return home.

  In the vicinity there lived a retired government ministry official named Ge, who loved the company of scholars. Wen paid him a visit, to solicit his opinion about his qin playing. One of Ge’s family members sat hidden behind a curtain, eavesdropping, when suddenly a wind blew the curtain aside, and Wen could see a girl about fifteen years old, the most lovely in the whole world. It was said that Master Ge had a daughter named Lianggong, who possessed a gift for poetry, and was well-known for her beauty.

  Wen was immediately attracted to her, so he went home and told his mother, and a matchmaker was dispatched; however, Ge decided that the Wen family’s influence had declined, so he couldn’t agree to a marriage. Yet after hearing Wen play the qin, Lianggong felt a great admiration for him, and looked forward anxiously to being able to hear his refined playing once again; but when the marriage negotiations failed, Wen felt so crushed and dispirited that he broke off contact, no longer appearing at Ge’s gate.

  One day, when Lianggong was in the garden, she picked up a worn piece of folded letter paper, titled “Cherish the Spring that Lingers,” that contained these lines:

  The troublesome spring provokes my affections,

  So my thoughts turn in on themselves,

  And every day my emotions are a shambles.

  The crab apples hang drunkenly on the branch,

  The willows get spring fever,

  For they all cherish the same things.

  I’m confronted with sorrows fresh and old,

  But when I remove them from my life,

  They re
turn like fresh grown grass.

  Since we parted from each other,

  I cope by making my home beneath the skies,

  Passing the time, day and night.

  Today I knit my brows at the spring mountain scenery,

  Having eagerly awaited for so long—

  Bidding farewell to regret, you bet!

  But my pleasant quilts are jealous of my dreams,

  And the jade timepiece jars me from my sleep,

  So although I want to rest, how can I sleep well?

  Besides, the night seems to last a year,

  And I see that a year,

  Compared to this watch, passes more quickly:

  Three watches pass like three years,

  But no one can stop the passing of time!

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  This watch: The night was divided into five two-hour divisions, or watches, this first spanning approximately 7:00-9:00 p.m.

  Lianggong recited the verses a few times, feeling pleased by their phrasing. Taking the poem with her when she went inside, she brought out some expensive paper, and carefully copied it down, placing it afterwards on her desk; sometime later, she was unable to locate it, and figured that the wind had picked it up and blown it away.

  In actuality, Master Ge had been passing by her bedroom doorway and picked it up; figuring that Lianggong had composed it, revolted by its sentiments, he burned it, unable to bear discussing it with her, and decided that he should quickly arrange a marriage for her.

  In a nearby town, the son of Provincial Administration Commissioner Liu happened to make a proposal of marriage to Lianggong, and though Ge felt favorably inclined towards him, he still wanted to see him in person. Young Liu dressed himself in splendid attire and arrived at the Ge home looking elegant in appearance.

  Master Ge was very pleased, liberally offering him glib welcome. Subsequently, after they bid farewell, a girl’s crocheted shoe was discovered having been lost under Liu’s seat. Master Ge paused, appalled by the young man’s frivolous lack of decorum, and hence called on a matchmaker to report his disappointment. Young Liu earnestly declared that he’d been falsely accused; Ge refused to listen, putting an end to the matter.

  Prior to this happening, Master Ge had been cultivating green chrysanthemums, stingily refusing to pass their propagation along to anyone else, though Lianggong planted some of them in her bedroom. Among the chrysanthemums in Wen’s courtyard, there were suddenly one or two of the flowers that turned green, and when his colleagues heard about it, they all came to his cottage to enjoy the sight of them; Wen also treasured them.

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  Provincial Administration Commissioner: A Ming and Qing era post; see Hucker (209).

  Before dawn as he was hurrying out to take a look at them, he found beside the flower bed a piece of folded writing paper labeled “Cherish the Spring that Lingers,” and as he opened it and read it over and over again, he had no idea who had put it there. The “Spring” he took as a reference to his name, which puzzled him even more, so he took it to his desk, where he proceeded to make detailed annotations on it, his comments being of a rather bawdy nature.

  It happened that Ge heard about Wen’s chrysanthemums turning green, and wondering how that could be, he decided to pay a personal visit to Wen’s study, where he saw the poem, picked it up, and began reading it. Wen, self-conscious about his remarks concerning the poem’s erotic implications, seized it from Ge and crumpled it up. Ge had read just enough of its verses for him to realize that it was the same lyric he’d picked up in the doorway to Lianggong’s bedroom. His suspicions piqued, he thought of the green chrysanthemums Wen had grown, and guessed that they must have been a gift from Lianggong.

  He went home and told his wife, sending her to force the facts from their daughter. Lianggong wept pitifully like she wanted to die, but there were no eyewitnesses to the matter, and hence no way to pick out the truth. Fearing that word of the involvement was likely to get out, Ge’s wife figured that it wouldn’t be so bad for their daughter to marry Wen. Ge concurred, so they apprised Wen of their intentions. Wen was deliriously happy.

  Before the appointed day, Wen invited guests to join him for a banquet among his green chrysanthemums, and he burnt incense while playing his qin until late that night. When Wen went to bed, the boy servant in his study heard his qin begin making sounds, and he initially figured it was some of his fellow servants playing a trick; but when he learned there was no one there, he realized he should tell Wen.

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  The “Spring” . . . his name: The Chinese title of the poem is “xi yu chun,” the character for Spring (春chun) being the same one as in Wen’s first name, Ruchun.

  Wen went there himself, and found that the boy servant wasn’t making it up. He heard notes that were stiff and forced, like a poor imitation of his own playing. He brought a light and boldly entered the darkened study, but saw nothing there. Once Wen took his qin with him and left, everything was quiet for the rest of the night.

  He figured it must have been a fox, and felt sure that it wished for him to become its teacher, so each night after he’d play a song, he’d set the instrument up so the fox could play it the way the master had, and night after night Wen hid himself so he could listen. Once he’d done this for six or seven nights, the fox began to demonstrate surprising success with the songs, with sufficient refinement to deserve being heard.

  After Wen married Lianggong, they discussed the events that had brought them together, but simply couldn’t identify an ultimate source for them. When Lianggong heard the sounds of the qin being played by the mysterious performer, she went to listen more closely, and declared, “This is no fox—the tonal quality is so profoundly sad, this is the sound of a ghost playing.” Wen was convinced by her explanation.

  Lianggong proceeded to explain that her family possessed an ancient mirror that could detect evil spirits. The following day, she had someone bring it to them, so they waited till they heard the sound of the qin, then grabbed the mirror and rushed in; they brought a light, and found a young woman who’d fled to the corner of the room, since there was nowhere she could hide.

  Examining her carefully, Wen realized it was Zhao Huanniang. Astonished, he began questioning her in detail. Tearfully, she replied, “Since I served as your matchmaker, and it’d be unkind to deny it, why are you persecuting me this way?” Wen offered to take the mirror away, as long as Huanniang wouldn’t try to escape; she agreed to his terms. Then he put the mirror in a bag.

  Huanniang sat down at some distance from them and explained, “I’m the daughter of a prefect, and I died a century ago. When I was young, I loved the qin and zheng; I had already developed some skill at the zheng, but I never found a music master who could pass down the art of the qin to me, and this regret remained with me in the underworld.

  “That time you favored us with a visit, I was able to listen to your refined playing, and admiring you with all my heart, I wanted to be with you; then I was exasperated that because I was dead, I couldn’t live with you as a wife, so I secretly helped you to a beautiful spouse, to repay the tender feelings you expressed for me. The lady’s shoe that was left behind by Commissioner Liu’s son, and the vulgar poem, ‘Cherish the Spring that Lingers’—they’re both my doing. You can’t say I didn’t work hard to repay my teacher.”

  Wen and Lianggong both formally expressed their gratitude. “Concerning your playing,” said Huanniang, “I’ve been carefully thinking it through; but I just haven’t been able to understand the vitality you give your music. Please play for me again.” Wen did as she requested, taking care to display his finger positions.

  Delighted, Huanniang cried, “Now I’ve finally got it!” Then she stood up to take her leave, intending to go. Lianggong, who also enjoyed the zheng, and hadn’t heard the instrument performed in a long time, expressed her hope that she might be able to listen to a bit of some piece.

&
nbsp; Huanniang complied, her playing and her interpretation of the music both unlike anything that could be performed in the mortal world. Lianggong beat time for the piece, then asked if she might be taught something of Huanniang’s skill. Calling for a brush, Huanniang wrote out a music book, divided into eighteen chapters, then rose and bid them farewell.

  The couple tried desperately to keep her from leaving. Huanniang sadly replied, “You love each other harmoniously, and are both well-versed in music; an unlucky fate has denied me this happiness. If we’ve met for a reason, then in another life we’ll encounter each other again.”

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  Zheng: Another zither-like instrument, with thirteen strings.

  You love each other harmoniously: Huanniang uses an idiom for this harmony (qinse)—literally, that the two fit together like a pair of stringed instruments, the qin (琴) and the se (瑟).

  Then she took a rolled piece of paper and informed Wen, “This is a small portrait of me. If you don’t wish to forget about your matchmaker, hang it up in your bedroom, and if it pleases you from time to time, burn a stick of incense there, then play a song, and I’ll be able to enjoy it.” Then she walked out the door and vanished.

  286. A-Xiu

  Liu Zigu, from Haizhou, who was fifteen at the time, went to visit his uncle in Gaizhou. Among the sundry goods in a shop there, he saw a girl who was lovely beyond compare, and he fell in love with her. He justified his presence in the shop by claiming that he was there to purchase a fan. The girl accordingly called for her father. As the man came out, Liu’s scheme was ruined, so he cut his losses and made his retreat.

  He watched from a distance until her father left the shop, then he went to talk to her. Just as the girl was about to go get her father for him, Liu stopped her and said, “You don’t need to do that—if you’ll just name the price, I won’t hesitate to pay it.” The girl did as he said, and indeed set a high price. Liu couldn’t bear to haggle with her, so he took out a string of cash, concluded the deal, and left.