《坐花志果》Vol. 6

Someone voluntarily submitted a memorial taking blame over the use of grain from the public granaries. His superior flew into a rage and hurriedly memorialized the throne against him; he was finally charged with embezzling public property and sentenced to death, and he died of illness in prison.

By then the official’s wife had already died, and his son was still very young. None of his colleagues looked after the boy, who drifted through Liaoyang and Shenyang and later found his way to the capital. At fifteen or sixteen he worked as a waiter in a tavern to make a living. One day several customers were drinking in the shop. Hearing that they were from Chengde, the youth chatted with them in an imitation of their accent. The guests were startled and asked, “Are you from our parts?” He said, “No—my family is from south of the Yangtze, but I grew up in your region for a long time, so I can speak like you.” “Then what is your surname?” “Shi.” They all rose at once and asked, “There was once a parent-magistrate who served in our county—what did you call him?” The youth broke into tears and was too choked with grief to answer. The guests did not press him further and only said, “When you close up tonight at the second watch, come find me in such-and-such alley—don’t miss the appointment.” The youth agreed.

In the evening he made an excuse to go out. He had barely left the inn and taken a few steps when neatly dressed men were waiting by the road. They asked, “Are you the gentleman who is Master Shi’s son from Chengde?” He said, “Yes.” They helped him into a carriage. When they reached a certain alley, people came forward to greet and welcome them all along the way without pause. At the entrance the main gates stood wide open and lanterns lit the place brightly. As soon as he alighted, more than ten well-dressed men helped him into the hall, pressed around him, and seated him in the place of honor at the center. They bowed together and said in one voice: “We have sought the young master for many years! That the young master should have been reduced to wandering here is our fault. Thanks to your late father’s spirit, we were led to come to the capital to search; today we have truly met again—is this not Heaven’s will?” The young man was still quite young; when his father died he had been only seven or eight, and after long years adrift he was utterly unprepared for such respect from these properly dressed men. He stared, unable to say a word. The visitors explained to him: “Your father opened the granary and gave grain to relieve the famine-stricken, willing to accept capital punishment himself while saving tens of thousands of lives. We are all people who ate that relief grain in those years. In years of good harvest we have never ceased to think of repaying that great kindness. We knew the master had died in prison and heard the young master was adrift in Liaodong, around Shenyang, so we sent dozens of men to search in every direction, yet found no trace. Yesterday the abbot of the county temple dreamed that the master had taken up his post and even pointed out where the young master was, so we were able to come to the capital to search.” They bathed him, gave him new clothes, and opened the main chamber for him to stay in. The next day they set out wine and music, and the company took turns coming forward to offer toasts and wish him long life.

A Taoist priest who also held a government post—whose identity can no longer be verified, but who was most likely the chief surveillance censor of his circuit, a rank comparable to Left or Right Censor-in-Chief—was also present that day. He spoke before the assembly: “My family of eight had no steady livelihood when a great famine struck suddenly; without Master Shi, we would not have survived. Years ago, as my father lay dying, he took my hand and said: ‘Master Shi brought disaster on himself to save the people, and our family was scattered. You were fortunate enough to pass the examinations and gain an official career; if you do not repay Master Shi, you are not my son.’ I have carried that charge for several years, thinking of it day and night, bitter that I had no way to act—until today. Now I am fortunate to meet the young master, handsome and imposing in bearing; he is sure to rise in the world and fulfill my late father’s unfulfilled wish. I ask you all to escort him home; whatever concerns the young master’s future official career, I alone will take upon myself.” The crowd then escorted him back to Chengde.

Previously, after this gentleman (a respectful title for the deceased elder) passed away, the family hurriedly laid him out and placed the coffin in a congsi—a small, old shrine.

By then, people in Chengde had also chosen a separate burial site for the gentleman, built a dedicated shrine for him, and set aside property for sacrifices. On the day the inspector (a Qing provincial official, roughly equivalent to a circuit intendant) took up his post, the shrine happened to be completed. “Completion” here means the temple was finished; the usage matches the note in the third story of the “Cheap Purchases” section of Zuohua Zhiguo.

Everyone felt it was an uncanny coincidence. They then had the gentleman’s son live in the shrine; an elder managed food, clothing, and other expenses, all drawn from property held for the gentleman (or “property set aside for the gentleman’s shrine”—the original “gong zhong” often refers to assets reserved for the gentleman), and saw that he wanted for nothing. They also hired distinguished teachers to instruct him; di (pronounced dí) means to guide and enlighten.

Yet the inspector (here meaning the gentleman’s son, who later rose to the rank of inspector) had suffered great misfortune in childhood; by the time he returned to his studies, years had passed and he could no longer recover early brilliance or sudden insight. As The Record of Learning in the Book of Rites puts it, “If one learns only after the right time has passed, effort is painful and success is hard”—starting too late often means twice the work for half the result.

After several years of reading, he could grasp texts in a rough way, but remained utterly lost in the examination essays (the eight-legged essays of the civil service exams), as if he could not see the path ahead.

When the Daoist master heard of this, he summoned him to the capital and arranged for him to serve as a clerk in the Strategy Hall (the Qing office that compiled official chronicles and strategy records). He also sought a marriage alliance for him among established families and spoke well of him among high officials (praising his family background and character to help his cause). In the end, thanks chiefly to the Daoist master’s strong recommendation, he obtained an official post; before long he joined the army and went to South Chu—Hunan and that region.

In the army he applied himself with vigor. Within a few years he became prefect, then was recommended and promoted to inspector. Later he asked to retire to his home region; it is said he now lives in Chengde, thus sharing a connection with the Chengde people who had buried him and built his shrine in the first place.

(This passage records the gentleman’s burial in the congsi after death, the locals’ reburial, shrine-building, and endowment, the son’s late start in study yet rise to inspector, and notes the Daoist master’s ties to people and events in Chengde.)

The Master of Sitting Among Flowers said: A person who serves as the local parent-official and holds authority on behalf of the people—if he can risk his own life to save the ten thousand folk—truly deserves the title “parent of the people.” Yet what happened was this: the poor households were all kept alive, while he alone fell dead because of “prison-house” affairs—here it refers to that official opening the granary to feed the people, and for that very act being found guilty, until he died of illness in jail. His coffin (funeral bier) was long abandoned in a wild shrine amid overgrown brush; his weak young son drifted into menial service—the sort of base work like gathering firewood and tending the kitchen fire—meaning precisely the young master working as a hired hand in a wine shop. To remain long in such straits and fallen state—how could those who do good not feel fear in their hearts? Yet the story has another side: some in life were pillar-of-state ministers, and after death served as King Yama (as in the History of the Sui account of Han Qinhu)—this passage refers to this gentleman after death taking office as Chengdé City God—how could those who do good not feel a little comfort for that reason? While alive he left behind enduring kindness (Confucius’s phrase about Zichan’s “lingering love”), and the people of that city (“the gentlemen of that capital” from the Book of Odes)—like the Han tale of Zhu Yi—chose ground in Tongxiang to bury him (Zhu Yi on his deathbed instructed burial in Tongxiang, and the townsfolk raised a shrine without end); they also went to Beijing and Luoyang seeking the young master, and through dream communion (the abbott of the county temple dreamed the gentleman took office and showed where the son was), at last escorted him home in welcome.

This passage explains that someone was rescued from a filthy, wretched environment and placed in an honored, elevated station (“choosing a place for burial” here means proper settlement, a generous funeral, or a dignified final home—not merely interment in the narrow sense). Envoys were sent to Beijing and Luoyang to seek out the young lord; through dream communion—the abbot of the district temple dreamed after taking office and received a vision revealing the lord’s whereabouts—they welcomed and escorted him home. “Raised from the dung heap to the blue clouds” cites Shishuo xinyu: lifted from the lowest plight to the highest eminence. They enriched his food and clothing, restored his household, nurtured him with poetry and the classics, guided him with tutors and guardians, and spurred him with the promise of rank and fame—until he soared like a bird on the cloud path and galloped like a charger on the royal road: distinction in office and success on the official ladder. As Zuozhuan says, descendants of lords and marquises often regain their ancestors’ glory. The favor was deep; the recompense came due. Even the kind of reverence in Book of Poetry, “Sweet Pear” (Gantang)—where the Duke of Shao toured the southern states and spread virtue, and later generations loved the sweet-pear tree and would not harm it; hence “the sweet pear’s lingering kindness” for a virtuous magistrate’s grace—was enough to stir the people of Chengde’s native sincerity. Grateful for virtue and praising benevolence, over time they could only feel satisfied when repayment reached his son. Local custom and mutual obligation here may still preserve an old habit: thick-hearted, plain, valuing loyalty and repaying kindness.

(Note: Book of Poetry has the line “We do not dwell as in ancient times”; “ancient dwelling” means conducting relations in the way of the ancients. “Dungu chu” here means esteeming that old way of heavy feeling and repayment in human ties.)

Note: “Gu chu” means treating others according to the ways of antiquity and the rites of old.

45. Ghost Writing Enters the Bow (Gui Wen Ru Gou)

Couplet:

Thirty taels of silver were enough to settle a grave matter; a heart of great compassion, ironically, gained the greater bargain.

While serving as magistrate in Wu he kept a mind of pity; deep feeling and generous intent were repaid in kind.

A shengyuan (licentiate) from Wanjiang (the Anhui river region) went to Jinling (Nanjing) to sit the examinations. A strong wind kept the boat from sailing, so it moored at the jianghu (river bank). He went ashore for a stroll and gradually walked into a village. On the road he saw several people clustered together, sighing as if at a dead end; faintly he also heard weeping—grief mixed with resentment. A few steps farther the crying grew louder. He met several more people wringing their hands and stamping their feet, sighing much like the first group. Someone on the left said: “If only a truly compassionate person would now generously pay for a coffin, today’s affair could still end well for everyone.” The others said: “Zheng’er (that is exactly the sticking point)—easy to say!” The licentiate heard this, joined his hands in greeting, and asked: “Why are you all so distressed? I am a traveler—may I hear the story?”

They turned to the man on the left: “Isn’t this the compassionate soul you meant? Why not tell him straight out?” That man said: “How do we know he isn’t?” So they explained: “Hereabouts one surname lives as a clan. A younger clansman died, leaving a daughter-in-law who kept her chastity and a son only a few years old. The daughter-in-law served her in-laws filially and supported them with ganzhi (delicacies for their table) from her weaving. A month ago her father-in-law fell ill; doctors and medicine xisuo (stripped) the household bare, and yesterday he died. They could not afford a coffin and had no choice but to sell the daughter-in-law to pay for the funeral. She had wanted to preserve her chastity to the end, yet grieved that her father-in-law still depended on her mother-in-law and could not bear to leave her little son; from yesterday until today she had fainted repeatedly from grief. We too, after years of famine and drought, were buming yi qian (without a single cash) among us, and taixi (sighed deeply) that the clan had such a chaste, filial daughter-in-law yet could not save her.”

The licentiate, moved, asked how much silver would suffice for the burial. They said thirty taels would do. He asked them aboard his boat, showed them his silver, and said: “I brought forty taels on this trip—I will give you thirty and keep ten, which is still enough to finish the examinations.” All were astonished. One wept and said: “A heart of true compassion!” The wind then shifted fair; the boatman wanted to set sail. The licentiate hurried them ashore; in the rush they had no time to exchange names, and parted with bows and thanks.

The scholar reached Jinling (Nanjing) with too little money to get by. He borrowed from fellow townsmen who were trading there, so he did not end up in dire straits.

On the day of the examination, when he entered his assigned cell, an old man was already sitting upright inside. The scholar wondered where he had come from. The old man said, “I’m in the same cell as you.” That only puzzled him more, though he noticed the cell was unusually roomy—they shared a couch without feeling cramped. They exchanged home districts and surnames, talked about the Jinling examination hall, essays, and learning, and got on very well.

Before sleep the old man said, “Rest easy; don’t mind me.” At the fourth watch the topic slips were handed out. The scholar saw the old man writing swiftly with his brush. He tried to rise and look, but felt as if pinned down and could not move; he drifted off again. He did not wake until well past noon the next day, and the old man was gone.

When he looked at his own paper, every line of the draft grid was already filled, and he was shocked. Reading through it, he found a forceful essay and polished poetry; classics, history, prose, and verse were all in place—work fit to win first place. The more he read, the odder it seemed. He asked the cell attendant where the old man who shared his cell had gone. The man answered offhand, “He’s left!” and the scholar asked no more. He thought: I never knew this man—how could he suddenly produce a full set of answers for me? He read it again and again in admiration, then tried to compose his own answers and could not write a single word, so he had no choice but to copy the old man’s draft.

When he entered the examination hall for the second session, the old man was already there again. He came forward and said to the scholar, “You and I were bound in a past life; this time we have been assigned to the same cubicle number again.”

The scholar thanked him for what had happened in the first session, but also scolded him for leaving without a word: “Sir, why did you go off again without telling me beforehand?” (“Why not consult first?” echoes a phrase from the Zuo Tradition [Zuozhuan], Duke Xiang—meaning why not discuss or give notice before acting.)

The old man smiled and said, “In a past life I owed you several pieces of writing; ghosts and spirits know that clearly—what is there to thank me for? At night you need only sleep soundly and must not ask too many questions.”

The scholar did as he was told. The next morning when he got up, the old man was gone again, but the answer sheets for all five subjects—classics interpretation, policy essays, and the rest—had already been written for him. The third session was the same: at night he was only told to sleep and not inquire; when he woke, the old man had vanished and the papers were complete.

After the examinations ended, the scholar went to the lodging where the old man had stayed to look for him, but no one there knew who the man was. The affair was too strange; he did not dare tell anyone about it.

Upon his return he boarded the boat, which was just about to cast off, when suddenly someone on the shore came running and asked to be taken aboard. When he looked, it was none other than the old man who had shared the same lodging number with him earlier. The old man saw the scholar, clapped his hands, and said, “We truly had a bond from long ago—how good that we meet again here.” The scholar was pleased, hastily invited him on board, and asked about his baggage. The old man said, “I am alone and have nothing else with me.” Asked where his home was, he replied, “You will know the way as we go.” When they reached the place where the boat had stopped before, the old man pointed to a village on the bank and said, “That is my home. I will go on ahead. If you do not mind a humble house, why not come in for a while?” With that he hurried ashore. The scholar followed at once; he walked slowly into the village, but the old man moved very quickly, and by the time he tried to catch up, the man had vanished.

While the licentiate was still hesitating on the street, he ran into the man who had earlier collected donations for the coffin. The man bowed with hands clasped at the roadside and asked, “Sir, are you heading back?” The licentiate quickly asked the old man’s name. The other looked startled and said, “That was my clan uncle. He died more than a month ago—the very gentleman whose funeral expenses you paid out of your own pocket.”

The licentiate was greatly taken aback. “How can that be? This gentleman sat in the same examination hall number as I for all three sessions. After the exams we took the same boat home; I saw him ashore and watched him enter his village. And now it turns out like this—could I have met a ghost?”

The man grew even more frightened. “Then what you saw just now was truly my uncle’s spirit! My uncle was a seasoned scholar, widely read and skilled with the brush, and well known—yet he languished in the examination halls for years and died with his ambitions unfulfilled. In the eighth month, my aunt dreamed that he came to bid farewell, saying he was going to Jinling to repay the kindness of the funeral arrangements and also to borrow your literary fortune. He explained that for decades he had repeatedly failed the exams—not because his essays were poor or because the examination hall was unjust. What you have encountered matches the dream exactly—how uncanny! His wife, daughter-in-law, and son are deeply grateful to you, sir. They told me many times to wait respectfully on the riverbank, hoping to invite you to their home. Since something so strange has already happened, please come with me and let us set the matter straight at their house—what do you say?”

The licentiate went with him. When they arrived, they found a thatched hut with a wicker gate, bare walls on every side—utterly poor. In the hall hung plain mourning curtains; white candles burned; a portrait hung high. The collector pointed and said to the licentiate, “This is the spirit tablet of my clan uncle, Mr. So-and-so.” Drawing closer, the licentiate saw that the face in the portrait was unmistakably the same old man who had shared his examination number. He then recounted in detail meeting him in the examination hall and writing the examination paper on his behalf. After the collector went in to report, the mother-in-law, daughter-in-law, and orphaned son came out to bow and thank him. The licentiate, moved, modestly replied, “I received the old gentleman’s great kindness. A small act of charity has brought such a generous return—I will never forget it. If I truly pass the examinations, I wish to share prosperity with your household and will never betray this great debt of gratitude.” He also bowed in thanks before the spirit tablet and took his leave.

Plain-Language Explanation

First section (a story of karmic reward)

After the results were posted, he did indeed place first in the provincial examination. The next year he passed the jinshi degree and was appointed magistrate of a county in the Wu region. At that time there was a household devoted to supporting and caring for the elderly; he brought that family’s son into his yamen and had a renowned teacher instruct him in reading. Later the boy truly made his way through that path to success and entered the Hanlin Academy.

Commentary by the Master Who Sits Among Flowers

Doing good only counts as “true good” when it comes from utter sincerity. It is said that a certain scholar once gave from his own money so someone could buy a coffin and bury the dead—did he have the slightest thought of seeking fame or expecting repayment? Only that his grief at the funeral was enough to move people; and added to that, the bereaved family’s fidelity in observing mourning and filial conduct commanded quiet respect. Thus compassion born of the heart became great compassion—one may call such a person a gentleman of utmost sincerity. The deceased, in the realm below, remembered his kindness; he did not fear taboos about “touching yin affairs” or “ill luck.” That family’s son later succeeded in his studies and passed the spring and autumn imperial examinations. The gift was small, the return was great—why should anyone fear doing good?

46. Cold Jia

He had come only to lodge for the night—there was karmic affinity in that from the start. Yet in secret he plotted for gain, intending to acquire fields and property. Who could have guessed wolf’s heart would meet tiger’s lungs—neither was a decent man—and by the Xin Bridge River, he had already died wrongfully on the spot.

In the eastern township of Qu’e (in the area of present-day Danyang, Jiangsu) there lived a man named Leng Jia. His family was poor and his conduct was far from upright. One evening a traveler asked to stay the night; when he left, the parting gift was unusually generous. The guest remained several days and slept with Leng Jia’s wife. Leng Jia, greedy for the man’s money, knew what was happening and deliberately looked the other way. About half a month after the guest departed, he returned with a great hoard of gold, pearls, and silks. He gave Leng Jia a share to buy fields and a house and handed the rest to the wife to hide in a dug cellar. After that the visitor came more and more often, and Leng Jia slowly grew rich.

In time the guest’s comings and goings began to give him away, and Leng Jia realized he was a robber—but he did not care. Then the man suddenly stopped coming for several months. One day an urgent letter arrived from him: in Suzhou he had robbed a fabulously wealthy household, been caught, and was held in the prison at Wu County with his confession already fixed. He was not the ringleader, the letter said; with the right bribes someone might still save his life. He begged Leng Jia to hurry to Suzhou with silver to work on his release, in the most earnest terms. Leng Jia read the letter and quietly consulted his wife: they feared that if they kept him alive he would plague them forever. That night he left for Suzhou with the silver. Face to face with the bandit he promised to do everything to get him out and swore there would be rich thanks afterward. In secret he paid officials to cement the case, had his role upgraded from accomplice to chief culprit, and the man was executed on the spot.

Zuohua Zhiguo (Records of Karmic Fruit)

Main text

More than a year after a thief had died, a man surnamed Leng entered the city and was walking along the Xinqiao riverbank with several companions when he suddenly cried out loudly, “He’s coming!” Then he shouted, “He’s coming at me with a pitchfork!” He collapsed on the spot and died immediately.

Postscript

A close reading of what this book records shows that rescuing people from danger in a brief moment can bring reward over the long course of life. People often long for such outcomes yet sigh that the chance rarely comes. In truth the paths of doing good are beyond counting; what to fear is not the lack of opportunity but the lack of a good heart. The requital for accumulated virtue is like a shadow that never leaves the body. To benefit yourself, you must first benefit others.

Consider again: however pressing or hard the case, nothing exceeds fire and flood in severity. Fires often rage until poor households are struck suddenly, in scenes one cannot bear to watch; or waters rise until houses are swept away, wailing fills the air, and people can only wait for death. If you wish to plant virtue (zhong de), these are the finest occasions: learn which families have suffered and send silver in secret to relieve them. Sometimes a few taels save one life; a few dozen can keep a whole household alive. Those with means should give generously as a matter of course; those whose strength is limited can still urge others and join in together—how could such merit have any ceiling? Below, you preserve human life; above, you move the heart of Heaven (Tian). Fortune follows the good and calamity follows the evil—the requital is plain; the five blessings and three abundances may be heaped up in this way—why lament a “rare chance”? Extraordinary good deeds bring extraordinary fruits. The Way of Heaven (Tiandao) loves to repay what is due, as history has shown again and again. Hence these few words at the close, respectfully offered to urge the humane gentlemen and worthy people of the world.