Although the boys were quite different in manner, they were dressed alike and no one could tell which was Li’s son. Li questioned the commander about the boys, but he answered, “Recognize your son yourself.” Li examined both for a long while. Then, inspired by his natural feelings, he embraced one of them and said, “This is my son!”
“And so it is!” said the commander.
Father and son held one another and wept. All who witnessed the reunion were deeply moved. They raised their cups in congratulation, and when the banquet ended, everyone had drunk to the full.
The next day the commander met with Superintendent Li. “I have already given you your son,” said the commander. “How can I keep son and mother apart? I offer you the mother as well.” Li’s joy knew no bounds. He returned to the capital and took his son to meet his superior, who said, “He is a fine lad,” and took the boy to an audience with the emperor himself.
Li’s son was enrolled in the emperor’s guard and later rose to be an official of the third rank, like his father.
Generally it is fortune that decides whether a man has a son; his own effort cannot make any difference. But this fortune teller was a genius in his work.
—T’ao Tsung-i
A Dead Son
A man of Wei named Tung Men-wu did not grieve when his son died. “You loved your son as no other father has in the world,” said his wife. “Now he has died, but you do not grieve. Why?”
“There was a time,” replied Tung Men-wu, “when I had never had a son. I did not grieve then. Now that he is dead, it is the same as when I had no son. What have I to grieve for?”
—Lieh Tzu
The Golden Toothpick
Mubala the Turk, who had the Chinese name Hsi-ying, was a huge hulk of a man. One day he was dining with his wife. She had speared a tasty morsel of meat with a golden toothpick and was about to place it in her mouth when a visitor came to the door. Hsi-ying went to receive the guest, and his wife, not having time to finish the bite, set it aside in a dish before getting up to prepare tea. When she returned to her place, the golden toothpick was nowhere to be found.
A young serving maid was nearby attending to her duties, and the wife suspected her of taking the toothpick. The mistress questioned the maid long and brutally until the girl, having admitted nothing, finally died of her injuries.
More than a year later a carpenter was called in to repair the roof. As he swept some dirt from the tiles, something fell to the ground and clinked lightly on the stones. It turned out to be the missing golden toothpick, together with a piece of rotted bone. They reasoned that it must have been snatched and carried to the roof by their cat, unnoticed by the maid, who carried the injustice to her grave.
How often things like this happen! So I have written the story down as a reminder for the future.
—T’ao Tsung-i
The King’s Favorite
In ancient times the beautiful woman Mi Tzu-hsia was the favorite of the lord of Wei. Now, according to the law of Wei, anyone who rode in the king’s carriage without permission would be punished by amputation of the foot. When Mi Tzu-hsia’s mother fell ill, someone brought the news to her in the middle of the night. So she took the king’s carriage and went out, and the king only praised her for it. “Such filial devotion!” he said. “For her mother’s sake she risked the punishment of amputation!”
Another day she was dallying with the lord of Wei in the fruit garden. She took a peach, which she found so sweet that instead of finishing it she handed it to the lord to taste. “How she loves me,” said the lord of Wei, “forgetting the pleasure of her own taste to share with me!”
But when Mi Tzu-hsia’s beauty began to fade, the king’s affection cooled. And when she offended the king, he said, “Didn’t she once take my carriage without permission? And didn’t she once give me a peach that she had already chewed on?”
—Han Fei Tzu
The Divided Daughter
In A.D. 692, the third year of the reign of the Empress Wu, the scholar Chang Yi took up residence in Hengchou, Hunan, to serve as an official there. He was a simple, quiet man with few close friends. He had fathered two daughters (no son), of which the elder had died early. The younger, Ch’ien Niang, was a beauty beyond compare.
Now, Chang Yi had a nephew named Wang Chou, who was clever and handsome. Chang Yi always thought of the boy as having a promising future, and he would say, “When the time comes, Ch’ien Niang should be his wife.”
After Wang Chou and Ch’ien Niang reached maturity, they often pictured one another in their secret dreams. But neither of the families knew anything about it, and some time later when an eligible member of Chang Yi’s staff sought Ch’ien Niang’s hand, the father said yes.
The news made Ch’ien Niang terribly sad, and Wang Chou was bitterly disappointed. On the pretext that he was to be transferred, he requested permission to go away to the capital. Nothing could dissuade him, and so he was sent off with many gifts.
Wounded by sorrow, Wang Chou bid a final farewell and boarded the boat. By sunset he had gone several miles into the surrounding hills. That night he was lying awake when suddenly he heard the sound of footsteps along the shore. In moments the pattering reached the boat, and Wang Chou discovered that it was Ch’ien Niang, who had been running barefoot.
Wang Chou nearly went mad with delight and amazement. Gripping her hands, he asked where she had come from. She said tearfully, “Your depth of feeling moved us both in our dreams. Now they want to deprive me of my free will. I know your love will never change, and I would give up my life to repay you, so I ran away.”
This was more than Wang Chou had ever expected. He could not control his excitement. He hid Ch’ien Niang in the boat, and they fled at once, pressing the journey day and night. A few months later they reached Szechwan in the far west.
Five years passed. Ch’ien Niang bore two sons. She exchanged no letters with her parents, but she thought of them incessantly. One day she said in tears to Wang Chou, “Time was when I could not desert you, so I set aside a great duty to run away to you. Now it has been five years. I am cut off from my parents’ love and kindness. How am I to hold up my head in this wide world?”
Wang Chou took pity on her and said, “Let’s go home; no sense in grieving like this.” And so they returned together to Hengchou. When they arrived, Wang Chou went alone first to the house of Chang Yi to confess the whole affair. But Chang Yi said, “What kind of crazy talk is this? My daughter has been lying ill in her room for many years.”
“But she’s in my boat right now,” said Wang Chou.
Amazed, Chang Yi sent someone to see if it were true. Indeed Ch’ien Niang was there, with joy on her face and spirit in her expression. The astonished servant rushed back to tell Chang Yi.
When the sick girl in the chamber heard the news, she rose and joyfully put on her jewelry, powdered her face, and dressed in her finest clothes. Then, smiling but not speaking, she went out to welcome the woman from the boat. As they met their two bodies stepped into each other and became one, fitting together perfectly. Yet there was a double suit of clothes on the single body.
The family kept the entire affair secret in the belief that it was abnormal. Only a few relatives learned the facts. Husband and wife died forty years later, and their two sons both attained the second-highest official degree and rose to be deputy commandants.
I often heard this story when I was young. There are many different versions, and some people say it is not true. But more than eighty years after the events, I chanced to meet a magistrate of Lai Wu. His father was cousin to Chang Yi, and since this magistrate’s account is the fullest I know, I have put it down on paper.
—Ch’en Hsüan-yu
GHOSTS AND SOULS
The Scholar’s Concubine
In Paoting there was a scholar who had bought himself a literary degree and was now ready to buy a position as county magistrate. But no sooner had he packed his baggage to go to the capital for
this purpose than he fell ill and could not get up for over a month. One day an unexpected caller was announced, and the sick man felt such a strange shiver of anticipation that he forgot his ailment and rushed to greet the guest. His visitor was elaborately dressed and appeared to be a man of standing. He entered making three salutations and, when asked where he had come from, replied, “I am Kung-sun Hsia, a retainer of the eleventh imperial prince. I heard that you were getting your gear ready to go to try for a position as county magistrate. If such is your intention, perhaps you would find a governor’s post even more attractive?”
Not daring to be forward, the scholar declined, though he left the subject open by adding, “My sum is small, and I cannot indulge my hopes.” The visitor offered to try to obtain the position if the scholar would put up half the sum and agree to pay the remainder from his profits in office. Delighted, the scholar asked the guest to explain his scheme.
“The governor-general and the governor are my closest friends,” the visitor said. “For the time being, five thousand strings of cash should ensure their support. At the moment there is a vacancy in Chenting. It would be worth making a serious bid for that post.”
The scholar protested that since the office was in his home province, accepting it would violate the dynasty’s rule against a man’s serving in his native district. But the visitor laughed cynically and said, “Don’t be so pedantic. As long as you have the cash at hand, you can get across the barriers.” The scholar remained hesitant, however, for the entire scheme sounded farfetched. Then the visitor said, “There’s no need for you to have doubts. Let me tell you the whole truth: This is a vacancy in the office of the city god. Your mortal hours are at an end, and you have already been entered into the registry of the dead. But if you will utilize the means available, you may still attain high station in the world of the shades.” With that the visitor rose and bid the man goodbye. “Think it over for now. I shall meet with you again in three days.” Then he mounted his horse and left.
Suddenly the scholar opened his eyes from what had appeared to his attendants to be a deep sleep. He said his last farewell to his wife and sons and ordered them to bring out his hoard of cash to buy ten thousand paper ingots. This depleted the entire county’s supply. The ingots were piled up and mixed with paper figures of horses and attendants. Then, according to custom, they were burned day and night so that they would accrue to their owner’s account in the world beyond. The final heap of ashes practically formed a mountain.
As expected, the visitor reappeared on the third day. The scholar produced his payment, and the visitor led him to an administrative office where a high official was seated in a great hall. The scholar prostrated himself. The official merely glanced at his name and, with a warning to be “honest and cautious,” approved him. Next this dignitary took a certificate, summoned the scholar to the bench, and handed it to him. The scholar kowtowed, and the thing was done.
Afterwards it occurred to the scholar that as a holder of the lowest literary degree he lacked prestige, and that he needed the pomp and splendor of carriage and apparel to command the respect of his subordinates. So he purchased a carriage and horses and sent an attendant-ghost in a gorgeous carriage to fetch his favorite concubine.
When all was ready Chenting’s official insignia and regalia arrived, together with an entourage that stretched half a mile along the road—a most satisfying display. Suddenly the heralds’ announcing gong fell silent and their banners toppled. Between panic and confusion the scholar saw the horsemen dismount and to a man prostrate themselves on the road. The men shrank to the height of a foot, the horses to the size of wildcats! The scholar’s driver cried out in alarm, “The Divine Lord Kuan has arrived!”
The scholar was terrified. He climbed down from his carriage and pressed himself to the ground with the others. In the distance he saw the great general of ancient times, celebrated for his fierce justice. The Divine Lord was accompanied by four or five horsemen, their reins loosely in hand. With his whiskers surrounding his jaws, Lord Kuan was quite unlike the world’s common images of him. But his spiritual presence was overwhelming and ferocious, and his eyes were so wide-set that they seemed almost to touch his ears. From horseback he said, “What official is this?”
“Governor of Chenting,” came the reply.
“For this piddling position,” said Lord Kuan, “is such a display really needed?”
The scholar shivered, his body hairs standing on end. All at once he watched his own body contract until he became small as a boy of six or seven. Lord Kuan commanded him to arise and walk behind his horse. A temple stood at the roadside. Lord Kuan went in, faced southward in the direction of sovereignty, and ordered brush and paper so that the scholar could write down his name and native place. The new governor wrote what was asked and submitted the paper. Lord Kuan glanced at it and said in great anger, “These letters are miswritten and misshapen. The fellow is no more than a speculator, a shark loose in the official hierarchy. How could he govern the people?”
Lord Kuan then sent for the scholar’s record of personal conduct. Someone at the side kneeled and presented a statement to Lord Kuan. The Divine Lord’s face grew darker and fiercer than ever. Then Lord Kuan said harshly, “This cannot be allowed. On the other hand, the crime of buying office is yet smaller than the crime of selling it!” Thereupon an arresting officer in golden armor was seen leaving with ropes and collar.
Then two attendants took hold of the scholar, pulled off his official’s cap and robes, and applied fifty strokes of the rod. When they expelled him through the gates, the flesh was practically torn from his backside.
The scholar peered in all directions, but there was no sign of his horse and carriage. He could not walk for pain and lay down on the grass to rest. When he raised his head and looked around, he saw that he was not too far from home. Luckily his body was light as a leaf, and within a day and a night he reached his house. The truth of it all dawned on him as he awoke from the dream and lay moaning on his bed.
The members of the family gathered to question him, but all the scholar told them was that his buttocks were sore. It seems he had lost consciousness and was virtually a dead man for seven days. Looking at the assembled household, the scholar said, “Why is my beloved Ah Lien not here?” For Ah Lien was his favorite concubine.
They told him that Ah Lien had been sitting and chatting the previous night when she suddenly said, “He has become governor of Chenting and has sent a messenger to receive me.” Whereupon she went into her room, made herself up, and died.
The scholar pounded his chest in bitter remorse. Hoping that she could be revived, he ordered the corpse held and not buried. But after several days there was no sign of life, and they put her in the tomb. The scholar’s illness gradually passed, but the bruises on his backside were so severe that they took six months to heal.
Time and again the scholar said to himself, “The sum I had saved to purchase office is gone, and wasted at that, and I have been the victim of punishment by the forces below. Still, I could endure it. But not to know where my beloved Ah Lien has been taken is too much to bear in the cold, quiet night.”
—P’u Sung-ling
Three Former Lives
The scholar Liu, who won his advanced degree the same year as my elder brother, was able to recall events from his previous lives and often described them in great detail. In his first lifetime he was a member of the nobility and as corrupt as any of them. He died at the age of sixty-two and was received by the king of the dead. The king treated him as a village elder, granting him a seat and offering him tea. He noted that the tea in the king’s drinking cup was clear and pure, while the tea in his own was thick and sticky. “This must be what I have to drink to be reborn with no memory of my past life,” he thought. When the king was momentarily distracted, he threw the contents of his cup around the corner of the table and pretended that he had drunk the tea.
After a while the king looked up Mr. Liu’s rec
ord of misdeeds in life and angrily ordered a group of ghosts to remove him. The king punished him by reincarnation as a horse, and some fierce ghosts marched him off. He found himself before a house with a threshold too high for him to cross. He balked, but the ghosts lashed him. In great pain he stumbled forward. Then he was in a stable and heard a voice saying, “The black mare has given birth to a colt. A male!” He understood the words but could not speak. Too hungry to do anything else, he went to the mare and suckled.
Four or five years went by, and his body grew strong and tall. He had a terrible fear of the whip and would shy whenever he saw it. The master always protected his body with a saddle pad and held the reins loosely, sparing him discomfort, but the groom and the servants rode him without a pad and dug their heels into his flesh so that the pain pierced him. Out of sheer indignation he refused food for three days and died.
When he came to the nether world, the king of the dead verified that his term of punishment had not expired and took him to task for evading it. The king had his hide peeled off and sent him back into the world as a dog. He was too dejected to move until the horde of ghosts lashed him savagely. In severe pain he scurried into the wilderness, thinking he would prefer death. He jumped a precipice, fell upside down, and could not get up. When he came to consciousness, he was in a dog hole. A bitch was licking him with loving care, and he realized that he had been born again into the mortal world.
As he grew into a young dog, excrement and urine seemed fragrant to him, but he knew that they were filthy and made up his mind not to eat any. He spent a year as a dog in a state of constant fury, wanting only to die. Yet he was afraid to escape this life. Since the master fed him well and showed no wish to slaughter him for food, he purposely bit him in the leg, tearing the flesh; and the master clubbed him to death.
Chinese Fairy Tales and Fantasies (Pantheon Fairy Tale and Folklore Library) Page 13
