《坐花志果》Vol. 4

“Dedede” is the sound of a mule’s hooves striking the ground as it walks—a way of describing how a mule moves along the road.

A stallion mule saw a jenny mule and trotted after it. A woman up ahead could not tell who was who either, and she kept following them. As dusk fell, the woman asked Zhou, “How many li farther is it to such-and-such village?” Zhou was startled. “You’ve gone the wrong way! To reach that village you should head west. From here it’s still fifty li. It’s late, you’re alone, and with no one to travel with you may not make it in time!” When the woman heard this, she was both alarmed and afraid, and she wept. “What can I do?” Zhou said, “I have a small farmstead about two li from here. You can come with me for now and stay the night at my tenant farmers’ place—diàn hù are peasants who farm land for a landlord—and tomorrow you can go back the way you came. Would that do?” The woman had no choice but to follow him. Zhou added, “You are a young woman and I am a man traveling alone. The tenants might suspect us. Why not pretend we are related?” The woman reluctantly agreed. So the two of them went on together to the farm. Zhou said to the tenant, “On my way home from work I met my cousin’s wife, who was bound for such-and-such village but lost her way and could not get there. Luckily she ran into me and we came together. We only need to stay one night and will leave at the fifth watch tomorrow.” The tenant said, “The countryside is cramped and there aren’t many rooms—I’m afraid we can’t treat you as we should.” He then led the woman into a room to sleep in the inner part; outside there was still one bay of building. They used the door of that room as a bed platform and put Zhou’s luggage on top of it.

At the fifth watch the tenant got up and called to Zhou, but got no answer. He searched every part of the main hall—everything was still and there was no one. He took a lamp into the inner bedroom and looked inside.

At the fifth watch, the tenant farmer got up and called to Zhou, but Zhou did not answer. He searched the main room; it was silent and empty. He took a lamp into the bedroom and found two men lying side by side on the earthen kang, already dead for who knows how long. Blood had soaked through the pillow and mat; their heads and necks looked as if they had been cut almost through. The tenant was terrified and thought privately: these two had come at night with no witnesses—better to bury them and hide the traces so he would not be implicated. In a panic he carried both bodies outside, dug a hole, and buried them.

The next day the tenant took the mule to the market to sell it. Chen, who was connected to Zhou, was on his way back and passed the market. He saw the mule and assumed Zhou had already returned home. He went to Zhou’s house to ask; the family said he had not come back. Chen said, “The mule is already at the market—how can you say he hasn’t returned?” They went to the market together and indeed found the mule. They traced where it had come from, step by step, until they reached the tenant’s house. Under repeated questioning the tenant could not keep up the lie and told the whole story. The magistrate was notified; the bodies were exhumed and proved to be two corpses—one was Zhou, the other wore a narrow-sleeved long gown and was a bald monk. People were shocked and uproar; the authorities had Chen’s and the monk’s bodies laid out in the open and offered a reward for identification. Someone recognized the monk as a disciple from a certain monastery; an official document was sent to seize his master. When the master arrived, his face changed and his answers were evasive; under torture he confessed that yesterday he and his disciple had performed a repentance ritual at a household, and passing this place at night they heard someone groaning in the field. They dug and found two corpses, a man and a woman; the woman was still alive. The disciple wanted to violate her and keep her hidden; the master disagreed, so they killed the woman and buried her again. Asked where the woman’s body was now, he said it was hidden in the monastery. They searched accordingly and found her.

Although the case had cleared up what happened with the monk, the person who had killed Mr. Zhou still had not been identified. When the tenant farmer was questioned—“Who originally lived in this room?”—he answered, “My younger sister.” She was summoned; she was about twenty and not unattractive. She was first held in a sealed room, and in the middle of the night a midwife was called to examine her; she was no longer a virgin. Pressed about who she had been intimate with, the woman could not keep it hidden and admitted truthfully that it was a certain Mr. Jia who lived next door to the west. That same night Mr. Jia was seized; under interrogation he confessed at once. It turned out that Mr. Jia had slipped into the woman’s room at night, saw two people asleep on the bed with their heads close together, suspected she was involved with someone else, and in a fit of jealous rage killed them both—only to discover he had killed the wrong people. After guilt was deliberated and the sentence fixed, both Mr. Jia and the monk were held to have caused death in connection with illicit relations and were sentenced to capital punishment; the tenant farmer was punished for moving the corpse.

Sitting Flower Master said: The ancients had a saying: “Wicked and adulterous conduct is never far from bringing death upon oneself.” That saying is trustworthy! When Zhou Sheng met that woman by chance and was invited to stay overnight at a tenant farmer’s home, did he not take it for a once-in-a-lifetime stroke of luck? Who could have known that pleasure would last but a moment, while life would be lost in an instant? The man who entered the room turned bed and mat into swords and spears—here meaning Zhou Sheng was killed over the affair; the one who came at the sound turned compassion into cruelty—here meaning the monk killed his disciple. Desire flared up together; karmic debt sank together into the bitter sea. One woman lost her way; four people lost their lives—can one not fear this? Can one not take it as a warning?

Five: Sons Die and Return to Life

Evil karma left by ancestors drew nine demonic obstructions; the fortune of a house on the verge of ruin was bound to be worn away in the end. Better first to use up the funds meant for relieving the poor—then five sons were reborn, and blessed reward was all the greater.

The Wang family of Linghu included a Lord Wang Wensjian, famous for holding a hereditary title. Among his ancestors was an old man widely known in the district for great wealth and standing. After the old man passed twenty, he had nine sons in succession, but every one was dull-witted; not a single son was bright or clever.

In a certain year of the Qianlong reign, a great famine struck, and many people showed the pinched, sallow look of long hunger. The old man gave up all his property to relieve his fellow townspeople, saving countless lives; his own household went from riches to ruin in the process.

Before long, the eldest son died of illness; within a year, all nine sons died young one after another, and none survived. Husband and wife were grief-stricken and resentful, their minds adrift as if their souls had left them.

They had long worshipped Guanyin Bodhisattva. They wrote a petition, burned it before the image, and their words were full of lament. That night they dreamed that the Bodhisattva admonished them: “The nine sons you bore before were in truth nine demonic obstacles—each a son who would ruin the family. Because your grandfather had hidden wrongs that went unatoned for, they were sent to destroy your house. Now you have spent your fortune to aid the countryside; your hidden merit is deep. The High Lord has ordered these demons taken back and will send a star of literary accomplishment to be reborn and revive your line. If you cultivate goodness still further, in twenty years the Wenqu Star—the star that governs literary fortune and examination success—will be born into your family. Do not blame yourselves in despair.”

Husband and wife dreamed the same dream. From then on they were all the more careful to do good, helping the distressed and aiding the needy, diligent without slackening, afraid they might not do enough.

First Section

Before long, several of his wives and concubines were pregnant in succession. Over the next few years he had five more sons; all of them studied and could write, and made a name for themselves at the local academy. One generation later, Wenjian Gong passed the palace examination as zhuangyuan (top graduate) and rose to Minister; his younger brother Yiwu was huiyuan (top provincial graduate) in the same examination cycle. Descendants who entered official service and wore official insignia continued in an unbroken line (as in the Book of Odes: “Descendants and descendants, / Do not let the line be cut off”—ti here means to abolish or break off).

Second Section (Palace Examination Papers in Pale Ink)

The poem says: perilous places where people jostle by luck, rare to be sharply questioned before the throne; pale ink by chance aligns the “connections,” teacher and students, brothers—their tracks equally clear. It refers to the old custom in the examination halls of writing papers in pale ink.

Wenjian Gong Wang Yixian and his brother Yiwu were already famous at the academy while still licentiates, favored by the education commissioner Dou Donggao, and known as the “Two Wangs.” After passing the provincial examination, they both sat the yimao-year metropolitan examination. Dou Donggao served as chief examiner; the first topic was the Mencius lines on “what the people approve, the ruler should approve.” Years earlier, when Dou had been provincial inspector in the Lake region and lectured at the academy, he had his own reading of that passage; this time the topic happened to be that very one, and of the whole field only the Two Wangs’ answers matched his interpretation. When the list was published, Yiwu ranked first (huiyuan) and Yixian second. Those who failed began to gossip and spread rumors.

On “Pale Ink”

In Ming and Qing palace examinations, answer sheets were sometimes written in ink of a lighter shade, to make certain stages easier to recognize or to align with hidden “connections” (guanjie). Here, the alignment of teacher and students (Dou and the Two Wangs) and the brothers placing on the same list with adjacent ranks is likened to pale-ink papers: outsiders cannot see the inner logic, yet the clues are plain. The whole passage is saying that Dou Donggao favored the Two Wangs, the set topic matched his old teaching, and after the list came out their ranks stirred talk—with “pale ink” pointing to that kind of tacit understanding in the examination world.

When Heshen held power, he resented Dou Guangnai—a man of upright character who would not court him—and looked for a way to ruin him. Someone who heard of this was delighted and at once reported it upward. Emperor Qianlong took the matter seriously: he reduced Dou Guangnai’s rank and sent him home to pursue his studies.

On the day of the palace examination, a candidate known as Wenjiangong (in the narrative tied to the Dou family: brooding over his teacher’s punishment in a “capable official” case and his younger brother’s banishment) was in low spirits. He wrote his paper in pale ink, finished in haste, and did not expect to place among the top.

At the time, a tutor in Heshen’s household had also passed the jinshi in the same year. Heshen told him, “Use pale ink on the palace exam and you can take first place (zhuangyuan).” When the graders saw a pale-ink script, they assumed it was the tutor’s and placed it in the first tier. When names were read aloud, the emperor noticed the pale ink and grew suspicious. Heshen pressed hard beside him, arguing that to write with such dignity and refinement in pale ink—harder than with full ink—proved long cultivation. The emperor accepted this and ranked the paper first. When the name was announced, it was Wang Yixie. The emperor turned to Heshen and asked sharply, “Was this Dou Guangnai’s work as well?” Heshen fell silent and dared not reply. Dou Guangnai’s name was cleared, and the slander died away at once. So often what petty men do ends up serving the upright; the petty man only plays the fool for nothing.

Seven: Reward for Honoring One’s Teacher

To serve long at the teacher’s lectern (gaobi) is itself an old affinity; essays wrung from the heart, handed down, already number in the dozens. To those brilliant candidates who win the top honors: the true secret lies in two words—honor the teacher.

Four-line poem

Long years at the master’s side—also the bond of a former life;

A lifetime’s toil poured into timed examination essays, several dozen pieces left behind.

A word to those who would take first place in the examination halls:

“Reverence for the teacher”—that is what truly counts.

Main text

In Zhejiang there was a jieyuan (top graduate of the provincial examination). While he was still a boy, his father (fengweng, an honorific for one’s father) hired a distinguished teacher. Instruction was strict, and the father showed the teacher consistent respect. From first lessons through the stage of writing bagu (eight-legged examination essays), they never changed teachers.

When the jieyuan was about twenty, he passed the xiucai (licentiate) examination. The teacher gave him the full body of zhìyì he had written in his lifetime—the timed essays written for the civil service examinations are called zhìyì—and picked out several dozen of the best for him to read until he knew them well, saying: “Everything I poured my life into is here; if the examination sets a similar topic, you can aim for first place and the top rank.”

The jieyuan took the collection; after a few readings he could recite the pieces from memory.

Before long the teacher fell seriously ill. The jieyuan and his father nursed him and saw to his medicine with sincere, careful devotion. After the teacher died, they arranged a proper coffining and funeral, and for years afterward they continued to support his wife and children. The fees and board (xiujin and guangu—tuition and household provisions; youwo means generous) were ample, as if the teacher were still in the household—they kept this up for several years without letting up.

In the year he passed the provincial examination as Jieyuan (first place), the Fengweng—the honorary title for an elder honored because of his prominent descendants, here the Jieyuan’s father—dreamed that the teacher came to thank him, saying: “I formerly gave dozens of my essays to your son. I fear that over time he may forget them; you should urge him to read them until he knows them thoroughly. This is how I repay you.” When the Fengweng woke, he questioned the Jieyuan about the words in the dream, and the Jieyuan did indeed have these essays. The Fengweng then told him the dream and urged him to recite them. By early in the seventh month, the Jieyuan had thoroughly learned only six or seven tenths of them and wanted to set them aside for the time being. That night the Fengweng dreamed again that the teacher came and said: “Yesterday I saw your son reading my essays at night, but he has not yet learned them all thoroughly. The examination date is near; you should urge him on, and not leave out even one lesson essay.” After waking, the Fengweng scolded and pressed the Jieyuan, who had no choice but to learn them all thoroughly. During the examination, in the first session there were three questions, two of which fell within the range of the teacher’s essays; he copied them directly into his answer paper. Only one examination essay on a Mencius topic was missing, and he spent a day composing it; compared with the teacher’s original, its literary power was about equal. After the results were posted, he had indeed passed as Jieyuan.

The commentator Sitting-Flower Master remarks: As public morals decline day by day, wealthy households (sufeng zhi jia, families without official rank but rich enough to rival a lord) do not begrudge spending a thousand pieces of gold a day on wine, meat, socializing, music, and sensual pleasures; yet when it comes to hiring a teacher to educate their children, they haggle even over the smallest sum. Can one not call a Fengweng like this loyal and respectful in his treatment of the teacher? That he ultimately received recompense was entirely as it should be.

The poem under the chapter title “8. Clerk in the Governor’s Office” (fuyuan means the governor’s yamen; li means a subordinate clerk) says: The fire god Zhurong punishes the wicked without partiality; once the wicked meet retribution, their property and lives are emptied in an instant. Had it not been for the protection of ancestral merit, both sons would have fallen into the calamity.

A man surnamed So-and-so served as a yamen runner in the provincial governor’s office. All his life he devoted himself to wrongdoing, relying on his power to manipulate documents and twist the law to harm others (for details see the notes in “Hu Fengweng”). Officials and common people alike feared him as they would a tiger.

The provincial capital had a Qingjie Hall, set up specifically to take in widows with no one to support them. This man schemed and ingratiated himself until he became one of its directors. Within a few years most of the hall’s funds had gone into his own pocket, and the women there could barely get by. He then set his eyes on a young, beautiful, and fairly well-off nun in a certain convent; after seducing her he took her as his second wife.

Whenever an official had the slightest lapse (“sheng,” also read “sheng,” meaning a fault), he was sure to squeeze them by every means. If they fell the least bit short of what he wanted, he would trap them with harsh statutes, and people were often dragged in and lost their lives (“yun,” “yunming” meaning injury or death). His wicked acts were too many to list one by one.

He had two somewhat older sons who, seeing that their father’s conduct was wrong, often urged him to change. The man grew angry and sent both sons away to live on their own. In the spring of the guiyou year of the Jiaqing reign, fire struck the household (huilu, the names of the fire gods Wu Hui and Lu Zhong in the Shiji, hence “suffering huilu” for being burned). The man, his wife, a daughter, and several maidservants were all consumed in the flames (“jin” meaning embers; here “ju jin” means all perished in the fire).

This household had an old servant woman, over seventy years of age, who chanted the Buddha’s name and did good deeds. She often could not stomach her master’s conduct. One night she saw someone in the hall—face red, body red, robe a deep red, like the fire-god images people worship in the world. She was terrified and hurried away. The next day she told her master and added, “You must beware of fire.” Master Jia cursed her for spreading superstitious nonsense and drove her out. He hired another woman; she had been in the house only three days when she too died in the flames.

The family locked the inner and outer gates every night. When the fire broke out, those inside begged to be let out. Jia feared looters in the chaos and refused to open. By the time officials arrived and ordered the runners to break in, the servant, his wife, and his daughters were already dead. Only Jia was still alive. The runners hauled and dragged him out. He suddenly remembered that the complete dossier of an important case was still in the upper room of the inner building; if it were lost, the law would send him into exile as a convict soldier. The inner building had not yet burned, so he went back in to fetch it. He had just gone upstairs when wind drove the fire straight into the inner chambers and burned away the ladder. The runners shouted for help; a crowd stood watching but could do nothing to save him. Before long the building collapsed and he fell into the fire and died. When the bodies were gathered the next day, head, face, and limbs were all consumed, leaving only a middle section like a charred log—a sight truly dreadful.

The fire destroyed only Jia’s household; the walls and houses of neighbors on either side were untouched. His two sons had already set up separate households and escaped this calamity. Some said, “His ancestors had accumulated hidden merit, so the disaster fell only upon him personally.”

Master of Sitting Among Flowers sighed and said: Alas! Heaven’s love for humankind reaches the utmost!

Someone like him leaned on power to play the tyrant (like the fox under the city wall or the rat at the community altar—because people dare not lightly disturb the foundations of wall and altar, they let such creatures strut). His sins piled like mountains; retribution was as cruel as burning the forest to hunt (when the woods are fired, no bird or beast in them escapes). He himself ended like charred timber, dead. Yet in the household there remained a son who could keep the house in order (“ke jia” means worthy, able to uphold the family name), who could still inherit the merit his forebears had quietly accumulated—that is, his two sons did not fall into unspeakable ruin.

They lived door to door with neighbors, yet did not let raging wind and fire spread to the four adjoining homes (if the wind were not wild, the fire would not reach the neighbors)—this again refers to those two sons, the servant woman, and the others who were not implicated.

As for the old woman who chanted the Buddha’s name and did good, she was made to foresee disaster before it struck; she herself stood outside the affair. Oversight and misfortune could have been forgiven (from the Book of Documents: “Sheng and zai are pardoned”—sheng is fault through negligence, zai is accident). How could calamity reach the fish in the pond? (The saying “when the city gate catches fire, the fish in the moat suffer”—from the tale of Chi Zhongyu, burned when the gate burned.)—these two lines mean the two sons and the old servant woman were spared.

Those who share in evil must be punished; guilt was like “a pack of badgers on one hill” (badgers on the same mound—peers, one clique)—this refers to the husband and wife, their daughter, and several maidservants and servants.

Some were spared, some punished—each according to what he or she had chosen; how would Heaven show partiality?

IX. Elder Wu, Honored by Imperial Decree

Suzhou’s Wu Litao was a fengweng—his son held provincial rank. He made his living selling salt and meat. Though he moved among peddlers and laborers, he devoted himself to charity: whenever he had a little to spare after food and clothing, he helped the poor, and neighbors all called him a good man. Both sons passed the jinshi examination: the elder, Wu Jun, rose to provincial governor (fangbo); the younger, Shu Xuan, started as a ministry clerk in the capital, served as chief examiner for Shaanxi’s provincial exams, and later became salt commissioner; a grandson, Cihe, entered the Hanlin Academy and reached the rank of Hanlin Reader (shijiang). The old gentleman received repeated honors and ennoblement from the throne; people took it as the fitting reward for accumulated virtue.

X. The Incense Shop

This entry, titled “The Incense Shop,” survives only as four rhyming lines. They tell of someone who, for a petty profit in incense materials or the like, collected urine that had been cast aside—whether by dogs or by people. Once greed stirred, they offended the divine powers. If a wife had warned and the husband would not listen, then when wife died and household fell apart, it could not be blamed on “no cause”—the disaster lay in that moment of greed and stubborn refusal to heed counsel.

(If the full edition of the book gives a longer case about the incense shop, it should be checked against that text; on the basis of these four lines alone, the moral is: heed a wife’s counsel, shun small gains, and respect the spirits, lest home and family be destroyed.)

The Incense Shop at Wuxing and Retribution by Fire

In Wuxing, Huzhou, a couple ran an incense shop. One day they spread incense to dry in the open ground outside their door. A dog urinated on it. A neighbor told the husband, who wanted to throw out the whole batch. The wife, unwilling to lose the capital, refused. The husband took her advice, mixed the defiled incense into the good stock, and sold it off within a few days. In less than two months the shop was destroyed by fire. It was the height of summer; the wife was bathing in the upstairs bedroom and perished in the flames. When the fire was out and they searched for her body, only one foot remained—the rest of her had turned entirely to ash. Those who understood such things took it as retribution for insulting the spirits and polluting sacred incense.

Eleven: Undervaluing and Oppressive Extraction (Three Rhymed Passages and the Case of Jiang Yuanlong)

First passage

Heavy interest and squeezing the poor make wealth hard to hold; yet after twenty years of amassing thousands of mu of fields, descendants may spend gold like dirt—mean-spirited people rarely enjoy lasting prosperity.

Second passage

In years of flood, drought, and famine, a single shi of grain could buy several mu of land; in recent rare years one again meets spendthrift sons—showing that human scheming has limits while retribution lies with Heaven.

Jiang Yuanlong was from Zhangyan in Jinshan, Jiangsu. He grew rich through diligent farming; most of what he acquired he obtained by sharp dealing. He also lent at crushing rates: if he saw someone with good fields or a good house, he waited until they were in straits before advancing money. Interest was heavy; when they could not repay, he piled interest on interest until the debt was unbearable, then took their property. Thus hoarding and cornering the market, in twenty years he amassed thousands of mu of land.

Later he had a son named Dezhang, who paid no attention to household or production and squandered wealth as if it were dung—standing in sharp contrast to a father who had amassed riches through extraction and speculation, and quietly echoing the earlier theme that human calculation is no match for Heaven’s reckoning.

Later he had a son named De Zhang. He did not look after the family’s livelihood—bu shi jiaren shengchan means he neglected the household and did not earn an honest living. As soon as he reached twenty, the age of the capping ceremony (fu guan), he made brothels and gambling part of his everyday life.

Whenever he went out, he carried several land deeds to use as gambling stakes (bo zi—money put up for betting). He often pledged one deed to borrow ten gold; when he lost at the tables, he lost the borrowed cash as well. The next day, when he came to draw up the note, the lender tricked him on purpose: “You borrowed fifty gold from me yesterday—have you forgotten overnight?” De Zhang said nothing in his own defense and actually wrote a fifty-gold IOU and handed it over. Seeing how easily he could be duped, others copied the same scam. In less than ten years the family estate was gone, and he himself was dead.

In Huangyan Bridge, Danyang, there lived a man named Zhou Shengzhang. His family had originally been only moderately well-off—the character fu in this context simply means “wealthy.” In a certain year of the Qianlong reign, the wheat harvest was exceptionally good, and barley sold for two hundred cash per shi. Shengzhang owned roughly a hundred mu of fields; his yield was more than double that of his neighbors. In Danyang and Jintan counties, most people took barley as their staple food. Shengzhang, however, had enjoyed several consecutive good wheat seasons and had stored his entire harvest as barley—nearly four thousand shi in all.

The next year brought severe famine: both spring and autumn crops failed, and both rice and wheat fetched high prices. Shengzhang kept his granaries shut and refused to sell (tiao means selling grain). That winter the canal ran low, merchants could not get through, and seed wheat was almost unavailable—only Shengzhang still had reserves. Villagers from the surrounding area came to borrow grain from him. At first he refused; only after repeated pleading did he agree—on the condition that they trade one shi of wheat for each mu of land, and that the wheat would be mixed with chaff and shriveled grains (bi). When the wheat was gone, the land deeds he had taken filled chest after chest: in total he had acquired five thousand mu. By nature he was stingy and skilled at juji—hoarding grain and letting interest compound (as explained in an earlier account)—and within a few years his holdings exceeded ten thousand mu, with gold and silver heaped like small hills.

Gu Wuhou had no children all his life and tried every means to obtain a son. Only in his old age did he finally have one. His father was sixty-eight when the boy was born, so he named him Liuba (“Six-Eight”). Before the child was ten, Shengzhang died. As Liuba grew up, he treated money like dirt. Whenever he went out he carried a large sum of silver and did not return until he had spent it all; if he found nowhere to spend it that day, he would throw the cash on the field ridges. At the time the community granary system (shecang fa) was in force—each locality kept a store of grain to lend to the poor, to be repaid after the autumn harvest—and the well-off man of the lane was chosen as granary head (shezheng). Liuba held that post because of his family’s standing. The villagers took advantage of his youth and weakness: those who borrowed grain from the granary agreed in autumn to repay but never did; every year he had to make good the shortage for others, in amounts beyond counting. He was also addicted to gambling, staking a thousand pieces of gold on a single throw. Later the family fortunes collapsed and he had to sell off property; deeds were not even written in time, until he reached the point of selling the woodblocks used for printing books. When he died, he left neither a decent house nor a single mu of field. When my own father served as assistant magistrate of Danyang, Liuba’s son had no means of support and had to work as a gate servant at someone’s door to scrape by. To this day, when people in the lane speak of a wastrel, they still curse him as “Liuba.”

Zhao Yankui was from Caojing in Huating; he made his start smuggling salt and threw his weight around in the locality. There was a Yu family who were quite well off… (In surviving copies the narrative here appears to break or join awkwardly with the closing line about “Liuba”; if we read only the portion given above, the lane still names wastrels “Liuba” when they revile them.)

Zhao Yankui was from Caojing in Huating (roughly today’s Songjiang area of Shanghai). He grew rich smuggling salt and threw his weight around in the countryside. The Yu family was fairly well off, with their home at Zhangjia She in the same township and more than a dozen rooms of property in Caojing. Yankui coveted (envied and wanted to seize) that estate. The Yus had a lone grandson, young and fond of dissipation. Yankui had his son Zhao Song lure the boy into brothels and gambling. When he ran out of money, they lent him several dozen strings of cash on the security of the deed to the study hall. In less than a year, those dozen-odd rooms passed into Yankui’s hands. He then spent heavily to renovate and expand, and in the fourth month of the gengxu year the new house was completed with the rites of inauguration (luocheng: when a new building is finished, the ancient ceremony of “completion” is performed). Tall and bright, entirely renewed (lun: lofty; huan: splendid and fine—architecture both grand and handsome), it looked every inch a great mansion.

That autumn the authorities treated Yankui as a chief salt smuggler and hunted him hard. Someone advised accepting amnesty; he came forward to surrender and served as a patrol runner. Later, because his methods in suppressing smuggling were too harsh, his former henchmen and muscle (yazhua: thugs and hangers-on) all turned into enemies and actually gathered a mob to tear his new house down. Years of squeezing and hoarding—in the blink of an eye (zhuanshun: in a moment; li: pebbles)—left nothing but rubble. Alas! In the end, what was it all for?

Twelve. Baiyun Hermitage

Someone, absurdly drunk, went before the gods, fantasizing about examination rank and hoping to draw a lucky lot. He slowly cursed the deities, provoking divine anger. Through all three sessions of the exams, his papers read like silk from spring silkworms (long fine threads that never cohered into a proper essay), and in the end there was no good outcome.

At Baiyun Hermitage beside West Lake in Hangzhou stands a shrine to Yuexia Laoren, the Old Man Under the Moon. The verse slips on the lots are drawn mostly from classical phrases in the classics and histories, and run all the way down to fine lines from ci poetry and drama. People who come for success in the imperial examinations or for marriage find the responses so efficacious that it is as if every plea were answered on the spot. Around provincial exam season the place is packed with scholars lining up for lots.

There was a scholar surnamed Qian who trusted in his talent and reputation and lived in a wild, unrestrained way. On the eve of the exams in the Ximao year he drank on the lake with friends; drunk and high-spirited, he went to the Old Man’s shrine to draw a lot. The verse was very inauspicious. The scholar laughed and said, “How could someone like me fail?” He drew again; it was the same. He flew into a rage: “I ask one thing and get another answer—and they call this efficacious?” He pointed at the image and cursed it loudly in filthy language. He also said, “I’ll draw one more time; if I’m still not satisfied, I’ll smash your statue!” The slip he drew read: “Rest, rest, rest—like a silkworm spinning its cocoon, until death you keep reeling out the thread.” His companions were alarmed, saw that he had provoked divine anger, and urged him to leave at once. That autumn he entered the examination hall and reached the third session. While using the latrine he seemed to run into something and came out screaming. After he returned to his cubicle and sat down, the hall monitor heard no sound, lifted the curtain, and found him already dead. The precise karmic cause may be unknown, but anyone who dared insult the divine must have been wildly unrestrained in ordinary life; the spiritual power of Yuexia Laoren is truly something to fear.

Plain-Language Account of Zuohua Zhiguo

Yan Jingfu, a middle-ranking censor, first served as magistrate of Pingdu Prefecture in Shandong. He governed with integrity, sharp judgment, and kindness toward the people—the bearing of an ancient “model official” (xunli, officials renowned for good governance, as recorded in the Book of Han’s “Biographies of Model Officials”). His mother lived with him in the yamen and often instructed her son in the way of benevolence.

In a certain year of the Qianlong reign, the middle-ranking censor went to the provincial capital on official business. Suddenly a great flood struck the prefecture; countless houses were submerged, and tens of thousands of villagers fled into the city walls. The water kept rising until only about three ban of the wall showed above the surface—a phrase from the Strategies of the Warring States, meaning the flood had risen very high. The refugees had nothing to eat; their wailing shook heaven and earth. The officials were at a loss and could think of no remedy. When the Lady Mother heard of it, she at once ordered the ever-normal granary opened to release grain. The ever-normal granary (changpingcang), described in the Book of Han, “Treatise on Food and Money,” was a border-region storehouse: when grain was cheap the state bought at a higher price to help farmers; when grain was dear it sold at a lower price to aid the people—hence the name “ever-normal.” Friends among the secretarial staff objected: “This must be applied for and approved first, and with the chief absent from the yamen, who would dare move grain without authorization?” The Lady Mother was displeased (furran—angry): “The ever-normal grain exists precisely for emergencies. Now tens of thousands cry out for food (aobao, to feed; as in the Classic of Poetry, ‘the wild geese cry aobao’). If we must wait for approval, will not people starve to death (piao, corpses of the starved)? Our family is still fairly well off; if superiors punish us for opening the granary without leave, we could pay with our whole estate. If you fear my son would object, let this old woman bear it alone—it has nothing to do with any of you.” She immediately had all assistant officials summoned and explained this in person. Each official stuck out his tongue and dared not speak. The Lady Mother said angrily: “Do not worry about being implicated. If anything happens, let my son answer alone. You need only help me inspect and supervise the distribution.” The others had no choice but to obey. At once cheers rolled like thunder; it was as if they had been given new life. Gentlemen and wealthy households in the city, moved by the Lady Mother’s virtue, also contributed much grain and rice to make up what the government could not cover. Only after seven days did the water recede; the granary was empty.

Upon receiving an urgent report at his yamen, the Vice Censor rode home at once. As soon as he entered his office, his staff told him about the release of grain from the public granary. The Vice Censor smiled and said, “My mother acted rightly! Draft a memorial at once and report the facts upward. I shall immediately send someone to my native place to sell family property to make restitution—you need not worry.” When the memorial reached the throne, the Governor-General and the Provincial Treasurer were greatly alarmed and hastily memorialized in impeachment, on the charge of unauthorized use of granary grain.

The Qianlong Emperor, on reading it, approved instead and wrote in vermillion: “You are a frontier grand official. With such a worthy mother and such capable subordinates, you impeach rather than recommend?” He also issued an edict: the grain used was approved as regular expenditure; restitution was not required. The Vice Censor, grateful for imperial favor, redoubled his commitment to doing good.

Later, when the Emperor toured the east, the Vice Censor had already been transferred to Jinan Prefecture. At an audience the Emperor still asked in detail about the earlier affair and specially bestowed a plaque upon the Lady (his mother) as a mark of grace. Thereafter the Vice Censor was repeatedly promoted, eventually reaching Governor of Guizhou; his son Jian rose from a post in a ministry to Governor-General of Zhili; his grandson Botao went from Hanlin academician to Governor-General of Fujian; his grand-nephew Yiyu left the Secretariat to serve as river intendant of the Eastern Grand Canal; and many others among the family served as Hanlin academicians, ministry officials, provincial treasurers and judges, and prefects— all outcomes of the Lady’s accumulated virtue.

Fourteen. “Handle It According to Precedent” (Two Cases)

If an official served with a clean record and never embezzled, why might his line end and his descendants suffer execution and extinction?

He submitted a detailed memorial asking the City God for an explanation of retribution. The god’s reply showed him: matters are handled according to precedent, following circumstances without partiality.

Magistrate Fei of Gui’an rose from county magistrate to provincial judicial chief (popularly called “Zongxian”). He was upright and incorruptible and refused private favors. Once he held judicial power, he never bent the law for personal ties or compromise. In old age he had no son of his own.

After retirement he looked inward: decades in office, spotless to the end—why this punishment of no heirs? He drew up a petition and took it to the City God temple to complain to the god. That night he dreamed that the City God sent runners to fetch him. In the temple the god came down the steps to meet him, invited him in to sit, and said: “I have just read your petition; the tone carries resentment, so I have asked you here to speak plainly. You took no money and showed no favoritism—that heart can face Heaven. But for many years as provincial judge, what did you rely on to honor your superiors, protect the people, and uphold authority? I would hear you explain.” Fei said: “Nothing else—simply handling every matter according to precedent.” The god smiled: “You have no son precisely because of those three words, ‘handle every matter according to precedent.’” Fei started: “Surely precedent cannot be followed?” The god said: “Not so. You are a man of letters—have you never heard ‘The law sets the great norm; ritual follows human feeling’? Ignorant common people, through no malice, touch the net of the law; if every case follows the letter of precedent alone, how can the people bear it? Moreover you held supreme judicial power—could you guarantee that no county or prefecture below ever wrongly trapped the innocent? You also trusted your own judgment too much; at the slightest doubt in a case you decided once and for all—among those, were there none who died innocent? Measured against the sage’s ‘when guilt is doubtful, treat it lightly,’ your way seems hardly fitting. Water too clear and fish cannot live—that is the outcome you drew upon yourself; do not blame Heaven’s arrangement as unfair.” Fei was silent, deeply remorseful. The god comforted him: “Your life was clean and fair; in time you and I will share rank as colleagues, receiving offerings in one place—why must you depend on sons and grandsons?” Runners were sent to escort him back. When Fei woke, his craving for a son gradually eased; in the end he took a nephew as heir to continue the line.

On his deathbed, this man saw what looked like a person standing before his bed come to report a grievance, and he shouted at the figure in a loud voice. It turned out the grievance concerned a high official surnamed Chen from a certain province who had once held the post of lì (the office in charge of prisons and criminal justice; people in the Chu region habitually called anyone who served in that role “Chen lì”). At that time there were six bandits whose offenses under the law did not warrant death, yet he applied the law too harshly and had all six sentenced to capital punishment (“ru zhi” means treating them as guilty of a capital crime).

When this Mr. Chen knew his illness would not improve, he had his official robes and cap brought, dressed himself properly, and died peacefully. Later folk legend had it that after his death he became the city god (chenghuang) of a certain commandery.

There was once a man named Zhang Lianfang who served in Henan as provincial surveillance commissioner, the official in charge of criminal justice and law enforcement. He handled cases with extreme severity. When dealing with powerful families or the sons of wealthy households, he showed even less mercy.

At that time the court strictly forbade unauthorized religious associations among the people. A wealthy man was denounced by a neighbor, who claimed he secretly followed forbidden teachings and plotted rebellion. When Zhang Lianfang heard that the man was rich, he had him arrested and subjected him to brutal interrogation. The governor-general and a provincial intendant knew the charge was false and pleaded vigorously for him before Zhang. Zhang sneered and said, “So that’s how it is? He’s only a commoner with no official rank—yet he can get an intendant and a prefect to go to such lengths for him. Isn’t that exactly what Emperor Wu said about Guo Jie’s household? Clearly his family is not poor after all.” (Guo Jie was a famous wandering knight-errant of the Han. When Emperor Wu wanted to move the powerful families of east of the Pass to Maoling, Wei Qing argued that Guo Jie’s family was too poor to be moved. The emperor retorted that Guo Jie, a mere commoner in plain clothes, could make a general speak for him—how could his household be poor?) In the end Zhang fabricated charges and had the wealthy man convicted. The man died in prison, and his family was sent into exile on the frontier. For a time everyone cried that justice had been denied.

A Plain-Language Reading of Zuohua Zhiguo (Sitting Among Flowers, Recording Fruits)

(Earlier section · A descendant of a certain surveillance commissioner)

Later, this man’s grandson went to Zhejiang to await an official posting and served as registrar (the term xuci, “awaiting an appointment,” is explained in the notes to the “Investigating Disasters” chapter). He had three sons. After the elder (the surveillance commissioner or a related senior) died, the youngest son had an affair with a maid. Fearing his two older brothers would interfere, he poisoned them with wine laced with zhan (a lethal drug). When the crime came to light, he was executed in the marketplace, and that branch of the family line ended. People who knew how the surveillance commissioner had conducted himself throughout his life said this was retribution for “being incorruptible in office yet excessively harsh.”

Fifteen: Vice Commander Yang

The governor-general greedily accepted one hundred thousand in gold,

Yet in the end faced the supreme penalty upon his own body.

Who could have known that the very next day a shade from the other realm would appear,

Strike a pillar and shatter his skull, brains splattering the hall.

In the late Qianlong reign, pirates were rampant off the coasts of Jiangsu and Zhejiang. The court ordered them seized with all severity. Yang Tianxiang, assistant regional commander at Chongming, captured them. Admiral Chen Dayong urgently memorialized the throne; in his haste he did not follow procedure by including the governor-general’s name on the document. That governor-general was old and greedy. He resented the admiral for memorializing on his own and looked for a chance to ruin him. Just then an imperial edict required the Jiangsu governor to investigate clearly and execute according to law. The pirates offered the governor-general one hundred thousand in gold in bribes; he took the money and resolved to reverse the case.

(What follows connects with accounts such as “the censor promoted outside the capital,” either the same affair or a continuation.)

In Yangzhou Prefecture there was a prefect who had previously served in the capital as a supervisory censor and was later posted to a local post. When he called on the governor-general, the governor-general spoke with him about a case that struck him as doubtful. The prefect at once said, “The Green Standard troops are ill-disciplined; they often frame innocent people as bandits to win credit. Your Excellency should look into this carefully and not wrong ordinary folk.” The governor-general was pleased and handed the case over to him.

What no one expected was that the bandits had already got wind of matters on the governor-general’s side. They fabricated charges and seized along the coast fishermen who made their living at sea, claiming that Tianxiang had falsely accused them. Unable to bear brutal torture, these people were forced to confess. The prefect had already told the governor-general he believed innocent people were being framed, yet when he tried the case he still treated the confession that “innocents were framed as bandits” as grounds for a final verdict. The governor-general thereupon released the real bandits from prison and at the same time impeached the provincial military commander, his deputy, and others, requesting that they be stripped of office and punished. In the end Tianxiang was put to death at Haikou. The commander was stripped of his rank for condoning and shielding his subordinates and was sent into exile to serve at a frontier military station.

The day after Tianxiang died, the governor-general went out to offer incense. Just as he was about to step into his sedan, he suddenly rebuked his attendants: “Grand Secretary Yang has arrived—why did you not announce him?” He then turned and walked back, as though a guest were walking with him. In the reception hall he first made as if to bow and exchange courtesies, muttering as though arguing with someone; then he acted as if they were grappling, and even struck his own cheeks with his hands until his face swelled. After some time he suddenly cried, “I should not have taken the bandits’ gold and put you to death! I deserve to die! I give you back one life in payment!” Again he pulled his own hair, then said, “Stop pulling! I’m going! I’m going!” He then dashed his head against a hall pillar; his brains burst out and he died on the spot. Everyone at the time understood this as Tianxiang coming to claim his life.

A year later, the bandit suddenly surrendered himself at the yamen of the Shandong governor-general and confessed in full how, after being captured in Jiangnan, he had bribed his way out of punishment. The governor-general did not wish to stir up a major prosecution, and as for executing the bandit, he was reluctant to speak of the matter openly. Only the prefect of Yangzhou ended up living out his days without distinction in official career.

The prefect had always been upright; in hearing this case he had not meant to curry favor with the governor-general. But after long service in the capital he was only too familiar with how Green Standard troops in the provinces shrank from trouble and were apt to frame innocent people to claim credit—so, acting on a narrow prejudice, he helped bring about a wrongful conviction. The fault was unintentional, so the retribution was not severe; still, he never achieved real distinction in office. Moreover, in the very year that Tian Xiang—the man who had been wrongfully executed—died, a son was born to the prefect: unruly and defiant, the boy nearly ruined the family estate.

The prefect and the Yu family were friends of long standing; I often saw his autobiographical chronicle, in which he still spoke of this case as one he had helped set right (recording prisoners and clearing the innocent refers to naming those who ought to live and restoring their good name).

The Master of Sitting Among Flowers said: “From childhood I was well acquainted with the injustice of this case.”

The commentator Master Zuohua said: From childhood I often heard tell of this miscarriage of justice. When I grew up I traveled in Ludong (the region around Chongming), and the elders there told me: “The two commanders Tianxiang and Tiexie had long been men the troops trusted. When Tianxiang met disaster, soldiers from Tiexie’s two battalions cried out that he had been wronged and beat the drums, demanding to surrender their registered rations and quit service; for a time piled armor lay like hills, and a major mutiny was barely avoided. Only when Commander Tiexie kowtowed and pleaded with them did the men agree to return to camp and take up their ranks again.” Alas—men who are greedy and muddle-headed often get their way with money; men who hold to what is right often suffer because others listen to one side only. Thus the case came to resemble the infamous three-word verdict moyou (“it might be so”—from the Song History account of Yue Fei: though the letters between Yue Fei’s son Yue Yun and Zhang Xian were unclear, Qin Hui said the matter moyou you; Han Shizhong asked, “How can those three words convince anyone?”). The inquiry implicated the deputy commander (whom the troops called yuanchen, “chief of the host”), and mutiny nearly broke out over what they called tuojin—soldiers casting off armor as if to rebel—while vindication showed itself only in the manner of loyal men who chu zhu, dying against a pillar to prove their innocence. The upright prefect who would not bend almost met the same cruel end. Seen this way, how can those who handle criminal cases fail to be cautious?

Case Sixteen: A Certain Selection Official

(Poem:)

When what is at stake is what everyone hopes for and whether a name can be won, how can one indulge private favor from the middle?

A younger brother could have seized the first chance—yet however hidden the scheme, heaven still knew.

(The tale concerns assistant and miscellaneous officials below the sixth rank, and related matters—the original text here appears incomplete.)

…Yet how can those who preside over prisons fail to be ever cautious?—in handling penal affairs, how can one not be careful again and again?

According to former practice, assistant and miscellaneous officials below the sixth rank, as well as educational officials awaiting appointment, did not have to deliver their documents in person at the Ministry of Personnel; they only needed to take part in the selection in queue order. After their posts were fixed, they sent their credentials and other papers to the governor-general and governor of their home province by official dispatch, and that completed the process. This arrangement was meant to show consideration for lower ranks, so that minor officials would not have to travel far to the capital and wait there in vain—a good intention.

But those awaiting appointment did not know when their turn for selection would come. Some went to other provinces to serve as private secretaries, some moved far away with their families, and there were also cases of illness, death, or failure to report. Often, after a vacancy had already been filled on paper, officials still had to inquire everywhere after the appointee’s whereabouts, and sometimes the person could not be found at all. The result was that a post was nominally filled but in fact remained vacant for a long time.

Creating a Precedent for the Selection Official (the matter described above)

In Fujian there was a man surnamed [X] who served as a langzhong in the Bureau of Appointments of the Ministry of Personnel (commonly called the “selection official,” charged with evaluating and assigning posts). His younger brother, having obtained office in the usual way—by purchase or by precedent—stood low on the list and, under the rules, could not expect a substantive appointment.

This selection official proposed a new regulation: every year, teaching-office personnel awaiting assignment had to obtain proof in their home district that they were still registered there, still waiting for selection, and free of misconduct; the prefecture and county would report upward, the governor-general would consult and forward the papers to the Ministry of Personnel, and only then might they take part in selection. If someone higher on the list had not yet submitted documents but someone lower had, and that person’s papers arrived first, he could be appointed out of turn.

Once the rule was in force, he sent his brother home in haste to complete the formalities. The provinces had not yet heard of the regulation, yet the brother’s papers arrived first, so he skipped ahead of everyone and received a post.

But for those waiting to be assigned, each additional “report of closure” meant another round of squeeze. The poor who had nothing to give—though the selection season had come—were “unable to net sparrows or dig out rats” (an allusion to the Tang History biography of Zhang Xun, where defenders were so starving they lived on birds and rodents; here it means they could not scrape together a single coin) and often missed their chance. People in the countryside or far from home also missed deadlines because they did not know the new rule.

The official had invented this only to protect his brother. Within a year he was impeached by a censor for irregularities in selection, stripped of office, and sent into military exile. His brother, after taking up the post, was dismissed shortly afterward. The plot had availed nothing.

17. The Loyal Dog

Title verse (four lines):

Three times the loyal dog struck the door with its paw to give warning; it died for its master, as if grieving that it could not repay its debt in full. Now the world is often turned upside down—yet it is the dog alone that keeps faith with righteousness.

Grandmother Chen’s household kept a yellow dog, and Grandmother’s second sister-in-law, Lady Wang, was especially fond of it. The dog was unusually intelligent and behaved unlike an ordinary dog.

At the time there was an old servant woman who had fallen out of favor with her mistress. She often did “zhu zu” in secret—curses of the kind where one appeals to the spirits to complain and bring misfortune on someone.

One night the inner gate had already been shut when the dog suddenly scratched at the door and howled miserably. Lady Wang thought it strange, took a lamp, and went out herself. As soon as the gate opened, the dog seized the hem of her robe as if to pull her along. Finding this even more odd, she called servants who were still awake and said to the dog, “What is it? Lead the way!” The dog at once let go and went ahead; the others followed it to the woodpile and saw smoke rising. On inspection, someone had placed live coals under the firewood; they removed them immediately. They knew the servant woman had done it, but out of consideration they did not confront her or send her away.

Some days later the dog howled at the gate again. Everyone rushed out; the woodpile was already on the verge of catching fire, but with enough hands they put it out at once. Still they did not dismiss the servant woman—they only inspected more carefully each night after the household had settled.

Several Months Later (The Dog Raises the Fire Alarm)

After several months, their caution gradually slackened. One night, when everyone was fast asleep, the lady suddenly heard barking in a dream and woke at once. The cries were urgent and piteous; she hurriedly threw on clothes and went out. The moment she opened the door, thick smoke had already filled the air. The woodshed stood beside the hall; she shouted for everyone to help, but the flames had already reached the hall’s front door—there was no getting in from the front. The dog ran up again, took the hem of her robe in its mouth, and tugged her toward the back door, as if showing the way to escape. In the confusion there was nothing else to do: the lady and her sister-in-law each clutched a box of land deeds and contracts from the fields, and led the whole household out through the rear exit. The dog stayed by the door; once it saw they were safe, it turned and dashed back into the fire. They called it, but it would not come out, and at last it died in the blaze. It was as though it blamed itself for warning too late and failing its mistress, for falling short of the kindness it had been shown—and so it gave its life in return.

18. The Grateful Pig

(Also recorded in the account of Lü Youxin of Changzhou.)

Nurtured in life with deep kindness, it died to keep faith—embarrassing to admit, but that pig understood gratitude better than many people do.

Lu Youxin of Changzhou was serving as Deputy Commissioner for Eastern Defense in Hangzhou. One day he went out on official business when two pigs suddenly lay down in front of his sedan chair, lifting their heads as if pleading. Whipping them did not make them move, nor did driving them away—they would not budge. He found this very strange, stopped his chair, and ordered his attendants to find out which household the pigs belonged to. Before long an attendant brought a butcher, who said he had bought both animals from farmers a few days earlier and was about to slaughter them when they suddenly escaped—he never expected them to run into the magistrate’s procession. When the pigs saw the butcher they crouched lower and wailed more pitifully, trembling all over. Moved to compassion, Lu said to the butcher: “I will buy these two pigs from you at the price you paid.” He had money fetched and paid the original price, then kept the pigs at the yamen.

In Changzhou there lived a man surnamed Sima, named Lü Youxin. While serving as Dongfang Tongzhi (Deputy Commissioner for Eastern Defense) in Hangzhou, he went out one day when two pigs suddenly ran to the ground in front of his sedan chair, raised their heads, and seemed to be pleading for something. They would not move when whipped or driven away. Lü Tongzhi was greatly astonished and ordered the chair to stop; he sent attendants to find out who owned the two pigs. Before long they brought a butcher. The butcher said both pigs had been bought from a family surnamed Tian several days before and were to be slaughtered today when they suddenly ran off—he had not expected them to barge into the great man’s procession. As soon as the two pigs saw the butcher, they lay flat on the ground and dared not move, trembling all over and wailing without cease.

At this sight, Lü Gong felt pity and said to the butcher: “Give these two pigs to me; I will pay you the original price.” He had money fetched and paid the butcher the original price, then took the pigs back to the yamen and kept them in the pigsty.

The next morning, when Lü Gong came to the front courtyard, the two pigs lay prostrate before him as if kowtowing. Lü Gong ordered them to leave; the pigs walked a few steps and then stood still at a distance. When they saw Lü Gong enter the inner courtyard, they returned to the pigsty (hun, the place where pigs were kept). From then on, every morning they would come to the front courtyard and kowtow as before when Lü Gong came out; if Lü Gong returned from outside, the pigs would hear the gong from afar and leap and jump with joy, as if welcoming him.

The next morning, when Lü Gong got up and went to the front courtyard, he saw two pigs lying prostrate on the ground as if kowtowing. He shouted at them to leave; the pigs walked a few steps and then stopped. When Lü Gong went inside, they returned to the front courtyard and again lay prostrate as if bowing. He shouted again, and they still only walked a few steps before standing still, returning to the pigsty only after he had gone indoors. From then on, every morning the pigs came to the front courtyard; as soon as Lü Gong stepped out of his door, they bowed to him. When Lü Gong was returning to his residence from outside and the warning gongs sounded in the distance, the two pigs would leap and frisk with delight, as if waiting to welcome him.

When Lü Gong left office and was about to depart, he said to the pigs: “Today I am going home! I have raised you for several years and cannot bear to see you sent to slaughter again; I intend to take you to a fangsheng (release-of-life) monastery.” The two pigs lingered and would not go forward, wailing without cease—they seemed unwilling to leave. Lü Gong understood what they meant and comforted them: “If you do not wish to leave me, then I will still take you back to my home—how would that be?” The pigs at once made gestures as if kowtowing, and so they were brought back to Changzhou and kept for more than ten years further. After Lü Gong died, the two pigs wailed day and night; they would not eat even when fed, and within a few days they starved to death.

When Lu Gong left his post and departed, he said to the two pigs: “I am going home today! I have raised you for several years and cannot bear to see you slaughtered again, so I intend to take you to a Daoist monastery and set you free.” The two pigs seemed hesitant and uneasy, bleating continuously, as if they did not wish to go. Lu Gong understood their meaning and comforted them: “If you do not wish to leave me, then I will take you back to my hometown instead—would that be all right?” The pigs then made gestures as though kowtowing. He therefore brought them back to his old home in Changzhou and kept them for more than ten years more. After Lu Gong passed away, the two pigs wailed day and night; they would not eat even when fed, and within a few days they died of starvation.

The Master Sitting Among Flowers, having seen these two cases involving the Chen and Lu families, remarked with feeling: “Stories of loyal dogs appear often in written records. Among the six domestic animals, pigs are usually regarded as the dullest, yet once they have received the grace of having their lives spared, they show respect and courtesy while alive and, after death, give their lives for their master—almost like human beings. By comparison, many living people fall short of these pigs. People often curse others as ‘worse than pigs and dogs’; but if one substituted Chen’s dog or Lu’s pigs for those words, those animals would probably disdain being classed with such people.”

Zhou Yunxiu, a native of Renxiang, married into the Yu family of Pilu (in present-day Changzhou, Jiangsu) and settled there. He was deeply addicted to drink. Although his name stood on the register of licentiates (xiucai), for years he never sat for the provincial examination.

In the year Jiyou, Yunxiu's son also passed the Maocai examination (during the Han, Emperor Wu issued a call for "outstanding talent of exceptional grade," and later generations used "Maocai" for the title of xiucai). Yunxiu then took his son back to Hangzhou, and father and son entered the examination compound together to sit for the civil service exams (in the Tang, the Ministry of Rites held exams under military guard, with the grounds fenced in thorns to prevent cheating, hence the name "thorn enclosure").

As soon as Yunxiu entered his cell, he felt confused and distracted, muttering to himself so that no one could make out what he was saying. A candidate in the neighboring cell lifted the curtain to look; Yunxiu immediately slammed the desk and cursed him. The neighbor at first did not realize he was possessed and argued back. The cell attendants and others in the same row gathered at the noise. Yunxiu glared around and kept cursing. Suddenly he rushed out, brandishing his cell board and striking whoever he met; everyone scattered. He then threw down the board, snatched the firewood chopper from a cell attendant, and hacked wildly like a madman. Those in the same row quickly sent for the cell officer. Yunxiu suddenly saw someone in python-pattern robes and official rank badges and jumped up joyfully, crying, "Good! Good! The supervising examiner has come to interrogate you—how dare you still curse and beat me?" He pointed this way and that: "It wasn't I who wanted to be rough—it was you who cursed me, so I had to answer back; you who hit me, so I had to hit back." Then he swung his fists at the empty air: "Do you still want to fight?" The cell officer had no choice but to have him escorted to the superintendent. At the superintendent's office his frenzy continued unchanged. They had to call strong men to hold him, report to the chief examiner, bind his hands and feet, and assign men to guard him in the Hall of Impartiality. He still cursed without pause, but his words could not be understood.

On the tenth day the examination gates opened, and they helped Yunxiu out. His son happened to finish and leave the hall at the same time; together with those who had come to fetch him, they supported him back to his lodgings. His clansmen, the xiucai Yunji and Mutao, heard of it and hurried over to see him. Yunxiu suddenly leaped up, seized both by the hand, and cried: “The two of you were already bound away by the examination superintendent—the case isn’t cleared yet; how did you escape and come back?” The two were dumbfounded, and Yunxiu’s frenzy grew worse. His son therefore could not sit the second session; in haste he hired a boat and returned to Changzhou. As soon as they boarded, his mind cleared at once. When asked about what had happened in the hall, he was wholly at a loss. He said he only remembered many men and women crowding round, cursing and beating him, and that he had cursed and struck back. After reaching Changzhou he was quite unharmed. No one knows what karmic cause lay behind it. Yunxiu was cautious and steady in conduct and only fond of wine—hardly the sort to hide grave wrongdoing. Some say his father had once served as prefect of a department, upright but harsh, and that he may wrongly have implicated people in crimes; hence the penalty fell on his descendants, so that they could not finish the examinations and win rank.

Twenty: Vice Censor Wang

Strange indeed: a man risen from the world of petty clerks and litigation to the post of vice censor; good and evil distinguished as if echo answered call. At the mere mention of anything touching the foundations of ethical order, even the timid would rouse themselves as one.

Wang the Vice Censor of Guangling (Yangzhou)—his given name is not recorded. (Whether the closing note about “winning rank in the final examinations” ties back to cases like Yunxiu’s, where examination success was blocked by karma, is unclear; the account of Vice Censor Wang is a separate sketch of his character.)

Vernacular Interpretation

In Guangling (Yangzhou) there lived a Wang Zhongcheng, whose given name is no longer recorded. He lost his father young, his family was poor, and he made a living as a knife-and-brush man—drafting lawsuits and official documents for others—while supporting his mother. At twenty he was enrolled as a student member (sheng) at the Imperial College or a prefectural school. Though recommended year after year in the autumn examination (provincial exam), he never passed.

On one New Year’s Eve he dreamed that two attendants in green robes came for him and led him to an office hall, vast and brilliantly lit. The figure seated at the head wore crown and robes like an emperor. Two clerks in red stood by, holding a long placard. When the emperor finished writing his judgment, the clerks called, “Wang, step forward.” Wang crawled on the floor before the dais and stole a glance: the emperor’s face was very stern. A register was thrown down for him to read. It stated that he was originally destined to pass in succession and enter the Hanlin Academy, rising to Governor-General, but because of the karma of knife-and-brush work—harming people and twisting the law—almost all of that was erased. He had barely finished reading when the emperor slammed the desk and said, “Do you understand?” Wang kowtowed and begged for mercy. The emperor said, “For now, considering you have been fairly filial toward your mother, you should quickly change your ways; then your examination rank may still be restored. If you persist in evil without reform, your life will be taken in recompense.” He ordered the green-robed attendants to lead Wang out. Wang asked privately what deity the emperor was. The answer: “The Emperor Wen. What was signed is next year’s autumn examination list. If you reform and do good, you may still appear on this list. Do not betray the Lord’s earnest, painstaking instruction.” With that, a hand pushed him. Wang woke with a start to a single lamp flickering; the neighbor’s rooster had not yet crowed.

Recalling the dream, it seemed as vivid as if it were still before his eyes. He wanted to turn over a new leaf, yet thought to himself: a poor household cannot afford to do charitable works; if he gave up legal scribework for good, what would he use to atone for past wrongs? He brooded all night, then suddenly understood: “If the pen in lawsuits can harm people, cannot it also save them?” If he reversed course on the same path, perhaps the gods would bless him. Once his mind was made up, he rose, dressed, and sat waiting for dawn. At first light he went to the Wenchang Temple, burned incense, and prayed silently to the deity. From then on, whenever anyone came to him in a lawsuit, he always patiently meditated between the parties. Those who were in the wrong yet still insisted on going to court, he strongly dissuaded; only when someone was truly in the right but could not explain or write it clearly did he draft the petition for them—and if the other party had no money, he would even empty his purse to help. He kept this up for a full year. In the provincial examination held by the education commissioner, he ranked first and was enrolled as a stipendiary student in the official school; he therefore redoubled his efforts in doing good.

A neighbor was a young widow who later bore a posthumous child; the household was still fairly comfortable. Clansmen slandered her as having violated chastity and brought a case to the magistrate.

A young widow lived next door. She was carrying a posthumous child—one conceived before her husband died—and her household was fairly well off. The clan accused her of breaking widowhood chastity and took the case to the magistrate, claiming her pregnancy was not of their lineage’s blood and that an outsider’s surname would corrupt the clan. They asked the court to order her da gui—return to her natal home in disgrace, effectively divorced. Her natal family was timid and dared not speak. With nowhere to plead her innocence, the woman could only think of dying to prove her virtue day and night.

A neighbor woman who knew the truth told Mr. Wang. Wang investigated and found the widow truly chaste. He visited her natal home, drafted a petition for her, and had her mother submit it to the yamen. Her brothers hesitated; Wang stirred them with moral argument until they were moved to act. After the petition was filed, Wang gathered classmates and village elders, planning to explain the matter publicly when the magistrate came to the temple at the start of the month to proclaim the imperial edicts on moral instruction.

Someone warned him, “This isn’t your business.” Wang replied: “Protecting chastity and shielding an orphan touches mingjiao—the name-teaching and moral order that binds society. That is what scholars ought to do. It is not the sort of thing forbidden by law, like monopolizing grain transport or running lawsuits for profit. If punishment truly falls on someone, I alone will bear it.” The others praised his righteousness and joined eagerly; they assembled at the schoolhouse on the first of the month.

When the magistrate arrived and finished the proclamation, they presented a collective memorial for his review. The magistrate was also clear-minded. After reading it he said: “When name and integrity are at stake, I will investigate thoroughly for you all. If the clan truly slandered her, they will be punished by statute. But your inquiry must be solid—do not bring trouble on yourselves.” (That is the sense of “do not bring sorrow upon yourselves.”)

Wang stepped forward and forcefully laid out the false accusation, speaking with blunt integrity (kan kan describes forthright, unyielding speech). Seeing his words were straight, the magistrate comforted them and sent them home. Within days he opened the case; the clan was cornered and each admitted slander. The woman’s wrong was cleared.

After the case closed, the woman had her natal family offer Wang a hundred taels of silver in thanks. Wang refused. When they pressed again, he angrily said: “Do you think I did this out of greed for a reward?” He refused sharply, voice stern, and the messenger left in shame.

That New Year's Eve, he dreamed again that the two men in blue came for him and led him away to the same place as before. The Sovereign Lord looked pleased and said to him: “I commend how quickly you mended your ways; your rank and honors have been restored—but you must still sit the next examination. Moreover, because of your virtuous act in preserving your chastity and raising an orphan alone, which moved Heaven, you may receive word of success this very year. You must strive all the more in virtue and never slacken; your future is boundless.” Wang kowtowed in thanks. The Lord then ordered a minor clerk to escort him out. On the way he met two old men and a youth bowing beside the path. Wang did not know who they were and returned their bows. The two elders and the youth touched their foreheads to the ground and said: “We owe you a great debt for preserving our clan’s bloodline and protecting our land; we three generations, old and young, are ashamed we cannot repay such kindness. Hearing that the Sovereign Lord had summoned you by grace, we waited here in reverence.” Wang understood at once—they were the uncle, husband, and others of that family—so he helped them to their feet. The old man pointed at the youth and said to Wang: “This boy owes you a great debt. Knowing you had no son, he pleaded with the underworld authorities to be born as your son and repay you.” Wang declined humbly and took leave, hurrying to find the men in blue, but they were nowhere to be seen. He wandered at a three-way fork, lost and unsettled. Suddenly a man in black approached him and said: “You still haven’t gone home? Lucky I met you—otherwise you would have been in danger.” He pulled Wang along at great speed; in an instant they were at his gate. Wang asked the man in black his name; he smiled and said: “We’ve lived under the same roof for years—how can you not know me?” Pressed again and again, it turned out to be the Kitchen God (Zaojun). Together they entered Wang’s room, where he saw his mother and wife rejoicing face to face and a young man lying on the bed. Just as he was startled, the man in black pushed him from behind; he felt his own body merge with the man on the bed, cried out, and woke. His mother and wife were indeed in the room. Wang told the dream in full and at once burned incense to thank the Kitchen God. From then on he strove even harder to do good. The next year he passed the provincial and palace examinations in succession, entered the Hanlin Academy, and rose to high judicial office. The year he led the provincial graduates he had a son—it seemed the youth from the dream entered the room at birth—and that son too achieved rank through the examinations and became a high official.

The Master of Sitting Among Flowers said: “Using the brush and litigation (the whole apparatus of petitions and lawsuits) to save people—though Wang Sheng was the first to open this path, not everyone could rely on it to save others. If everyone truly could act this way, among all the deeds in the world worth helping people and benefiting others, which is more direct than wielding the brush in court? That Wang Sheng richly received blessed retribution was only fitting.”

21. Li Xiaolin

(Poem)

Why lean on flattery of superiors to show off your wit? Leniency and severity have always been prized together.

Consider Magistrate Yan of Qingyang—he cried “I was wrong” again and again, yet others still said he repented too late.

Magistrate Li Xiaolin (“Mingfu” is an honorific for a county magistrate) served as county magistrate in Anhui (Wanjiang) as provincial jieyuan (top scorer in the provincial exam). His literary flair was celebrated, and peers admired him—but his temperament ran harsh and unyielding. While waiting in the provincial capital for an appointment, he heard cases daily in the provincial yamen. The governor-general and provincial governor then favored stern rule; Xiaolin deliberately catered to them, handling every case with severity and digging as deep as possible. Eloquent and swift as flowing water in judgment, once he tried and fixed a sentence, even veteran clerks found no flaw—so he won the favor of governor and governor-general, and every matter was punished heavily. Those executed were not necessarily all deserving of death. Later he served successive difficult counties, always governing by harsh law and severe punishment.

I. Meeting a Ghost in the Sedan Chair (A Warning for Those in Office)

Before long he was transferred from Xuancheng to serve as magistrate of Qingyang. One day he went out to the countryside to examine a corpse. While his bearers were carrying his sedan chair partway along the road, they suddenly heard the official inside shouting abuse. At first they thought he was scolding them. Then they heard him muttering as if arguing with someone. Most of the words were unclear, but he kept crying out loudly: “I was wrong! I was wrong! I should not have piled false charges on you and had you executed side by side!” After that he fell silent. When they stopped the chair at Jiansu, he did not get out. They lifted the curtain and found him already stiff and dead, both hands still clutching his own neck.

The Master of the Flower Seat says: If one governs the people with nothing but severity, compassion is already gone. If one further acts from guesswork about superiors’ wishes and private flattery, where can the common people turn? Heaven’s way and the spirits are present; no one may wield killing power alone. Let those who would be local magistrates not wait until they meet a ghost in the sedan chair and cry “I was wrong! I was wrong!”—by then repentance comes too late.

II. A Forged Book and Preserved Integrity (Opening; text incomplete)

(The poem in essence:) Hearing weeping stirs good thoughts; giving lightly and keeping faith, the brush bends truth into life. Surely a descendant of Duke Wen—you would cast this man in gold.

Zhu, a scholar of Jiaxing, came originally from Huizhou. Clever and fond of reading in youth, he lost his parents while still young and stopped his studies.

A fellow townsman went far to Jiaxing and opened a large shop (the rest is missing).

In the same hometown lived a man who had gone far away to Jiaxing and opened a large shop there—“ju” means “large” and “si” means “shop.” He took along a young man surnamed Sheng to learn the merchant’s trade; “gu” is read gǔ and means doing business. Anyone learning the trade treated the shopkeeper as his master.

Sheng was hardworking and sharp, and also honest and good-hearted, so his master was very fond of him. When he had finished his apprenticeship, he had saved a hundred taels of silver through thrift and industry. He was already betrothed and had a fiancée, and planned to go home to marry. The master agreed, thought his capital was still too small, added another hundred taels, picked an auspicious day, and saw him off on his journey.

Barely ten days after he had set out, he was back. His master was astonished at how soon he had returned. The young man said he had been robbed on the road and lost all his traveling money. He felt there was little point going home with empty hands and meant to stay another year or two, save a little, and only then make plans to return. The master sighed a long while at this, unaware that he had not been robbed at all.

On his way south toward home, at one place he left the boat and went by land. That night at an inn he heard heart-rending weeping next door; listening closely, it seemed to be two women, and they cried through the night. At daybreak he asked the innkeeper, who said: “It is a painful story. Those who wept yesterday were a mother-in-law and daughter-in-law. The mother-in-law had been widowed young, raised her son, and married him off. The daughter-in-law was beautiful and dutiful. A little more than a year after the wedding, hard times and hunger drove the son to Sichuan and the like to work away from home as a hired clerk or secretary (muyou—serving as a private aide or scribe to earn a living); each year he sent home a small wage for his mother, and when that fell short the daughter-in-law made up the difference with embroidery. Lately there had been war in the Sichuan and Hubei region, the roads were cut, and for three years no word had come. A famine year followed, and firewood and grain cost a fortune—as the old saying has it, ‘firewood like cassia, rice like pearls,’ when prices are beyond belief.”

……They could barely go on living. The mother-in-law had no choice and planned to sell her daughter-in-law. The day before, a matchmaker came: a wealthy young man had taken a fancy to the daughter-in-law’s looks and offered three hundred taels of silver to take her as a concubine; the deal was already set. The daughter-in-law could not bear to leave her mother-in-law (lian here means being unwilling to part), and the mother-in-law, cherishing her daughter-in-law’s filial virtue, could not bear to let her go either; the two wept and wailed all night.

The scholar was saddened on hearing this and asked in detail about the family’s surname, the son’s name, age, and appearance; the host answered each point. The scholar then said, “I happen to have business and mean to stay here half a day before moving on.” The host agreed and left. The scholar returned to his room, took out all the gold from his travel pack, and also forged a letter purportedly from the son before going to that house. He knocked; an old woman opened the door (yu is the respectful term for an elderly woman; qi means to open). Rheum glistened at the corners of her eyes (the outer corner of the eye is called leichi; yingran means shining or glistening). Seeing the scholar, she asked in surprise, “Sir, where have you come from?” The scholar said, “Is this the home of such-and-such a surname?” The old woman said, “It is.” “Is there someone working in Sichuan for others?” She said, “There is.” When he asked the name, what she said matched what he had heard at the inn. The scholar asked to see the lady of the house. The old woman said, “I am she,” and led him into the hall, asking whence he came. The scholar produced two hundred taels of silver and the forged letter and said, “I am in trade in Sichuan and am mo-ni zhi jiao with your son—friends so close that nothing comes between them. Now I am returning south with my goods; your son asked me to bring silver and a letter for you to accept.” The old woman was overjoyed and wanted him to sit while she asked in detail about her son’s whereabouts. The scholar said, “Your son is very well abroad and has made a great fortune; he will return home before long—the letter should explain everything. I still must……”

(The original text ends here; the passage above translates all of the surviving text.)

The scholar said: “Your son is doing well away from home and has already made a great fortune. He will return to his native place before long; the letter surely explains everything in detail.” With that he took his leave, saying he was on the road and could not say more. He made a detour back to his own lodgings and at once wrote home, falsely claiming he had been robbed on the journey and asking that the wedding be postponed—while he himself went back to the shop. His master, seeing him as honest and dependable, trusted him deeply.

After more than a year he had saved enough capital to go home again and stayed as before at the same inn. He asked the innkeeper how the mother and daughter-in-law of that family had fared. The innkeeper said: “It is most strange! The very day after I told you what I told you, a traveler from far away came to their door with a letter from her son and two hundred taels of silver, delivered the message, and left. Once the old mother had the money, she had the matchmaker break off the engagement with the rich family’s son. Within a few days the son returned unexpectedly, bringing more than a hundred thousand in capital; they are a wealthy household now. Yet in Sichuan no one had been asked to carry silver or a letter—no one knows where that message came from. People suspect that the divine, pitying the old mother’s hardship in keeping her chastity and the daughter-in-law’s virtue and filial devotion, secretly blessed them.” The scholar nodded that this was so, and the next day set out again on the road.

More than a year after his marriage he went back to work at the shop and again lodged at the former inn. Rain kept him from traveling. By chance he stepped outside the door just as an elderly woman from a neighboring house was passing before the gate, seated in a jianyu (a light palanquin borne by two bearers, as people did in old times)…

More than a year into his marriage, he still worked at the shop. Once again he spent the night at the same inn where he had stayed before, held up by rain and unable to travel on.

By chance he stepped outside and ran straight into the old woman from next door being carried past in a sedan chair (jianyu—that is, a palanquin). He hurried back indoors.

Before long the neighbor’s son arrived, neatly dressed, and invited him home. He declined: “We barely know each other—why summon me like this?” The other smiled and said, “Nothing grand. The innkeeper just told me you write a fine hand. I need to send a letter far away; I’m poor with the brush myself, and my secretary is away (jishi—the man who handles documents and correspondence)—so I’ve come to ask your help (gai means to request or beg).”

He refused firmly and only gave in when pressed. The neighbor went inside, brought out a draft, and said, “Please copy this.” He wrote it out and handed it back.

Soon two servants came out, set a chair in the hall, and laid a red kushu rug on the floor (kushu, pronounced quyu—a woven wool mat; red kushu is a red felt carpet), as if for a junior to pay respects to an elder. He paced the hall (duo, pronounced duo; duosuo means to stroll idly), unsure what was coming.

Suddenly the old woman and her daughter-in-law appeared from the inner rooms, both in full dress. Panicked, he tried to run; two servants held him fast. The neighbor had several older serving women and maids seat him and grip his hands on both sides so he could not move. The mother bowed first, the daughter-in-law behind her, kowtowing and saying, “We—mother and son, husband and wife—without our great benefactor, how could we be where we are today?”

He would not admit it: “We’re people who met like duckweed on water (strangers adrift, all far from home)—when did I ever do you a kindness?”

(Note) Duckweed grows on water and drifts with the wind, so people call a chance encounter “meeting like duckweed on water” (ping shui xiang feng).

For some reason you played such a cruel joke (xì, meaning to tease or mock), leaving my mother and me in this plight.” After everyone had finished bowing, the mother went on: “The benefactor brought the silver in person and handed it to me. For three years I have not forgotten your great kindness, waking or sleeping. Though a gentleman gives without expecting return, how could we, dull as we are, rest easy? Today heaven has arranged this meeting, so we need not carry regret to the grave.” She had her son produce the letters they had exchanged as proof, and sent someone to fetch the innkeeper to testify in person. The innkeeper thought a long while and said: “There is no doubt.” He then recounted in detail: after hearing the weeping, the scholar had carefully asked about their native place, clan, and why they had turned back halfway. Only then, with no other choice, did the scholar admit: “That was merely a moment’s compassion—heaven pitying the mother’s steadfast widowhood and the sister-in-law’s filial devotion, and lending me as the instrument. How dare I claim that merit for myself?” The neighbor’s son asked him to stay at their home, saying: “We cannot repay such kindness; we only ask you to stay a few days so we may show a little respect.” Seeing his sincerity, the scholar agreed for a time and lodged in the study. The neighbor’s son was a year younger and asked to treat him as an elder brother; the scholar was glad to agree. Their mutual affection was such that even true brothers might not have matched it.

Since he knew the deceased’s birth parents had not yet been buried, Lin Sheng said: “I have a pawnshop not far from your home. This year I bought a plot of land three or four li from the shop; the geomancer said that if one is buried there, descendants will never lack success in the examinations. My humble family is far from yours and has no merit to deserve such an auspicious site; you are careful and unassuming, with deep roots of blessing—I dare offer this land to you. Let me alone bear the cost of placing your uncle and aunt in the grave and completing the burial (zhunxi: lowering the coffin into the pit and finishing the funeral), as the slightest return for your great virtue.” Sheng refused again and again before accepting. They then chose a day and returned to their hometown together with Lin Sheng to survey the site, fix the grave location, and divinate the burial; the year and month chosen were all auspicious. Lin Sheng spent heavily from his own funds for everything and, when it was done, did not let Sheng pay a single cash.

Records of Flower-Sitting Fruits: Two Examination Successes from Hidden Virtue

After the burial, a fellow townsman wanted Zhu to stay home and run a small business, saying that though the livelihood would be modest, it would at least put food on the table—why go back to Jiaxing and leave home again? Zhu refused. He said the shop’s owner had treated him with great kindness; to abandon the job halfway would be to betray that kindness and bring ill fortune. He took leave of his townsman and returned to Jiaxing.

When he reached the shop, someone from his hometown had already arrived and told the owner everything Zhu had done. The owner was astonished and pleased. “At first I only thought Zhu was an honest man,” he said. “I never expected that he would not only act bravely for justice but also refuse to boast or show off. A man like that is sure to receive great blessings.” From then on he trusted and relied on Zhu all the more.

Later the owner knew he would not long survive and had only one young son. He put the shop in Zhu’s hands, with an agreement for ten years; when the term ended, the capital would be returned to the son. After Zhu took over, business prospered tenfold. When the term was up, he settled accounts of principal and interest and had several hundred thousand taels of silver. Remembering the owner’s kindness, he could not bear to shortchange him. He split the entire fortune down the middle, each half going to himself and to the owner’s son, and both families became immensely wealthy.

Zhu later had two sons. The elder, Jiaji, placed second in the metropolitan examination in the jiaxu year (second place, “yayuan”). The younger, Kuiji, also took second place in the dingchou year. Both entered the Hanlin Academy and in succession held prestigious posts; their wealth and eminence have not ceased to this day.

In Shanyin there was a man surnamed Xu, known as Shangshe—a title for a jian (Imperial Academy student). He served in Suzhou as sidian zong (chief clerk in the grain or ritual accounts) and only went home once every three years to see his mother. On one such visit, having reached forty with no son, he decided to take a concubine.

In the same village a scholar had died young, leaving a wife and two small children; the household was still fairly well off. The dead man’s younger brother, Yi, was a good-for-nothing: he gambled away the family property, then conspired with his own wife to drive out his sister-in-law and seize his late brother’s estate. He first tricked her children away and sold them. When she learned Yi was behind it, she wept and wailed day and night and wanted only to die.

About then Yi’s wife heard from a neighbor that Shangshe Xu wanted a concubine and asked the neighbor to broker the match (the idiom “shéng” is explained in the Yiyang chapter). Xu and his wife were both willing. On Qingming, when the sister-in-law went out to sweep her husband’s grave, Yi had the matchmaker bring Xu to look her over; Xu was very pleased, paid a hundred in gold as bride-price, and set a day to welcome the bride—while the woman herself still knew nothing of it.

A Vernacular Reading of Sitting Among Flowers, Reaping Fruit

When the agreed day arrived, the couple surnamed Yi had the matchmaker pretend that their lost child had been found and that the sister-in-law must go in person to bring the boy home—using that story to trick her out of the house. She was carried in a sedan chair straight to the home of the local gentleman Xu; as she entered and reached the main hall, drums and music sounded together.

Xu’s wife, Madam Zhang, lifted the curtain herself to welcome the “bride.” Seeing that she was still in her everyday plain blue gown (here yi means “wearing”), she angrily told the matchmaker (chen means to show anger): “Why wasn’t the new concubine dressed in festive wedding clothes?”

The sister-in-law was about to salute the master of the house when she heard this and was stunned. She asked the matchmaker: “Where is my son? Who is this person?”

The matchmaker whispered: “You’re here and still don’t understand? Your husband’s younger brother has already betrothed you to this household as a concubine. The master’s surname is Xu; the woman you just saw is the primary wife. Change into wedding attire at once and bow to Heaven and Earth. Master and mistress are honest and kind—compared with being insulted day after day by your young brother-in-law in your own home, the difference is like heaven and earth.”

She heard this and stood frozen like wood, unable to speak. Tears ran down along her eyelashes (jie are the hairs at the edge of the eyelid); she choked with sobs for a long while (gengye is grief so tight in the chest that words will not come). Suddenly she threw herself toward the ground at the foot of the steps (chi is the ground below the steps), intent on taking her own life. Zhang hurriedly called maids and serving women to hold her and scolded the matchmaker: “What kind of business is this? Can you force such a thing without the person’s knowledge?”

The gentleman had happened to enter the inner quarters, heard the music, and came out at once. When he saw what was happening, he learned she was a chaste widow. He quickly told his wife: “Take away the incense and candles, bring her into the inner rooms, and find another way. I, Xu, would rather remain without a son than forcibly make a lone widow my concubine.” When the sister-in-law heard that, her heart eased a little.

Zhang’s wife invited her into her own room and asked at length about her family and whether she had children. The woman told the whole story from beginning to end. When she finished, Zhang’s wife sighed a long while and asked, “Now that things have come to this, what can we do?”

She answered through tears: “It is all because that beast of a younger brother-in-law lost every scruple. Things are as they are; my honor, my life, and my death are entirely in your hands, madam. If you can help me keep my name clean so that I may face my dead husband in the underworld, I will serve you as a handmaid to repay such kindness.”

Zhang’s wife was moved to pity. She went out and told the eldest son of the household. He felt for her too. When he later asked her late husband’s name and lineage, he was greatly startled. “She is from an official family!” They talked of sending her home. Zhang’s wife would not hear of it. “If that beast of a brother-in-law lives with her again, it is still pushing her toward death.”

The eldest son racked his brains and found no plan, then told his mother. His mother said, “If you do a deed of such accumulated merit, need you fear having no son? Since this young woman cannot go back to her husband’s house, I had better take her as an adopted daughter and have her stay with me. That preserves her chastity and keeps gossip at bay. You are often away; she can keep me company, and your wife and I will not be lonely—a single stroke with three gains. What do you think?” The eldest son said his mother was right and urged Zhang’s wife to tell her. Zhang’s wife went gladly and she agreed.

That same day they called off the wedding feast with bridal candles and held instead a tangbing banquet—the kind of meal offered to kin and friends when a child is born or when one takes in an adopted child. She paid respects to the mother, then met the eldest son and his wife with the courtesies due between elder brother, sister-in-law, and younger sister; he treated her as a younger sister. The adopted sister was meek and won the mother’s heart; she also helped with the running of the household. Only she often longed for her children, and the mother told the eldest son to see what he could do about it.

A local gentleman happened to leave the city and passed a roadside shrine to the local earth god. An old monk lived there whom he already knew. The monk invited him to sit. A young novice of about seven or eight brought tea. The gentleman looked him over: his face was fine and clear, very much like his own younger sister, and doubt stirred in him. He asked the old monk, “Where did this fine disciple come from?” The old monk sighed long and said, “It is a long story. I knew both his grandfather and his father. After the grandfather died, the father also passed away—ji shi simply means to die. An uncle was sunk in gambling and would not stop; he tricked the boy away, intending to sell him to become a performer—you you originally referred to comic actors like You Meng and You Zhan, and later came to mean anyone who acted on stage. When I saw him I took pity and redeemed him for ten taels of silver. I heard his mother was still alive and at first meant to send him home, but feared the uncle would sell him again, so I kept putting it off, waiting for a better time.”

The gentleman said in astonishment, “Then he really is my sister’s son! After his mother lost her son, in less than half a month she lost her daughter too; grief turned into illness, and every day she only wanted to die. If the master can show compassion and give the child back to me, I will repay you at double the price.” The old monk said, “That is exactly what I wish. This child is extremely yingwu—bright and quick to understand—and will surely become someone of great attainment. I ask the patron to raise him well. Only you must not let his uncle know, lest you betray this bit of po xin, this fussy, grandmotherly compassion of mine.” So he had the young novice go home with the gentleman.

The brother-in-law brought his nephew home and went straight into his mother-in-law’s room. He called his sister over and said, “Look at this little novice—whose child is he?”

His sister glanced at the boy, burst into tears, and said, “Isn’t this my son? Brother, where did you find him?”

The nephew looked closely at his mother, then threw himself into her arms and wept; his mother wept with him.

The brother-in-law’s mother lived on the Zhang family’s side of the household. When the mother-in-law and daughter-in-law heard the commotion, they came running. The sister led her son to bow to them one by one and said, “If not for Grandmother and for Elder Brother, Sister-in-law, and Uncle, how could we mother and son ever hope to meet again? My child, when you grow up, do not forget this great kindness.”

The brother-in-law smiled and said, “This is the grace of the old monk at the Earth God Temple; otherwise, the nephew would have ended up as a musician in an opera troupe.” He then repeated word for word what the old monk had said at the time. When everyone heard it, they gnashed their teeth with hatred toward that uncle—the one who had sold the child.

Plain-Language Reading of Zuohua Zhiguo

The next day, the gentleman took twenty taels of silver to thank the old monk, but the monk was nowhere to be found. A temple attendant handed him a letter and said, “Before he left, our master told me to give this to you, patron.” When the gentleman opened it, he found the contract by which a daughter had been sold; at the end of the deed, six lines were written in large characters: “Zhen stands for the male, Dui for the female; one qi begets the other. There is a young girl in the depths of the woods; by the mountain’s edge and the water’s bank, pines and cypresses stand in rows.” He read it with puzzlement. The attendant said, “Our master asked me to tell you: go about two li toward the southeast and inquire at once—you will learn news of your daughter. The twenty taels in your sleeve are the ransom for the girl; the temple has no use for them.”

The gentleman did as he was told. After roughly two li, he came upon an earthen hill blocking the road. He walked south along the foot of the hill; the stream widened, and pines and cypresses lined the way. Among them stood several tile-roofed cottages with doors half open. He saw a girl of about six or seven. When he looked closely, her face strongly resembled his sworn sister’s daughter, yet he could not be sure. Suddenly an old man came out leaning on a staff. The gentleman bowed with joined hands and asked, “Sir, may I ask your surname?” He answered, “Lin. What brings you, traveler?” The gentleman said, “I have just met with something strange and come boldly to ask your help.” The old man asked, “What is it?” The gentleman pointed at the girl and said, “This child is my niece—how did she come to be here?” The old man stared in shock for a long while, then said, “If she is your niece, why was she sold as a maidservant?” The gentleman then told the whole story from beginning to end.