Qiu zhi ying-ying.
Du zhi huang-huang.
Zhe zhi dong-dong.
Xiu liu bing-bing.
IN the quaint commentary accompanying the text of that holy book of Laozi called Ganyingbian may be found a little story so old that the name of the one who first told it has been forgotten for a thousand years, yet so beautiful that it lives still in the memory of four hundred millions of people, like a prayer that, once learned, is forever remembered. The Chinese writer makes no mention of any city nor of any province, although even in the relation of the most ancient traditions such an omission is rare; we are only told that the name of the hero of the legend was Dong Yong, and that he lived in the years of the great dynasty of Han, some twenty centuries ago.
Dong Yong’s mother had died while he was yet an infant; and when he became a youth of nineteen years his father also passed away, leaving him utterly alone in the world, and without resources of any sort; for, being a very poor man, Dong’s father had put himself to great straits to educate the lad, and had not been able to lay by even one copper coin of his earnings. And Dong lamented greatly to find himself so destitute that he could not honor the memory of that good father by having the customary rites of burial performed, and a carven tomb erected upon a propitious site, The poor only are friends of the poor; and among all those whom Dong knew, there was no one able to assist him in defraying the expenses of the funeral. In one way only could the youth obtain money—by selling himself as a slave to some rich cultivator; and this he at last decided to do. In vain his friends did their utmost to dissuade him; and to no purpose did they attempt to delay the accomplishment of his sacrifice by beguiling promises of future aid. Dong only replied that he would sell his freedom a hundred times, if it were possible, rather than suffer his father’s memory to remain dishonored even for a brief season. And furthermore, confiding in his youth and strength, he determined to put a high price upon his servitude—a price which would enable him to build a handsome tomb, but which it would be well-nigh impossible for him ever to repay.
Accordingly he repaired to the broad public place where slaves and debtors were exposed for sale, and seated himself upon a bench of stone, having affixed to his shoulders a placard inscribed with the terms of his servitude and the list of his qualifications as a laborer. Many who read the characters upon the placard smiled disdainfully at the price asked, and passed on without a word; others lingered only to question him out of simple curiosity; some commended him with hollow praise; some openly mocked his unselfishness, and laughed at his childish piety. Thus many hours wearily passed, and Dong had almost despaired of finding a master, when there rode up a high official of the province—a grave and handsome man, lord of a thousand slaves, and owner of vast estates. Reining in his Tartar horse, the official halted to read the placard and to consider the value of the slave. He did not smile, or advise, or ask any questions; but having observed the price asked, and the fine strong limbs of the youth, purchased him without further ado, merely ordering his attendant to pay the sum and to see that the necessary papers were made out.
Thus Dong found himself enabled to fulfill the wish of his heart, and to have a monument built which, although of small size, was destined to delight the eyes of all who beheld it, being designed by cunning artists and executed by skilful sculptors. And while it was yet designed only, the pious rites were performed, the silver coin was placed in the mouth of the dead, the white lanterns were hung at the door, the holy prayers were recited, and paper shapes of all things the departed might need in the land of the Genii were consumed in consecrated fire. And after the geomancers and the necromancers had chosen a burial-spot which no unlucky star could shine upon, a place of rest which no demon or dragon might ever disturb, the beautiful shi was built. Then was the phantom money strewn along the way; the funeral procession departed from the dwelling of the dead, and with prayers and lamentation the mortal remains of Dong’s good father were borne to the tomb.
Then Dong entered as a slave into the service of his purchaser, who allotted him a little hut to dwell in; and thither Dong carried with him those wooden tablets, bearing the ancestral names, before which filial piety must daily burn the incense of prayer, and perform the tender duties of family worship.
Thrice had spring perfumed the breast of the land with flowers, and thrice had been celebrated that festival of the dead which is called Xiu fan di, and thrice had Dong swept and garnished his father’s tomb and presented his fivefold offering of fruits and meats. The period of mourning had passed, yet he had not ceased to mourn for his parent. The years revolved with their moons, bringing him no hour of joy, no day of happy rest; yet he never lamented his servitude, or failed to perform the rites of ancestral worship—until at last the fever of the rice-fields laid strong hold upon him, and he could not arise from his couch; and his fellow-laborers thought him destined to die. There was no one to wait upon him, no one to care for his needs, inasmuch as slaves and servants were wholly busied with the duties of the household or the labor of the fields—all departing to toil at sunrise and returning weary only after the sundown.
Now, while the sick youth slumbered the fitful slumber of exhaustion one sultry noon, he dreamed that a strange and beautiful woman stood by him, and bent above him and touched his forehead with the long, fine fingers of her shapely hand. And at her cool touch a weird sweet shock passed through him, and all his veins tingled as if thrilled by new life. Opening his eyes in wonder, he saw verily bending over him the charming being of whom he had dreamed, and he knew that her lithe hand really caressed his throbbing forehead. But the flame of the fever was gone, a delicious coolness now penetrated every fiber of his body, and the thrill of which he had dreamed still tingled in his blood like a great joy. Even at the same moment the eyes of the gentle visitor met his own, and he saw they were singularly beautiful, and shone like splendid black jewels under brows curved like the wings of the swallow. Yet their calm gaze seemed to pass through him as light through crystal; and a vague awe came upon him, so that the question which had risen to his lips found no utterance. Then she, still caressing him, smiled and said: “I have come to restore thy strength and to be thy wife. Arise and worship with me.”
Her clear voice had tones melodious as a bird’s song; but in her gaze there was an imperious power which Dong felt he dare not resist. Rising from his couch, he was astounded to find his strength wholly restored; but the cool, slender hand which held his own led him away so swiftly that he had little time for amazement. He would have given years of existence for courage to speak of his misery, to declare his utter inability to maintain a wife; but something irresistible in the long dark eyes of his companion forbade him to speak; and as though his inmost thought had been discerned by that wondrous gaze, she said to him, in the same clear voice, “I will provide.” Then shame made him blush at the thought of his wretched aspect and tattered apparel; but he observed that she also was poorly attired, like a woman of the people—wearing no ornament of any sort, nor even shoes upon her feet. And before he had yet spoken to her, they came before the ancestral tablets; and there she knelt with him and prayed, and pledged him in a cup of wine—brought he knew not from whence—and together they worshipped Heaven and Earth. Thus she became his wife.
A mysterious marriage it seemed, for neither on that day nor at any future time could Dong venture to ask his wife the name of her family, or of the place whence she came, and he could not answer any of the curious questions which his fellow-laborers put to him concerning her; and she, moreover, never uttered a word about herself, except to say that her name was Zhi. But although Dong had such awe of her that while her eyes were upon him he was as one having no will of his own, he loved her unspeakably; and the thought of his serfdom ceased to weigh upon him from the hour of his marriage. As through magic the little dwelling had become transformed: its misery was masked with charming paper devices—with dainty decorations created out o
f nothing by that pretty jugglery of which woman only knows the secret.
Each morning at dawn the young husband found a well-prepared and ample repast awaiting him, and each evening also upon his return; but the wife all day sat at her loom, weaving silk after a fashion unlike anything which had ever been seen before in that province. For as she wove, the silk flowed from the loom like a slow current of glossy gold, bearing upon its undulations strange forms of violet and crimson and jewel-green: shapes of ghostly horsemen riding upon horses, and of phantom chariots dragon-drawn, and of standards of trailing cloud. In every dragon’s beard glimmered the mystic pearl; in every rider’s helmet sparkled the gem of rank. And each day Zhi would weave a great piece of such figured silk; and the fame of her weaving spread abroad. From far and near people thronged to see the marvelous work; and the silk-merchants of great cities heard of it, and they sent messengers to Zhi, asking her that she should weave for them and teach them her secret. Then she wove for them, as they desired, in return for the silver cubes which they brought her; but when they prayed her to teach them, she laughed and said, “Assuredly I could never teach you, for no one among you has fingers like mine.” And indeed no man could discern her fingers when she wove, any more than he might behold the wings of a bee vibrating in swift flight.
The seasons passed, and Dong never knew want, so well did his beautiful wife fulfill her promise—“I will provide”; and the cubes of bright silver brought by the silk-merchants were piled up higher and higher in the great carven chest which Zhi had bought for the storage of the household goods.
One morning, at last, when Dong, having finished his repast, was about to depart to the fields, Zhi unexpectedly bade him remain; and opening the great chest, she took out of it and gave him a document written in the official characters called li shu. And Dong, looking at it, cried out and leaped in his joy, for it was the certificate of his manumission. Zhi had secretly purchased her husband’s freedom with the price of her wondrous silks!
“Thou shalt labor no more for any master,” she said, “but for thine own sake only. And I have also bought this dwelling, with all which is therein, and the tea-fields to the south, and the mulberry groves hard by—all of which are thine.”
Then Dong, beside himself for gratefulness, would have prostrated himself in worship before her, but that she would not suffer it.
Thus he was made free; and prosperity came to him with his freedom; and whatsoever he gave to the sacred earth was returned to him centupled; and his servants loved him and blessed the beautiful Zhi, so silent and yet so kindly to all about her. But the silk-loom soon remained untouched, for Zhi gave birth to a son—a boy so beautiful that Dong wept with delight when he looked upon him. And thereafter the wife devoted herself wholly to the care of the child.
Now it soon became manifest that the boy was not less wonderful than his wonderful mother. In the third month of his age he could speak; in the seventh month he could repeat by heart the proverbs of the sages, and recite the holy prayers; before the eleventh month he could use the writing-brush with skill, and copy in shapely characters the precepts of Laozi. And the priests of the temples came to behold him and to converse with him, and they marveled at the charm of the child and the wisdom of what he said; and they blessed Dong, saying: Surely this son of thine is a gift from the Master of Heaven, a sign that the immortals love thee. May thine eyes behold a hundred happy summers!
It was in the Period of the Eleventh Moon: the flowers had passed away, the perfume of the summer had flown, the winds were growing chill, and in Dong’s home the evening fires were lighted. Long the husband and wife sat in the mellow glow—he speaking much of his hopes and joys, and of his son that was to be so grand a man, and of many paternal projects; while she, speaking little, listened to his words, and often turned her wonderful eyes upon him with an answering smile. Never had she seemed so beautiful before; and Dong, watching her face, marked not how the night waned, nor how the fire sank low, nor how the wind sang in the leafless trees without.
All suddenly Zhi arose without speaking, and took his hand in hers and led him, gently as on that strange wedding-morning, to the cradle where their boy slumbered, faintly smiling in his dreams. And in that moment there came upon Dong the same strange fear that he knew when Zhi’s eyes had first met his own—the vague fear that love and trust had calmed, but never wholly cast out, like unto the fear of the gods. And all unknowingly, like one yielding to the pressure of mighty invisible hands, he bowed himself low before her, kneeling as to a divinity. Now, when he lifted his eyes again to her face, he closed them forthwith in awe; for she towered before him taller than any mortal woman, and there was a glow about her as of sunbeams, and the light of her limbs shone through her garments. But her sweet voice came to him with all the tenderness of other hours, saying: “Lo! my beloved, the moment has come in which I must forsake thee; for I was never of mortal born, and the Invisible may incarnate themselves for a time only. Yet I leave with thee the pledge of our love—this fair son, who shall ever be to thee as faithful and as fond as thou thyself hast been. Know, my beloved, that I was sent to thee even by the Master of Heaven, in reward of thy filial piety, and that I must now return to the glory of His house: I am the Goddess Zhi Nü.”
Even as she ceased to speak, the great glow faded; and Dong, re-opening his eyes, knew that she had passed away forever—mysteriously as pass the winds of heaven, irrevocably as the light of a flame blown out. Yet all the doors were barred, all the windows unopened. Still the child slept, smiling in his sleep. Outside, the darkness was breaking; the sky was brightening swiftly; the night was past. With splendid majesty the East threw open high gates of gold for the coming of the sun; and, illuminated by the glory of his coming, the vapors of morning wrought themselves into marvelous shapes of shifting color—into forms weirdly beautiful as the silken dreams woven in the loom of Zhi Nü.
The Return of Yan Zhenjing
Before me ran, as a herald runneth, the Leader of the Moon;
And the Spirit of the Wind followed after me—quickening his flight.
LI SAO
IN the thirty-eighth chapter of the holy book, Ganyingpian, wherein the Recompense of Immortality is considered, may be found the legend of Yan Zhenjing. A thousand years have passed since the passing of the good Zhenjing; for it was in the period of the greatness of Tang that he lived and died.
Now, in those days when Yan Zhenjing was Supreme Judge of one of the Six August Tribunals, one Li Xilie, a soldier mighty for evil, lifted the black banner of revolt, and drew after him, as a tide of destruction, the millions of the northern provinces.
And learning of these things, and knowing also that Xilie was the most ferocious of men, who respected nothing on earth save fearlessness, the Son of Heaven commanded Zhenjing that he should visit Xilie and strive to recall the rebel to duty, and read unto the people who followed after him in revolt the Emperor’s letter of reproof and warning. For Zhenjing was famed throughout the provinces for his wisdom, his rectitude, and his fearlessness; and the Son of Heaven believed that if Xilie would listen to the words of any living man steadfast in loyalty and virtue, he would listen to the words of Zhenjing. So Zhenjing arrayed himself in his robes of office, and set his house in order; and, having embraced his wife and his children, mounted his horse and rode away alone to the roaring camp of the rebels, bearing the Emperor’s letter in his bosom. “I shall return; fear not!” were his last words to the gray servant who watched him from the terrace as he rode.
And Zhenjing at last descended from his horse, and entered into the rebel camp, and, passing through that huge gathering of war, stood in the presence of Xilie. High sat the rebel among his chiefs, encircled by the wave-lightning of swords and the thunders of ten thousand gongs: above him undulated the silken folds of the Black Dragon, while a vast fire rose bickering before him. Also Zhenjing saw that the tongues of that fire were licking human bones, and t
hat skulls of men lay blackening among the ashes. Yet he was not afraid to look upon the fire, nor into the eyes of Xilie; but drawing from his bosom the roll of perfumed yellow silk upon which the words of the Emperor were written, and kissing it, he made ready to read, while the multitude became silent. Then, in a strong, clear voice he began:
The words of the Celestial and August, the Son of Heaven, the Divine Gezu Qin Yaodi, unto the rebel Li Xilie and those that follow him.
And a roar went up like the roar of the sea—a roar of rage, and the hideous battle-moan, like the moan of a forest in storm—“Hoo! hoo-oo-oo-oo!”—and the sword-lightnings brake loose, and the thunder of the gongs moved the ground beneath the messenger’s feet. But Xilie waved his gilded wand, and again there was silence. “Nay!” spake the rebel chief; “let the dog bark!” So Zhenjing spake on:
Knowest thou not, O most rash and foolish of men, that thou leadest the people only into the mouth of the Dragon of Destruction? Knowest thou not, also, that the people of my kingdom are the first-born of the Master of Heaven? So it hath been written that he who doth needlessly subject the people to wounds and death shall not be suffered by Heaven to live! Thou who wouldst subvert those laws founded by the wise—those laws in obedience to which may happiness and prosperity alone be found—thou art committing the greatest of all crimes—the crime that is never forgiven!
O my people, think not that I your Emperor, I your Father, seek your destruction. I desire only your happiness, your prosperity, your greatness; let not your folly provoke the severity of your Celestial Parent. Follow not after madness and blind rage; hearken rather to the wise words of my messenger.
“Hoo! hoo-oo-oo-oo-oo!” roared the people, gathering fury. “Hoo! hoo-oo-oo-oo!”—until the mountains rolled back the cry like the rolling of a typhoon; and once more the pealing of the gongs paralyzed voice and hearing. Then Zhenjing, looking at Xilie, saw that he laughed, and that the words of the letter would not again be listened to. Therefore he read on to the end without looking about him, resolved to perform his mission in so far as lay in his power. And having read all, he would have given the letter to Xilie; but Xilie would not extend his hand to take it. Therefore Zhenjing replaced it in his bosom, and folding his arms, looked Xilie calmly in the face, and waited. Again Xilie waved his gilded wand; and the roaring ceased, and the booming of the gongs, until nothing save the fluttering of the Dragon-banner could be heard. Then spake Xilie, with an evil smile:
Chinese Ghost Stories Page 4