Chinese Fairy Tales and Fantasies (Pantheon Fairy Tale and Folklore Library)
Page 18
Lord Ching sighed deeply. “Set the groom free, sir, set the groom free,” he cried, “lest my humanity be diminished.”
—Yen Tzu Ch’un Ch’iu
The Chain
The king of Wu wanted to attack the state of Ching. He told his advisers so, adding, “Whoever dares to criticize me dies.” One of the king’s followers had a young son who wanted to object but was afraid to. He took a pellet and a sling and went rambling in the gardens behind the palace until the dew had soaked his clothes. For three days he continued this threshing through the shrubbery. At last the king of Wu noticed him and asked, “What’s the point of getting yourself sopping wet?”
“In the garden there’s a tree,” answered the young man, “and perched on the tree is a cicada singing sadly, sipping the dew, unaware of the praying mantis behind him. Crouching, twisting, the mantis is trying to grab the cicada, unaware that behind it is an oriole stretching its neck to swallow the mantis. Nor does the oriole reaching out to peck know that there is a slingshot below aimed at him. All three, intent on what is in front, do not notice the danger behind.”
“Well spoken,” said the king of Wu. And he called off the attack on Ching.
—Liu Hsiang
Hearsay
Lieh Tzu was poor, and he looked terribly underfed. Someone mentioned it to the prime minister, Cheng Tzu-yang: “Lieh Tzu is a widely known scholar of the Tao. If he suffers poverty while living in your lordship’s state, might not your lordship be thought hostile to scholars?”
Tzu-yang lost no time in sending an official to Lieh Tzu with a gift of food. Lieh Tzu came forth to receive the minister’s messenger and bowed deeply, but he declined the gift. The messenger left. Lieh Tzu went back inside his home, where his wife smote her breast and stared at her husband in despair.
“Your humble wife always thought that the families of men of the Tao would gain ease and pleasure,” she said. “Now in our direst need the prime minister sends someone to honor us with a gift of food—and you refuse it! Such is my fate!”
Lieh Tzu smiled and said to his wife, “The prime minister does not know of me for himself. He sent us food on the say-so of a third party. Should the time come to condemn me, it’s all too likely to happen also on the say-so of a third party. That’s the reason I refused his gift.”
Eventually the common people overthrew Tzu-yang.
—Lieh Tzu
Dreams
The head of the Yin clan in the state of Chou had vast holdings, and his servants worked without rest from dawn until dark. There was one aged servingman whose muscles were sapped of all strength, but the head of the clan only drove him all the harder. The old man groaned as he faced his tasks each day. At night he slept soundly, insensible from fatigue, his vital spirits at ebb. And each night he dreamed that he was king of the realm, presiding over all the people, taking full command of the affairs of state. He feasted carefree in the palace, and every wish was gratified. His pleasure was boundless. But every morning he awoke and went back to work.
To those who tried to comfort him for the harshness of his lot, the old man would say, “Man lives a hundred years, half in days, half in nights. By day I am a common servant, and the pains of my life are as they are. But by night I am lord over men, and there is no greater satisfaction. What have I to resent?”
The mind of the clan head was occupied with worldly affairs; his attention was absorbed by his estate. Worn out in mind and body, he too was insensible with fatigue when he slept. But night after night he dreamed he was a servant, rushing and running to perform his tasks. For this he was rebuked and scolded or beaten with a stick, and he took whatever he got. He mumbled and moaned in his sleep and quieted down only with dawn’s approach.
The head of the clan took his problem to a friend, who said, “Your position gives you far more wealth and honor than other men have. Your dream that you are a servant is nothing more than the cycle of comfort and hardship; this has ever been the norm of human fortune. How could you have both your dream and your waking life the same?”
The head of the clan reflected on his friend’s opinion and eased the work of his servants. He also reduced his own worries, thus giving himself some relief from his dreams.
—Lieh Tzu
The Mortal Lord
The patriarch Ching of the land of Ch’i was with his companions on Mount Ox. As he looked northward out over his capital, tears rose in his eyes. “Such a splendid land,” he said, “swarming, burgeoning; if only I didn’t have to die and leave it as the waters pass! What if from the eldest times there were no death: would I ever have to leave here?”
His companions joined him in weeping. “Even for the simple fare we eat,” they said, “for the nag and plank wagon we have to ride, we depend upon our lord’s generosity. If we have no wish to die, how much less must our lord.”
Yen Tzu was the only one smiling, somewhat apart. The patriarch wiped away his tears and looked hard at Yen Tzu. “These two who weep with me share the sadness I feel on today’s venture,” said the patriarch. “Why do you alone smile, sir?”
“What if the worthiest ruled forever?” asked Yen Tzu. “Then T’ai or Huan would be patriarch forever. What if the bravest? Then Chuang or Ling would be patriarch forever. With such as those in power, my lord, you would now be in the rice fields, wearing a straw cape and bamboo hat, careworn from digging, with no time to brood over death. And then, my lord, how could you have reached the position you now hold? It was through the succession of your predecessors, who held and vacated the throne each in his turn, that you came to be lord over this land. For you alone to lament this is selfish. Seeing a selfish lord and his fawning, flattering subjects, I presumed to smile.”
The patriarch was embarrassed, raised his flagon, and penalized his companions two drafts of wine apiece.
—Lieh Tzu
One Word Solves a Mystery
A member of the older generation told me this story about a shrewd magistrate in a certain county early in the dynasty.
A local merchant was about to go on a selling trip. After loading his boat, he waited on it for his servant. Time passed, but the servant did not appear. Meanwhile it occurred to the boatman that it would be easy enough in this deserted spot to do away with the merchant and steal the goods. The boatman swiftly forced the merchant into the water and drowned him. Then the murderer took the goods to his own home, after which he presented himself at the house of the merchant. He knocked on the gate and asked why the master still had not come down to the boat. The merchant’s wife sent servants to look for her husband, but they saw no trace of him. She questioned the merchant’s own servant, who said that he had arrived late at the boat only to find his master gone.
The family reported the matter to the local constable, who in turn informed the county officials, who then interrogated the boatman and the neighbors but uncovered no evidence. The investigation went through several levels of the bureaucracy without being settled.
When the case reached the magistrate, he sent everyone out of the room except the merchant’s wife. He asked for an exact description of events at the time when the boatman first came to inquire about the merchant. “My husband had been gone a good while,” said the wife, “when the boatman knocked at the gate. Before I opened it, he suddenly cried out, ‘Mistress, why hasn’t the master come down yet? It’s been so long.’ That’s all he said.”
The magistrate sent the woman out and called for the boatman, who made a statement that agreed with the wife’s. “That’s it, then,” said the magistrate with a smile. “The merchant has been killed, and you are the killer! You have confessed.”
“What confession?” the boatman protested loudly.
“When you knocked at the merchant’s house, you addressed his wife, not him. You did not see who was behind the gate, yet you were sure he was not at home. How else could you have known this?”
The astonished boatman confessed and was convicted.
—Chu Yün-ming
Early one morning, a grocer on his way to market to buy vegetables was surprised to find a sheaf of paper money on the ground. It was still dark, and the dealer tucked himself out of the way and waited for daylight so he could examine the money he had picked up. He counted fifteen notes worth five ounces of silver and five notes worth a string of one thousand copper coins each. Out of this grand sum he took a note, bought two strings’ worth of meat and three strings’ worth of hulled rice, and placed his purchases in the baskets that hung from his shoulder pole. Then he went home without buying the vegetables he had set out to buy.
When his mother asked why he had no vegetables, he replied, “I found this money early in the morning on my way to market. So I bought some meat and hulled rice and came home.”
“What are you trying to put over on me?” his mother asked angrily. “If it were lost money, it couldn’t be more than a note or two. How could anyone lose a whole sheaf? It’s not stolen, is it? If you really found it on the ground, you should take it back.”
When the son refused to follow his mother’s advice, she threatened to report the matter to the officials. At that he said, “And to whom shall I return something I found on the road?”
“Go back to the place where you found the money,” said his mother, “and see if the owner comes looking for it. Then you can return it to him.” She added, “All our lives we’ve been poor. Now you’ve bought all this meat and rice; such sudden gains are sure to lead to misfortune.”
The vegetable dealer took the notes back to where he had found them. Sure enough, someone came looking for the money. The dealer, who was a simple country fellow, never thought to ask how much money had been lost. “Here’s your money,” he said and handed it over. Bystanders urged the owner to reward the finder, but the owner was such a miser that he refused, saying, “I lost thirty notes. Half the money is still missing.”
With such a large difference between the amounts claimed, the argument went on and on until it was brought to court for a hearing. The county magistrate, Nieh Yi-tao, grilled the vegetable dealer and saw that his answers were basically truthful. He sent secretly for the mother, questioned her closely, and found that her answers agreed with her son’s. Next he had the two disputing parties submit written statements to the court. The man who had lost money swore that he was missing thirty five-ounce bills. The vegetable dealer swore that he had found fifteen five-ounce bills.
“All right, then,” said Nieh Yi-tao, “the money found is not this man’s money. These fifteen bills are heaven’s gift to a worthy mother to sustain her in old age.” He handed the money to mother and son and told them to leave. Then he said to the man who had lost his money, “The thirty bills you lost must be in some other place. Look for them yourself.” Nieh Yi-tao dismissed him with a good scolding, to the outspoken approval of all who heard it.
—Yang Yü
A Clever Judge
In the days when Ch’en Shu-ku was a magistrate in Chienchou, there was a man who had lost an article of some value. A number of people were arrested, but no one could discover exactly who the thief was. So Shu-ku laid a trap for the suspects. “I know of a temple,” he told them, “whose bell can tell a thief from an honest man. It has great spiritual powers.”
The magistrate had the bell fetched and reverently enshrined in a rear chamber. Then he had the suspects brought before the bell to stand and testify to their guilt or innocence. He explained to them that if an innocent man touched the bell it would remain silent, but that if the man was guilty it would ring out.
Then the magistrate led his staff in solemn worship to the bell. The sacrifices concluded, he had the bell placed behind a curtain, while one of his assistants secretly smeared it with ink. After a time he took the suspects to the bell and had each one in turn extend his hands through the curtain and touch the bell. As each man withdrew his hands, Shu-ku examined them. Everyone’s hands were stained except for those of one man, who confessed to the theft under questioning. He had not dared touch the bell for fear it would ring.
—Chang Shih-nan
A Fine Phoenix
A man of Ch’u was carrying a pheasant in a cage over his shoulder. A traveler on the road said to him, “What kind of bird is that?”
“A phoenix,” replied the man of Ch’u to fool the traveler.
“I’ve heard of such a creature, and today I’m actually seeing one! Are you selling it?”
“Yes.”
The man of Ch’u declined a thousand pieces of silver for the bird, but finally accepted when the offer reached two thousand. The buyer was intending to present the bird to the king of Ch’u, but it died during the night. Although he was not too distressed over the wasted money, he keenly regretted the loss of the king’s gift.
The particulars of this story became known in the state of Ch’u. It was generally assumed that the bird was a real phoenix and therefore priceless. At last the king himself learned of the intended present and was so moved that he summoned the man and rewarded him with ten times the cost of the pheasant.
—Han-tan Shun
Sun Tribute
“All it takes to kill a peasant is to keep him idle.” So goes the proverb. Out early in the morning, home late at night—the peasant regards this as a normal life. Beans and leaves, he thinks, make a perfect meal. His skin and flesh are coarse and tough. His muscles and joints flex quickly. But put him down one day amid soft furs and silken curtains, give him fine meats and fragrant oranges, and you will see how his mind softens and his body grows restless as he suffers from fever. If a prince were to trade places with him, the prince would be exhausted in a couple of hours. Thus there is nothing better in the world than what contents and delights the peasant!
In olden days in the state of Sung, a peasant was wearing a hemp-padded garment that had barely gotten him through the winter. With the coming of spring and the toil of plowing, the man bared his back and let the sun warm his body. Unaware that there were such things in the world as grand mansions and heated rooms, cotton padding and fox fur, he turned to his wife and said, “I feel the warmth of the sun on my back, but no one knows about this great luxury. As tribute I’m going to take it to our lord, and he will give me a rich reward.”
—Lieh Tzu
AN UNOFFICIAL HISTORY OF THE CONFUCIAN ACADEMY
This tale is taken from Wu Ching-tzu’s Ju Lin Wai Shih (The Scholars), a novel written in the second quarter of the eighteenth century. Wu’s book, of which this story is the first chapter, is a satire on the manners and morals of the scholar officials under the Manchu (Ch’ing) Dynasty, 1644-1911.
Toward the end of the Mongol reign* there came into the world a man of towering integrity, yet frank and plain. His name? Wang Mien. His home? A village in Chuchi county in the province of Chekiang. Wang Mien’s father died when he was seven, and his mother took in sewing so that the boy could study at the village school. Some three years went by this way. Then Wang Mien was ten.
Wang Mien’s mother called him to her. “My dear son,” she said, “I would never want to hold you back, but since Father died and left me a widow all alone, the money has been going out but not coming in. Times are hard, what with rice and kindling so dear. I have pawned or sold whatever I could of our old clothes and household goods. How can I keep you in school, when all we have is what I scrape together sewing for people? What can I do, then, but let you go to work grazing our neighbor’s buffalo to make a bit of money each month? You’ll get meals too, but you must go tomorrow.”
“I think you’re right, mother,” said Wang Mien. “I was getting bored sitting in school anyway. I’d rather go and tend the buffalo; it might be a little more fun. If I want to study, I can take a few books along, the way I always do.” So things were settled that very night.
Next day Wang Mien’s mother went with him to their neighbors, the Ch’in family. Old Ch’in had them stay for breakfast and then led out a water buffalo, which he turned over to Wang Mien. The f
armer pointed beyond his gate and said, “Just a couple of bowshots from here you’ll find Seven Lakes. Along the lake runs a stretch of green grass where the buffalo of all the families doze. There are dozens of good-sized willows that give plenty of shade. When the buffalo get thirsty, they can drink at the lakeside. Enjoy yourself there, young fellow; no need to go far. And you’ll never get less than two meals a day, plus the bit of cash I can spare you. But you must work hard. I hope my offer isn’t disappointing.”
After making her apologies, Wang Mien’s mother turned to go, and her son escorted her out the gate. Giving his clothes a last straightening, she said, “You must be very careful here. Don’t give anyone cause to find fault with you. Go out at daybreak and get home by nightfall, and spare me any worry.” Wang Mien said he understood, and his mother left, holding back her tears.
From that time Wang Mien spent his days tending the Ch’in family’s buffalo. At dusk he would return to his own home for the night. There were times when the Ch’ins offered him a little salted fish or preserved meat, and without fail he would wrap it in a lotus leaf and take it home to his mother. As for the few coppers he was given for snacks, he always saved them up for a month or two. Then he would steal a free moment to go to the village school and buy a few books from the bookseller there. Every day after tethering the buffalo, he would sit and read beneath the willows.
Another three or four years sped by. Wang Mien kept studying and began to see the real meaning of what he read. On one of the hottest days of midsummer when the weather was unbearable, Wang Mien was idling on the grass, tired out from tending the buffalo. Suddenly dense clouds spread across the sky. A storm came and went. Then the dark clouds fringed with white began to break, letting through a stream of sunshine that set the whole lake aglow. The hills above the lake were masses of green, blue, and purple; the trees, freshly bathed, showed their loveliest green. In the lake itself, clear water dripped from dozens of lotus buds, and beads like pearls rolled back and forth over the lotus leaves.