The two snakes lowered their heads, as if accepting the admonition. Then they perked up and began to move, the elder in front, the younger following. Where they passed, branches split under their weight. The snakeman watched until he could see them no longer, then left. No one knows where the snakes went, but travelers had no further problems.
The snake, though a dumb creature, shows affection and loyalty to a friend. It is also readily teachable. How striking, in contrast, is he who seems human but throws away a ten-year friendship, or alienates a prince whose favor his family has enjoyed for generations; who dumps rocks on a wretch who has fallen down a well, or makes enemies of those who give him good advice!
—P’u Sung-ling
The North Country Wolf
Chien Tzu, the famous prince of Chao, was leading the great hunt in the northeast area of his state. The royal forester went ahead; hawks and hounds followed behind in order. And countless were the swift birds and fierce animals that fell as the bowstrings sang.
They came upon a wolf barring their way. It was standing up on its hind legs like a human, howling terribly. With ease and confidence, Chien Tzu leaped to the top of his chariot. He took his splendid bow and fitted to it a choice arrow made by the non-Chinese tribes of the north. Then he shot, and the arrow sank deep into the wolf. With a hoarse moan the wolf slipped away. Angered, Chien Tzu ordered his chariots to pursue. They kicked up enough dust to block the sky, and their hoofbeats boomed like thunder. At ten paces you could not tell man from horse.
Now, it happened that a scholar named Tung-kuo was on his way to the north country in search of official employment. Mr. Tung-kuo was a follower of the doctrine of Mo, which advocates universal love. Spurring a sorry ass forward, his bag loaded with all kinds of books, he had been traveling since early morning. Now he was lost and startled to see so much dust.
Suddenly the wolf arrived on the scene. Stretching its head forward, it eyed Mr. Tung-kuo keenly and said, “I believe, Master, that you are devoted to the salvation of all living things. In olden times Mao Pao freed a tortoise that later carried him over a river to safety. And the Marquis of Sui rescued a serpent that later brought him a priceless pearl. Now, who could doubt that a wolf can work more miracles than a tortoise or a serpent! So under the circumstances, couldn’t you let me hide in your bag and prolong the bit of breath that’s left to me? If some day I make good in this world, I shall give my all—no less than the tortoise or the serpent—to repay you for your kindness in saving me from certain death and keeping the flesh on my bones!”
“Aiya!” said the scholar. “If I show you this consideration and give offense to a high minister like Chien Tzu, flouting both authority and rank, you cannot imagine the trouble it would mean. There’s no question of a reward from you to look forward to! Yet universal love is indeed the foundation of our Mohist doctrine. So after all, I should find some way to keep you alive. Whatever the danger, I cannot shirk the responsibility.”
Mr. Tung-kuo removed his books from his bag, and when he had emptied it he gingerly began to pack the wolf inside. But first he tripped over his own feet and nearly stepped on the wolf’s throat, and then he had trouble stuffing in the tail. After repeated efforts he still could not manage it. Mr. Tung-kuo paced back and forth in a quandary as the pursuing hunters drew closer.
“The situation is urgent,” said the wolf. “Master, must one really preserve formalities when rescuing a drowning man, or let the chariot bells ring and give bandits a chance to escape? If only you would think of something quickly!” The scholar squeezed the wolf’s four legs together, drew out a cord, and tied them tightly. Then he pushed the wolf’s head down till it touched his tail, so that the animal’s bent back protected its throat. Scrunched up like a porcupine, twisted around like a caterpillar, coiled in like a snake and breathing lightly as a tortoise, the wolf left his fate to the scholar.
As instructed, Mr. Tung-kuo put the wolf in his bag, pulled the opening tightly shut, and shouldered it onto the ass. Then he drew the ass to the left of the road to wait for the hunters to pass.
Soon Chien Tzu arrived. Not having found the wolf, he had worked himself into a great fury. With his sword he hacked off the end of the chariot’s yoke and said, “The same for anyone who won’t tell where the wolf went!”
The scholar flung himself on the ground in a posture of penance and crawled toward Chien Tzu on his hands and knees. Then, still kneeling, he raised himself and said, “My worthless, inept self, bold enough to come to these remote parts out of worldly ambition, has lost the right road. How, then, could I possibly make known the wolfs trail to Your Honor so that you may send your hawks and hounds after it? And yet there is the saying, The Great Way has many a side road for losing your sheep.’ Even an animal like a sheep, so tame that a boy can tend it, still gets lost in the byroads. How unlike the sheep is the wolf, and how endless the byroads for losing sheep here in the north country! If you stick strictly to the main road in your search, isn’t that practically the same as the folly of the farmer who waited by a tree stump for a hare to brain itself, or the folly of trying to get fish by climbing a tree? Anyway, hunting is your forester’s job; my lord should ask his huntsmen. Why suspect a passing traveler? Besides, however unsophisticated my worthless self may be, I know wolves as well as the next man. They are greedy and fierce by nature, and no less cruel than the panther. Why, I would hustle myself into action and offer whatever service possible to help you get rid of one. How could you think I would conceal a wolf’s whereabouts?”
Chien Tzu said nothing, turned his chariot around, and took to the road. Mr. Tung-kuo urged the ass forward in double time. It was a long, long while before the fledged poles of the hunting party faded away into the distance and the din of horse and chariot was heard no more. The wolf, surmising that Chien Tzu was now a good way off, spoke up from inside the bag, “Do not forget me, good Master. Get me out; untie the cord and pull the arrow from my side. Then I shall be going.”
Mr. Tung-kuo released the wolf. The wolf gave out a raging roar and said to the scholar, “Just now the hunters were after me at full speed, and you kindly saved my life. But now I’m starving, and if I don’t get any food I’m going to die all the same. I would have been better off slain by those hunters and gracing some nobleman’s sacrificial vessel than dying here at the roadside and furnishing some wild beast with a meal. Since you’re one of those altruistic Mohists who would wear himself to the bone to provide the world with a single benefit, why begrudge your single body to feed me and preserve my life?” And then, smacking his lips and flashing his claws, the wolf made for the scholar.
Mr. Tung-kuo frantically fended off the wolf with his bare hands. All the while he retreated until he could take cover behind the ass, which he then began to circle nimbly. The wolf never managed to get the better of the scholar, but the scholar spent all his energy escaping the wolf. The two of them, wilting with fatigue, panted for breath from opposite sides of the ass. “You have betrayed me,” said the scholar, “betrayed me.”
“Really, I didn’t mean to,” said the wolf, “but heaven has created your kind for the purpose of feeding ours.” The man and the wolf held each other off a good long time, until the sun began to slant away. A dark thought occurred to the scholar: Night approaches. If wolves come in a pack, I shall be killed. So to deceive the wolf the scholar said, “It is the custom among humankind to inquire of three elders when a matter stands in doubt. Let us keep going and look for three elders to question. Should they agree that I deserve to be eaten, then you’re welcome to me. If not, then let the matter be closed.” The wolf was pleased with this, and the two of them went on.
They walked for a while, but not a traveler was to be seen. The wolf was starved. Ahead an old tree stood stiffly at the roadside. The wolf said, “Ask him!”
“Trees have no understanding,” said Mr. Tung-kuo. “What’s the good of asking a tree?”
“Just ask,” said the wolf. “It should have something to s
ay.”
Having no choice, the scholar paid his respects to the tree and, after giving a full account of the situation, put the question to the tree, “So then, does the wolf have the right to eat me?”
A low rumbling came from within the tree. “I am an apricot,” it said. “Years ago when the gardener planted me, all it cost him was a pit. In a few years I flowered. In another I bore fruit. After three years it took the full stretch of a man’s hands to go around my trunk. After ten years it took the full length of a man’s arms to embrace me. Now it is twenty years. I have fed the gardener. I have fed his wife. I have fed their guests. I have even fed their servants. And what’s more, they made money selling my fruit in the market. You could say I have been of great service. But today I am old, no longer able to fold in my flowers and put forth my fruit, so I have earned the gardener’s displeasure. He lops my branches and trims away my twigs and leaves. And now he even means to sell me to the carpenter for whatever money he can get. Oh Lord! Useless and old, I can find no mercy against the strokes of the axe. As for you, what favor have you done this wolf that you should hope for mercy? No question at all; he has the right to eat you.”
When the apricot had delivered this opinion the wolf began to smack his lips and flex his claws once again as he headed for the scholar. “But you’re breaking our agreement,” said the scholar, “which was to put the question to three elders. So far we have come upon one apricot tree. Why should I be rushed?” So the two, man and wolf, resumed their journey.
The wolf was more frustrated than ever. In the distance he saw an old cow sunning itself beside a broken-down wall. “Ask this old one,” said the wolf.
“That apricot tree had no sense or understanding,” said the scholar. “Its absurd opinion has ruined everything. And this cow is nothing more than a beast. What more is gained in asking her?”
“Just ask,” insisted the wolf, “or I gobble you up.”
Having no choice, the scholar paid his respects to the old cow and recounted the whole story from beginning to end. Then he posed the question.
The cow wrinkled her forehead, unclosed her eyes, and licked her nose. Then she opened her mouth wide and said to the scholar, “The old apricot’s opinion is not so wrong. When my horns were green stubs and my muscles good and firm, the farmer took me for the price of a knife and put me to work alongside the teams of oxen in his fields. After I grew to maturity, all the tasks fell to me because the others, the oxen, were growing weaker by the day. Whenever he decided to rush off somewhere, I bent my neck to the yoke and made haste on the chosen route. Whenever he wanted to plow, I was freed of the carriage yoke to amble off to the edge of his lands and clear away thorny brambles. I was as necessary as his own two hands. Thanks to me he had his basic sustenance; marriage ceremonies could be carried out, taxes could be paid, the granary stood full. You would think I’d at least have a stall for shelter, like the horse or the dog!
“In the old days the family never put more than a stone of grain in store. Now they’re taking in over one hundred pecks of wheat. In the old days they were too poor for people to notice them. Now he marches grandly through village society. In the old days poverty left their winecups dusty and their lips dry, for never in their lives could they afford a full winejar. Now he ferments fine millet, holds an ornamental winepot, and boasts a wife and concubines. In the old days their clothes were coarse and short, and he kept company with trees and stones. His hands were as unaccustomed to ceremonial salutes as his mind to learning. Now he has a primer in hand, sports a bamboo hat, wears a tanned leather belt, and has ample full-length garments. Every thread, every grain—my labor. And in my old age he abuses me and drives me into the wilds, where the raw wind stings my eyes. In the chill daylight I grieve to see my shadow, so thin that the bones stick up like hills, so old that my tears are rain. I cannot hold in my spittle. My legs are too crippled to raise. My hide and hair are patchy. My sores never heal.
“The farmer’s wife, that jealous, vicious woman, is always putting forward her view: ‘Every part of a cow’s body is useful,’ says she. ‘The flesh can be preserved dry. The hide can go for leather. Even bones and horns can be carved into utensils.’ Then she’ll point to the eldest son. ‘You’ve been training,’ says she, ‘under the finest butchers for years. How about sharpening your blade and disposing of her?’ These signs bode no good for me. Who knows where I will lie down for good? I may have much to my credit, but they are so heartless that calamity is coming soon. As for you, what favor have you done this wolf that you should expect mercy?”
When the cow had delivered her opinion, the wolf smacked his lips, flexed his claws, and headed for the scholar. “Not so fast!” said the scholar. In the distance an old man was approaching, leaning on a goosefoot staff. His beard and eyebrows were pure white; his dress was casual but elegant. He looked like a cultivated man, a sage of the Tao. Delighted, Mr. Tung-kuo went up to the old man and kneeled before him respectfully. Weeping, he stated his case.
“I beg of you, good sir, the word that will save me.” The old man asked what the matter was, and the scholar continued, “This wolf was almost caught by the royal hunters when it turned to me for help. And in fact I enabled it to stay alive. But now, deaf to my entreaties, it wants to make a meal of me. My life is forfeit if the wolf does not relent. I sought a brief delay during which we agreed to let three elders decide the matter. First we met an old apricot tree, to which he forced me to submit the question. Trees have no understanding, and its answer nearly cost me my life. Next we met an old cow. Again the wolf forced me to seek her answer. Animals have no understanding either, and again I nearly lost my life. Now we meet with you, good sir. It can only mean that heaven does not intend to let learning perish, as Confucius put it. Do I dare to beg for the word that saves me?” The scholar pressed his forehead to the ground in front of the old man’s staff, and there he remained, awaiting his fate.
The elder sighed again and again as he listened to the whole story. Then he knocked the wolf with his staff, saying, “You are in the wrong. Among men nothing is more accursed than to betray a benefactor. The Confucians have always held that a man who could not bear to betray his benefactor was sure to be a filial son. The Confucians also claim that even the tiger and the wolf acknowledge the bond between father and son. But now that you have turned on your benefactor like this, even the bond between father and son does not exist for you. Begone, wolf!” the old man screamed. “Or I shall beat you to death.”
“Good sir,” replied the wolf, “to quote Confucius, ‘You may know the first part, but you have yet to learn the second.’ Allow me to explain, if you would condescend to listen. When all this began, the scholar saved my life by tying up my four feet, hiding me in his bag, and loading his ‘classics’ on top of me. I curled myself up, not daring to breathe. In addition, he went on and on trying to convince Chien Tzu of his innocence with the apparent intention of letting me die in the bag and stealing all the glory for himself! Why shouldn’t I eat him up for this?”
The elder looked hard at the scholar and said, “Well, if that’s the case, then you’re to blame—just like the ancient archer Yi who taught all he knew to the man who later killed him.” Feeling deeply wronged, the scholar described in detail his compassionate intent in putting the wolf in his bag. But the wolf also strove to win the argument with great cunning.
“I am afraid neither of you is fully convincing,” said the elder. “Try putting the wolf back into the bag so I can see what it was like and whether it was really as painful as the wolf says.”
The wolf was only too glad to do so. He stretched his legs towards the scholar, who tied him up and put him in the bag once again. Then Mr. Tung-kuo shouldered the bag up onto the ass. The wolf did not know what was going on. “Have you a knife?” the elder whispered to the scholar.
“Yes,” he replied and drew it out. The elder signaled with a glance for the scholar to stab the wolf.
“Won’t that hurt him?” asked
the scholar.
Smiling, the elder replied, “Still ‘can’t bear to kill’ even such a treacherous beast? You may be humane, but your foolishness is greater. If you go down a well to save someone, or take off your clothes to keep a friend alive, it may be to the other’s advantage, but what’s the point of dying in the bargain? Are you one of that sort? Surely no gentleman and scholar approves compassion that descends to folly.” So saying, the elder laughed loudly, and so did the scholar. The elder helped the scholar with the knife, and together they put the wolf to death, threw his body on the road, and left.
—Ma Chung-hsi
Counselor to the Wolves
A man named Ch’ien went to the market and was walking home late at the foot of the hills when several dozen wolves sprang out. They made a hungry circle around him. Desperate, Ch’ien saw a pile of firewood more than ten feet high by the side of the road and swiftly clambered to the top. None of the wolves could climb it. But a few of them ran off and returned in a short while escorting an animal, much the way porters ferry an official in a sedan-chair.
The crowd of wolves bent their ears to the animal’s mouth as if he were imparting secrets. Next they leaped up and began pulling branches from the bottom of the woodpile. Soon the whole pile was about to collapse. Panicking, Ch’ien cried for help. By chance some woodcutters heard his voice and came shouting.
The wolves fled in fright, leaving behind the animal they had brought. Ch’ien and the woodsmen looked it over carefully. It resembled a wolf but was not a wolf. It had round eyes, a short neck, a long snout, and fearsome teeth. Its back legs were long but weak, and it could not stand on them. Its cry was like a gibbon’s howl.
Chinese Fairy Tales and Fantasies (Pantheon Fairy Tale and Folklore Library) Page 10