One by one he tried the leaves, asking his wife each time, “Can you see me?” And each time she answered, “Yes.” As the day wore on she grew so tired of it that when he held up yet another leaf, she answered falsely, “I can’t see you.”
The man was struck dumb with delight. He entered the marketplace with the leaf, and holding it in front of him, began grabbing goods in front of the owner’s very eyes. The constables tied him up and took him to the judge. The man told the whole story, and the judge burst out laughing and released him.
—Han-tan Shun
The Tiger Behind the Fox
A tiger caught a fox. The fox said, “You wouldn’t dare eat me! The gods in Heaven have made me the leader of all animals. It would be a violation of the gods’ mandate for you to make a meal of me. If you doubt it, let me walk in front, and you follow to see if any animal dares stand his ground.” The tiger consented and went with the fox, nose to heels. Every animal that saw them fled. Amazed, and agreeing that the fox was leader of all the animals, the tiger went on his way.
—Chan Kuo Ts’e
Rich Man of Sung
In Sung there was a rich man whose wall was damaged by heavy rain. The man’s son said, “There are bound to be thieves if we don’t repair it.” The father of a neighbor said the same thing. Sure enough, that night before repairs could be made, the rich man lost a lot of his property. The rich man’s family praised their son’s good sense but suspected the neighbor’s father.
—Han Fei Tzu
The Flying Bull
A man who bought a strong, healthy bull dreamed that a pair of wings sprouted from the bull’s shoulders and it flew away. He took this for an unlucky sign and feared that he was about to suffer some loss. So he led the bull to the marketplace and sold it for less than he had paid.
Wrapping the money in a scarf, he slung it over his shoulder and set out for home. Halfway there he saw a hawk eating a dead rabbit. He went over and found the bird quite tame, so he tied its leg with one end of the scarf and put it back over his shoulder. The bird thrashed about, and when the man’s grip loosened, it soared away with his money.
Forever after, the man told people that there is no way to avoid what fate has arranged.
—P’u Sung-ling
Social Connections
Old Fei, a farmer, had applied himself to his acres and become tolerably rich. His only regret in life was that he had no friends in high society.
One day during a terrible rainstorm Fei’s daughter-in-law was washing vegetables by the riverbank when a small boat anchored beside a willow. Inside there was a scholar sheltering under the dripping mat awning of the boat. His clothes and shoes were drenched; his two attendants were even worse off. The boatman told the daughter-in-law that the passenger’s name was Fei and that he held a degree of the second rank. On returning home, she told her father-in-law the surprising fact that the graduate’s surname was the same as theirs.
The old farmer gathered up rain gear and hurried to the boat. “What a storm!” he said to the scholar. “Would you care to take refuge in our poor quarters, honorable sir?” Cold and hungry, the scholar gladly accepted. In the farmer’s home the required courtesies were performed, and the scholar was delighted to learn that they had the same name. Together they traced the family genealogy, behaving as if they were indeed one happy family.
Old farmer Fei gave orders for a banquet. Holding the scholar by the hand, he led him out under the eaves, remarking, “I can’t complain about the way things have gone in the village. Those are my irrigated farms, so many acres; ginger, taro and cane, so many patches; plentiful fishponds; so many banks of wild rice; and besides, there are the mulberry fields and vegetable gardens, and the herb patches that grow in the shade of our mulberries.”
Old Fei drew the scholar by the hand to the left side of the hall, where they could see more than ten tall buildings. “My granaries,” said the farmer. “And those are stalls for the oxen, the sheep, and the hogs. Right and left are the tenant farmers’ houses and other bungalows we rent.” The scholar nodded continually, his mind dazzled, his eye covetous. When dinner was announced, old Fei invited the scholar to the table.
The viands and delicacies were abundant and clean, far from what one usually finds in a country homestead. The old farmer raised his cup and said, “This brew has been aged five years. We offer it today especially for my honored younger brother.” The scholar thanked him profusely, and soon both Feis were warm with spirits. The scholar for his part gave a full account of his pedigree and connections. “This official was my father’s classmate,” he said. “And that one my examiner and patron. So-and-so the local official was my examiner, too. Various others are my cousins. At present so-and-so in office in the city are on good terms with me and would satisfy my every wish. Anyone associated with me would be immune from misfortune of any kind.”
Old farmer Fei took it in with enthusiasm and reverence. The meal ended, and so did the rains. As the sun was going down, the scholar said goodbye, for he had to leave even though the farmer begged him to stay the night. Sorrowfully old Fei watched him depart.
Next day, wearing his best clothes and taking a multitude of servingmen, the farmer set sail. He reached the city and called on the scholar, who received him cordially. From then on their friendship deepened. Produce from farmer Fei’s fields was frequently presented to scholar Fei. When the fall harvest was in, part of the new crop was sent to the graduate. At the year’s end there would come a gift of preserved meats. The grateful scholar was pained that he could not do something useful in return for the food he had taken. Finally, however, he came up with an idea and consulted a certain police constable with whom he was on close terms. The policeman arranged for a certain bandit to commit a crime and frame farmer Fei for it. Soon the farmer found himself in jail.
Seeking help, the farmer’s son rushed to the home of the scholar. “Your father has treated me so generously,” the scholar said tearfully, “that I would spare nothing to save him. But his offense is not light. This isn’t something I can take care of by putting in a word. We’re involved with a bunch of real crooks here—what’s the best way to deal with this, I wonder?”
The son said, “If there’s any way to free my father, we’ll follow your instructions to the letter.” The scholar told him how much to pay to bribe this official and that official—how much for the magistrate’s clerk, the constable, and last of all, the bandit. Paying off the higher-ups and the lower-downs would cost five thousand ounces of silver.
Now, the wealth of a farmer is in his land; there is little cash. Unable to raise the entire amount, the son was forced to give all the deeds for the land and buildings to the scholar, who took possession of the property in the name of other officials. He even circulated petitions and instructions to his superiors and inferiors to milk the son from every possible angle. To meet these demands the farmer’s son was reduced to “netting sparrows and unearthing rats,” as they say—doing any odd jobs that would turn a penny. At last when the household was stripped clean, the father was set free. One year had gone by.
While in prison, the farmer felt ever grateful to the scholar for keeping him in mind. Old Fei often remarked that he was lucky to know the young man. When he finally returned home and counted up his losses, all that was left to him in the world was his wretched family. The air shook with his great sobs. But before his tears had time to dry, a representative of the receiver of his property arrived.
When the farmer had calmed himself, he fell to wondering why a bandit he had never met could have wreaked such vengeance upon him. So he killed a chicken and took it with some wine back to the jail to feast the bandit and ask the cause of his hatred.
“I ruined you and your family,” the bandit said, “yet you have come to feed me. You must be an honorable man. I can no longer conceal the truth, which is that your brother the scholar instructed the constables to do everything.” Hearing this, the old farmer realized at last what had happene
d. He dashed to the graduate’s house but time and again was told that scholar Fei was away on business.
Unable to vent his anger there, the old farmer went home and laid the blame on his daughter-in-law. “If it were not for you,” he said, “this disaster would never have happened.” “Your surnames happened to be the same,” she replied, “so I mentioned it to you. I didn’t ask you to get involved with the man.”
In his anguish the old farmer cursed her, and she was so outraged that she hanged herself. The son, furious at seeing his wife dead for no reason, also hanged himself. And old Fei, having now neither home nor descendants, put the cord around his own neck too.
—Ching Hsing-shao
A Small Favor
Ting Ch’ien-hsi of Chuch’eng in Shantung was a wealthy and chivalrous man who took pleasure in doing justice and setting wrongs to right. But when the imperial censor in residence ordered his arrest to answer certain charges, Ting disappeared. He traveled to Anch’iu county and there ran into a rainstorm, so he took refuge in an inn. By noon the rain had not stopped.
A young man came with a generous gift of food for Ting. Soon it was dusk, and Ting stayed the night at the young man’s home. Both the traveler and his horse were well taken care of. Ting asked the young man his name. “The master of the house is Mr. Yang. I am his wife’s nephew,” he replied. “He likes to be in the company of friends and has gone out. Only his wife is at home. I fear we are too poor to provide properly for a guest; I hope you will forgive us.”
Ting asked Mr. Yang’s occupation and learned that he eked out a living by running a gambling den. The next day the rain continued, and Ting and his horse were treated as generously as the day before. At nightfall hay was cut for the horse in bundles that were soaked and uneven. Ting was surprised, and the young man said to him, “To tell you the truth, we are too poor to feed the horse. My uncle’s wife just now pulled some thatch off the roof.”
Puzzled, Ting thought the lad might be hinting for money and offered him some silver, but it was refused. When Ting insisted, the youth took the silver inside, only to come out again and return it to the guest. “My aunt says that Mr. Yang often goes away for days without any money; he relies on the hospitality of friends. So when a guest comes to our house, how can we ask for money?”
Before Ting left he said, “I am Ting from Chuch’eng. When your master returns, please inform him that I would be honored by a visit from him when he is free.”
Many years later, there was a famine. The Yangs were in grave trouble and had nowhere to turn. Mrs. Yang casually asked her husband to go and see Ting Ch’ien-hsi, and he agreed. He arrived in Chuch’eng and gave his name at Ting’s gate.
At first Ting did not remember him, but when Yang’s story was relayed to him he rushed out to greet his guest. Noticing Yang’s tattered clothes and worn-out shoes, Ting placed him in a warm room, feasted him, and treated him with love and respect. The next day Ting had a cap and clothes, warm and well-lined, made for the guest. Although Yang was overwhelmed by Ting’s hospitality, his worries were increasing, for he was anxious to get relief for his family. Several days went by, however, and his host still made no mention of sending him home with parting gifts.
At last Yang said apprehensively to Ting, “There’s something I cannot keep from you. When I left home, we didn’t have even a peck of rice. Now I have already received so much of your generosity, and while I am surely delighted, what of my family?”
“Nothing to worry about,” replied Ting. “I’ve already taken care of them for you. Please don’t let it concern you. Stay with us a little longer, and then I’ll help you with your travel expenses.” Ting summoned a group of gamblers and arranged for Yang to take a commission out of their game. During the night Yang made one hundred pieces of silver.
After this Ting sent him home, where Yang found his wife in new clothes, with a young maidservant attending her. Amazed, he asked what had happened. “The day after you left,” she said, “carts and men on foot came with gifts of cloth and silk and beans and grain, enough to fill the whole house! They said it was a present from Mr. Ting. He also sent a serving maid to do my bidding.”
Yang’s gratitude knew no measure. From then on he became prosperous and did not have to follow in his former occupation.
The Recorder of Things Strange says: To enjoy company and entertain guests is what drinkers, gamblers, and floating types are best at. More remarkable is Yang’s wife, who offered such generous hospitality though she was no drinker or gambler herself. What humanity is there in those who accept a favor but do not reciprocate? Ting is a man who did not forget even the gift of one meal.
—P’u Sung-ling
Pitted Loquats
Chu I-chün, a member of the Imperial Academy, was on friendly terms with a Taoist priest. In the temple were two loquat trees, and every year when the fruit ripened, the priest would offer some to Chu. The loquats never had pits, and when Chu asked why, the priest replied that they were a supernatural species. Chu received this explanation with skepticism.
The priest loved fine food and particularly relished steamed pork. One day Chu invited him for dinner, and instructed his servant to purchase a pig and carry it through the house in the priest’s presence. In a short while the meat was presented at the table, well cooked and succulent. They ate their fill, and when the feast ended, the priest asked Chu how the meal had been prepared so quickly.
“It’s really a simple trick,” said Mr. Chu. “I’ll tell you if you tell me the secret of your loquats.”
“Nothing to it, really,” said the priest. “When they first flower, I pinch out the fine hair from the core.”
“Well then,” said Chu, “as for the meal, I had it cooked yesterday.” And smiling broadly, heads thrown back, they parted.
—Tai Yen-nien
Memory Trouble
In the land of Ch’i in eastern China there was a man who had so much trouble remembering things that he would even forget to stop when he was walking or to get up when he was sleeping. His wife grew worried and said, “They claim that Ai Tzu has skill and knowledge to cure the most deep-seated ailments. Why don’t you go and put yourself under his care?”
The man agreed. He mounted his horse, took bow and arrows to defend himself on the way, and set off. But soon he felt pressure in his bowels and got off his horse to relieve himself by the side of the road. The arrows he planted in the ground, the horse he tied to a tree.
When the man was finished, he looked to his left and spotted the arrows. “That was close!” he said. “Where did those stray arrows come from? One of them could have hit me!” He looked to his right and saw the horse. “That was some scare,” he thought, “but I have gained a horse.” When he took the reins, he stepped into his own dung. Stamping his foot, he said, “I’ve walked into some dog dung and dirtied my shoes. What a shame!”
He turned the horse toward the way they had come and laid on the whip. Soon he was back at his house. He paced to and fro before the main gate. “Who could live here?” he asked himself. “Don’t tell me it’s Ai Tzu’s place!” His wife saw him and realized that his memory had failed again. She scolded him, but the man said forlornly, “My good woman, I don’t believe we are acquainted. Why should you speak so harshly to me?”
—Lo Cho
Medical Techniques
Chang was a poor man of Yi county in Shantung. He happened to meet a Taoist priest on the road who was skilled in physiognomy. The priest read his features and said, “You ought to make your fortune in some profession.” “What should I pursue?” asked Chang. The priest eyed him again. “Medicine should do,” he said.
“How could I go into that,” replied Chang, “when I can hardly read?”
The priest smiled. “A famous doctor doesn’t have to read much. Do it, that’s all.”
Chang returned home and, since he had no work anyhow, resolved to follow the priest’s advice. He got together some quack remedies and cleared a place to set up shop in to
wn. There he displayed fishes’ teeth, honeycombs, and other such, hoping to scare up a few cups of rice with his slippery tongue. But day after day no one took any notice of him.
It happened that the governor of Ch’ingchou was troubled by a cough and ordered his subordinates to summon medical advice. Since Yi county was far off in the mountains, doctors were scarce. But the county magistrate, fearful lest he fail in his duty, ordered the chiefs of the hamlets to produce one. By consensus they recommended Chang.
The county magistrate summoned Chang to come at once. But Chang himself suffered from an asthmatic cough which he could not relieve, so the official command frightened him and he firmly declined. The magistrate would not accept his answer and ordered Chang delivered under escort to the governor.
Chang’s carriage passed through remote mountains, where water was precious as nectar. His great thirst made his cough worse, and he stopped at a hamlet to find water. No one could spare any, though he begged everywhere. Then he spotted a woman straining a mess of wild vegetables in a small amount of water. Some liquid, turgid as phlegm, remained in the pan, and the parched Chang asked for it. The woman gave it to him, and a short while after he drank it his thirst eased and his cough vanished. “An effective remedy, it seems,” he thought to himself.
When Chang reached the governor’s headquarters, physicians from the various counties had already tried out their treatments with no success. Chang asked for a secluded spot, where he pretended to prepare a prescription. He passed the medicine around for people to see. At the same time, he sent someone to find pigweed and bishopweed among the common folk. Then he strained them and presented the juice to the governor, whose cough improved after a single dose. Overjoyed, the governor rewarded Chang richly and gave him a gold plaque to display. And in this manner Chang’s name was made. His doorway became as crowded as the marketplace, and all who came were cured.
Chinese Fairy Tales and Fantasies (Pantheon Fairy Tale and Folklore Library) Page 7
