《坐花志果》Vol. 1

Records of Fruits While Seated Among Flowers (Zuohua Zhiguo)

Subtitle: Records of Karmic Retribution

Author: Compiled by Wang Daoding, Qing dynasty

Table of Contents, Volume One

Preface

1. Filial Son He

2. Elder Feng Wanyanzhai (two entries)

3. Ten Taels to Buy a Life

4. Yu Sheng’s Name Struck from the Register

5. Scholar Wu

6. The Retribution for Qian Wenmin’s Cruel Slaughter

7. The Midwife Who Kept Her Chastity

8. A Beggar’s Blessings

9. A Thief’s Blessings

10. A Runner’s Blessings

11. A Scholar of Yangxian

12. Elder Feng, surnamed Tang

13. Liu, Zhuangyuan (top examinee)

14. Shen Hongfei

15. A Certain Criminal-Law Secretary

16. Verbal Karma (retribution for harmful speech)

17. Elder Feng, surnamed Hu

18. Inspector Zhang

19. One Foreign Silver Dollar and Wealth

20. Washing Inkstones in the Lotus Pond

21. Bao Xunquan

22. Cao Zhiying

23. Bandits of Xuancheng

24. Ghosts Seize a Woman Performing Rituals

25. Silver Hidden in a Plum Tree

26. The Upright Become Spirits

27. Surveying Disasters (two entries)

28. One Thunderbolt Strikes Three Men

29. Swallowed Silver and Death by Lightning

30. Silver Sealed in Lacquer

31. Capturing Thieves and Receiving Rebuke (seven entries)

32. Guang Pingsheng

33. A Courtesan of Wu Gate

34. A Certain Chaste Widow

35. Elder Feng, surnamed Fei

36. The Good Man Fei

37. Zhang Mingde

38. The Virtue of the Pan Clan

39. The Antidote for Arsenic Poison

40. The Prefect of Yunjian

41. Conspiracy Punished by Lightning

42. The Ox-Headed Man

Preface

(Only this table-of-contents entry for the preface appears here; the main text of the preface is not included in this excerpt.)

Zuohua Zhiguo is a book written by my friend Mr. Wang Tiaosheng. Tiaosheng was a well-known man of letters in Zhejiang; he followed his father in holding posts in Jiangnan and often served as a key aide in important offices, and he enjoyed a solid reputation in literary circles. He put down in writing everything he saw and heard in the course of daily life.

Those who do not really know Tiaosheng may think only that he is widely experienced and good for a laugh; those who truly understand him will say that this is Tiaosheng’s earnest wish to help the world—using writing in place of preaching face to face. Even the morning bell that wakes people from delusion or the precious raft that ferries them across confusion cannot match this book.

The genre of “xiaoshuo” (minor tales) can be traced back at earliest to works in the tradition of Yuchu. After the Han and Wei, many people liked to write extravagant, ornate, supernatural stories, using events to express ideas in endless allegory—like empty reputation and dry formulas, shallow and unserious. Works in the vein of Qixie and Nuogao were often written so wildly that they lacked credibility. Even bound into thick volumes, they did little for the morals of the age. Song-dynasty fiction tended to treat state history, court institutions, and the words and deeds of earlier figures, and historians often drew on it. In our dynasty what spread most widely was Pu Songling’s Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio: the style resembles Sima Qian and Ban Gu, and talent is pushed to its limit; most of what he writes concerns ghosts and fox spirits, with playful passages mixed in, which connoisseurs cannot help finding regrettable.

In the Qianlong era, Ji Wenda of Hejian—Ji Yun—possessed learning that spanned many fields and a broad, refined knowledge. He oversaw the compilation of the Siku Quanshu and wrote its catalogues. In spare hours from duty he produced Idle Notes for Dispelling Summer Heat at Luanyang, Thus I Heard, Magazine from the West of the Pagoda Tree, and other books, which at once circulated throughout the country. His works chiefly devoted to textual research and debate, however meticulous, were hard for anyone who was not deeply studious to grasp in full. Only in the realm of unofficial tales—from scholars down to farmers and peddlers—was there no one who did not enjoy leafing through them and talking them over. Thus to lodge encouragement of good and warning against evil in writing, such books spread easily and their message is easy to understand—the “morning bell in a dream” and the “precious raft on a lost ford” are titles Ji Wenda truly deserves.

Today Tiaosheng’s talent stands out, yet he set his heart on success through the examination system and repeatedly met with failure in the halls of testing, often leaving in discouragement. With no alternative he purchased an office and became a low clerk such as a registrar. “Song Yu and Qu Yuan’s literary gifts, yet serving as yamen underlings”—the sigh is the same in every age. This book narrates with concise elegance and does not bandy about opinions lightly; moreover it is grounded in fact, checked from many sources, without fabrication or repeating hearsay. Whether it can stand beside Wenda Gong I dare not judge; but his earnest wish to aid the world, I believe in Tiaosheng all the more.

Recently Tiaosheng has been staying in our locality; we meet more often and our friendship has deepened. He asked me to revise the text, and I have ventured this preface despite my limited ability.

Preface to Zuohua Zhiguo (Vernacular Explanation)

In the fourth month of summer in the dingsi year of the Xianfeng reign (1857), Jing Lüji of Danyang respectfully wrote this preface.

Zuohua Zhiguo sets out stories of cause and effect and karmic retribution, combining encouragement of good with warning against evil. It truly belongs among the better volumes of the shanshu (morality-book) genre. Yet for generations it lacked phonetic glosses and explanatory notes, so readers often felt something was missing. I had wanted to annotate it myself, but my talent and learning were too shallow and I could not manage it. I thought that in so vast a world there might be like-minded people, and so I waited.

In the wuyin year (if the closing signature “Guangxu wuyin” refers to the same occasion as “the year wuyin” above, that would be Guangxu wuyin, i.e. 1878; if this preface and the earlier Xianfeng dingsi preface are two separate prefaces in sequence, then “the year wuyin” may refer to another wuyin year), I opened a school in Shenjiang (the Shanghai region) and joined with fellow lodgers to pool funds intending to print morality books. Among them was one volume—the very Zuohua Zhiguo I had earlier wished to annotate. Hu Mengxiang had also been staying there; in spare moments between teaching he undertook phonetic and explanatory notes for the book: researching in the morning and checking at night, through two years’ heat and cold until it was finished—effort truly arduous. He did not wish to make his name known and signed himself “Jiufeng Qiaozhe” (Hermit of Jiufeng Peak); such intent is especially worth praising.

Seen in this light, the will to do good in every age—is it not still alive among people? I would not claim that Mr. Hu’s heart was identical to mine, but his heart for goodness matched exactly the heart with which I had earlier had the wish but not the means to fulfill it; one cannot say this was not a kind of good fortune. Now Mr. Hu passed away suddenly and did not live to see the book in print—a real pity. As for his meticulous research and solid philological glosses, those with discernment will appreciate them on their own; why should I say more?

In the first ten days of the last month of spring in the Guangxu wuyin year, Master Wenshu of Quantang recorded this at his lodging in Chunshen (Shanghai).

Zuohua Zhiguo (Records of Karmic Fruit) is a work in which Mr. Wang of Renhe, with a talent nearly akin to that of the blind historiographer Zuogiu Ming, set down one by one the true events of the Daoguang and Xianfeng reigns. What he writes is mostly what he saw and heard in daily life, rendered in such fine detail that the scenes seem to stand before the eye. It is not the sort of stiff, upright moral tract written solely to “exhort people to virtue.”

Yet because he traces causes and consequences so carefully, the reader ultimately sees with perfect clarity that doing good brings flourishing and doing evil brings ruin. Those who read it at first take pleasure in its strangeness; then, believing it true, they feel fear and restraint. In upholding the moral order and transforming hearts, it seems to work quietly within an invisible sphere, yet without overstepping its bounds.

From antiquity to the present, scriptures, books of sages, and every kind of work meant to warn and encourage have filled chests and boxes beyond count. Most speak in upright norms and cut to the quick with sharp sincerity—not that they cannot stir deep reflection and alarm; but as time passes, weariness sets in. Some find them constraining and keep their distance; others dismiss them as stale and put them aside, often on a high shelf never to be opened again. The more urgently one presses, the more bitter it feels; the harsher the supervision, the more some turn away in secret.

This book alone strikes a fresh note, so that people are glad to pass it around; and because retribution appears plainly, it can awaken the innate conscience and cut off coarse desires. Its power of subtle, gradual influence is hard to put into words. Mr. Wang wrote in winding language and hidden admonition; his craft is indeed ingenious, and his intent truly painstaking.

We who share this view hold that the book matters greatly for the moral order and the human heart, and therefore have hastened to have it carved and printed so that it may circulate far into the future.

Mid-twelfth month of the fifteenth year of the Guangxu reign (year jichou, 1889), respectfully recorded by fellow supporters.

Notes on the Format of This Book

First, this book records only what the author has personally heard and seen over the past thirty years regarding karmic retribution and the encouragement of good and punishment of evil. Events already covered in older works are omitted so as not to repeat material or invite charges of plagiarism.

Second, the book is meant to appeal to both refined and popular readers, young and old. The narrative is therefore as full and detailed as possible, tracing causes and outcomes clearly. Brevity for its own sake is not prized when it would obscure meaning, nor is novelty sought at the cost of truth.

Third, every effect has its cause; the emphasis is on “speaking from lived experience.” Concealing wrongdoing and highlighting good deeds is what classical teaching stresses. Whenever a good deed is worth recording, names and places of origin are given in detail whenever they can be verified. For wrongdoing, only the course of events is given, without names, so that worthy descendants are not driven to sigh and put the book down upon reading shameful family history.

Fourth, every story is written to rest on some basis; nothing is invented in the vein of Qixie-style marvel tales. Most accounts come from friends’ retellings, so discrepancies in hearsay are possible. Where the narrative is inconsistent, readers who understand such limits are asked to be forgiving.

Notes on the Format of Phonetic and Glossarial Annotations

First, this book aims at wide circulation. Where a sentence or character is even slightly difficult, it is explained as clearly as needed so that readers with a modest grounding in classical Chinese can grasp the sense at a glance.

Second, when classics are cited, unless the full passage must be quoted to make the point, only “such-and-such book, such-and-such line” is noted. When a complete line is quoted, only “line from such-and-such book” is given, kept brief.

Third, if a cited work cannot be identified at once, “source not yet verified” is marked under the line, followed by a brief gloss from the author’s understanding; what truly cannot be clarified is left blank for scholars to correct later.

Fourth, where an allusion was fully annotated in an earlier piece, later pieces say only “see detailed note in [such-and-such piece].”

Note on Phonetic Glosses (“Yinjie”) for Difficult Characters

Whenever a character needs a phonetic gloss, each piece in the book receives its own entry; an earlier piece having already glossed that character does not mean a later one can omit it. That way, wherever you open the book, you can read aloud with guidance. If the same character appears many times in one piece, the phonetic note is still given only once—not repeated every time.

For difficult characters, this edition follows the pronunciation standards found in works such as the Tangyun, Jiyun, Zhengyun, and Yunhui: the gloss targets the character that actually appears in the text, without substituting a different character that merely shares the sound. Even so, some glosses taken straight from old books remain awkward to read—for example, a rare character might be used to gloss “niè” in nièrú (mumbling), or another rare character for “yǎn” in mèngyǎn (nightmare), following the Jiyun or Yunhui. In all such cases, this book uses familiar, commonly seen characters for the phonetic note instead, staying as close as possible to the intent of a “sound explanation” while making reading smoother.

Some difficult characters are originally in the level (ping) tone, and among level-tone characters there may be no common, easy-to-read character available for the gloss. The editor then draws on the rising (shang), departing (qu), or entering (ru) tones and, following the method of “ye yun” (assimilating pronunciation to rhyme and cognate sound), chooses a common character with a nearby pronunciation. Not everyone in an examination hall can reliably distinguish the four tones; even if a character that should be read in the rising tone is still read in the rising tone and one that should be entering is still read as entering, the result still sounds close—and it is still preferable to pairing one obscure character with another obscure one as the gloss.

Titles of works cited in the notes, the canonical texts themselves, and difficult characters in traditional commentaries on those texts are treated lightly: phonetic glosses are generally omitted. The added plain-language explanations also try to avoid difficult characters where possible.

1. He the Filial Son (Poetic Inscription)

Filial piety stands first among all virtues; that good deeds meet with good recompense is no empty saying—otherwise how could there be a man of such stature? The prosperity of two households seems arranged by heaven; what is still more gratifying is that geomancy—the art of Qingwu (feng shui)—did not misjudge the site and did not fail the He family.

In Jiangxi there was a scholar well versed in qingwu arts—the craft of reading terrain and choosing sites for burial and dwelling. Tradition holds that the Yellow Emperor had books on siting land, and Qingwu, a disciple of Peng Zu, was supreme in this art; later generations called geomancy and feng shui “qingwu arts.” While visiting Daozhou in Hunan as a guest, he found an excellent plot. As he was looking up and admiring the view, two men arrived: one richly dressed, the other carrying a luopan and scanning the surroundings left and right, saying, “This site is no good.” The scholar inwardly laughed at what he took for nonsense, stepped forward to speak, and they exchanged native places and surnames. The man in fine clothes was the son of a wealthy city family; the one with the luopan was a feng shui master. When the master heard the scholar was from Jiangxi, he said, “Jiangxi produces many skilled feng shui masters—you must have considerable ability.” The scholar demurred modestly, then showed a little of what he knew; the master was greatly impressed and told the rich man’s son to invite the scholar home with them. The scholar lodged in their house (juting means a temporary stay or putting up as a guest). He had meant to tell them about the good ground he had found earlier, but he thought: land of that quality only someone of great fortune and virtue can bear. After watching them for some time, he felt this household’s conduct was not that of people who could carry such blessing, so he kept silent and never revealed it.

A family surnamed Xiao had arranged a marriage alliance with a wealthy local household. When Xiao needed to bury a relative, he went to that family to invite a geomancer (a specialist in reading landforms and siting graves). The narrator, called Sheng in the text, agreed to go along.

Xiao was well known in the district as a zhangzhe (“esteemed elder”)—in old books the word often describes someone steady, cautious, and worthy of respect, much as the Records of the Grand Historian uses it for Chen Ying. He was generous and charitable, and neighbors regarded him as a good man.

Sheng thought this plot might suit the burial ground mentioned in the earlier story, so he shared his idea with the old geomancer (addressed as Weng, “the elder master”); they bought the land at a high price, chose the acupoint, and opened the grave. Even the burial day was fixed.

On the eve of the interment, Sheng said to Weng: “Qi of a site like this is not something a person of shallow virtue can hold down. You truly are an esteemed elder, but Heaven’s intent is hard to fathom. To go against it brings great disaster”—a sentiment echoed in the Zuo Tradition, Duke Xi. “Why not keep vigil in the excavation overnight as a kind of divination? If the ground is not truly yours, there will surely be an uncanny sign.” Weng agreed.

Title: Zuo Hua Zhi Guo (Recording Karmic Fruits from Sitting Among Flowers)

That night he slept in the tomb with his son, a reed mat spread over them.

At midnight he heard someone clearing the way ahead and attendants shouting in unison—the “hedian” cry that heralds an official’s passage. Peering through a gap in the mat, he saw guards and insignia escorting a tall, imposing man on horseback. He thought: in the deep of night, in wild hills—what great person could be passing? Fear and doubt had barely risen when the rider reached the grave, reined in, and ordered his followers: “This is the burial ground of a filial son surnamed He. What business has a certain Xiao occupying it? Drag him out at once!”

The old man, terrified, kowtowed in the pit and cried aloud: “We feared occupying what we ought not, and inviting heaven’s punishment—that is why we spent one night in the pit to test the place. Since you have made this clear, we are willing to withdraw at once.”

Then the voice from horseback said: “Considering you have always been a man of good faith, I spare you this time. If you can help the filial son He bury his parents, I shall give you another fine site—but fill this pit quickly, lest the qi leak away.” As soon as the words ended, horse and retinue vanished like wind and lightning; in an instant all was silent again.

At dawn father and son went back and told the living what had happened, and sealed the pit. Together they searched everywhere for who “Filial Son He” might be—“wuse” means to seek and inquire—but no one knew.

One day, Sheng went alone to the outskirts for a stroll. He had walked some distance and reached a market town when a sudden downpour began, so he took shelter under the eaves of a rice shop. As dusk fell, everyone who had been husking rice had stopped; only one youth was still at work in the back. Sheng found this strange and watched him husking while he asked questions. Between strokes the youth answered: “My mother is old, and without meat she cannot eat her fill. I rise early and stay up late husking extra so I can earn more wages and support her.” When asked his surname, he said He. Sheng thought to himself: Could this be that He the filial son? He wanted to see for himself whether the man’s devotion to his mother was genuine. When the husking stopped, Sheng said the road was long and the rain heavy and begged to stay the night; He agreed. Sheng took out five taels of silver and said, “Prepare an evening meal for me.” He said in surprise, “A meal costs far less—why so much?” Sheng replied, “Use the rest to add to your mother’s food.” He refused: “I serve my mother with all my strength—that is how I am at peace; to take extra from a guest without having earned it would not be right.” Sheng pressed him until he accepted one tael, with which he bought wine and dried meat for his guest.

The two went back together to He’s house, which had only two rooms. Once inside, He used that one tael to set out wine and delicacies for his guest.

The scholar both admired He’s sincere filial piety and recalled that the spirit’s words had indeed come true. When He came out, he asked how many years had passed since his father’s death and whether the body had been laid in the ground. He wept and said his father had been dead four years; he had been unfilial, supporting his mother by hired labor, and had no money to choose a grave site—his father’s remains were still kept provisionally at the village shrine. At that he was overcome with grief.

Seeing him weep until his voice broke (the phrase echoes the Jin shu, biography of Wang Bin, where “voice” refers to the sound of weeping), the scholar comforted him: “Do not grieve. The Elder Xiao, at whose house I am staying, has a plot of land that is quite auspicious; I will ask him to give it to you, and I will also help with the burial expenses.” He was astonished: “I have never known you, sir—how dare I suddenly accept such great kindness? Besides, the land already has an owner; even if you pity me, I fear your words will be useless.” The scholar said, “Do not worry. I have long known Elder Xiao to be generous and fond of helping others fulfill their good intentions; once he hears of your filial devotion, he will not refuse.” He added, “In three days do not go out; I will go with you.” He wept and thanked him: “If it is truly as you say, sir, I shall never forget your great virtue to the end of my days” (“to the end of one’s teeth” means for life; the Analects speaks of “no complaint to the end of one’s teeth”).

The scholar comforted him a little more, and each went to sleep. Before dawn the scholar woke, but He was nowhere to be found. In the morning he saw him return carrying a bowl. Asked why, he said his mother had wanted tangyuan (glutinous rice balls in soup); he had gone into town to buy them at the fourth watch, a round trip of twenty li. The scholar admired him all the more.

The scholar went home and told Elder Xiao; Elder Xiao said gladly, “This is the intent of the spirits! Since the right person has been found, how could I be stingy…” (The narrative continues with granting the land for burial and related events.)

After returning home, (Sheng) told Xiao Weng what had happened. Xiao Weng said happily, “This is Heaven’s arrangement! Since a suitable person has been found, how could I be stingy?” Three days later, (Sheng) and Xiao Weng took the land deed and went together. When they reached the He family’s door, they heard Mr. and Mrs. He weeping bitterly and were greatly alarmed; they entered and asked, and learned that his mother had suddenly fallen ill with an epidemic fever after (Sheng) left, medicine had no effect, and she had died suddenly the night before. When the He family saw the guests arrive, they wept and knocked their heads on the ground in grief (“qiang” is pronounced like “qiang” and means to strike or knock, as in the Records of the Grand Historian: “seeing the jailer, he knocked his head on the ground”). Xiao Weng took pity on them, contributed toward the coffin and burial expenses, and gave them the land deed from before. Sheng chose an auspicious day for the He family’s burial, and all burial costs were borne by Sheng. After the burial, the He couple came together to express thanks and asked to serve as hired labor to repay the price of the land. Xiao Weng said in surprise, “You are truly filial—Heaven is moved and has blessed you; how could I claim credit for that?” He told them what had happened earlier, and added, “You are filial children; I sought your friendship and could not obtain it—how could I let you work as hired labor?” He also said, “My house has many empty rooms; if you do not disdain it, why not bring your family and live with us? (‘He’ is pronounced like ‘he,’ meaning ‘why not’) I will certainly not let you worry about firewood and rice.” The He family declined, saying they could not accept such kindness; Xiao Weng invited them again and again, and they stayed at the Xiao household, managing the general affairs of comings and goings in the home.

More than a month later, Elder Xiao said to the scholar: “At the beginning the spirit promised me that after I had buried my parents as a filial son, I would receive another auspicious burial site in addition; that promise should be fulfilled now—why don’t you set about finding it?” The scholar replied: “Very well.” (“Nuo” means to agree.)

“I do not make my living by reading feng shui or practicing the Qingwu geomantic arts; if the elder’s affairs were not still unfinished, why would I stay so long in a foreign land? (‘Yu’ is read like ‘yu’; ‘yiyu’ means another region, not one’s home.) I only thought that since the spirit had already promised you, a good acupoint would surely be found; as yet none has suited me, and I ask the elder to allow more time.”

From then on he went out every day into fields and valleys, seeking acupoints and tracing dragon veins (“xue” is where earthly qi gathers; “long” is the mountain dragon vein), but still found nothing. After another month or more he was worn out in body and spirit. One day, passing the He family burial ground, he lingered and looked into the distance; suddenly, several zhang away, he faintly saw a dragon vein again. Following its trace, he found it was indeed a true dragon, a branch off the same vein as the He grave. After repeated inspection, though the nobility of the qi was slightly less, the wealth pattern could reach the scale of a million. He reported this to Elder Xiao, purchased the site, chose a day, and divined the burial. When all was done, the scholar took leave to return home. The elder offered a thousand in gold; he firmly refused, saying: “I told the elder long ago that I do not live by Qingwu arts; please keep this money to relieve the poor.” The elder could not prevail and held a zudao jianxing for him—a roadside sacrifice and farewell feast before a long journey. Mr. and Mrs. He also came, kowtowing with foreheads to the ground and weeping, to thank him.

After He Sheng returned home, he passed the jinshi examination in succession. After Elder Xiao buried his parents, the family’s fortunes rose day by day until they became the wealthiest in the whole prefecture (“jia” means “first”—foremost in the commandery). Before long his son also passed the jinshi and entered the Cilin (Hanlin Academy), later serving as Fangbo (Provincial Governor, i.e., Provincial Administration Commissioner). That filial son’s grandson, He Wen’an Gong Linghan, placed as tanhua (third in the palace examination) in the yichou year, served as Dazongbo (Minister of Rites), and was a renowned Neo-Confucian statesman. His son Shaoji took the jieyuan (top provincial graduate) in the ywei year, then passed in quick succession into the Ciguan (Hanlin), and repeatedly held wenbing (posts such as chief examiner that controlled literary examinations and the civil service). The two families’ wealth and honor had still not reached their end (“wei ai” means not yet exhausted, not yet finished).

The Host Among the Flowers said: “Filial piety is the head of the Five Constant Virtues and the root of every kind of conduct. In those days He the Filial Son mingled among hired hands and tavern helpers (yong are hired laborers, bao are wine-shop assistants; zazuo means working alongside them). There was no extraordinary talent or striking deed to catch the eye, yet Heaven and Earth protected him and ghosts and spirits honored him, until his gate flourished and blessing flowed to his descendants. The response to filial virtue was indeed this swift and wondrous! A certain student valued righteousness and yielded profit; Elder Xiao was sincere and generous—together they rightly received abundant fortune.”

II. Two Stories About the Ennobled Elder Wan Yanzhai

Four rhymed lines

He did not spare expense, nor fear harm to his name;

Preserving others’ lives and kin came from genuine feeling.

When a man reaches out in crisis, his wife does not hold him back—

This is Heaven tempering you and bringing you to fulfillment.

Part One

The father of Wan Limen, the Yangxian (modern Yixing, Jiangsu) regional high official—the ennobled elder Mr. Wan Yanzhai—while still a xiucai (licentiate), was very poor yet upright: he would not take a single penny that was not his due, yet he was bold in doing what was right. Whenever others faced urgent distress, he would do all he could to help and relieve them, even if his own reputation suffered.

One year, the author was teaching at a private school in the countryside. On New Year’s Eve he walked home on foot. Halfway there he met a middle-aged woman walking and weeping. Finding it strange, he went up and asked what was wrong. At first she would not answer; when he pressed her again and again, she said angrily, “Travelers on the road each have their own troubles—who has time to chatter with a stranger?” Though her words were sharp, her face showed deep grief, so he comforted her: “I’m not asking out of idle curiosity. If you’re in real distress, you might tell me—I may be able to help you think of something.”

Only then did she speak. Her husband was the lizheng—the local head of the li, a petty official who handled minor civil matters in the neighborhood. He owed more than thirty taels of official silver and had been thrown into jail while the authorities enforced collection on a strict deadline; every day he was beaten with clubs and cudgels. When she visited him, he said he was already broken and exhausted; if the deadline was missed again, he would surely die under the lash. They still had a young daughter at home, and her husband had told her to sell the girl quickly and use the proceeds to pay the government. She did as he said and entrusted the girl to a matchmaker. The matchmaker, seeing her desperation, cheated her, saying that at year’s end there were no buyers, and so drove the price down—the girl fetched only ten thousand cash. With her daughter gone and her husband still not safe, she could think of no other plan and intended to sell herself to make up the shortfall. Grieving that her husband suffered under the whip, that her daughter would become a servant or concubine, and that she herself could no longer protect her own fate—knowing that in an instant the whole family would be scattered—sorrow overwhelmed her and she could not stop her tears.

A gentleman said, “Thirty taels of silver is not such a huge sum. Surely your husband has relatives and friends who could lend you money? How did things come to this desperate step?”

The woman sighed. “Sir, you make it sound too easy. Among our kin, the poor can barely keep themselves; those with a little spare cash have long caught wind of our trouble and stayed away—it is hard even to see them. Who would give up a single coin out of pity for someone in distress? Sir, say no more; do not hold up my errand.” With that she sobbed and turned to leave.

The gentleman stopped her. “Wait. My household is humble, but I can still raise thirty taels. Only—your daughter has already been sold; once you have the money, can you still bring her back?”

The woman wept. “If you would show us kindness, sir, she has not yet signed any contract. Pay the silver and you can take her home at once.”

The gentleman drew twelve taels from inside his robe and handed them to her. “Take this for now. Tomorrow meet me at a certain place in the city; I will give you the rest in full.”

The woman, stunned by this unexpected mercy, kowtowed and wept her thanks. She asked his name and where he lived, and said that when she brought her daughter back the next day she would send the girl to his house to serve him.

The gentleman smiled. “Do not talk like that. I pity you for being torn from your child—I do not want your daughter.” He would not leave his name, shook out his sleeves, and walked off without another word. After a few steps he looked back. “Come early tomorrow; do not be late.”

The woman answered through her tears, “I will,” and went off with the silver.

When the gentleman returned home, breakfast had not yet been prepared. His wife asked him for some “repair money”—cash for everyday mending and household expenses—to buy rice. He hemmed and hawed, as though he wanted to speak but could not get the words out (“nièrú” describes that halting, swallowing-one’s-words manner).

The story then continues: his wife probably still took money and went about her errands; or in the back-and-forth of the moment, she began to tally up the useless hardship he had endured all year—the mountain path winding and uneven (“qíqū” means an uneven, rugged road). He had stumbled several times along the way and nearly fallen into a deep ravine; at such moments who could spare a thought for whether a purse of silver was still in hand? (“huánghxiá” means “where would there have been time for that?”)

Knowing he had always been fond of “relieving urgent need” (zhōu jí—helping people in sudden distress), she gave a slight smile (“shěn” is a quiet, restrained laugh) and said: If you had really lost silver in a fall on the road, that would be one thing to accept; what I fear is that you went off to “jump into a well to save someone”—an allusion from the Analects: when someone has fallen into a well, should you follow them in? Later the phrase came to mean risking yourself recklessly to rescue others.

The husband admitted: “Yes. But the amount needed still falls short—what can we do?” The two of them then laid the whole situation bare. His wife, being naturally virtuous, did not complain; on the contrary she urged him on, saying this too was a great good deed. Only the New Year was almost upon them—where were they to find twenty taels of silver? Since he had already promised the other party, he could not go back on his word; the household could still pawn a few things (“diǎnzhì” means putting goods up as security for a loan) to get through the festival. He should hurry and find a way for the other person, and not worry about affairs at home (“nèigù” means looking back anxiously at domestic concerns).

Heartened, the husband went out to borrow from relatives and old friends and scraped together a little over ten taels—still not enough. In the city there was a usurer; without collateral, not even close kin would lend a single cash. He thought that with the crisis so pressing, there was no other path; yet in the rush (“cāngcù” means hurriedly) he had almost nothing worth pawning (“xiǎn” here means scarce, few).

The gentleman usually kept the keys to the ancestral hall. Without telling anyone in the clan, he had the hall’s tables, chairs, doors, and windows carried out after dark and pawned them to a certain man for ten taels of silver. The next day he went with silver to redeem them, but the woman had already got there first. She handed the silver to the other party and left at once; secretly she followed and saw the gentleman talking with someone. She asked around about that person and learned the gentleman’s name and where he lived.

Before long the woman and her husband came to the gentleman’s home with their daughter, bowed in thanks to him and his wife, and asked to leave the girl with them as a maidservant. The gentleman saw that the girl was not yet ten years old but quite pretty. He told them, “A child like this deserves a good match; take her home at once—do not let anyone be drawn into what is not right.” He refused firmly; only after they had bowed again and again did they leave.

When New Year's Day arrived, the whole clan entered the ancestral hall to worship the ancestors and found the hall completely empty. They were greatly shocked and suspected thieves. He hurried to explain before everyone: "At year-end I was hard pressed for cash and temporarily took the things in the hall to pawn for money. Please wait until I return from the examination hall before redeeming them." The clansmen were furious and together berated and reviled him. He said nothing, neither ashamed nor angry.

At the time an elder of the clan, who had long known him to be honest and always ready to help others in distress, suspected there was a hidden reason and urged the crowd to go home first and discuss again in three days; only then did they disperse. The clan head went alone to his house and quietly asked his wife; learning the truth, he said happily: "This too is a great good deed. This autumn's provincial examination he is sure to pass with honors. But taking clan property without permission cannot go entirely unpunished, or others will follow his example." He then gathered the clan, explained the pawning to pay debts, and said he should temporarily be struck from the clan register; the autumn exam was near—after the results were posted with good news he could be readmitted. All agreed. He accepted this calmly, unconcerned. That autumn he indeed passed the exam; after the Deer-Pavilion banquet he returned to his hometown. The clan head again held a feast to celebrate him.

Later, he rose to the post of Director of Studies (xuezheng) in Tongzhou. He had two sons; the second was the man who later served as Fangbo of Limen. People said this was the reward for his lifelong habit of rushing to help those in distress and generously aiding others.

Second account

Mr. Wan Yanzhai entered by the local tribute (xiang gong) route; the anthology passage he was examined on came from “Lu Ming” (The Deer Cry) in the Xiao Ya section of the Book of Songs. Elders of the clan held a special feast to congratulate him.

He too later became Director of Studies in Tongzhou and had two sons; the second was Fangbo of Limen. People still took the family’s prosperity as the good retribution for his relieving urgent need and doing generous favors far and wide.

After passing the provincial recommendation examination, Mr. Wan Yanzhai set out for the capital with companions to sit the imperial exams. When they reached a county in Shandong, a fellow traveler named Lu Yining fell ill and could not get out of bed. Everyone stayed at the inn to wait for him. Two days later he grew worse; a doctor was called, but recovery would clearly take time. With the exam deadline pressing, the others argued over who should leave first and urged Mr. Wan to go with them.

Mr. Wan said firmly: “To leave a sick man at an inn with no one to look after him and no one to bring medicine is as good as hastening his death. I am going to the capital only under the pretext of the ‘jixie’ journey to see the imperial city—I never meant to compete for honors. You go on; I will stay until he is better.”

Lu Yining felt ashamed and pressed Mr. Wan again to leave with the group, but Mr. Wan refused and stayed alone to fetch doctors, decoct medicine, and care for him morning and evening for a full twenty days.

Lu Yining could not be saved in the end. On his deathbed he took Mr. Wan’s hand and said: “You and I are from the same district, but we were not close in ordinary life. Yet you have shown me kindness deeper than the sea. This life ends here. If there truly is rebirth, I will plead before the courts of the underworld to be born again as an upright person, to repay your great virtue.” He had barely finished when he breathed his last.

By then the two had used up all their travel money on the road. They pawned every garment and fur they could to pay for laying out and burying the dead. They also knew the Lu household was poor and the children still small; if they did not take this chance to go home together, moving the coffin back later would be hard. So they left the coffin at an inn and walked to the capital, begging food along the way. They found the lodging of companions who had taken the same route to sit the exams.

The examination season was already over. When people saw how late he had come, in ragged clothes, shoes full of holes, and a face dark and sallow, they took pity on him and asked what had happened. He told the whole story since they had parted and talked over how to get Lu’s coffin home. He said: “Luckily you still remember the kindness of sharing one day’s ride on the official carriage”—here, the bond of traveling together to the capital for the exams—“so that he can be laid to rest facing his home mound” (zheng shou qiu, from the Book of Rites: the fox dies with its head toward its mound, meaning burial in one’s native soil). “If he knows this in the nine springs below, he will surely seek to repay you”—alluding to the tales of repaying kindness: the yellow bird that came in a dream bearing a white ring (xuan huan), and the old man who knotted grass so an enemy fell in battle (jie cao); together, “xuan jie,” repaying a debt of gratitude.

Moved by his devotion, everyone gladly chipped in. They also spoke with others from Chang commandery who had come on the same carriage and raised several dozen taels of silver for him. The day he left the capital he still walked and begged as before, not wasting a single cash on anything unnecessary.

Someone arrived at an inn, laid out the gold he had obtained in front of the coffin, and called to Lu Yining, saying: "Through the kindness of so-and-so, I received a certain amount of gold, which allowed me to escort you home. If your spirit is aware in heaven, why not come with me?" He then took the coffin back with him. After reaching home, more than ten taels of gold remained, and he gave it all to Lu Yining's wife and children.

Several years later, on a summer day, this official happened to be on the city wall at dusk with two friends, Dai and Zhu, looking out over the view. His home lay below the wall. Suddenly he saw a man fanning himself and walking quickly, heading straight into the official's house. Dai pointed and said: "Isn't that Lu Yining?" The official looked—it did resemble Lu Yining. For a moment he forgot Lu was dead and called out to him. Zhu arrived later; when he heard what had happened, he said in alarm: "Lu Yining died long ago—how could he be here?" The official suddenly remembered and looked again more carefully. The man had already entered the house. He and his two friends hurried down from the wall to follow. Just as they reached the front door, a servant came out and reported that his wife was about to give birth. He rushed inside and saw that a son had been born, looking very much like Lu Yining. Only then did he understand that what he had seen on the wall was indeed Lu Yining. Lu had been fulfilling his promise from before death—to be reborn as a son—so he had appeared first to show that cause and effect are not empty.

The child grew up unusually bright and later passed the jinshi examination, serving as a director in the Ministry of Rites (dian libu zhushi). He eventually became a provincial governor (fangbo)—known as the Fangbo of Limen.

Commentary by Zuohua Zhuren: Under heaven, only a true hero can accomplish great deeds that surpass ordinary people and break free of conventional rules. What Mr. Yanzhai did—could those who content themselves with petty scruples and cling rigidly to ritual propriety ever have done it? To steal a false reputation is a grave disgrace, yet he did not treat it as shameful; to pass the jinshi examination is supreme honor, yet he did not treat it as urgent. He gave himself wholly, tirelessly, to disaster relief and succoring the distressed—is this not the courage of the benevolent? Heaven creates and transforms the myriad things; people call Heaven the Creator; creation also repays a person according to his capacity and virtue.

The heart of compassion is in everyone, yet people often excuse themselves by saying “my strength is not equal to the task.” After reading of Mr. Yanzhai’s deeds, perhaps some may be moved by his example to rise up and act in earnest?

III. Ten Pieces of Gold to Save a Life

The fortune-teller’s eye was sharp; the physiognomist also saw something unusual. He saved a life at Jiangjin, yet at the time almost no one knew. That jieyuan—the top provincial graduate—was in fact the transformation of a “ghost of the crumbling wall”; fortune and misfortune have no fixed gate—they are entirely of one’s own making.

In his youth, one elder was desperately poor; for days on end his household often did not even light the stove, and they had nothing to eat. In the year he came first in the provincial examination and was named jieyuan, there was a fortune-teller in the district whose reckonings were thought very accurate. The man said the elder would meet a sudden, untimely death before the White Dew (Bailu) solar term. The elder was deeply afraid. As the examination dates drew near, several classmates asked him to travel with them to sit the exam. Because of the prediction he did not want to leave home, and he also declined on the pretext of having no money. A student surnamed Wang, from a well-off family and known for his loyalty and generosity, had long been on good terms with the elder. He insisted on taking him along and said, “How can anyone take a fortune-teller’s words as truth? If you’re worried about being short of cash, I’ll cover everything.” With that he took ten taels of silver from his hand and gave them to him, saying, “Use this to see to your household and for travel expenses; whatever else you need, ask me—brother, don’t fret.” Touched by such kindness, the elder set out with his companions. It was already only a few days past the Start of Autumn (Liqiu).

Plain-Language Reading of Seating on Flowers, Reaping Fruit

When he reached Jinling (Jiangning, present-day Nanjing), he heard that in Chengen Temple there was a physiognomist whose predictions of fortune and misfortune often hit the mark; his seat was usually as crowded as a market. An elder of the party went together with six men who shared his lodgings. The physiognomist looked at the six one by one: some he said were shengyuan (government students with stipends), some zengguang or fu students, some jiansheng (Imperial Academy students); some still had both parents alive (juqing), some had lost both (yonggan)—and in every case he was right. Only one man did he say would place on the supplementary list (fuche) in that year’s exams; the rest of his readings for the others never came true. When the elder’s turn came, the physiognomist first asked where his home was and how far it was, then counted on his fingers and said, “Leave at once—you may still make it!”

The elder thought this strange and pressed for an explanation. The physiognomist said, “Your face is withered and your spirit looks scattered; a dull line has already shown on your forehead (tian ting). By the rules of the art, within five days you will die an unnatural death. You should go home as soon as you can—but the disaster should strike on the road; even if you set out now, you may not be in time.” Wang and the others all asked in alarm, “Sir, look again—is there perhaps a ‘star of deliverance’ that could break this?” He answered, “Life and death are fixed in the greater reckoning; only great hidden virtue can turn heaven’s decree. Now the deadline is upon you—nothing can be done. If this man is still alive six days from now, I will never read faces for anyone again!” They went back to their lodging in silence.

The elder said to Wang, “At first it was you who strongly urged me to come; now what the physiognomist says matches what that other man said before—I’m afraid it will come true. Everyone dies in the end; I’m not afraid of dying, but if I die here, you’ll all be badly burdened. Better to hurry home and hope to die in my own house.” His roommates agreed. Wang took pity on him, hired a boat and paid his travel costs, and gave him ten taels of silver besides, saying, “Keep this for emergencies.” The elder understood his meaning, smiled, declined at first then accepted, and said, “This is money you’re giving me for my funeral—I dare not refuse. If the dead have awareness, I’ll plead in the underworld for you to pass the exams high on the list, to repay such generosity.” Then he took leave of everyone and boarded the boat.

Plain-Language Reading of an Excerpt from Zuohua Zhiguo (Records of Sitting Among Flowers and Their Fruits)

After more than ten li on the river, the wind was too strong for the boat to sail, so they moored at the bank and waited. Zhushou originally meant tying up the boat and holding position; later it also borrowed from Han Feizi’s tale of the farmer who laid down his hoe and waited by a tree stump for a rabbit to run into it and die—standing guard in one spot, empty-handed, hoping for luck. What people call zhushou comes from that story.

In what felt like a blink—shunxi, the briefest moment—four days passed. The wind grew fiercer. He reckoned: the “five-day deadline” they had spoken of was nearly up, yet the boat still could not leave; the prophecy that someone would die on the road seemed about to come true. By then his mind was fixed on awaiting death; other thoughts had emptied out. Bitter and stifled, with no way to pass the time, he went ashore for a stroll—xinbu duxing, walking wherever his feet took him, without aim.

After winding more than a li, he saw no one. Suddenly a woman in mid-pregnancy appeared, three small children with her—holding one in her arms, leading the others—walking and weeping, grief so heavy she seemed barely able to go on. They passed each other (jiaobi: meeting face to face, arms almost brushing). She had gone only a few steps.

This *xianda—*a respectful term for a senior adept—suddenly thought: the riverbank was open and silent, no dwellings anywhere; where was this woman going? Her manner was suspicious. He hurried after her and asked; she did not answer. He followed behind (wei zhi, trailing her). The woman cursed and reviled him.

(Picking up from a conversation between a certain “elder” and a woman.) The other pressed harder and said: “If you truly are in dire straits, you might tell me; if I can help, who knows—it may not be impossible.” The woman, having no choice, then said:

“By misfortune I married a butcher. His temper is violent and cruel; I am often beaten, and there is hardly a patch of unmarked skin on my body. Today he is going to the market again. We have two pigs at home; my husband said: ‘I’ll sell them only for ten taels of silver.’ Before long someone came to buy and indeed paid ten taels. I feared the silver might be counterfeit, so I went with the man to a silversmith’s to have it assayed—the weight and fineness were both correct. After we returned home, the man suddenly complained the price was too high and took the silver back. In a little while he came back again and still wanted to exchange the same ingot of silver for the pigs. The silver looked no different from before, so I no longer doubted and gave him the pigs. A certain neighbor from the west came to look; at a glance at the silver he cried in alarm: ‘This is copper!’ We hurried to chase the man, but he was already nowhere to be found. We went again to the silversmith’s to have it assayed—it truly was copper; we asked several shops, and all said it was copper. Thinking I had fallen for such a trick, when my husband returns there will surely be a whipping—I cannot but die. Since die I must, better to drown myself than die under the lash. The three children are all mine; I mean to take them with me in death, lest they suffer further humiliation from this wicked husband.”

When the elder heard this, pity rose in his heart. He asked to see her silver and indeed it was copper. At that moment he happened to have in his sleeve the genuine gold Wang Sheng had given him. He thought: since I am going to die anyway, what use is gold? So he took it from his sleeve and quietly substituted it for the fake silver, saying to the woman: “You nearly died wrongfully—this is real silver; how can you call it copper?” The woman’s face changed abruptly; in anger she… (The original text continues below.)

A woman took a lump of silver to silver shops to have it exchanged for cash. Several shops in a row told her it was copper, not silver. She went back and confronted an elder of virtue and wide experience: “Every one of those shops said it was copper — so why did you tell me it was silver?”

The elder replied, “Not at all. Those shops make a habit of cheating women like you. If you had gone with me, they would never have dared call it copper again. If it had truly been copper, you could still have taken your life then — it would not have been too late.”

The woman did as he said and walked with him three or four li. When they reached the shops, she took out the ingot and showed it around, saying it was silver; she asked shop after shop, and every one said it was silver. She was overjoyed: “How lucky I met you, sir — otherwise I might almost have thrown my life away.” She clasped the silver, bowed her thanks, and went on her way.

When the traveler was hurrying back along the road, the sun had already sunk in the west and evening spread in a dim, hazy blur. He had gone less than a li when he lost his way, with no one to ask for directions. Hesitating alone and unable to go on, he suddenly saw several buildings. Drawing closer, he found broken doors and crumbling walls—a clearly abandoned temple—and had no choice but to shelter under the corridor and wait for dawn. He thought to himself: on a long night with no one about, if fox spirits or ghosts came to seize him, would this not be exactly the place to die? But worn out from the journey, he sat down and fell asleep.

In a half-dreaming, half-waking state he heard the shout of attendants clearing the way. He went out to look: the hall blazed with lamps and candles, attendants stood in stern ranks on either side, and in the center a lord sat at a desk—dimly recognizable as Guandi, Lord Guan of popular devotion. Suddenly he heard the Lord say: “Today at the river crossing someone saved five lives. His person should be looked into and blessed fortune granted.” An official in purple robes came forward holding a written scroll and presented it to be read aloud. The Lord ordered them to consult that man’s registers of allotted fortune and lifespan, and also to see whether his name appeared on the autumn examination roll; then another official in embroidered robes stepped forward bearing a volume…

Someone reported: So-and-so’s allotted salary rank and lifespan had both run their course; by fixed fate he was to be crushed to death tonight at the hour of Zi when the temple wall collapsed on him.

The Sovereign Lord said: If it were truly so, how could we still urge people toward goodness? His salary register should be amended. Yesterday a notice had already arrived from the Gui Palace (the osmanthus palace where Wenchang, Lord of Literature, resides): the Jiangnan provincial top scholar for this examination cycle was struck from the rolls for defiling a maiden; So-and-so may fill that vacancy.

Another said: The money So-and-so used was originally given by Master Wang. Wang valued righteousness over wealth, which enabled So-and-so to achieve this good outcome; tracing the root, Wang too should receive a merit entry.

The Sovereign Lord approved and ordered the registers checked. Wang was originally slated for fifty-third place in the middle tier of this cycle’s provincial examination. An attendant in embroidered robes stepped forward and asked: The fifty-third candidate this cycle was penalized one cycle for faults of speech and removed; the Gui Palace has not yet settled who will replace him—may Wang be appointed immediately?

The Sovereign Lord assented. Just as he was listening closely, a sudden urgent cry at his ear shouted, “Out! Out!” He started awake in alarm, still crouching in the corridor (crouching: neither fully sitting nor standing—a half-squat, half-lean). All around was pitch black; he could see nothing, only hear mud and plaster rustling down from the wall (rustling: the sound of falling earth). He staggered to his feet and had barely stepped outward when the wall crashed down, crushing exactly where he had been squatting; he stood motionless in place until dawn (stood firm: upright and unmoving).

When day broke, he went up to the hall to look around and found that it was indeed a Guan Di temple. After paying his respects with due reverence, he came out, found his way back to the boat, and thought silently to himself: since the deity had spoken as he did, what he said would surely come true in time. He then discussed the matter with the boatman and decided to return to Jinling after all. With a fair wind they set sail and were there before long. Back at his lodgings, everyone was puzzled. The senior scholar said only that wind had blocked their passage and that, besides, the five-day period had already passed, so he had come back. They asked, “In those five days, did any star of disaster actually appear?” He evaded the question and said, “There is always a reason for what happens. Yesterday I happened to stroll along the riverbank for a look and wandered a little far from the boat. By the time I returned it was already dusk; the reeds were thick and tangled, and I fell twice in a row and nearly tumbled into the river. Only when the boatman came with a lamp to find me did I get back—but the silver purse in my sleeve had already flown off like qingfu.” Wang Sheng laughed and said, “One who survives great peril is bound for great fortune; a misstep by the river may be an omen that you will pass the examination as a xiucai!” So they set out wine and celebrated.

The next day his fellow lodgers said that it was now the seventh day and he was safe and sound—why not go and mock the fortune-teller’s wild talk? The senior did not want to go, but they pulled him along anyway. When they arrived, the fortune-teller’s place was packed; they squeezed in and had the senior stand facing him. The fortune-teller was in the middle of an animated discussion…

After the crowd had dispersed, the senior—a predecessor who had achieved fame early and outranked the others—looked up, saw him, and said in surprise, “Aren’t you the man I said would die within five days?”

Everyone answered together: “Yes—and it’s already the seventh day. What can be done?”

The physiognomist said, “He will not die now. I have not seen you for only a few days, yet your bone structure has changed greatly and your complexion has suddenly improved. You must have done something truly remarkable—saved a life—and so been able to turn back Heaven’s decree.”

The senior laughed and said, “Master, that can’t be right. I’m this poor—how could I save anyone?”

The physiognomist said, “Don’t hide it from me. I said before that without great yinde—merit from doing good in secret, without seeking recognition—one cannot turn back Heaven and alter fate. Now your face is full of yinzhai, the hidden virtue that shows in the features. In this year’s provincial examination you will certainly place first as jieyuan; next year you will pass in succession and enter the Hanlin Academy; your rank may rise to the first grade, and your lifespan may be extended by eighty years.”

The senior laughed again and said, “It was no accident. Half a month ago I read the face of a licentiate; the mingtang between his eyebrows—the brow center in face-reading—was abnormally radiant, and I judged him this year’s jieyuan. Yesterday I went to see him again. Suspended-needle lines—a ruinous sign in physiognomy—had appeared on his forehead, and the radiance vanished at once. He must have committed some great hidden wrong, and his name had been struck from the register of rank and emolument. I never expected you to take his place.” He also pointed at Wang Sheng and said, “Your face, too, shows yinzhai; you should pass the same examination and receive your jinshi degree together with this gentleman.”

Wang Sheng laughed and said, “I don’t know how my friend has fared; as for me, what good deed have I done?”

The physiognomist said, “It is precisely because the act was done without ulterior motive—that is what is called yinzhki.”

The onlookers mocked him, saying he was talking evasively.

The senior smiled and said, “I speak at random and you listen at random”—as Zhuangzi has it: I talk nonsense and you listen to nonsense.

Some people were making a commotion, and someone said, "We might as well turn back." After everyone returned, an elder privately told Wang Sheng, "That fortune-teller's reading was truly accurate! What he said was no lie—you will place fifty-third in this examination."

Wang Sheng had arrived home before the elder. He had already noticed the elder's radiant demeanor and found it strange; when he heard what the fortune-teller had said, he began to suspect that the elder had used the gold Wang had given him to help someone in need, yet claimed it was lost. He therefore pressed for the full story. The elder recounted everything from beginning to end and said, "If not for the ten taels of silver you gave me, I fear I could only have waited helplessly for death. That I am blessed by the divine today is entirely owing to your virtue, brother."

Wang Sheng was astonished. "Brother, you have such breadth of heart! If it is truly as you say, then I have been moved by your example; and how could that fortune-teller be so uncannily accurate!"

In that examination the elder indeed passed (as jieyuan or with a provincial degree), and word of Wang Sheng's success soon followed. The next year both entered the Hanlin Academy together.

Master Who Sits Among Flowers said: My close friend Jiang Yiting told me the following and sighed over it: People always say whether one is poor or prosperous, long-lived or short-lived is fixed by fate; they do not know that Heaven’s retribution depends entirely on one’s own choices. Even in a matter as small as ten taels of silver, the spirits will trace it to its root and grant blessing or punishment according to good and evil. The outcome is often this: those who indulge in lust and debauchery, even if once chosen in the Cassia Palace (the moon realm where immortals are enrolled, also a metaphor for celestial selection), will soon be struck from the register; while those who do good, even when their names are about to be entered on the Register of the Dead (the underworld’s roll of the dying—“about to be entered on the ghost register” means death is near), may suddenly gain blessings, rank, and years, with fortune and misfortune turning in an instant and long life or early death changing in a breath. Friends who are light with wealth but heavy with righteousness, and who love to give, also receive the reward of “generous giving.” “Fortune and calamity have no fixed gate; only the person summons them”—these lines come from the Tai Shang Gan Ying Pian (Supreme Clarity Scripture on Response and Retribution), meaning that blessing and disaster have no set doorway; one entirely invites them oneself. From this I believe all the more that one must strive to do good, and take it as a warning.

Four. Life Reduced—Stripped from the Register

(Chapter summary) A star lord descends, surrounded by banners and ceremonial flags; because of two karmic wrongs—cheating a widow and losing the top examinee rank—guilt accumulates again and again, and his immortal register is repeatedly stripped away; the once full, handsome countenance is thereby spoiled and altered.

I was born in the area of Yin County, Zhejiang. At my birth, exotic fragrance filled the room and clouds and rosy light shone in the sky.

That night my maternal grandfather dreamed that he entered the Wenchang Palace (the immortal abode of the deity who presides over literary fortune). There he saw the Wenchang Dijun (Emperor Lord of Wenchang) personally escorting a man of extraordinary bearing out of the palace: banner bearers went ahead and ceremonial staffs and guards followed behind, all in solemn dignity. A minor clerk in green stood to one side with a register and said sidelong to my grandfather, “This is a star lord descended to earth—he will be your grandson.” He then held up a yellow booklet for my grandfather to see. On the first page, in large characters, were a certain surname and given name; below were listed family and social standing, and the fine print filled several pages without end: at nine, entering the Pan Palace (the ancient state academy; beginning one’s studies was called “entering the Pan”); at seventeen, leading the jie (ranking first in the provincial examination); then passing the jinshi examination and ranking first in the palace examination (that is, becoming Zhuangyuan, the top laureate); holding prestigious posts in succession, serving both in the capital and in the provinces, rising to Taifu (a rank comparable to chief minister), enfeoffed as Shanggong (a supreme noble title), with civil and military achievement and a record of great merit.

Before he could finish reading the register, my grandfather was woken by his household—it turned out his son-in-law’s family had come to announce that a grandson had been born. At dawn he went over; each side recounted the strange signs, all amazed and delighted, and agreed that this child would become a pillar of the state (one fit to bear great responsibility).

From childhood this person was exceptionally bright (“qiyi,” a term from the Book of Odes, describes someone who already in youth shows outstanding wit and a fine bearing). As he grew, his intelligence was unmatched; when he read, he could take in ten lines at a glance. At seven he could compose essays; at nine he entered the county school, and for a time he was known as a “child prodigy.” It happened that his mother’s brother, a jinshi degree holder, had become county magistrate in Guangdong and took him along. After several years in the south, by seventeen he was learned and talented in many fields; those who met him could not help but admire and envy him. At that time his uncle’s two sons studied with him, yet they fell far short of his ability.

That year was the autumn provincial examination. The uncle, whose two sons had not yet finished their studies, planned to wait until the next round before sitting the exam himself, so he told the scholar and his two cousins to go home together—but for a while he could not decide.

One night he dreamed that Lord Guan summoned him and said: “If so-and-so does not return to Zhejiang, no one in that province will pass the examination. Hurry and get him on the road.” When he woke, he packed his nephew’s things and urged him to leave, and gave him a generous sum of silver. The scholar had always been proud; on the way he spent money freely in pleasure quarters. As soon as he had crossed Mount Yu, his purse was empty.

In a certain county in Jiangxi, the magistrate was the uncle’s fellow graduate and had always thought highly of the scholar. The scholar called on him, was treated well, and was lodged temporarily in quarters outside the yamen. The landlord had never been trustworthy. In the county was the wife of a rich household—pregnant, not yet delivered, when her husband died; she lived as a widow. Kinsmen coveted her property, trumped up a charge of adultery, and sued; the landlord was the chief instigator. The magistrate saw through it, and the kinsmen nearly came to grief.

Seeing that the scholar was the magistrate’s honored guest, they bribed him heavily and asked him to intercede and soften the magistrate’s line. Short of cash, the scholar craftily reported to the magistrate: “That woman’s bad name is known all over the county. Yet at the first hearing you tried hard to protect her, and people suspect you took her money and favored her on purpose. I owe you much kindness, and knowing your integrity, I cannot bear that runners should mislead you and stain your good name—I venture to tell you what I have heard.” The magistrate believed him, at once called both parties in, reversed the earlier ruling, and ordered the woman “great return” (sent back in divorce to her natal family), and also made the kinsmen establish an heir for her; they then divided her property and gave the scholar another thousand taels in silver. After the scholar left, the widow went home and hanged herself.

On the journey they passed through Quzhou. The local prefect (shou being a title for the prefectural magistrate) and the student’s maternal uncle had passed the jinshi examination in the same year. The clan had carved up a widow’s estate and also paid this student a bribe of a thousand in gold.

After the student set out and left, the widow went home and hanged herself.

On another occasion he passed through Quzhou again. The prefect was still his uncle’s same-year jinshi colleague and thought highly of this student. The student went to call on him, and the prefect likewise had him stay in an outside guesthouse. In the prefecture there was also a wealthy woman newly widowed, carrying a posthumous child. The clan falsely claimed the child was adopted; the suit at the county dragged on without resolution. They brought a second suit for “disrupting the lineage,” and the prefect leaned noticeably toward the clan. The student again took money from the clan, pleaded the case to the prefect with clever words, and the prefect was misled as well: he ruled that the woman must give up her own child and that a young clansman should succeed as heir. The student twice received heavy bribes and was immensely pleased with himself.

When the civil examinations came, he failed in the end (“bu shou” meaning he did not pass). Back in his home district his conduct grew even more lawless; he lived entirely by knife-and-brush work (pettifoggery—drafting lawsuits and the like, as in the Records of the Historian, later “daobi” denoting lawsuit scriveners). His schemes were crafty and his prose forceful (“wen zhen xiong shi” recalls Zhang Jiuling in Jade Hall Lore). What he did was like a mirage (the sea clam is called shen; sea vapors form a “sea market,” and shen vapors form a mirage tower—a figure for making something out of nothing): he fabricated and reversed at will, and many were harmed. He also failed the examinations again and again (“bei” means defeat; “lü bei” means repeated failure to pass). By forty he was still only a xiucai (“zijin” from the Book of Poetry, later a name for xiucai).

Later his uncle retired and returned home. When he heard of these deeds he was furious and confined the nephew at home (“ji zhi jia” meaning he was not allowed to go out).

One night the uncle dreamed that he had come to the City God Temple and saw two underworld runners sitting in the corridor. One runner said, “For twenty years now, whenever the examination rolls were drawn up, Yu’s name was always struck off—why is that?” The other gave a cold laugh and said, “This year his name was struck off again because of such-and-such a matter! Fortunately his uncle arranged such-and-such a thing for him, so he can still keep his life.” The uncle was greatly startled and bowed with clasped hands to ask what it meant. The runner took out a register and showed it to him. The first page bore his nephew’s name; the recorded official and family background matched what his father (the elder) had seen in his lifetime. The entries for wicked deeds ran on one after another; the struck-off marks had nearly used up all his chances, and then because of what he did on Qingming Festival day he was struck off again—that referred to what he did when sweeping the graves at Qingming. His allotted lifespan, too, was exactly as the runner had said.

The uncle woke, hurriedly called his nephew to his bedside, listed his sins one by one, and told him the dream. The nephew wept and confessed; from then on he somewhat restrained his conduct. More than twenty years later he ended his days after all only as a licentiate (xiucai/shengyuan). When Jiang Yiting was running a private school in Ningbo, he had seen this man in person: plump cheeks, broad forehead, square face with a long beard—not like those old scholars who had long lingered in the licentiate ranks.

Master Sitting Among Flowers observes: In the world one often meets people of dazzling talent who could “ascend to the blue clouds”—rise to high office—as if treading level ground, yet in the examination halls they wear themselves out until their hair is white and still win not the slightest advancement. They cannot but lament that Heaven does not lightly bestow genius, while the ways talent is humiliated and brought low are painfully severe.

Take this Mr. Wu: naturally clever, and fond of books as he matured. Had he cultivated himself with restraint and guarded his conduct carefully, the omens shown him in dreams might not have proved empty, nor the honors recorded in the registers beyond his grasp. Instead he freely judged others’ right and wrong with his tongue (what is called koujiao cihuang, “reversing black and white at the lips”), and with his pen turned truth and falsehood upside down; he stuffed his own purse while destroying others’ good names. In the end he was deprived of his grain stipend and removed from the student rolls, and died in want while still holding the rank of xiucai (licentiate)—only then did he see that Heaven does not begrudge talent; it is people who do not know how to employ their talent well. Alas—how dangerous!

Five. Scholar Wu

Those who are closest sometimes include only a brother-in-law—the tie between a man and his wife’s brother—who will risk the lives of the whole household to protect someone.

Keeping a person shut in a sealed room so that his vital yang is not taken causes deep anguish; yet that kindness can run deeper than what one owes the master who taught him in the school.

Wu, a scholar from Yixing, was well known at the academy. He was recommended again and again but never passed the exams. On New Year’s Eve, his brother-in-law dreamed of a notice posted in the City God temple: Wu would be first in the provincial examinations the next year—then the name was crossed out. While he was still puzzled, a clerk beside him said, “On the first day of the first month he will commit a grave offense, so his name is removed.” The brother-in-law asked, “Can that be changed?” The clerk said, “You must ask whoever is in charge.” He was led in to see the City God, seated facing south. The man prostrated himself and pleaded for Wu. The god threw down a register. It showed that Wu was originally destined to win the triple crown of examinations and rise to prime minister, but because of the karma of harmful words, written and spoken, his name was struck off entirely; what concerned this year’s exam matched what the clerk had said. He kowtowed and begged, saying, “What is past is past; the future can still be guarded. I will pledge the lives of my entire family that he will not do that deed.” The god nodded and ordered the clerk to lead him out—and the notice on the wall was as before. When he woke, he was about to tell his wife; she suddenly cried out as if in a nightmare. After she was roused, he asked why she had screamed. She said someone had announced that her brother had come first in the province, then someone seized the report and said, “Wu has been removed from the list—do not announce it wrongly.” That was why she had cried out. He told her his dream as well; they were both astonished and discussed what to do about Wu. His wife said, “It is not difficult. My brother is a widower without children and lives alone. If we bring him here, shut him in an empty room, and tell him the whole story, we can warn him and keep him safe.”

(This segment ends here; if the book continues below, that belongs to another passage in the original.)

The next morning, the narrator dressed neatly and went to the Wu household to pay New Year’s respects. After the visit, he lied that his sister had suddenly fallen gravely ill and wished to see her younger brother once more, and led him to his own home. When Wu went upstairs and saw his sister safe and well, he was about to ask why—when she quickly pulled him into a secret room, shut the door, and bolted it. Through the door she told him everything she had dreamed. Wu said in astonishment: “It’s true such a thought crossed my mind, but I had not yet acted on it—why would the spirits hurry to punish me?” The sister and her husband said: “Everything you need for daily life is here; you can devote this time to intense study and not come out.” They only unlocked the door when the examination date arrived. The brother-in-law and the younger brother went together to Jinling; except when entering the examination hall, they had to keep in step at every move. When the results were posted, he had indeed passed as provincial graduate with top honors.

The Master of Sitting Among Flowers says: To punish someone before the deed is done strikes some as harsh, yet I find it lenient. Why? If retribution waited until the act was plain for all to see, it would be too late to help what was already done; only by blocking the evil intent in advance, along the very line of that thought, can one be shaken awake and dare not act wrongly. The person is spared the burden of sin from doing evil, and Wu is spared having his blessings cut short—is that not a good outcome? Even so, someone like Wu was lucky: “In a dark room, a guilty heart—the spirits’ eyes are like lightning.” I fear that spirits throughout the world cannot wake every sleeper one by one.

VI. The Residual Slaughter Retribution of Lord Qian Wenmin

Changzhou has long had many eminent clans—for example Grand Councilor Lü Gong, zhuangyuan Yang Tingyi, Zhao Shenqiao posthumously honored as Gongyi, and Governor Pan Simu (the character in his name is read as ju, “square”)—whose descendants kept winning degrees and preserving literary traditions. Only the line of Qian Wenmin Gong Weicheng declined most sharply and is now extinct. Tradition says that during the campaign against the Miao, he served as Minister of Justice (Grand Minister of Punishments) on the staff. After the rebel chieftain had been executed, the commander-in-chief (the commissioner) had intended to kill only able-bodied men and spare women and children; when Qian Gong was consulted, he said flatly: “The offspring of evil cannot be left alive!” All were then put to death, including children of seven or eight, and the local Dong Miao were wiped out. Not long after the army returned, Qian Gong died; his sons died in succession; many grandsons were disabled; and sacrifice to the Qian lineage finally ceased.

VII. The Midwife’s Bitter Steadfastness

In the title “The Midwife’s Bitter Steadfastness,” wenpo means the old-fashioned midwife who delivered babies; kujie means holding to chastity, fidelity, or one’s resolve through hardship. This entry records one midwife’s steadfast conduct in adversity; the main text follows below.

VII. The Midwife’s Steadfast Chastity

The midwife earned her living by hard, unremitting work. Widowed while still young, she nevertheless kept the household in order with diligence and served her elders with care.

Her mother-in-law urged her to remarry; she refused absolutely. In a fit of anger she cut off her own ear—her resolve in chastity was as clear as ice and as pure as jade.

Among spirit temples, the Shanghai City God Temple (Chenghuang Miao) is famed for its responsiveness. In the bingxu year of the Daoguang reign (1826), the county conducted a survey of chaste and filial merit: women who could not afford to petition for an individual commendation had their names collected and forwarded by the local offices (the daoyin, prefectural, and county yamens) and were honored together in a collective memorial arch.

Before long her husband died; her sons died in succession; many of her grandsons were disabled—and the Qian lineage came to an end.

At the very beginning of the affair, a central office was set up at the Ruizhu Academy, with several local gentlemen in charge. Everyone felt that this recommendation touched on customs and moral instruction, so private motives must not be mixed in. They therefore brought the city god’s image into the office, and all who handled the business swore an oath before the deity, pledging single-minded fairness.

One day someone reported a chaste widow. When her family background was looked into, it turned out she had been a midwife. Director Wang laughed and said, “Leave this one aside for now! How could a midwife keep chaste?” The others all thought that made sense.

That night Wang dreamed that a man in blue clothes led him to the flower hall of the county temple. He saw the city god seated in everyday dress, who sternly rebuked him: “Young fool! You cannot tell truth from falsehood and shoot your mouth off as if words were no more binding than ink that can be rubbed out with orpiment! To slander and defame a woman’s chastity deserves immediate punishment! Considering that you did not act from deliberate malice, go beside the Confucian temple. There you will find a very old man who holds a bamboo broom and waits at the door—ask him and you will learn the full story. Hereafter you must be careful; if you do this again, you will not be let off lightly!” Wang kowtowed and admitted his fault. The god ordered a clerk to lead him out; just as he reached the doorway he woke. He at once threw on his clothes and sat up, waiting until dawn.

At dawn he hurried to the front of the Temple of Confucius. Sure enough he saw an old man with a broom sweeping the ground; on looking closely, it was the temple’s zhaifu—the odd-job man in charge of sweeping and guarding the gate. The scholar asked the old man about the midwife’s chastity and widow fidelity.

The old man’s expression changed and he said in surprise: “Sir, you’re lucky to have asked me—don’t let anyone else know. She is truly a woman of fierce virtue, truly one who has endured hardship to keep her chastity. For forty years I have lived next door to her. Her family has practiced midwifery for generations. The woman was good-looking; widowed young, she had no son. Her father-in-law and mother-in-law urged her to remarry, but she swore she would not. Because the mother-in-law was old and could no longer take midwifery cases, the daughter-in-law took over the trade and supported her in-laws with great filial devotion.

Once, when she was attending a birth at a wealthy household, the son of that family coveted her looks and tried to force himself on her. She would rather die than submit and used a stratagem to escape home. The wealthy son then used a large sum of money to win over her in-laws; both father-in-law and mother-in-law came to persuade her. The woman cut off one ear and offered it to them, and only then preserved her integrity.

I have been her neighbor for many years—from her youth to her old age I have never seen her jest or banter with any man. With virtue and chastity like this, I wonder whether she could receive jingbiao—the official commendation of a memorial arch or entry in the register of chaste women?”

When Wang finished hearing the full account, he hurried to the yamen and told his colleagues everything he had dreamed the night before and what the old man had said, and registered the midwife’s name in the record. That a chaste woman should be held in such esteem by the divine—how could one fail to take it seriously?

Master of Sitting Among Flowers says: Loyalty, filial piety, integrity, and chastity all spring from human nature. Heaven often grants people these virtues in full measure, unlike wealth, rank, and success, which it sometimes withholds. Heaven values loyalty, filial piety, integrity, and chastery far more than wealth and worldly success—why? Because people often chase wealth and success and cast loyalty, filial piety, integrity, and chastity aside. Yet in homes of straw gates and tiny wall-holes (the poorest households), people sometimes do what even scholar-officials cannot; heaven must then treat such “hard-won” virtue as especially precious. Ordinary women in broken-down houses who endure hardship while keeping chastity—spirits and gods are eager to praise them, to admonish those who are “cattle and horses dressed in scholar’s robes” (people ignorant of past and present, all show and no substance, like beasts in human dress). If someone “speaks yellow and white at random” (talks recklessly and twists truth), suppressing what ought to be celebrated, punishment from the divine is only fitting.

Eighth tale · A beggar’s blessed reward (gist of the verse)

A beggar who returns lost gold shows true goodness; winning at gambling yet not grasping for more is rarer still. Fine jade at last meets one who knows its worth; wife, wealth, sons, and official salary may follow together.

Jia Ayu was from Yangxian (in the area of present-day Yixing, Jiangsu). In his youth he begged in the countryside and often slept in the earth-god temple outside the city.

One year, after the Shen hour (three to five in the afternoon) on New Year’s Eve, he saw a roll of blue cloth on the ground. He picked it up and opened it: inside was a woman’s garment wrapping a silver ingot of about thirty taels. At first he was pleased, but then he thought, “I’m a beggar—what would I do with so much silver? The person who lost it might search in vain and do something desperate.” So he stayed where he was and waited specifically for the owner to come looking.

After a long while, a middle-aged woman came out from the city, crying and searching along the ground. Ayu knew she was the owner and went up to ask what she was looking for. The woman, seeing he was a beggar, paid no attention and wept all the harder. Ayu said, “What are you looking for? I’ve been sitting here a long time—I may have seen it.” Only then did she explain that she had lost clothes and silver. She said her husband owed official grain tax and had been detained; she had sold their daughter to pay the debt, and if the money and clothes could not be found, she would have no way out but death. Ayu asked about the color of the garment and the paper wrapping the silver; everything matched, and he returned the bundle to her. After checking, she was deeply grateful and wanted to give him some silver in thanks, but he firmly refused.

That night he slept in the temple. He saw the hall lit up as if with many lamps and wondered—it was not yet dawn, so who would be burning incense? Suddenly he heard someone in the hall say, “Today there was a beggar who did not keep lost money…”

That night he slept in the shrine. He saw the hall lit with lamps and candles and thought, It can't be dawn yet—why is someone already here burning incense? Suddenly he heard voices in the hall: "Tonight a beggar did not keep money someone had lost. He saved a young husband and wife—two lives—and the merit is great. He should receive reward in this life." Another voice said, "That man was fated to beg all his life and die at thirty." The one on the dais said, "We must report to the Great Emperor of the Eastern Peak and add an entry to his register of fortune, and grant blessings to his wife and children, so others may be encouraged to do good." He also ordered that a chest of silver be given first; at once someone carried a large box and set it before A-yu, saying, "The god bestows this upon you." A-yu was overjoyed—then he woke to pitch darkness again. He stretched and started to rise; his foot struck something with a clink. He picked it up: six large coins strung on a cord. He smiled to himself: "Could this be what the god gave me?" and tucked them in his robe.

In Yangxian (in what is now the Yixing area of Jiangsu), there was a custom at New Year: wealthy households often made bing’er—cakes and pastries from rice flour and the like—to give to beggars. Inside and outside the city there were many gambling houses. There were also sugar sellers who put six dice on their carrying poles (in ancient times dice were also called “ming qiong,” from the Liezi; “liu qiong” means six dice) and let people gamble; whoever won could take as much sugar and cash as they liked. These sugar stalls all gathered at Chang Bridge. Chang Bridge was where Zhou Chu of the Jin—posthumously titled Marquis Xiao—had slain the river dragon. The Jin Shu records that Zhou Chu was a native of Yangxian. He lost his father young, was immensely strong, loved hunting, and cared little for propriety; the whole district feared him. The elders once sighed: “If the three scourges are not removed, what can we do?” Zhou Chu asked what they meant and was told: the dragon under Chang Bridge, the white-browed tiger on South Mountain, and you—the “three scourges.” Zhou Chu then went into the mountains to shoot the tiger and into the water to kill the dragon, and reformed himself toward the good; Lu Ji (style name Shilong) urged him to study, and he later rose to Censor-in-Chief, famed for integrity.

At daybreak the beggar A Yu begged a great many bing’er. After he had eaten his fill, he tucked six cash in his clothes and went to Chang Bridge to gamble with a sugar seller—and won. He won at more than ten stalls in a row and got a thousand cash. He went on to the gambling houses and won again. From morning to night he took in tens of thousands. At that time an Old Man Jia ran a noodle shop beside Chang Bridge; when A Yu begged money he often bought noodles there, and Jia had always pitied him. The money he won that day he left on deposit at Jia’s shop. The next day he gambled again—and always won. In four or five days his pile grew to more than a hundred thousand.

Suddenly A Yu thought: “What you get from gambling is not honest wealth. Though I am protected by the gods, those who lose are not all people with spare cash (‘fu’ means to lose; ‘fei jin you yu’ means not everyone has idle money). To take their money by ‘hunting’ it (in Cai Yong’s Yueling Zhangju, ‘lie’ means seizing swiftly or by force) is bound to create bad karma. Besides, I am only a beggar; if I suddenly have more than a hundred thousand and live thriftily, I could still build a household—why keep gambling? When I win I feel uneasy; when I lose I would have to be a beggar again.” So he swore before the gods that he would never gamble again.

At that time, Uncle Jia’s noodle shop was short of cash and seemed about to close for good. After discussing it with A Yu, the couple put in everything they had saved as capital for the shop, and A Yu herself worked in the store as a clerk and helper. Uncle Jia was delighted and chose a day to reopen. As soon as the doors opened, customers poured in as if to a fair—the phrase “people rushed like wild ducks to water” means they crowded toward one spot as fast as flocks of wild ducks fly to the shore. Earnings were several times what they had been before. In a few years they had saved several thousand taels of silver, and the business grew larger and larger.

Uncle Jia had no son, only a daughter. Grateful to A Yu, he gave his daughter to him in marriage. A Yu treated Uncle Jia as he would his own father, and the two relied on each other until old age. Later his wife bore two sons in succession; A Yu lived to seventy before he died. His sons still run the noodle shop as usual, and the family counts as modestly well-off. A Yu had never known his own surname; having always lived with Uncle Jia, he took the Jia surname.

The Master of Sitting Among Flowers says:

A Yu was born a beggar, low in station, yet he did not keep gold others had lost—a kindness of heart that was already rare. But that was still only a single good impulse. Later, when dreams brought divine favor and gambling brought him great winnings, another man might have treated the dice as a “treasure basin,” expecting every coin in the chest to come from the gaming table. Instead, while winning again and again, he thought of how shamed the losers must feel; he swore before the gods to stop and never gamble again. This is what people call “withdrawing boldly in a rushing stream”—like Song-dynasty Qian Ruoshui on Mount Hua, where he met Chen Xiyi; an old monk sat beside Xiyi, studied Qian Ruoshui for a long time, and slowly said: you are one who can retreat boldly in turbulent waters. Ruoshui later left office and returned home before he was forty. A Yu had both benevolence and wisdom. To live long and die well (“kao” means old age; “ling zhong” a good end), with blessing reaching his descendants, was only fitting.

IX. The Thief’s Blessing

Summary of the poem:

By night he stole and prowled, hiding on the rafters—then suddenly saw a rape, the villain fierce as tiger or wolf. Had the woman not yielded, both lives would have been lost; he seized the knife and stabbed the black-hearted man. Thrice he cried “I am a thief”—showing he had the temper of a bold knight-errant all along. He returned the bundle, then took over that man’s whole “trade”; gain and loss sat lightly with him, like “Chu lost the bow, Chu found the bow”—for Chu there was neither less nor more.

Main text:

A certain man began as a beggar, became a thief, then grew immensely wealthy; among his descendants were officials, and people honored him as “Lord Feng.” (“Deng shi ji” means entering the register of office—becoming an official; “Feng weng” is the respectful title for the father of a son who gained literary or official rank.)

There was a man who at first made his living by begging, later turned thief, and still later became immensely wealthy; among his descendants were men who held office, and people honored him with the title Feng Weng.

While he was still a thief, there was in the county a family surnamed X—once very rich, yet for three generations in a row widows had kept their widowhood. Three sisters-in-law, wives of brothers, had all lost their husbands; with no sons to inherit, the line seemed about to end. Fortunately the youngest brother’s wife was pregnant with a posthumous child not yet born, and everyone still hoped for a boy to carry on the ancestral sacrifices.

When Qingming came and they were to go to the countryside to sweep the graves, both older sisters-in-law went—the journey was long, three days there and back. Only the youngest brother’s wife stayed home because of her pregnancy, with one old serving woman left to attend her. A certain thief learned of this and took advantage of the empty house to break in. After dark he scaled the wall and entered; he saw the young sister-in-law and the old woman carrying lamps as they came out to check the doors and gates. The thief slipped into the young sister-in-law’s room and hid where he would not be seen. The woman read by lamplight; beside her the old woman feigned drunkenness and urged her to bed. The woman said, “Shut the door yourself and go sleep—do not disturb me.” The old woman answered with a vague assent.