Chinese Love Stories from Ch’ing-shih

Chinese Love Stories from “Ch’ing-shih”

Hua-yuan Li Mowry

ARCHON BOOKS
1983

© 1983 Hua-yuan Li Mowry. All rights reserved.

First published 1983 as an Archon Book,

an imprint of The Shoe String Press, Inc.,

Hamden, Connecticut 06514

DOI: 10:1349/ddlp.1809

Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data

Feng, Meng-lung, 1574–1646.

Chinese love stories from “Ch’ing-shih”.

Partial translation of: Ch’ing shih.

Bibliography: p.

Includes indexes.

I. Mowry, Hua-yuan Li.     II. Title.

PL2698.F4C425132    1982        895.1'34           82–6859

ISBN 0-208-01920-0                                           AACR2

Contents

Preface by Cyril Birch

Explanatory Remarks and Acknowledgments

Introduction

The Twenty-four Chapters of Ch’ing-shih

Notes

Character Glossary

Bibliography

Index

Preface

Ch’ing-shih is a lovingly made anthology of love stories, provided we push the limits of definition of “love story” just a little wider than they are usually set. The stories are classified into twenty-four major categories, each further divided into subsections and concluded with a paragraph of commentary. Professor Mowry provides a sampling of the contents of each category but not of each subsection, though the headings themselves are enough to pique our curiosity: shall we turn next to “incomplete resurrections,” or “unusual degenerates”?

The stories were collected in the early seventeenth century, just a decade or two before the fall of the Ming dynasty, but nine-tenths of them are pre-Ming in origin. Whether the earliest or the most recent stories have the higher artistic value will be a matter for the reader’s judgement. Certainly, anyone not yet convinced that the Chinese wrote the world’s best ghost stories should turn at once to “Lady Twenty-two,” from chapter sixteen of Ch’ing-shih. Here, less than a thousand words of Professor Mowry’s expert English translation offer passion and payment, a hanging and a haunting; a hero who, having established his companion’s identity as a ghost, “then made love to her, not feeling overly alarmed, after which he suavely and ingratiatingly enquired as to the details”; and a wife so cheered by fifty taels (ounces) of silver that she accepts her husband’s beloved, ghost or no ghost, without further question. The tale of Wu Hsing-niang, from chapter nine, is another superbly polished ghost story, with an authentic chill for the reader’s spine when the hair clasp drops from the sedan chair.

The folklorist will recognize some authentic fairy tales and many folktale elements in the stories: for a typical example, see the story of Feng Tieh-ts’ui from chapter four, in which a man’s successive business failures are rewarded with ever larger gifts of silver and gold. Though the tales have been sifted through the consciousness of scholars, to be retold in an elegant classical Chinese style, there has been no prettification. Witness, from chapter ten, “The Lad of the Sun Family”: a comedy, as Professor Mowry affirms, but one which incorporates a suicide by hanging and the violation of a corpse. The dark and smelly world of the poor presses on the borders of the story, death is a close attendant, and actions are therefore predicated on immediate gratification. The border line between the farcical, the tragic, and the macabre is no more clearly drawn than it is, much of the time, in actual life. The stories also include some eccentric but wonderfully believable characters, like the “unrestrained” Magistrate Han from chapter five, who has to be shanghaied away from a prostitute’s bed after a month-long infatuation.

Against the more polished, finished stories we should set some which cry out to be retold. One of these, oddly enough, seems to be by the compiler of the collection himself, the story of Ch’iu Ch’ang-ju from chapter six. The language here is so terse as to seem laconic, a sort of telegraphese intent on getting the facts down with minimum attention to motivations or side effects. Stories of this kind should be read slowly, as we must fill in for ourselves the mode of Liu-sheng’s poisoning (was she tricked or forced?), the screams of the abducted sisters, the ins and outs of a whole complicated series of lawsuits. Much, as Professor Mowry suggests, is to be read between the lines. Still, the economy of style does not preclude great effectiveness. In another story by the compiler, “Feng Ai-sheng,” from chapter thirteen, the second paragraph brief as it is offers a convincing capsule of the courtesan’s life. There is room also at times for the splendidly irrelevant detail, as when the “Wang from Lo-yang,” from chapter seven, who has castrated himself to gain access to his beloved, receives every year “a little bit of interest” on the lord’s gift of gold. (Does this restore the sunshine to his sky?)

The Ch’ing-shih compiler seems to have been both a pack rat and a highly original artist with words: a reviewer of some of his stories in translation once described him as a “literary vacuum-cleaner,” but the suggestion that he bowdlerized is unjust. His commentary is an opportunity for some fine flowers of language: human life is “transient as water bubbles and flint sparks,” a love affair resembles “the chance coming together of two ivy tendrils on a wall.” He has a lively wit and a vast reading experience, so that he can find a precedent for any situation. A duke who refuses to accept that his concubine is dead is contrasted, easily and naturally, with a dying general who refuses to allow his concubine to survive him. He speaks of others as “story writers”: how does he regard himself, what does he see as the true nature of his work? Not simple entertainment, certainly, nor a book of illustrated sermons, but something between and beyond. He is a collector and interpreter of instructive examples of human behavior. His History of Ch’ing is indeed a history—even the “standard histories,” after all, the annals of the realm, were not free from fabrications or from the supernatural. Like every Chinese history it had ultimately a moral purpose. It is the breadth and energy of his morality, its experiential validity, that saves him from boring didacticism. His work is permeated, in Professor Mowry’s phrase, with an “optimistic, light hearted spirit,” even though he has his targets: hypocrisy, and the abuse of power that can reduce a carefree lover to a living skeleton stumbling along the towpath after the boat that bears away his abducted bride.

Among other inhumanities, the compiler must confront the code that posits suicide as “the best, the only proper solution for a widow.” He is no crusader here, it seems he must accept society’s rules; yet Li Miao-hui, in the first story translated here, is a widow who survives to be reunited with a husband wrongly presumed dead. Here ch’ing (however we translate it—and we can only admire Professor Mowry’s refusal to straitjacket ch’ing within a single English equivalent) becomes almost “true feeling,” as a synonym for common sense in support of the humane. The compiler seems tolerant of homosexuality, and he understands the “ordinary farmer” who “when he reaps but ten bushels extra of wheat, immediately wants to get a new wife. Why? Because he can afford it.”

Great strides are being made in the study of the history, literature, and art of the Ming—the last age of China under native rule and free from the germs of the West. Studies of fiction in particular are reaching altogether new levels of sophistication as details fill in old broad outlines. Professor Mowry has made a most valuable contribution with this book. She has opened up a collection, the previous neglect of which is hard to explain. She proves a reliable guide among its complicated contents, and translates a good deal of completely new material with admirable skill and sensitivity.

It must be fifteen years since I had the great honor to stand in the place of Li Hua-yuan’s father when she joined Loyd Mowry in marriage. I am no less proud now to have been associated with these researches, and to bestow a fatherly blessing on this fine brainchild.

Cyril Birch,

Berkeley

Explanatory Remarks and Acknowledgments

This book is a revised version of sections of my doctoral dissertation (University of California—Berkeley, 1976). Omitted here are sections dealing with the date of the compilation of Ch’ing-shih and with other matters similarly documentary or peripheral in nature. Since the book is intended not only for students and scholars of Chinese literature, but also for the general reader who is not always interested in, or able to read, the original Chinese, I have italicized those notes only referring to, or locating or identifying, certain Ch’ing-shih entries but giving no other information. Notes in italics are intended only for persons who can read Chinese and may be interested in checking sources in the Chinese text. I have used the Wade-Giles romanization system for all transliterations, including familiar place names (e.g., Soochow is romanized Su-chou), but to avoid excessive use of parentheses or the breaking up of sentences with notes, I do not provide the present-day location or equivalent for any place-names occurring in the stories translated, nor do I invariably point out misgraphings, textual corruptions, and so on—to do so would lead to pages and pages of explanation which would still make little or no sense to one not conversant with the Chinese language, and would prove more a distraction than a help to specialists.

I wish to express my deep appreciation to the following individuals and organizations helping to make this book possible: to Prof. Cyril Birch who served as my dissertation director and has written the preface to the present volume, and whose scholarship and devotion to his profession have guided and inspired me over the years; to Prof. Wolfram Eberhard and Prof. Ching-mao Cheng, the two other members of my dissertation committee; to the National Endowment for the Humanities, for a grant which relieved me of teaching duties in 1980–81 and enabled me to devote myself completely to my research on Feng Meng-lung and his works; to Dartmouth College for providing me with a working place, library, and other facilities, and a small but timely research grant; to The Shoe String Press, Inc., which expressed an early interest in my work, and to Jeanne Ferris, associate editor of Archon Books, for editing the manuscript and suggesting the title for the book; to my colleagues, friends, and students at Dartmouth and elsewhere, in particular to Clara Y. Cuadrado, Jeannette Faurot, Cecilia Tsui, Vivian Hsü, Susan Blader, Alex Levin, Hans Penner, and Betsy Alexander, who in one way or another have influenced me positively and made me a better person and teacher; to my husband Loyd Mowry, Jr., who has always been my first reader and critic, and who has typed and proofread the entire manuscript; and finally to my daughter and friend Soma M. Mowry for her precocious understanding of the joys and frustrations of scholarly pursuit.

Introduction

THE LITERARY ENVIRONMENT DURING THE LAST CENTURY OF THE MING DYNASTY

During the last century of Ming China, from about 1550 to 1644, several new literary genres came to maturity. Among them, that most deserving our attention is the so-called hua-pen genre—the short story in vernacular Chinese. In spite of the fact that the beginnings of this genre and the origin of the generic term “hua-pen” can be traced to Sung times (960–1279 A.D.), or even back to T’ang times (618–906)—that is, back to the humble platforms of the professional story tellers—the great majority of the hua-pen stories preserved in the several Ming hua-pen anthologies are not works by ordinary folk-writers, but are rather the works of Ming scholar-writers, i.e., writers versed in the classics and skilled in the classical language.[1] Why did these men of letters adopt and endorse a literary form with such humble origins? To answer this question we must first examine the philosophy of Wang Yang-ming (1472–1529)—a philosophy which accents individualism and spontaneity, and one which has affected the general orientation of late Ming literature.

The dominant literary trend of a hundred years, more than spanning Wang Yang-ming’s lifetime, was a strong antiquarianism advocated both by the so-called Former Seven-scholars (ch’ien ch’i-tzu) and by the Latter Seven-scholars (hou ch’i-tzu).[2] This antiquarianism extended approximately to the second decade of Emperor Shen-tsung’s reign (1573–1619). Two things were emphasized in this school of anti-quarianism. First, only the works of the ancients are true literature. Thus, with regard to prose, the followers of this school of thought would read only works by Ch’in (221–207 B.C.) and Han (202 B.C.–220 A.D.) authors; or in poetry, they would read only compositions by authors from the heyday of T’ang, or “Sheng T’ang” as the period has been called. Second, imitation is the only way to literary creation.

Wang Yang-ming was contemporary with the Former Seven-scholars.[3] At a time when the antiquarian movement of these scholars had commended itself to almost all the young Chinese scholars and writers, Wang Yang-ming came upon the scene with a diametrically opposed theory, the theory of liang-chih or “innate knowledge.”[4] Because he was most widely known as a thinker and a statesman, rather than as a writer, Wang Yang-ming’s literary compositions never did attract much attention; his idealistic philosophy, however, focusing upon the theory of liang-chih, managed to influence the thought of several important literati who, by applying the liang-chih theory to literature, redirected the literary orientation of the late Ming, brought into existence the first Chinese novel of naturalism and realism, Chin P’ing Mei, and stimulated the growth of ch’uan-ch’i drama and, more germanely, of the hua-pen genre.

Two concepts are particularly important with regard to determining the new orientation of late Ming literature, both derived from the philosophical theory of liang-chih. First, there is the concept that a person’s cognitive powers are innate; since at birth all individuals seem to be endowed with closely similar cognitive faculties, it follows that the ancients are not of necessity intellectually superior to the moderns. Wang Yang-ming is thus recognizing the potential sagehood in every person, dead, living, or yet to live.[5] When this concept of innate cognitive powers is applied to literature, assert the disciples and followers of Wang Yang-ming, one can see that each age has its own independent and intrinsic value, and that each individual writer, likewise, inevitably has his own personal preferences in regard both to the content, and to the form, of his literary expression. The second concept holds that spontaneity is good, and should be valued. After this philosophical concept had been applied to literature, there was an unprecedented enthusiasm, on the part of late Ming literati, for folk literature—because folk literature, in both its form and its content, is considered to represent the most natural, the most spontaneous, emotional expression of the ordinary people.

The first Confucian scholar of importance enthusiastically to apply Wang Yang-ming’s liang-chih theory to literature was Li Chih (1527–1602).[6] The central themes of his resulting literary theory can be found in the following passage, quoted from his Fen-shu:

There has not been a moment in man’s history in which literary activities have ceased; nor has there ever been any human being incapable of engaging in literary activities. Everything which is creatively written, in whatever individual style, is literature. Thus, when speaking of poetry, why do we always have to refer to selections from the ancients? Or when speaking of prose, why does it have to be pre-Ch’in prose? The Six Dynasties had “modern-style” (“chin-t’i”) poetry; then, there are the ch’uan-ch’i of the T’ang, the yüan-pen of Chin, and the tsa-chü of the Yüan dynasties; and what about the Hsi-hsiang ch’ü and Shui-hu chuan . . . this is all the best of literature, from both ancient and modern times. We should never base our judgement of literary value on considerations as to whether a work was composed at an earlier or later age.[7]

It is evident here that Li Chih does not consider ancient literature intrinsically superior to modern, nor does he consider that orthodox literary forms necessarily eclipse those of the drama or the novel.[8]

Li Chih was the first Confucian scholar to recognize the value of vernacular fiction, but his contribution to Ming literature lies far beyond the direct criticism of his contemporaries’ antiquarian and dogmatic approach to literature. Specifically, his close relationship with several far sighted intellectual leaders of the late Ming, especially the three Yuan brothers, was indirectly responsible for a new literary movement which turned the last five decades of Ming China into a period vibrant with literary innovation and creativity.[9]

Since the three yüan brothers were natives of Kung-an in Hu-pei province, the literary group they headed was called “Kung-an p’ai,” and the poetic style they advocated was “Kung-an t’i.” The core of the Kung-an literary theory is hsing-ling, or “naturalness and sensitiveness.”[10] This group believed that the most essential ingredient of literature is emotional genuineness, or sincerity. They therefore opposed imitation and stereotypes, disregarded convention, but saw—and thus cherished—folk and vernacular literature as being an embodiment of hsing-ling. Commenting on the contemporary literary scene, Yüan Chung-lang, one of the three brothers, once remarked:

In my opinion, it is not the poetry and prose of our age which will be passed down to posterity. The works most likely to be handed down are ones such as “Po-p’o yü” and “Ta-ts’ao kan,” ditties sung by women or children in the narrow alleys. Such works are by real people—people not knowledgeable or erudite—and therefore are, for the most part, expressions of sincere emotion. Such compositions do not mirror the frowns of writers of Han or Wei, nor do they dog the steps of writers of the heyday of T’ang; they are compositions occasioned by man’s genuine emotions and, thus, can communicate man’s happiness, anger, sadness, and joy, as well as his wishes and desires. It is for this reason they are delightful compositions.[11]

It was in the literary climate just sketched, then, that Chinese vernacular fiction—especially the hua-pen genre—flourished.

The efforts of the liberal-minded, late Ming literati to promote a more genuine and natural literature can be seen in at least three areas. First, they made a conscious attempt to elevate vernacular literature to the level of orthodox, traditional literature. Li Chih, as we noted in the passage quoted, placed Shui-hu chuan and Hsi-hsiang ch’ü in a category with pre-Ch’in prose and the poetry of the Six Dynasties. And similarly, Yuan Chung-lang, as we see from the previous quotation, considered folk songs sung by women and children to be the type of literary expression most likely to be preserved.[12] Second, in addition to treating seriously the various forms of folk and vernacular literature—forms never before receiving much scholarly attention—enthusiasts of these literatures began to devote time and energy to the actual collecting, editing, publishing, and even writing of such literature.[13] Third, some of these liberal-minded Confucian scholar-writers began to put their literary theories into practice and to write according to the principles they advocated, a phenomenon readily seen in both the form and the content of their writings. These writers discarded the ancient, stereotyped style after which the Former and Latter Seven-scholars had patterned their works. In its place they began to write in a free, unrestrained manner, frequently choosing to use the two forms not governed by set rules and regulations—the short, informal essay (the hsiao-p’in wen), and the personal letter. The best late Ming prose compositions are, in fact, all to be found in these two types of writing; and in the casual essay and the informal letter we find neither the archaic, obscure expressions, nor the obsolete diction so characteristic of the writing of the earlier, antiquarian scholars. In terms of content, these Confucian literati of the late Ming preferred to write about personal matters, not about matters metaphysical or philosophical. They viewed literature as a vehicle for emotional expression, rather than as a conveyance for the teachings of the ancient sages; thus we see themes and topics in the late Ming writings—not only in vernacular or folk literature, but also in classical Chinese prose essays—which had never been dealt with before.

In this romantic, liberal atmosphere, then, the human emotional realm was carefully explored, and closely examined from various aspects, by a generation of idealistic writers. Love, perhaps the theme most frequently dealt with in all literature, was also reexamined under a new and different light by the many playwrights and fiction writers who cherished the genuine human emotion more than any other of the human characteristics. It was only natural that at such a time, an anthology dealing with ch’ing (“emotion,” “feeling,” “love”) should appear, that anthology being Ch’ing-shih (“ch’ing records”); and it is understandable why some of the late Ming hua-pen writers, immediately after the publication of Ch’ing-shih, adopted it as a source for many of their short-story compositions.

Ch’ing is a central concept in late Ming philosophy, and one of the most important themes of late Ming literature. I would like here to comment briefly upon three of the more important philosophers who have followed Wang Yang-ming, and who have contributed either to defining further the term “ch’ing,” or to bringing it more into prominence. The first philosopher is Yen Chün, an influential member of the T’ai-chou school founded by Wang Ken.[14] Yen Chün was the first lecturer on Wang Yang-ming’s philosophy who professed to have lectured on ch’ing. He says, speaking of his students, “I would talk about hsing (‘human nature’) with Lo Ju-fang, and about hsin (‘mind’) with Ch’en Yi-ch’üan; as for the others, I would only talk about ch’ing with them.”[15] Although no records of Yen Chün’s ideas on ch’ing have been preserved for us, we can reasonably assume from the harsh criticisms of Yen Chün’s moral conduct made by Wang Shih-chen, leader of the Latter Seven-scholars, that Yen Chün considered ch’ing an innate feature of man—a feature therefore naturally good, and one not to be suppressed; and in Yen Chün’s usage, the term “ch’ing” probably refers most frequently to the ch’ing between the two sexes.[16]

The second Ming philosopher whose thinking influenced the Ming literati’s understanding of ch’ing is Yen Chün’s disciple, Lo Jufang. But our present concern with Lo Ju-fang is not his interpretation of Yen Chün’s concept of ch’ing; it is instead Lo Ju-fang’s substitution—in his expounding on the theories of the T’ai-chou branch of Wang Yang-ming’s philosophy—of the term “sheng,” or “life,” for the term “hsin,” or “mind”. For Lo Ju-fang was a teacher of T’ang Hsien-tsu, the greatest late Ming playwright and an advocate of the supremacy of ch’ing. Lo Ju-fang’s emphasis on life has clearly affected T’ang Hsientsu’s perspective, as is evident in T’ang’s attempts to evaluate and define ch’ing in relation to sheng (“life”) in his plays.[17] Before we turn to T’ang Hsien-tsu, however, I will comment upon one of the concerns of the third Ming thinker whose thought also influenced the late Ming literati’s use of the term “ch’ing”. That thinker is Li Chih.

We have already examined Li Chih’s literary theory; here it will suffice to mention specifically only his cosmological view regarding the position and value of the husband-wife relationship. Li Chih’s is a revolutionary interpretation of the genesis of life. His view, it seems to me, has contributed to the assertion by many Ming writers, including T’ang Hsien-tsu and the compiler of Ch’ing-shih, that love or affinity (i.e., ch’ing) between the two sexes is the most spontaneous love, and thus the most to be prized, being also the most powerful of human characteristics. In Li Chih’s view, all life begins with the husband-wife relationship:[18]

Husband and wife comprise the beginnings of human life. Only after there has been a husband-wife relation can there be a father-son relation; only after the father-son relation, can there be an elder-younger relation between brothers; and only after the elder-younger brothers’ relation has been established, can there be a distinction between superior and subordinate. Should the relationship between husband and wife be proper, then all the relations among the myriads of living things and nonliving matters will also be proper. Thus it is evident that husband-wife is actually the beginning of all things.[19]

Li Chih’s elevation of the husband-wife relation to the head of all human relations (likewise, his affirming the value of Shui-hu chuan and Hsi-hsiang chi) was immediately echoed by sensitive late Ming play-wrights and fiction writers who, through their works, began a deep exploration of the many aspects of the relation between man and woman, the relation by then known as ch’ing.

The one individual who, through his literary compositions, most successfully managed to communicate his strong belief in the supremacy of ch’ing to the generations of readers both contemporary with and following him, is T’ang Hsien-tsu. In his plays, through the lives of his characters, one repeatedly notes T’ang’s efforts to portray and to affirm the permanent nature and unlimited strength of ch’ing.[20] Perhaps the clearest, most precise definition of ch’ing, as T’ang Hsientsu presents it, can be found in the preface to his celebrated play, Mutan t’ing: “We do not know where ‘ch’ing’ comes from. However, once ‘ch’ing’ has arisen and taken deep roots in one’s heart, it can bring death to the living and life to the dead.”[21]

To conclude, T’ang Hsien-tsu has placed ch’ing above life itself. It is this ch’ing—the ch’ing that can bring death to the living, and life to the dead—that the compiler of Ch’ing-shih is dealing with, although he has chosen in his anthology to examine the various aspects of ch’ing not through plays of the ch’uan-ch’i genre which T’ang Hsien-tsu chose, but rather through tales delivered in the classical Chinese language.

THE STRUCTURE AND ORGANIZATION OF “CH’ING-SHIH”

Ch’ing-shih, or Ch’ing-shih lei-lüeh (“Ch’ing Records Categorization Sketch”) is a voluminous compilation of more than 850 tales and anecdotes in classical Chinese.[22] As indicated by the full title, the tales and anecdotes are categorized according to subject or theme. Each of the twenty-four chapters is subdivided into several sections, each section having a subtitle describing the common theme of the entries listed therein.[23] For instance, in the first chapter under the heading “Ch’ing-chen,” or “Chastity,” forty-eight tales are listed, supposedly all dealing with the topic of chastity. Each of the forty-eight entries is then placed in one of four sections, each section having a descriptive subtitle: “Fu-fu chieh-yi” (“Virtuous Couples”), four entries; “Chen-fu” (“Virtuous Wives”), twenty-seven entries; “Chen-ch’ieh” (“Virtuous Concubines”), six entries; and “Chen-chi” (“Virtuous Courtesans”), eleven entries.

A title is assigned to each entry, no matter how short the entry.[24] Nearly all of these titles designate the entry’s leading character or characters: “The Concubine of the Great General Ch’i” (“Ch’i ta-chiang-chün ch’ieh,” chapter 1, entry 28); “Emperor Hsüan-tsung of T’ang” (“T’ang Hsüan-tsung,” chapter 5, entry 13); “The Fox of Ta-pieh” (“Ta-pieh hu,” chapter 12, entry 26); or “The Goddess of Wu-shan” (“Wu-shan shen-nü,” chapter 19, entry 7). Less frequently, a place-name is used as title: “Ch’ing-chin Bridge” (“Ch’ing-chin ch’iao,” chapter 24, entry 1). Following the entries, when he deems it fitting or necessary, the compiler appends either a short passage of his own composition or else quotations from other sources which are pertinent to the entry—critical comments, corrections of this or that sort of error, moral or ethical judgements, parallel incidents, other anecdotes similar to the entry, and the like. It is these short passages following the individual entries, be they the compiler’s own compositions or otherwise, which provide the material most useful for a study of the Ch’ing-shih compiler’s attitudes and ideas; indeed, these passages ultimately provide positive identification of our yet-unnamed compiler (as we will see later).

Located at the end of each chapter is a critical summary, without exception beginning either “The Master of Ch’ing says” (“Ch’ing-chu-jen yüeh”) or “The Compiler of Ch’ing-shih says” (“Ch’ing-shih-shih yüeh”). This critical summary may contain the various points dealt with in the chapter, or may explain and clarify what the compiler thinks are some of the chapter’s more obscure messages; frequently these summaries provide critical comment upon the entries of that particular chapter.

Although the compiler of Ch’ing-shih strives hard, and to a degree manages, to present a work of unity and organization, his reader may at times find the categorization to be contrived and somewhat confusing; the compiler’s attempt to achieve a thematic arrangement within each chapter, or within each section, further compounds the confusion. One feels not infrequently that a particular story might well be suitably placed under two or more disparate headings. In other words, the complex and diverse nature of the more than 850 entries has no doubt forced the compiler on occasion to make arbitrary decisions as to his grouping.

An example which might here demonstrate the confusion, and hint at the thinking behind the compiler’s choice of grouping in other, similar situations, is to be found in chapter 3, “Ch’ing-ssu” (“Clandestine Ch’ing”); the example concerns the compiler’s categorization of entries 13 and 14, entitled respectively “P’an Yung-chung” and “Liu Yao-chü”. To begin with, entry 13, “P’an Yung-chung,” is a typical Chinese romantic love tale which follows a stereotyped plot with exaggerated situations, and which is closer in nature to farce than to comedy. As the story goes, the young hero, P’an Yung-chung, and the heroine, a beautiful and talented girl who lives next door, are secretly in love with each other. However, like countless other young men and women in classical Chinese love stories, they can find no opportunity to express their mutual longings. One day, as the girl is standing at her curtained window upstairs, P’an is unable to restrain a sudden outburst of passion—he produces a walnut and throws it to the girl. The girl, in turn, wraps the walnut in a handkerchief with one of her love poems written thereupon, and throws it back to P’an. P’an, following the example of his adored one, also composes a poem, copies it down on another handkerchief, and throws the walnut and poem back to the girl. But the game does not last long, for on the girl’s next try, both the walnut and the handkerchief fail to reach P’an, dropping instead to the ground, where they are picked up by a shopkeeper’s wife. Then the young couple successfully bribe the woman, making her their go-between. From this point on the story develops rapidly along the following stereotyped path: P’an moves away with his father and soon both P’an and the girl are hopelessly lovesick. Their affair is discovered by the parents who, in order to “save their children’s lives,” decide to grant the young couple’s fondest wish by making them man and wife.[25]

Entry 14, the story of Liu Yao-chü, can also be considered a romantic love tale, as is “P’an Yung-chung,” although with its more detailed, vivid characterizations and less exaggerated situations, “Liu Yao-chü” does not strike one as being farcical at all. A young scholar, Liu Yao-chü, is travelling on a boat to the provincial capital, in order to take part in the civil service examination. Halfway there, Liu is attracted by the boatman’s daughter as she rows the boat. As a sign of his interest in and admiration for her, the young man takes out a handkerchief, makes a love knot, wraps a walnut in it, and tosses it to the girl. Liu and the girl, during their short two-day trip to the capital, develop a liking for one another. Having taken the examination, Liu leaves the examination hall early, only to find the girl quite alone in the boat. He takes her away to a quiet, secluded place and there succeeds in seducing her. The couple then go their separate ways, with the mutual promise that as soon as Liu hears he has passed his examination, he will come back and they will marry. But Liu this time fails his examination; next time, when he passes the examination with highest honors, he searches for her, but she is nowhere to be found.

Here let us note that chapter 3, “Ch’ing-ssu” or “Clandestine Ch’ing” is divided into four sections: “Clandestine Ch’ing Leading to Marriage” (“Hsien-ssu hou-p’ei”); “Clandestine Ch’ing not Leading to Marriage” (“Ssu-erh wei-chi-p’ei che”); “Clandestine Rendezvous” (“Ssu-hui); and “Clandestine Affairs with Maidservants” (“Ssu-pei”). Entries 13 and 14 are the last two stories of the first section, “Clandestine Ch’ing Leading to Marriage.”[26] But as we see from the preceding synopsis, Liu Yao-chü never does find the boatman’s daughter, let alone marry her as one would expect from the section title. However, since “Liu Yao-chü” is the final entry in section one, it is possible that this story had once been located as the first entry in section two, “Clandestine Ch’ing not Leading to Marriage,” but somehow thereafter slipped over inappropriately into section one. Since editorial and graphical errors abound in Ch’ing-shih, and since I have not been able to examine and compare each and every version of the text, I will not here attempt to suggest the specific section in which the compiler originally intended to locate “Liu Yao-chü"—if indeed it differed from the present location. But whereas there is some question as to original location, there is definitely no doubting that the compiler decided he should group the two stories together, in succession, in chapter three; this is evidenced by the compiler’s comment appended to the story “Liu Yao-chü”: “They both used walnuts; P’an Yung-chung tried the walnut several times, but it never did hit the target whereas Liu Yao-chü threw the walnut but once, and it immediately brought him a response in kind. However, the couple whom the walnut failed to bring together became husband and wife in the end, while the one whose heart the walnut did hit, was like a drifting weed, a broken stem, nowhere to be found. . . .” Apparently the compiler was so fascinated by the similarities and dissimilarities of the two stories that he decided he should put them side by side in the same chapter.

Briefly, then, the arrangement of Ch’ing-shih does at times appear chaotic and confusing; there is nevertheless clearly evident an endeavor to be governed by thematic unity as the overall principle in the orderly arrangement of the entries. Furthermore, we have noted that an investigation of the apparently inappropriate placement of some entries can and does shed light on the compiler’s editorial approach, and on his focus of interest. So now let us consider the sources and origins of the entries in Ch’ing-shih.

The compiler states in his preface that Ch’ing-shih is the result of an effort to “elaborate on what I might have seen or learned” (“ku chiu tu-chi, p’ing yi ch’eng-shu”). In other words, while the compiler claims that all his Ch’ing-shih entries either contain a variety of true-life elements, or else have a documentary basis, he does confess to having at times elaborated upon, or made alterations in, the “originals,” although more often than not he fails to provide the reader with his sources—documentary, hearsay, or other; he consistently fails to distinguish compositions of his own from those of differing origin; and the reader not infrequently encounters an entry in which he cannot even distinguish the story proper from the compiler’s commentary. But in general, there is no great difficulty in identifying sources for those entries whose events take place before the founding of the Ming dynasty (1368–1644); in particular, there is little difficulty in identifying those entries whose characters are well-known historical figures or popular folk heroes in literature. Since the compiler has emphasized both the documentary origins and the historical authenticity of his stories, it is perhaps safe to say that all the stories taking place before Ming, except where noted by the compiler, are compositions taken from other written sources.[27] These pre-Ming entries constitute approximately 90 percent of the entire compilation, with the great majority being verbatim copies of their sources.

There are about eighty-five or ninety Ming stories in Ch’ing-shih, for which the compiler himself has pointed out a number of origins—a written piece from some other work, a tale told him by a friend, a true event which the compiler himself has seen, and so on. The compiler remains silent, however, regarding the origins of many of these Ming stories, which only patient investigation can at last ferret out—but almost always, I have found, with interesting results.

THE TWO PREFACES

There are two prefaces to “Ch’ing-shih.” The first is written by Feng Meng-lung, the second by the declared compiler, Chan-chan-wai-shih.[28] Each preface states the purposes of the compilation of “Ch’ing-shih” and explains its categorization or arrangement. Since both prefaces are important to this study of “Ch’ing-shih,” I here translate them in their entirety.

Feng Meng-Lung’s Preface to Ch’ing-Shih

It has always been one of my ambitions to compile a history of ch’ing, and ever since I was a young man, I have been known to be ch’ing-crazy. Amongst my friends and equals I always pour out all my heart, sharing with them in both good times and bad. Whenever I hear about a person who is in unusual distress or is suffering a great wrong, even though I may not know him, I always render my help to him if he seeks it; should it be beyond my ability to help him, then I sigh for days, and at night I toss about, unable to get to sleep. And whenever I see a person rich in emotion, I always desire to prostrate myself before him. Should there be some obdurate person whose intentions and words are at odds with my own, I always try to guide him unobtrusively with ch’ing; only after his absolute refusal do I refrain.

I have said before in jest that even after I die, I will not be able to forget the people of this world, and that I will then become a Buddha to deliver the world . . . that my title then will be “Buddha of Boundless Feeling and Joy” . . . that there will be numerous happy angels surrounding and protecting those who should praise my name and, through faith, follow my teachings, and that upon encountering even adversaries and enemies, those people will turn them into friends and bring them joy . . . and that there will be no more anger, hatred, jealousy, envy, or any of the other evil thoughts.

Again, my intent has been to choose the best from among the stories concerning ch’ing, both ancient and contemporary, and to write up a brief acount for each, so that I might make known to men the abiding nature of ch’ing, and thereby turn the unfeeling into men of sensitivity, and transform private feeling into public concern. Thus, in villages, counties, even throughout the world, men will deal amiably with one another, in the spirit of ch’ing. I have always hoped that my efforts might help bring about a change in the negative customs and conventions of society.

However, in recent years I have been unfortunate in always having to be on the road, my studio left absolutely desolate. Consequently, my intentions have at last had to be carried out by Mr. Chan-chan-wai-shih—and the publication of the compilation is a heart-lifting event indeed.

The entries of this compilation are categorized according to subject, and to each entry the compiler has appended a commentary. The compilation is comprehensive in scope, its organization ingenious. Though all the stories herein deal only with men and women—some of them not exactly the most elegant and refined of stories—their endings nevertheless and for the most part are on the right path. For those who know how to read it, the compilation can help deepen and broaden their feelings; nonetheless, it also will not lead those who do not know how to read it to the path of licentiousness. That is why I have written this preface for it. In addition, I have composed a gatha of ch’ing which I here append to this preface. The gatha reads:

Had heaven and earth had no ch’ing they would not have produced the myriad of things. Had the myriad of things had no ch’ing they would not have eternally given each other life. Life gives birth to life, and never is extinguished because ch’ing itself never becomes extinguished.

The four great elements all are but illusion; only ch’ing is neither empty nor false.[29] When there is ch’ing the separated are close; when there is no ch’ing the intimate become estranged. The distance between that with ch’ing and that without ch’ing is immeasurable.

I intend to establish a school of ch’ing to teach all who are living, so that a son will face his father with ch’ing and a vassal will face his lord with ch’ing. One can, then, deduce the relations of all the various phenomena from this single point of view.

The myriad things are like scattered coins; ch’ing is the string that binds them together. When the once-scattered coins are at last strung together, even those at opposite ends of the world become of one family. Thus, those who inflict injury or hurt upon others, are actually doing harm to their own ch’ing.

To observe the bursting forth of ch’ing will be like seeing the budding of spring flowers, which brings joy and happiness to all. At that time, robberies and thefts will cease to happen, and evil and treason never arise; the Buddha will have no further use for his mercifulness and forgiveness, and the sage no further use for his teaching benevolence and righteousness.

However, should we discard the seeds of ch’ing, then even heaven and earth will become indistinguishable. Alas, although I have an abundance of ch’ing, others still lack it. I hope to reach those others who have an abundance of ch’ing that together we might propagate the teachings of ch’ing.

Chan-Chan-Wai-Shih’s Preface to Ch’ing-Shih

The Six Classics all attempt to teach through ch’ing.[30] For example, the Book of Changes esteems the relation between husband and wife; in the Book of Songs, the poem “Kuan-chü” is placed first;[31] the Book of Documents includes a passage which describes the marriage of Yü;[32] the Book of Rites carefully distinguishes p’ing from pen;[33] and the Spring and Autumn Annals talks in great detail about Chi and Chiang.[34] Now, is not all this so because ch’ing begins with the relations between a man and a woman; further, since ch’ing is the thing that everyone must learn about, has not the Sage himself chosen to guide us thereto—lest we be misled by other interpretations—and will not ch’ing consequently flow abundantly between lord and vassal, between father and son, between elder and younger brothers, and between two friends?[35]

The teachings of the heterodox schools advocate celibacy, supposedly with an end to attaining a quiet life.[36] But in the extreme they lead one instead to the point of not knowing one’s own lord and father. The effects of ch’ing or lack thereof, therefore, are evident.

This compilation begins with the chapter on chen [“chastity”] which arouses the readers’ yearning for righteousness, and is followed by the chapter on yüan [“conjugal destiny and affinity”], which makes the readers understand the inevitability of fate. The chapters on ssu [“clandestine affairs”] and ai [“passion”] satisfy their cravings; the chapters on ch’ou [“adversaries”] and han [“regrettable love”] allow a venting of their indignation; the chapters on hao [“magnanimity”] and hsia [“knightliness”] broaden their minds; the chapters on ling [“efficacy”] and kan [“pathos”] enliven mundane happenings; the chapters on ch’ih [“infatuation”] and huan [“illusion”] enlighten them; the chapters on hui [“degenerates”] and lei [“hindrance”] strangle their licentious desires; and the chapters on t’ung [“anthropopathism”] and hua [“transformations”] enable them to reach out beyond their own species. The chapter on ya [“sprouting”] teaches one not to slander the sages and the worthies; likewise, the chapter on yi [“implausibility”] teaches one that he dare not slander ghosts and gods. Compare this compilation’s intent, then, with what has been said of the Book of Songs: i.e., of Songs it has been said that it can “stimulate the mind,” “be used for purposes of self-contemplation,” “teach the art of sociability,” “show how to regulate feelings of resentment,” and finally, that it can make us “become largely acquainted with the names of birds, beasts, and plants.”[37] I have attempted to include in this compilation all of the various aspects of ch’ing and, in so doing, I hope that it may serve both as a bright, clear mirror for those who abound in ch’ing and also as a lodestone for those as yet without ch’ing.

However, that which I myself have heard and seen is not far-reaching; nor are my knowledge and experience of a particularly superior nature. I have merely elaborated on what I might have seen or learned, and have put everything together in this one volume. It is in no way to be considered a final, refined composition, but rather is to be regarded only as an informal, casual recording. I do hope later writers will be able to make up the deficiencies, and correct my mistakes for me. I have, then, called my work a “categorization sketch” and look forward to the arrival of those more learned and cultured than I.

THE CONCEPT OF “CH’ING”

Aside from stating the purposes of the compilation of Ch’ing-shih and explaining its organization, the prefaces by Feng Meng-lung and Chan-chan-wai-shih both glorify ch’ing and lament the want of it among the writers’ contemporaries. However, in neither of the two prefaces, nor elsewhere among the entries of Ch’ing-shih themselves, is ch’ing defined, although the reader is constantly reminded throughout the compilation that ch’ing as a term “does not mean this,” or “does not mean that.” It seems the compiler feels that since ch’ing is the only real or nonillusory thing in the universe and since, with every person, more or less of it is found naturally, from birth, there is really no reason to try to define such a self-evident thing.[38] For our present interests, though, I feel it necessary that we begin with a clear-cut understanding of what the term ch’ing basically connotes whenever it is used in Ch’ing-shih, and here we find that Feng Meng-lung, author of the first preface to Ch’ing-shih, has provided us with a useful clue. Feng says in his preface that the “myriad things”—things of our acquaintence, of our existence—are “like scattered coins, and ch’ing is the string that binds them together.” If ch’ing is that which binds the myriad things together, then we can perhaps safely assume that “relationship” is the main concern of ch’ing, and is the basic connotation of the term. Differing relationships arouse differing responses to ch’ing, and ch’ing in turn influences those relationships; and because there is a “myriad of things” we find endowed with ch’ing, it follows that these relationships are not limited to those alone involving human beings.

Nevertheless, as is pointed out in both prefaces to Ch’ing-shih, the compilation concentrates entirely upon the relations between man and woman, and thus the content of ch’ing itself as found in Ch’ing-shih is also specified as being that which brings forth—and determines the nature of—any relation between man and woman. The compiler has devoted each of the twenty-four chapters of Ch’ing-shih to one particular aspect of that ch’ing.

Understanding the term “ch’ing,” then, has been made less difficult for us by the selection of material in Ch’ing-shih. Perhaps, therefore, we can say that Ch’ing-shih is a compilation all of whose entries deal with the multifarious relations, and with that which is relevant to those relations, between man and woman.

Although the focus of ch’ing in the Ch’ing-shih is upon man-woman relations, the compiler nevertheless has not assigned a single, clearly stated semantic content to the word “ch’ing”. It is thus impossible, for all of its varying contexts, to choose but a single English word as “the” translation for the word “ch’ing,” and to use that particular word throughout this study. One frequently finds that the best translation of “ch’ing” is not to translate it at all, especially in passages where the word is used more than once, each occurrence having a different shade of meaning. Perhaps this richness in meaning has also contributed to the compiler’s decision not to attempt a definition of the word, as well as to his resorting to multiple compound expressions such as ch’ing-chen, ch’ing-yüan, ch’ing-ssu, and the like.

I have not therefore attempted to find a single, exact English equivalent for each of the occurrences of ch’ing which are to be encountered—but this should not be taken as a sign of purposeful avoidance on my part of such equally trite and ambiguous English translations as, for example, “feeling,” emotion,” “passion,” “attraction,” “affinity,” or “love”. To the contrary, I find such English equivalents to be useful at times precisely because of their resistance to definition, and have occasionally used them in my translation, especially when the context provides a concrete situation or instance supportive or suggestive of that use. Because later on I present a detailed discussion of each of the twenty-four chapters of Ch’ing-shih, I now wish to sketch the compiler’s attitudes in general towards ch’ing and towards the relations between woman and man.

I have found that by and large, Ch’ing-shih sets forth a fairly traditional Chinese attitude with regard to the status or position of woman. Home is the place assigned to her. Consequently, the set of Confucian values—i.e., the “three obediences and four virtues”—is highly prized in Ch’ing-shih.[39] And with regard to desirable qualities in the ideal woman, Ch’ing-shih reflects predilections characteristic of many of the orthodox Confucian scholars in imperial China. It is therefore logical not only that the compilation begins with a chapter on chastity (“Ch’ing-chen”), but also that it states directly that suicide is the best, the only proper, solution for a widow.

Although one can discern two separate sets of moral standards and expectations in Ch’ing-shih, one for each of the sexes, it is nonetheless reciprocation—though by different moods and at different levels—which is there considered the single highest moral commitment for both sexes in any relationship. And it would seem that fidelity and sincerity are, for both sexes, the two most significant, basic concerns when Ch’ing-shih speaks of reciprocation, for we see the compiler despising most of all the unfaithful or insincere lover. Yüan Chen, the author and protagonist of “Ying-ying chuan,” is cited more than once in Ch’ing-shih as a good example of the man who lacks moral integrity.[41] Note here that we find the compiler making his own judgement, completely free of the traditional, Confucian interpretation and popular opinions of his time. For in spite of Yüan Chen’s literary and official accomplishments, the compiler considers Yüan Chen’s life a failure: he is merely an unfaithful, insincere lover; similar criticism is found throughout Ch’ing-shih in reference to unfaithful and insincere lovers. Another particularly interesting instance along this same line can be seen in Ch’ing-shih’s criticism of and comments upon the well-known literary figure, the courtesan Li Wa. With Pai Hsing-chien’s “Li Wa chuan,” the name Li Wa had become a symbol of absolute feminine virtue—devotion, perseverance, tenderness, and a spirit of self-sacrifice.[42] But the compiler of Ch’ing-shih holds quite a different view of Li Wa, and one contrary to the current and previously established judgements about her. He considers Li Wa a mere opportunist, devoid in fact of all the virtues tradition has attributed to her. At the end of the story “Scholar Cheng of Jung-yang” (“Jung-yang Cheng-sheng”), chapter 16 “Recompense” (“Ch’ing-pao”), entry 1, the compiler cites Feng Meng-lung:

Tzu-yu [i.e., Feng Meng-lung] says:

Those who have read “Li Wa chuan” all praise Wa for her righteousness. Come now! Is Wa indeed a righteous person? When the young scholar Cheng sees her for the first time and purposely drops his horse whip in order to cast a few more glances at her, she is concerned only lest the young man leave.[43] Later on, when scholar Cheng moves in at her place, she is concerned only lest the young man not stay long; furthermore, after the young man has spent all his money on her, she immediately allies herself with the procuress and plots against him. At that time she is concerned only lest the young man not leave. Is there any righteous person in the world who would behave like this? Fortunately, the young man is able to bear shame and endure suffering. Should the young man have died in his lodging place, or at the undertaker’s place, or under the whip, or somewhere out in the wind and snow, would Wa, who has already completely forgotten Cheng, shed even one teardrop for him?[44] In the end, however, when they again encounter one another, she wraps her embroidered jacket about him—probably because she realizes, having long been a prostitute and now reflecting upon those with whom she came in contact, that no one was ever as sincerely in love with her as Cheng had been in the past. And anyhow, at the sudden sight of such a sad spectacle, she is deeply frightened. Thus it is that she is prompted to take such a magnanimous step, for the young man has always been gracious to Li Wa. Although in the end he does win her reciprocation, it is to be regretted that it comes so late. Moreover, once Li Wa has helped Cheng along the way to success in officialdom, Cheng immediately reciprocates by giving her the honorable title of “Lady of Chien-kuo fief”. I consider it unfortunate for Cheng that he met Li Wa at all and indeed very fortunate for Li Wa that she reencountered Cheng.

Contrary to tradition, the compiler of Ch’ing-shih has placed Li Wa in the category of unfaithful and insincere lover, the same category in which he has placed the author-protagonist Yüan Chen; in fact, the compiler so values the quality of sincerity that he considers forgivable the wrongs committed for the sake of ch’ing, or true love. In particular, the compiler examines the wrongs of fornication—he usually considers it “acceptable” as long as it brings no disgrace upon the families involved—and even adultery in Ch’ing-shih very carefully, and from various angles, before he makes any criticism at all. He is quick to praise persons with the disposition characteristic of a hsia (“knight”) or a hao (“hero” or “magnanimous person”), since spontaneity and trueness are often found to reside with them. Not only does the compiler devote two full chapters (4 and 5) entirely to stories with knightly or heroic conduct as their main theme, but he furthermore singles out as a behavior pattern worthy of any man or woman’s emulation the lack of restraint and the individualistic spirit characteristic of the Chin literati (the so-called Chin-jen feng-liu).

Hypocrites, on the other hand, especially hypocritical scholar-officials, are often ridiculed and criticized by the compiler of Ch’ingshih; he uses for them the two designations “tao-hsüeh” (“[mere] moralists”) and “chia tao-hsüeh” (“fake moralists”), in contrast with the term “chen tao-hsüeh” (“true moralist”). A number of leading Sung scholar-officials, in particular Chu Hsi, have been singled out for their hypocritical attitude and behavior in regard to ch’ing. Whenever ordinary citizens—be they sons and daughters of petty officials, the boatmen’s children, merchants, farm workers, or courtesans and prostitutes—behave according to the principle of sincerity and fidelity in handling their ch’ing, they always win the sympathy and admiration of the compiler. He frequently compares such an admirable instance with the indecent conduct of some “fake moralist” who might occupy any of a number of important positions in the government and who therefore should in theory act as a model for the people.

To the compiler, the ch’ing between a man and a woman not only requires a mutual commitment by the two persons but, in addition, ideally involves the commitment of only those two persons. In other words, ch’ing may be private and personal. The compiler eloquently indicates this view in the several places at which he talks about marriage. For example, in the comment on “Liang fu-jen,” or “Madam Liang,” entry 4 of chapter 4, he points out some of the negative aspects of the traditional arranged marriage: “The fate of a beauty in the inner quarter is decided by her parents, debauched by the matchmaker, prejudiced by her family status, and restricted by conventions and regulations. As for the worth or disgrace of her future husband, there is no way for the bride to learn of that.” An ideal marriage, according to the compiler, is one which the man and woman themselves decide upon. There are two sections in Ch’ing-shih dealing specifically with girls who have the courage to challenge tradition, and women who have successfully chosen their own husbands.[45] Elsewhere throughout Ch’ing-shih, the compiler points out and praises young men and women who dare to go against tradition and authority for the sake of love and personal fulfillment. His comment upon one such amusing anecdote in this vein is found with entry 50 “Hsüan-hsü ch’uang” (“The Husband-Selecting Window”) in chapter 24:

Li Lin-fu had six daughters, all beautiful. But even when the royal family of the empress requested his daughters in marriage, he refused. Well, Lin-fu then had a wide window made in one of the walls of his guest hall, and he put on the window sill a display of miscellaneous objets d’art, after which he curtained off the window itself using some thin red silk cloth. He would then have his six daughters play outside, beneath the window, and whenever any young men from aristocratic families came to visit, Lin-fu would ask his daughters, secretly, to choose the most nearly ideal from outside the window. Whomever a girl chose, Lin-fu would then try to make that girl’s husband.[46]

The compiler’s comment on this entry reads: “A man and a woman, wed through mutual love—this is a good method.” Such an attitude towards marriage, even in the relatively cosmopolitan and tolerant atmosphere of the late Ming literati, is a rare one.

While considering love and marriage a personal matter, the compiler at the same time recognizes an exceeding and incomparable power—both constructive and destructive—inherent in ch’ing, and constantly reminds his readers to handle their ch’ing with caution, to direct their “ch’ing” through reason into the right channels, that it might benefit their lives. He deplores the misuse of ch’ing by some people, and warns his readers not to be led astray by their own undisciplined emotions, which they may falsely deem and believe to be ch’ing. In Ch’ing-shih there are many cautions such as that “ch’ing produces passion and passion again brings forth ch’ing; just as surely as ch’ing and passion incessantly give birth to each other, then as certainly will there be incidents of death and destruction. . . .”[47]; or, “ch’ing is at times close to licentiousness; however, licentiousness is actually not ch’ing.”[48] Aside from such cautions, the compiler when he sees an opportunity emphasizes self-discipline and self-control. But it would then seem in this connection that the compiler himself is possessed of an unusually strong interest in the courtesan and the prostitute, for the entries in Ch’ing-shih dealing with courtesans and prostitutes far outnumber the entries dealing with any other type. Why this preponderance of meretricious types? Aside from other possible reasons, I think it is in part because the compiler finds in the life of the prostitute the greatest variety of situations having to do with ch’ing. While he expresses great sympathy for the young women who through misfortune are forced into a life of prostitution, the compiler apparently recognizes at the same time the unusual freedom which comes with this oldest of professions. And although a prostitute may not have the good fortune to lead as quiet and as respectable a life as other women manage to lead, she nevertheless does have a comparatively greater chance to meet different types of people and, to a certain extent, to choose her own mate, upon whom she can depend in her old age. It is, then, for the prostitute who takes advantage of this rare freedom and who uses her ch’ing wisely to improve her life, however ill-fated, that the compiler has admiration.

But with regard to the handling of emotional matters, or ch’ing, reason is not the only element emphasized in Ch’ing-shih; irrational, superstitious, and supernatural elements abound as well. Generally speaking, Ch’ing-shih’s twenty-four chapters themselves might easily fall into one of two categories, designated according to the proportion of supernatural, versus realistic, elements therein; nevertheless we will frequently encounter supernatural narration in what is basically a realistic story, and vice versa.[49] This intermingling and combining of the supernatural and the natural within a single story is by no means an indication of unclear thinking or irrational logic on the part of the compiler. On the contrary, I find the compiler of Ch’ing-shih to be a consistent thinker—although in reading a seventeenth-century Chinese anthology of tales such as this, we might do well to modify some of our more modern concepts of realism, noting first of all that what passes for modern-day “supernatural” is at times actually “reality” in the lives of our characters, and was no less so in the life of the compiler of Ch’ing-shih.

Two such “supernatural” concepts which play an important part in determining the relationship of a man and a woman are those of fate, and retribution. The compiler can be considered a traditionalist with regard to both these concepts. He believes that a couple’s conjugal fate is always prearranged. But though he is a believer in fate, our compiler is not a “fatalist” in the current sense of the word, which almost always refers to a pessimist, to a nondoer; rather, it is precisely because the Ch’ing-shih compiler is a true believer in “fate” that he considers human effort worthwhile, for since there is no use for one to worry about that which is beyond his control, one can and should call upon his strength and ability to improve and to better that which is within his control. As we shall note in the stories and anecdotes, it is not realism or historicity alone, but rather a concept of fate together with a concept of retribution, which has created the optimistic, the light-hearted spirit permeating Ch’ing-shih. (In speaking of Ch’ing-shih’s supernatural elements, it is here convenient to point out what attentive readers will likely note: the collection lacks any one, overriding cosmological philosophy. The “supernatural” elements we see in Ch’ing-shih, including the two concepts of fate and retribution, are all common folk beliefs, prevalent at the time our compiler lived, and are “realistically” presented in an unstructured, fragmentary fashion.) Aside from his being a believer in fate and retribution, the compiler shows himself to be a moralist who seizes upon every opportunity to preach. However, as a man whose basic interests lie in this world, the compiler’s preaching concerns itself only with matters within his reach—i.e., his moral messages are all of a practical nature. One example is his commentary on the story “Wang Ts’ung-shih’s Wife,” entry 27 of chapter 2 “Ch’ing-yüan” (“Conjugal Destiny and Affinity”). This story tells of a husband’s eventual reunion with his long-missing wife when he chances to recognize as hers a special dish which she used to prepare for him. The commentary reads: “Her being able to cook this one dish is the key which has led the couple to reunion. Really, now, can any one person survive alone without some skill or the other?”[50]

FENG MENG-LUNG AND “CH’ING-SHIH”

As a collection of tales and anecdotes of love and passion, it is only recently that Ch’ing-shih has begun to attract the attention of some of the scholars of Chinese literature, and usually that attention has been focused only upon the forty or so entries, of the more than eight hundred, for which a vernacular, or hua-pen, counterpart has been found in the san-yen collections.[51] In other words, Ch’ing-shih has thus far drawn interest from select scholars and students of Chinese fiction mainly because it contains a few tales whose plots have been found to be similar to or identical with various hua-pen stories. But even in this limited area, scholarly attention has been minimal. Frequently it has consisted of no more than a simple statement to the effect that a certain hua-pen story is “similar to or almost identical with” an entry in Ch’ing-shih; or perhaps the author of a certain article on various of the hua-pen stories, convinced of the correctness of his scholarly findings, will feel that he could and should make a stronger, more conclusive statement, to the effect that a hua-pen story actually “derives” from this or that entry in Ch’ing-shih.[52]

Since to my knowledge the present volume represents the first attempt at a comprehensive study of the anthology itself, I will next examine the question of the anthology’s compilership, before proceeding to each of its twenty-four chapters. This I do particularly for two of a number of reasons. First, as I mentioned earlier, Ch’ing-shih contains roughly eighty-five to ninety Ming entries, a little over one-tenth its total number of entries. These are entries with their time set in Ming, or stories known to have been written by Ming authors. Further, many of these Ming entries have counterparts in drama or hua-pen form; hence a positive, correct identification of the Ch’ing-shih compiler will certainly increase the usefulness which the collection might have for any study of Ming drama and Ming fiction. Second, since Feng Meng-lung clearly took an active and significant part in the compilation of both the Ch’ing-shih and the san-yen collections, a determination of Feng Meng-lung’s specific role in Ch’ing-shih will no doubt shed light on his role in san-yen as an editor-cum-author.[53]

According to each of the prefaces to Ch’ing-shih, this anthology was compiled by a certain Chan-chan-wai-shih. But who is this Chan-chan-wai-shih? Generally speaking, we can distinguish two views regarding the compilership of Ch’ing-shih: that which identifies Chan-chan-wai-shih as Feng Meng-lung—known to be the author of the first preface to Ch’ing-shih—and further considers Feng the sole compiler of the anthology; and that which maintains a more cautious stand, regarding Chan-chan-wai-shih, an unidentified scholar and a man from Feng Meng-lung’s district, as the chief compiler who, with Feng’s help, collected and edited more than 850 ch’ing stories and put them, together with commentary gathered from here and there, into this one volume—Ch’ing-shih. Although none of the holders of either of these two views provides us with any evidence for his assertions, one thing is obvious to anyone who reads the work: whether or not Feng Meng-lung was the sole compiler, he did play a most significant part in the compilation of the anthology, not only writing several pieces for the anthology, but also commenting upon many of the entries. Furthermore, it was Feng Meng-Iung who composed the first of the two prefaces, giving Ch’ing-shih his most enthusiastic, complete endorsement.

Having thoroughly gone through all of Ch’ing-shih, as well as all available works by Feng Meng-lung, I have reached two conclusions: Chan-chan-wai-shih is a pseudonym of Feng Meng-lung; and Feng Meng-lung himself is the sole compiler of Ch’ing-shih. These conclusions are based upon five pieces of evidence, as follows.

Earlier Attribution

Due to the strict measures taken by the central and local Ch’ing government in the censorship of fictional and theatrical works, we have virtually no knowledge concerning the readership of Ch’ing-shih, after its publication around the last decade of the Ming dynasty.[54] The earliest source which attributes Ch’ing-shih to Feng Meng-lung—in fact, one of the earliest documents in which the title “Ch’ing-shih” is mentioned—is found in the local gazetteer of Su-chou (Feng Meng-lung’s native place), the Su-chou fu chih of the T’ung-chih period (1862–74). The gazetteer simply states that Feng compiled Ch’ing-shih, an anthology of twenty-four chapters.[55] Though written two hundred years after Feng Meng-lung’s death, the T’ung-chih Su-chou fu chih is, nevertheless, an official account of the place and people of Su-chou, based on documentary sources, and as such should encourage us to take this statement seriously.

Ch’ing-shih’s Format and Presentation

As I mentioned earlier, the entries of Ch’ing-shih are categorized and divided into chapters and sections according to the themes of the stories. This thematic arrangement is characteristic of almost all the Feng Meng-lung compilations I have had access to.[56] In this regard, one should note in particular two other anthologies by Feng Meng-lung: T’an-kai (“Conversation Outline”) and Chih-nang (“Wisdom Bag”), both of which are similar in nature to Ch’ing-shih.[57] As their titles indicate, T’an-kai is an anthology of interesting anecdotes, often satirical in nature, which might have been topics of conversation at any chitchat gathering of the times, while Chih-nang is a collection of wit-and-wisdom anecdotes. In comparing these three anthologies of classical tales and anecdotes, one cannot help but wonder whether they might in fact have been compiled and edited by one and the same person. The similarities in format are striking: the entries are all arranged thematically; they are all grouped and categorized under separate descriptive headings; in each of the anthologies the compiler frequently appends short criticisms or comments to individual entries. As a matter of fact, there are several entries for which both story and comments appear in two or even all three of the anthologies. But when there is no editorial note indicating the source of the story, it is difficult for one who has no knowledge of the compilation dates of the three works to distinguish which might have been copied from which.[58] All three anthologies have a critical summary for each chapter, except that in both T’an-kai and Chih-nang this chapter summary is placed at the beginning of each chapter, while in Ch’ing-shih it is placed at the end.

Additionally, the very fondness and meticulousness with which our compiler groups his Ch’ing-shih stories according to their themes reminds one immediately of the san-yen collections edited by Feng Meng-lung, in which stories of similar nature or parallel incident are carefully and ingeniously placed together.[59]

Relation to Hsiao-shuo and Drama.[60]

From the dozen or more references to and comments upon various of the hua-pen and theatrical works, our Ch’ing-shih compiler has proven himself both a competent critic, and an enthusiast as well, of these two literary genres.[61] This, again, immediately calls to mind the most active and enthusiastic vernacular literature advocate of Ming times—Feng Meng-lung. The references to and comments upon hsiao-shuo and drama works not only demonstrate the compiler’s familiarity with and knowledge of the two fields, but also indicate that he himself could just as well have been a writer in either of these two genres.[62] In this connection we might point out again that Ch’ing-shih has obviously been influenced by the concepts of ch’ing and meng (“dream”) as expressed by the great Ming playwright, T’ang Hsien-tsu;[63] also, that Feng Meng-lung was not merely an admirer of T’ang Hsien-tsu, but had also recast T’ang Hsien-tsu’s Han-tan chi into Han-tan meng, and his Mu-tan t’ing into Feng-liu meng.

Additionally, the many delightful anecdotes concerning Wu people—both the scholars and the ordinary citizens—which Ch’ing-shih contains, either as regular entries or incorporated with the commentaries, also serve to remind one of Feng Meng-lung, in his capacity as compiler and editor of several anthologies of folk literature, especially the literature of the Wu region.[64]

Feng’s Prominent and Distinguished Position in Ch’ing-shih

Feng Meng-lung, always referred to as Lung Tzu-yu, Tzu-yu, or Tzu-yu-shih, is the person whose names occur most frequently in Ch’ing-shih. To him are attributed three stories, fourteen poems (not counting the three found in his story “Chang Jun chuan” or “Story of Chang Jun”), an amusing anecdote of a wine-loving old man from Wu, and more than a dozen commentaries appended to various entries.[65] Then, at four places, the commentaries themselves are said to have been taken from T’an-kai.[66] In short, Feng Meng-lung is credited with authorship, of one kind or another, in at least twenty-five separate places in Ch’ing-shih. In addition, although not so acknowledged directly, there are more than half a dozen instances of both the entry story and the commentary having been copied verbatim from either T’an-kai or Chih-nang, Feng’s two other anthologies of classical tales.

In contrast to the preceding, the name of the stated compiler, Chan-chan-wai-shih—much to the surprise of the reader—is not to be found at all in the anthology proper.[67] In only four places (excluding the twenty-four chapter summaries appended to the end of each chapter) does the compiler present himself, indirectly, to his reader, calling himself either “The Compiler of Ch’ing-shih” (Ch’ing-shih-shih) or else “The Master of Ch’ing” (Ch’ing-chu-jen).[68]

Feng Meng-lung not only occupies the most prominent position as a commentator-cum-author but, as an author, is also presented differently (in format) from the other authors or sources cited in Ch’ing-shih. With the exception of a few extremely short entries, we see that whenever the source of an entry is given, it is given, almost invariably, at the end of the entry. But for all three of Feng’s stories, his name—Lung Tzu-yu—is mentioned at the beginning of the entry. Thus, we have at the beginning of the entry “Feng Ai-sheng” the statement that “Lung Tzu-yu’s ‘Ai-sheng chuan’ goes this way,” rather than a statement at the end of the entry such as, say, “This story comes from Lung Tzu-yu’s ‘Ai-sheng chuan.’”[69] This deviation from the standard format is noteworthy not merely because it sets Feng Meng-lung apart, in Ch’ing-shih, from almost all the other authors, and his work apart from theirs, but because, most significantly, it points to the natural assumption that these stories were written solely for Ch’ing-shih—were being written, that is, at the time when Ch’ing-shih was in the process of being compiled—and that for this reason, the compiler of Ch’ing-shih did not give and could not have given any “earlier source” for these stories.[70] Should this assumption be correct, we would then almost have to identify the compiler of Ch’ing-shih as Feng Meng-lung.

Feng’s Self-Description as Compiler

When we have considered the preceding four pieces of evidence, this last one—a statement by Feng Meng-lung which indirectly identifies himself as being the compiler of Ch’ing-shih—is more than welcome, for it confirms our assumption and helps to dispel any doubts that might arise in the absence of such a self-acknowledgment.

The statement by Feng Meng-lung is found in a poem appended to entry 19 “Yi-t’ing nü-tzu,” or “The Woman at the Posthouse,” of chapter 14. The poem is one of three poems which Feng Meng-lung composed in response to the last of three poems which a certain military man’s abused concubine—abused by both the man and his wife—composed and wrote upon the wall of a posthouse in Hsinchia.[71] Feng Meng-lung’s three poems follow exactly the same rhyme pattern—in fact, they use exactly the same final character for lines one, two, and four—as the seven-character chüeh-chü poem he discovered on the wall of the posthouse. Since I have translated “Yi-t’ing nü-tzu” as the representative entry for chapter 14, and present a discussion of it later, I will not here supply the whole but, instead, give only the last poem of the entry, followed by the three poems (appended in Ch’ing-shih at the end of “Yi-t’ing nü-tzu”) which Feng Meng-lung wrote in response to this poem. For each of the four poems I give first the transliteration, then my English translation.

Wan-chung yu-ch’ou su-yü-shui

Tui-jen ch’iang-hsiao pei-jen-pei

Tz’u-shih mo-tso hsün-ch’ang-k’an

Yi-chü shih-ch’eng ch’ien-lei-ch’ui

Myriad sorrows, to whom to pour them out?

Forced smiles before others, elsewhere grief.

Do not regard these poems as commonplace—

For each singular phrase, a thousand tears.

Yi-chia ts’ung-fu yüan-a-shui

Huan-hua huan-ma yi-he-pei

Jen-chiang wu-hsien kuei-chung-k’u

Huan-ch’ü shih-ming pi-shang-ch’ui

Married, and thus obedient to husband—so whom could she blame?

Shoved around like flowers or a horse—but why be grieved?

Enduring unlimited inner-chamber hardship,

But getting in return the title “poetess”—to be passed down by poems upon this wall.

Yi-yang fu-ch’i wo-shih-shui

Jen-chiao t’ung-shih ke-huan-pei

T’i-ch’eng chüeh-chü ti-t’ou-ch’ü

Hsiu-chien san-hsing tang-hu-ch’ui

Both of us wives of one man, but who am I to you?

So cutting, to separate us—who share that room—by joy or grief!

The four-line poems composed, I leave, head hanging,

Ashamed to look at the Three Stars shining down through the doorway.[72]

Ya-feng hsiang-ch’i chin-hen-shui

Lai-sheng mao-shu chuan-huan-pei

Wo-hsiu tu-shih shu-ch’ing-chü

Fan-hsi ts’ai-ming wei-tu-ch’ui

The phoenix picks on the crow—yet who’s to be hated?

Next life, the cat and the mouse might exchange joy and grief.[73]

I, compiling the “records of jealousy,” copy down your phrases.

Rejoice! Gifted—now your name will be passed down due precisely to that jealousy.

“I, compiling the ‘records of jealousy,’ copy down your phrases,” writes Feng Meng-lung. This “records of jealousy” (“tu-shih”) refers, beyond any doubt, to our Ch’ing-shih, inasmuch as “Yi-t’ing nü-tzu”—which contains the poems Feng is referring to—is included as entry 19 in the section “Tu-e” (“Misfortunes Incurred through Jealousy”) of chapter 14 “Ch’ing-ch’ou” (“Adversaries”). Furthermore, this line—“I, compiling the ‘records of jealousy,’ copy down your phrases”—lends additional strong support to our assumption that all the tales written by Feng Meng-lung and included in Ch’ing-shih, were written for Ch’ing-shih at the time it was being compiled—that is, the Ch’ing-shih compilation was under way, and the compiler was at that time collecting material for it. Lastly, since these tales were being written at the time the anthology was being compiled, and since the compiler and the author were in fact one and the same person—Feng Meng-lung—it is then easy to understand why, in these tales, the narrator at times assumes as well the role of commentator; and also why, in the tale “Chang Jun chuan,” the pronoun “yü,” or “I,” can be taken to refer either to the author of “Chang Jun chuan” or to the compiler of Ch’ing-shih.[74]

Having identified Feng Meng-lung as the actual compiler of Ch’ing-shih, we can now reexamine, and seek to find in Feng Meng-lung’s own life, the basis of several ideas of his which are contained in Ch’ing-shih, and which we have already touched upon. One of the most striking, or outstanding, features which the reader might notice is the concurrent presence in the anthology of several pairs of apparently conflicting ideas: the compiler on the one hand extols individualism and spontaneity, while on the other hand he pleads with his reader to be mindful of traditional moral concepts and the teachings of the ancient sages; he encourages the young to challenge authority or to disregard tradition, yet he also urges parents to keep a close watch on their children; he sometimes condones adultery, although he insists that the best thing for a widow is suicide; he devotes an entire chapter to a listing of what he claims are implausible anecdotes and legends, yet we see in almost every chapter these same supernatural, irrational, or superstitious elements. It is almost impossible to say Ch’ing-shih is free of inconsistency; still, if we pause and briefly examine the life of our compiler Feng Meng-lung, we can then look at some of these apparently conflicting ideas in a different light or see them from a different angle, the better to reassess them.

Though he was probably the most active man in the fields of vernacular and folk literature in Ming times, Feng Meng-lung’s life seems to have drawn little scholarly attention from either his contemporaries or the generations immediately following him. Consequently, very little is known about him today. In both China and the West, however, recent interest in the works he compiled or edited has brought enough previously hidden material to light, to enable some scholars to reconstruct a rough outline of his activities and ideas. While I refer my reader to the earliest, and probably to date the most detailed, study on Feng Meng-lung—that by Jung Chao-tsu—I will at the same time give this brief, chronological reconstruction of the major events taking place in Feng Meng-lung’s life, that we might draw a general picture of Feng, the man.[75]

1574 (the second year of Wan-li)—Feng Meng-lung was born into a Su-chou family. We know very little about his family and his early life, except that he was fond of reading, especially fictional and theatrical works, and that from the time he was a young man he was active and well known in various literary circles.[76]

1609 (the thirty-seventh year of Wan-li)—Feng Meng-lung saw Shen Te-fu’s hand-copied Chin P’ing Mei, a reproduction of Yüan Hung-tao’s copy, and strongly maintained that some publisher should buy it from Shen and print it.[77]

1614–19 (the forty-second to the forty-seventh years of Wan-li)—According to an anecdote in Niu Hsiu’s Ku-sheng hsü-pien, some time between 1614 and 1619, under severe public criticism for his folk-song collection Kua-chih-erh, Feng Meng-lung at one time sought the protection of the then inspector of education in Chiang-nan, the well-known general Hsiung T’ing-pi. This amusing anecdote is noteworthy in at least two respects: first, it informs us that Kua-chih-erh was probably published before 1619, i.e., before Feng had reached the age of forty-five; second, it provides us with a revealing description of the comfortable and bon-vivant life Feng had been leading. The following passage describes how Hsiung T’ing-pi, having listened to the problems of his protégé, treats an embarrassed Feng Meng-lung:

Hsiung said, “It’s easy—nothing to be worried about. So first let me treat you to a meal, and then I’ll think of a way to help you out.” After a bit Feng was presented with a dish of dried fish, a dish of burnt bean curd, and a bowl of coarse rice. Chopsticks in hand, Feng appeared unwilling to pick up any food. Hsiung then said, “Breakfast, choice dishes; supper, select delicacies—usually all the students and scholars from Wu are like this. Simple food such as this is, is of course not suitable for you. However, a man should not seek excellence in food. He who can be satisfied with coarse and simple food can then be a real hero.” That said, Hsiung began to eat with great relish. Feng, however, managed to swallow only a few mouthfuls of rice. After the meal, Hsiung arose from the table and went inside; only after some time did he come out again and tell Feng, “I have just written a letter. Would you please deliver it for me to an old friend of mine on your way home? And please don’t forget.” Regarding Feng’s request for help, Hsiung said nothing, but only took out a winter melon—twenty or thirty chin in weight—and gave it to Feng as a present. Feng bent forward and accepted the gift, appearing, however, quite disappointed. Furthermore, he was completely overcome by that heavy melon; unable to make it all the way to his boat, he cast the melon to the ground before sailing off. . . .[78]

1620 (the first year of T’ai-ch’ang)—Feng Meng-lung’s forty-chapter version of the novel San Sui p’ing-yao chuan, or The Three Sui Quell the Demons’ Revolt, was published.

1620–24 (the first to fourth years of T’ien-ch’i)—The first of the san-yen collections, Ku-chin hsiao-shuo, or Stories Old and New, was published.

1624—The second of the san-yen collections, Ching-shih t’ung-yen, or Wise Words of Warning for the World, was published.

1626 (the sixth year of T’ien-ch’i)—Feng Meng-lung published his greatly abridged and condensed version (eighty chapters) of the Sung dynasty encyclopedic anthology of anecdotes and tales, T’ai-p’ing kuang-chi, titling it T’ai-p’ing kuang-chi ch’ao. His Chih-nang was also published.

1627 (the seventh year of T’ien-ch’i)—The third and last of the san-yen collections, Hsing-shih heng-yen, or Everlasting Words to Awaken the World, was published. Also, the san-ch’ü (“song-verse”) collection T’ai-hsia hsin-tsou, compiled by a certain Ku-ch’ü-san-jen, was published.[79] This anthology includes, among the works of various authors, twenty-two of Feng Meng-lung’s san-ch’ü compositions.[80] These san-ch’ü by Feng Meng-lung provide some highly significant information on his emotional life, as well as on his attitude towards ch’ing, or love. Among the twenty-two poetical compositions, two—“Yüan-li tz’u,” or “On Grieving over the Separation” (chapter 7), and “Tuan-erh yi-pieh,” or “Reminiscing the Second Day of the Fifth Month on the Separation” (chapter 11)—were written for Hou Hui-ch’ing, a courtesan with whom Feng had been on intimate terms. Both these san-ch’ü were written after Hou died, “Tuan-erh yi-pieh” having been written on the first anniversary of her death.[81]

Appended to “Yüan-li tz’u” there is a postscript by a certain Ching-hsiao-chai:

After Tzu-yu lost Hui-ch’ing, he completely gave up visiting courtesans—something he used to be fond of doing. He composed thirty poems of mourning lamenting Hui-ch’ing’s death, and many of his friends in the same literary society also composed in answer to what he wrote, putting all their poetic compositions into one volume and entitling it Yü-t’ao chi. . . .

Unfortunately Yü-t’ao chi seems to have long been lost. Nevertheless, from these two san-ch’ü which Feng Meng-lung wrote for Hou Hui-ch’ing, as well as from the twenty other compositions retained in T’ai-hsia hsin-tsou, we can testify to the truth and honesty contained in Feng’s statement as found in his preface to Ch’ing-shih: “Ever since I was a young man, I have been known to be ch’ing-crazy . . .” (“yü shao-fu ch’ing-ch’ih . . .”). Bearing in mind this tragedy which befell Feng and Hou Hui-ch’ing, we might see in a different light some of Feng’s harsh criticisms of former heartless lovers, as he has recorded them for us in Ch’ing-shih.

The twenty-two san-ch’ü also give us a clue to Feng’s unusual interest in and sympathy for the prostitutes and courtesans of Ch’ing-shih. As is indicated in Ching-hsiao-chai’s postscript to “Yüan-li tz’u,” before Hou Hui-ch’ing died, Feng Meng-lung had been fond of visiting courtesans. This is also evidenced by several of his san-ch’ü compositions dealing specifically with this theme, and in this connection I would like to remark on one of them, entitled “Ch’ing-lou yüan,” or “A Courtesan’s Grief”. For this san-ch’ü, as for several of his other compositions in T’ai-hsia hsin-tsou, Feng has also written a preface, which reads:

My friend, a certain Mr. Liu from Tung-shan, had been on intimate terms with Pai Hsiao-fan. Later the two were separated. Again not too long ago, however, I accompanied him to visit her. The couple exchanged their loving thoughts on the past six years, weeping all the while. It was a short visit, but they secretly agreed to meet again soon. Liu, however, never did show up again. Now, every time I happen to see Hsiao-fan, she is in tears. Oh, in this world is there really a man as heartless as Li Shih-lang?[82] I have thus composed this san-ch’ü for Hsiao-fan.

At the end of the san-ch’ü there is a short postscript, apparently written by the compiler of T’ai-hsia hsin-tsou, stating:

Tzu-yu later wrote the play Shuang-hsiung chi, projecting Pai Hsiao-fan in the role of Huang Su-niang, and Mr. Liu as Liu Shuang. This play so moved Mr. Liu that he eventually married Hsiao-fan and thereby got her name removed from the list of courtesans. . . .[83]

We do not know how much truth is contained in this statement. But the preface and the san-ch’ü alone do indicate an unusual amount of sympathy towards courtesans, as well as contempt and indignation towards unfaithful lovers. Further discussion of Feng Meng-lung’s san-ch’ü would prove to be beyond the nature and scope of this study, but those poetic compositions seem to me the best, and probably also the most direct, route leading us to a better understanding of Feng’s emotional life.[84]

1629–32 (the second to the fifth years of Ch’ung-chen)—Ch’ing-shih was compiled.[85]

1634–38 (the seventh to the eleventh years of Ch’ung-chen)—Feng Meng-lung finished Chih-nang pu in 1634, on his way to Fu-chien to assume the post of magistrate of Shou-ning, the only official position he was to hold in his lifetime. Feng then was already sixty years old. He left this post in 1638. The local Fu-chien gazetteer describes him as an honest magistrate by saying that “his government was simple, and recourse to the law was rarely called for. He honored, above all, literature. He treated his people with grace, and the scholars with etiquette.”[86] During his tenure of office, Feng also compiled a local history of Shou-ning, the Shou-ning hsien chih in two long chapters.[87]

1644 (the seventeenth and last year of Ch’ung-chen; the first year of Shun-chih of the Ch’ing dynasty)—Feng compiled Chia-shen chi-shih, or Events of the Chia-shen Year (1644), and Chung-hsing shih-lu, or True Records of the Period of Restoration.

1645 (the second year of Shun-chih)—Chung-hsing wei lüeh, or Sketch of the Great Restoration, was published.

1646 (the third year of Shun-chih)—Feng Meng-lung died at age seventy-three.[88]

This has been a very sketchy outline of Feng Meng-lung’s datable activities.[89] However, it is sufficient for drawing a general picture of Feng. My impression is that he was, above all, a man of this world. His passion for his fellow humans and for life and literary pursuits, it seems to me, placed him in a unique position when compared with his contemporary intellectuals. He was, beyond any doubt, influenced by the thought of Wang Yang-ming and that of Wang’s followers, especially Li Chih.[90] Feng’s concept and understanding of ch’ing—i.e., that ch’ing is innate and is basically good—is but an extension of Wang Yang-ming’s theory of liang-chih, the “innate knowledge”. But Feng Meng-lung was much too involved in living ever to become a philosopher, or a mere theorist, of ch’ing. In fact, his concerns over and interest in the practical aspects, or the application, of ch’ing often made him resemble a Confucian moralist rather than, say, an independent thinker such as Li Chih who both professed, and led, a completely individualistic life. Instead, Feng Meng-lung chose, as did T’ang Hsien-tsu before him, to spread his teaching of ch’ing through literature.[91] Furthermore, he chose, again like T’ang Hsien-tsu, the literary forms that most readily and most directly mimic or reflect life. This practical interest in ch’ing no doubt contributed to his paying special attention to the questions of morality and ethics. Recognizing this, it is easy then to understand why Feng Meng-lung has, in Ch’ing-shih, stressed both the indispensability of traditional morality and Confucian ethics, and at the same time, on a more theoretical level, the desirability of spontaneity and self-fulfillment. Indeed, the problem of how wisely and constructively to use our innate, spontaneous ch’ing so that it might continually improve our lives, is one of man’s primary problems or concerns, and is a recurrent theme, in Feng’s Ch’ing-shih. And it is li, the reasoning faculty sustained by the teachings of the ancient sages and earlier masters, that Feng Meng-lung considers to be the key to—in fact, the only solution to—this problem.

The Twenty-four Chapters of “Ch’ing-shih”

In the pages to follow, I will examine the twenty-four chapters of Ch’ing-shih. For each chapter I first indicate titles of all the sections included therein. (The number after each section title indicates how many entries the section contains.) Then follows my translation of the compiler’s final critical summary of the chapter, after which I give a brief discussion of the salient points of the particular chapter under consideration. Finally, I have translated one entry from each chapter to illustrate the general nature of the stories or episodes chosen for that particular chapter. (The English title is followed by the Chinese title, unless the two are identical.) I have established three criteria for selecting the representative chapter entry to be translated. They are, in diminishing order of importance, the following:

1) Representativeness. The entry should clearly embody the particular aspect of ch’ing which the compiler has chosen to discuss in this chapter. (Not all entries actually do so.)

2) Literary interest. The entry should if possible be in itself a literary work or part thereof; otherwise, it should contain some special feature worthy of examination in the course of the present study of Ch’ing-shih.

3) Accessibility in English. Without losing sight of the first two criteria, representativeness and literary interest, I have chosen works or parts thereof which have never before, to my knowledge, been translated into English.

For the translations, I have used two different editions of Ch’ing-shih. They are the Tao-kuang edition, published in 1848 by the Ching-lun t’ang; and the Hsüan-t’ung edition, published in 1908 in Peking by Tzu-ch’iang Book Company.

CHAPTER 1: “Ch’ing-chen” (“Chastity”)

(4 sections and 48 entries)

1. “Fu-fu chieh-yi” (“Virtuous Couples”)—4

2. “Chen-fu” (“Virtuous Wives”)—27

3. “Chen-ch’ieh” (“Virtuous Concubines”)—6

4. “Chen-chi” (“Virtuous Courtesans”)—11

The Master of Ch’ing says: With regard to all matters of loyalty, filial piety, chastity or heroism, if one tries to act solely from principle, then one’s actions will certainly be forced; if, however, one tries to act on the basis of genuine ch’ing, then his actions will certainly be sincere. Thus it has been ever since time began. The relation between a husband and his wife is of all relations the most intimate. He who is feelingless to his wife can never be a faithful husband; she who is feelingless to her husband can never be a virtuous wife. An ordinary intellectual only knows that reason restrains ch’ing but does not know that ch’ing maintains reason. Now, the man—standing on earth and shouldering heaven—is burdened with great responsibilities.[1] Therefore, a mere foot-long virtue such as this is, is not his urgent concern.[2] Hence, in this chapter, I pay rather more attention to a woman’s virtue, less to a husband’s conduct.

From the poetess of “Po-chou” on, there have been countless virtuous wives.[3] I cannot list them all, and thus have written down only a tiny portion of them as representative of their kind. The ancients consider a woman espoused by betrothal a wife, and a woman espoused without betrothal a concubine. Those who get married without betrothal are doing so for the sake of ch’ing. If getting married without the proper betrothal is done for the sake of ch’ing, then by definition a concubine’s chastity does not derive from ch’ing.[4] Moreover, there are roadside peach blossoms and willow trees, and how could we expect them also to bear up under the cold of winter?[5]

However, according to the teachings of the Ch’un-ch’iu, we should use the Chinese to change the barbarous, not the barbarous to change the Chinese. Therefore, if a concubine harbors the virtue of a wife, then we should regard her as being in the position of a wife; if a courtesan performs the duty of a concubine we should also regard her as being in the position of a concubine. For those who have entrusted themselves to others on account of ch’ing, I have similarly here acknowledged them for that ch’ing. And I would be the last to suspect those who have sacrificed their lives for others, on account of true ch’ing, of having a different intent. This follows the motto, “a gentleman should take delight in performing good deeds with others.” Otherwise, how would the loyal and filial nature of the menials and ordinary people be known to all?

As was pointed out earlier, chastity has always been considered, in the orthodox Confucian spectrum of feminine virtues, the fundamental and the highest. And in this chapter our compiler has proven himself a traditionalist and a follower of this theory. Furthermore, though not explicitly so stated, he has virtually equated chastity with death in the case of a widow. We find that more than half of the entries in this chapter deal with women who, committing suicide or otherwise, die on behalf of their mates. The reasons and logic of this equation can be found here and there in the various comments appended to the entries, as well as in the above summary of this chapter. The following is my reconstruction of the compiler’s thinking, though I do not necessarily agree with him.

First, he declares, “suicide is the best once-and-forever thing a woman can do after her husband has died” (comment on entry 47). Why so? The answer is found in his comment on entry 11 “Hui Shih-hsüan ch’i,” or “Hui Shih-hsüan’s Wife”:

Life and death are all predestined; nothing is accidental. Some people say that a virtuous widow does not have to die—they may be right. But is death a thing which a person of infidelity can really comprehend? There was once a woman who was cited for her virtuous behavior as a widow. She lived till she was over eighty. Just before she died she summoned all her daughters-in-law and told them, “Only now do I know for sure that I have successfully escaped infidelity. But from now on, should our family again have the misfortune to have anyone widowed young, get her remarried immediately. Don’t let her remain in widowhood—it is not easy to be a virtuous widow!” Thereupon she showed them her left hand. In the palm there was a huge scar—caused one night when she was still young as she was pounding on the table in an effort to restrain herself from a sudden lustful desire: she had punctured her hand by accidentally hitting the long metal spike of a candle stand. And her family had never even noticed it before! Would it not have been much better for her, while she was still passionately in love with her deceased husband, to have brought the beautiful situation to an end?

The logic behind this passage is clear, because “ever since time began,” with regard to all matters of loyalty, filial piety, chastity, or heroism, “if one tries to act solely from principle, then one’s actions will certainly be forced; if, however, one tries to act on the basis of genuine ch’ing, then his actions will certainly be sincere.” That is, since sincerity is the most highly valued element of ch’ing, it is preferable to die for the sake of love rather than to live for the sake of principle. Despite the logic of this argument, the compiler takes a relatively lenient attitude towards the woman who is, for whatever reason, physically separated from her husband, and for whom there is still hope of one day reuniting with her husband; and also towards the widow who, for one reason or another, cannot die immediately after her husband dies.

The story I have chosen to translate here deals with one of the more fortunate of such “widows,” for in this Ch’ing-shih story the heroine, due to her determination and wit, not only manages to remain chaste and faithful to her first husband after having been forced into a second marriage, but in the end is reunited with her first husband whom his misinformed family has all the while considered dead.

The story is entry 6, entitled “Li Miao-hui” after its leading character, and is listed in the second section, “Virtuous Wives”. It is a Ming story with a vernacular counterpart, “Lu Meng-hsien chiang-shang hsün-ch’i” (“Lu Meng-hsien Looks for His Wife on the River”), to be found in T’ien-jan Ch’ih-sou’s Shih tien-t’ou, chapter 2. Although not so acknowledged, this Ch’ing-shih story is an elaborated version of a tale by Chiang Yi-k’uei, itself based on a popular legend.[6]

ENTRY 6. “Li Miao-hui”

Li Miao-hui, a woman from Yang-chou, married a certain Lu, a scholar from the same district who had passed the second-degree civil service examination. Having failed the examination for third-degree, Lu determined to put forth more effort, and so stayed on in the capital, residing at West Mountain Temple with a friend and completely cutting himself off from human affairs. For a long time he sent no news back home.

In the twentieth year of Ch’eng-hua (1485), a man of the same name, another Lu, died in the capital, and the villagers started a rumor to the effect that the scholar Lu was dead. Lu’s parents took the rumor for real. Soon afterward there came a famine year, and northward from Wei-yang [an alternate name for Yang-chou], no family was able to remain self-sufficient. Lu’s parents pitied Li for both her widowhood and her destitution, and intended to force her to give up her widowhood. Nothing, however, could change Li’s mind.

Hsieh Ch’i, son of the salt merchant Hsieh Neng-po from Lin-ch’uan, hearing about her beauty and her finer qualities, presented some money to her parents-in-law, by way of asking for her in marriage. Because of this, Li several times attempted to commit suicide, which greatly distressed her parents-in-law.

Li’s own father was at that time away, teaching in a village school in a different district. Her mother and a neighbor woman continually coaxed and pleaded with her, trying to persuade her to go to the Hsiehs’. They of course guarded her even more closely. Li wept sadly day and night, and all those who heard of her plight shed tears for her. Finally, having found that she could not change the situation, she reluctantly decided to obey, writing an extremely pessimistic farewell letter to her father before she left. After arriving at the Hsiehs’, Li’s determination to resist marriage became even firmer. Hsieh Ch’i’s stepmother was also a native of Yang-chou and was distantly related to the Lis. Li thus prostrated herself before this woman, begging to serve her as a maid until such time as she, Li, might die. Li stayed close to Mrs. Hsieh, and since Hsieh Ch’i had many maidservants and concubines, he made no immediate advances towards Li. A few days later, Li began pleading again, this time to be allowed to become a nun. Her new mother-in-law gave only a perfunctory reply, thinking that they would soon return to their ancestral home and that Li would give up her resistance.

That afternoon Hsieh Ch’i’s boat was the first to set out, Mrs. Hsieh and Li following soon thereafter. When they arrived at Chingk’ou, they moored the boat below the Chin-shan Temple, to which Li accompanied Mrs. Hsieh and where they presented an offering. Some brushes and ink had been left by the altar; Li picked up a brush and wrote on the wall:

Ever since the day we, phoenix pair, were sundered we haven’t heard a thing one from the other.

Til death I’ll never be the merchant’s wife but even in the underworld follow my scholar-husband.

In the morning mist of Peng-tse I dreamt of returning home; amidst the night rain of Hsiao-hsiang my sorrowful heart was broken.

This is my most recent poem, written in Chin-shan Temple; again, we raise the sails, then off for Yü-chang.

At the end she wrote, “Composed by Li, wife of Lu from Yang-chou”.

Some time later, Lu passed his third-degree examination with high marks. Only when the good news reached Yang-chou did Lu’s parents learn that their son was still alive. But by then, it was too late.

In the first year of Hung-chih (1488) the True Records of Emperor Hsien-tsung was being compiled, and Tu Tzu-k’ai, a scholar from Ku-su who had passed his third-degree examination, was sent to West-of-the-River to collect materials. Before he managed to report back, the court had sent Lu out to hurry him. Lu, stopping by his home on the way, learned about his wife’s second marriage, but for fear of hurting his parents he dared not ask any questions—but neither could he bear mention of his taking a second wife.

Later on Lu had to pass through Chen-chiang and climbed up to Chin-shan Temple. There in the temple he saw the poem on the wall and was choked with emotion. When he asked the monks about the poem, they told him that previously a woman and her mother-in-law had been passing by there, and that the woman had written the poem just before they had again set sail. Lu made a copy of the poem and took it with him. When he arrived at Chiang-hsi, he secretly discussed his predicament with an official surnamed Hsü. Hsü said, “There are over a thousand salt boats here—how shall we ever spot the right one? And even if we found the right boat, how could we openly disclose such a disgraceful affair? So why don’t we just rely upon a little strategy to get your wife back?”[7] He thus picked out the craftiest man from among his close attendants, informed him of the situation, and ordered him to memorize the poem, after which the man was to take a small boat, and repeatedly chant the poem as he sailed close by each one of the many salt ships.

After three days on the water, the attendant heard a woman’s voice inquiring from behind the open window of a boat, “Where did you ever learn that poem?” The attendant went forward, acting on Lu’s instructions—sure enough, it was Li. Greatly surprised, Li said to the attendant, “But the scholar Lu of Yang-chou has long been dead. You are lying.” The attendant then told her in detail what had been discussed and planned. Li inquired concerning the names of Lu’s parents and wife, and all the answers she received were correct. She then covered her face and wept. “I’m sure now he is my husband! When I first heard you chanting the other day, I already suspected something. But I didn’t get a chance to ask you about it until now—today it just happens that the merchant has gone off to a house of prostitution, and his mother too is off at a neighboring boat, so at last I got the chance to ask you about everything. Now, when you get back, please tell Lu everything I tell you.” Thereupon she decided with him in secret upon a date, after which she waved him away.

Upon his return, the attendant reported what he had heard, and when the agreed-upon date arrived, a boat was sent to fetch Li to Lu’s official residence. The couple were joyfully reunited as before.

Now the merchant had always entrusted all his accounts to his mother, who had in turn put Li in charge of them. When the merchant returned home and inspected the accounts, he found that each and every item had been clearly recorded and that all the accounts had been carefully sealed. The merchant sighed. “In ancient times,” he said, “when Kuan Yü ran back to Han, Duke Ts’ao didn’t pursue him, saying rather that ‘each man serves his own master’. Li also has her own husband to serve. She is a virtuous woman. Let us drop the matter here.” At that time it was the second year of Hung-chih (1489).

CHAPTER 2: “Ch’ing-yüan” (“Conjugal Destiny and Affinity”)

(4 sections and 35 entries)

1. “Yi-wai fu-ch’i” (“Unexpected Marriage”)—17

2. “Lao-erh-ch’ü che” (“Men Who Marry in Their Old Age”)—3

3. “Ch’i tzu tse fu” (“Women Who Choose Their Own Husbands”)—3

4. “Fu-fu ch’ung-feng” (“Reunion of Husbands and Wives”)—12

The Compiler of Ch’ing-shih says: Human relations are all determined by destiny (yüan), and even the encounter of one night is brought about by destiny, not to mention the coming together of husbands and wives. Mo-mu could be taken for Hsi-tzu.[8] Why so? Because when there is an affinity (yüan), the question of beautifulness or ugliness does not arise. Broken tiles and stones may be taken for gold and jade—and why so? Because again, when there is an affinity, the question of excellence or baseness does not arise.

In some cases one can never find one’s beloved despite an endless search; in other cases one’s beloved will arrive without one’s even thinking about it. Sometimes a couple long separated will reunite; sometimes those who have intentionally parted will come together again in the end. All this is because destiny is determined in Heaven, and because one’s emotion (ch’ing) is also secretly being turned in that direction without one’s being conscious of it.

Just imagine—even the most feelingless can not force a conjugal destiny to break, and even the most affectionate can not forcefully bring about a conjugal union of differing destinies. So if we know that affinity (yüan) is not to be forced into being, then those who are affectionate need not be disturbed by their failures or fulfillment;[9] likewise, it is useless for those who are feelingless to indulge themselves in base and mean doings.

Yüan is probably one of the most evasive words in Chinese literature, especially when it is used in reference to conjugal relations. Although the term “liang-yüan” (“good marriages”), or “t’ien-tso liang-yüan” (“good marriages arranged in Heaven”) may appear again and again in the old-style love story, one also often encounters the term “e yin-yüan” (“a bad match,” “a bad marriage”). But in Ch’ing-shih, the term “yüan” is used only in connection with the men and women who are attracted to, or are in love with, each other. In other words, the compiler of Ch’ing-shih has eliminated e yin-yüan (“a bad match”) from his concept of yüan.[10]

For this reason I have found that “affinity” or “attraction” is in Ch’ing-shih sometimes a better translation for yüan than is “destiny” or “fate”. In any case, “affinity” is one of the two indispensable constituents or deciding factors of a couple’s yüan in Ch’ing-shih, with “destiny” or “fate” being the other. These two constituents work together to bring about a conjugal tie, and the absence of either of the two eliminates the possibility of a good marriage.[11] Moreover, yüan is determined in Heaven, whereas ch’ing is the catalyst which creates the couple’s affinity, so that yüan (“destiny”) and ch’ing are closely related; the compiler describes their inseparable relationship in the above chapter summary by saying, “Yüan is determined in Heaven,” and one’s ch’ing is also “secretly being turned in that direction without one’s being conscious of it.”

Since yüan is the main theme of all the entries in this chapter, and since conjugal ties are determined in Heaven and are beyond our control, almost all the entries in this chapter are of an unusual yet realistic nature, abounding in coincidence and suspense and providing numerous interesting, exciting, and dramatic incidents for elaboration. Consequently one finds that about half the stories in this chapter have at least one vernacular counterpart, either in drama form, or in the form of a hua-pen. The entry I have chosen to translate here is such a story.

The story, entry 27, is from section 4, “Reunion of Husbands and Wives”. Though the story is a bare outlining of a series of coincidences, the events described in it are nevertheless most unusual and dramatic; it is probably for this reason that the author of Shih tien-t’ou has decided to use this Ch’ing-shih entry as the basis for one of his hua-pen stories. This hua-pen story is entitled “Wang ju-jen li-ho t’uan-yü meng” (“Madam Wang Who Was Separated and Reunited with Her Husband, and Her Dream of a Turtle”), and can be found as chapter 10 in Shih tien-t’ou. In this hua-pen story the author develops the Ch’ing-shih entry into quite a complex piece of work; taking advantage of the unusual incidents befalling the three protagonists, he explores the psychological realm of his characters—an area not touched by either the author of the original story or the compiler of Ch’ing-shih. An almost identical, vernacular version of the entry can also be found, in Ling Meng-ch’u’s P’ai-an ching-ch’i, as a ju-hua, or “introduction,” to a well-known “reunion” story (chapter 27).

ENTRY 27. “Wang Ts’ung-shih’s Wife” (“Wang Ts’ung-shih ch’i”)

During the first years of Shao-hsing (1131–62), when the disturbances of the bandits and robbers from various places had still not been quieted, Wang Ts’ung-shih, a man from Pien, moved with his wife to Lin-an. Soon thereafter he was transferred to a new post and took up lodging in the official residence of the Pao-chien Camp, but all around the neighborhood there were houses of prostitution—a great nuisance.

Wang therefore went out and found civilian quarters. Upon his return he told his wife, “I have now found such-and-such a house in such-and-such a lane, very spacious and clean.[12] Tomorrow I will take our luggage over first, then immediately send a sedan chair to fetch you.”

Wang left at dawn. Shortly thereafter, a sedan chair had come and his wife had gotten in and also left. After a long while, Wang returned; he was looking for his wife, but she was nowhere to be found. Though he searched for several days, there was absolutely no trace of her.

Five years later, Wang became an instructor in the district of Ch’ü-chou, and was one day invited to a banquet given by an official of Hsi-an. Among the dishes was a seasonal turtle dish, extremely delicious, which all the guests but Wang were eating with a relish. Wang took but one bite, then immediately put down his chopsticks and began to weep sadly. The official queried him. Wang answered, “I was just recalling the days with my deceased wife. When she was still alive she was especially good at preparing this dish. When she cleaned the turtle she would always get rid of all the black skin; when she cut the meat, every piece would be perfectly square. How remarkably similar to hers this dish is! That is why I was weeping.” Wang thereupon narrated the story of her disappearance. The official too was saddened and, on the pretext of changing his garment, he went to the inner quarters. As soon as he returned he ordered the food and wine taken away. He said, “One man’s weeping has saddened the whole table. With the instructor like this, how can we continue the happy feast here?” All the guests, consequently, left.

The official then invited Wang to his room, and called in a woman—none other than Wang’s wife! The couple looked at each other and were extremely grieved. It turned out that previously, on the eve of their moving to the village house, a villain had overheard their plans and had contrived to have a sedan chair carry the woman to a matchmaker’s place, where she was sold to the official as a concubine for three thousand cash. The official was not accustomed to asking her to prepare that particular turtle dish, and it was but a coincidence she had prepared it on this day.

The official thus commanded that the woman be sent in a carriage back to Wang. Wang thanked the official, and wanted to reimburse him for the money he had paid for the woman. But the official said, “I didn’t investigate the matter carefully, I’ve taken away my colleague’s wife as a concubine—a grave mistake indeed—though fortunately she hasn’t borne me any children here . . . how dare we even mention money!” The official then returned her to Wang.

CHAPTER 3: “Ch’ing-ssu” (“Clandestine Ch’ing”)

(4 sections and 23 entries)

1. “Hsien-ssu hou-p’ei” (“Clandestine Ch’ing Leading to Marriage”)—15

2. “Ssu-erh wei-chi-p’ei che” (“Clan destine Ch’ing not Leading to Marriage”)—3

3. “Ssu-hui” (“Clandestine Rendezvous”)—2

4. “Ssu-pei” (“Clandestine Affairs with Maidservants”)—3

The Master of Ch’ing says: Man’s nature is quiet. But ch’ing is a stirring thing, a thing which bursts into life and cannot be suppressed; how, then, could one try to “conceal” (ssu) it? Well, it is precisely because the affection between a man and a woman—even though affection is not something to be heard or seen—is always self-evident, and the couple involved always worry or fear that their mutual affection might be heard or seen, that we use the term conceal. But even if a couple could hide their affairs at the beginning, then obtain an opportunity to fulfill their desires in the end, it would still be just like the eruption of a thunder storm—seen and heard everywhere. And should they have no opportunity to fulfill their desires, the couple would still mourn like the cicadas and complain like the crickets; they would imitate the nightingale seeking the dawn, or the cuckoo, crying for spring. Has there ever been even a single case in which a couple were able, really, to keep their feelings from other people’s ears and eyes?—Ts’ui Ying-ying once said, “Should you decide, having first seduced me, that you would continue our affair, then. . . .”[13] It is a man like this seducer, then, who is really the so-called “man who is good at correcting his own mistakes”.[14] Wei-chih [i.e., Yüan Chen] was a man of infidelity; I see nothing worth praising in him. But among our contemporaries, there are also incidents similar to that of Wei-chih and Ying-ying. We should beware of making a mistake which would have a lifelong affect on others, for the sake of a fleeting moment of pleasure.

The entries in the first two sections of this chapter deal with clandestine relations between unmarried young men and women. Section 3, “Clandestine Rendezvous,” includes two stories of married women having adulterous affairs with young men. And the last section, “Clandestine Affairs with Maidservants,” deals with the love between young scholars and maidservants. Among the twenty-three entry titles for this chapter, there are two, numbers 22 and 23, listed as addenda in the table of contents, but the two texts are not included in either the Tao-kuang edition or the Hsüan-t’ung edition of Ch’ing-shih.

From the entries and commentaries in this chapter, we find that our compiler’s general attitude towards fornication is the traditional one. Although disapproving the illicit affair, he does not consider it an unforgivable sin. He thinks that as long as the young couple who have committed an act of fornication do not bring disgrace upon their families, and have the courage to face and challenge the realities, not trying to escape the responsibilities resulting from their initial mutual commitment, then an apparently or potentially scandalous affair (ch’ou-shih) could almost always end up as a beautiful story (mei-t’an). The kind of lover our compiler most despises is the one who lacks the resolve to carry through with an affair once started, however tragic the end might be.

The compiler, it seems to me, also considers that the parents of unmarried young men and women, especially the parents of beautiful young girls, should take the proper measures to prevent their children from being seduced. And in the cases where they fail to guard the young from committing premarital sexual acts, they should see to it that the young couple are properly wedded. In other words, the compiler thinks that parents also are responsible for their children’s conduct and, should the children commit a socially or morally unacceptable act, that it is then the parents’ responsibility to help the young carry the affair through to its best possible end. The emphasis, however, is still on prevention, and the readers of Ch’ing-shih are reminded several times in this chapter to fang-hsien, or to preclude and eliminate, tempting chances for improper behavior.

The story I have chosen to translate for this chapter is entry 10, listed in section 1, “Clandestine Ch’ing Leading to Marriage”. A much elaborated vernacular version of this story, entitled “Mang shu-sheng ch’iang-t’u yüan-lü” (“A Reckless Scholar Who Obtained a Wife by Coercion”), can be found in Shih tien-t’ou, chapter 5.

This entry is probably one of those Ch’ing-shih stories which Feng Meng-lung had in mind when, in his preface to the anthology, he described some of them as being “not exactly the most elegant and refined”. All three leading characters—the young scholar Mo, the girl, and the girl’s father—are presented as being insensitive, insensible persons incapable of coping with their own personal problems and unaware of their frequent infringement upon other people’s rights and/or feelings. It seems, in fact, that the moral concern which our compiler emphasizes elsewhere in this chapter is altogether absent from this story. This absence of moral concern has clearly caught the attention of the author of Shih tien-t’ou, for in adapting this Ch’ing-shih entry for his hua-pen story the author of Shih tien-t’ou has rewritten it as a cautionary tragedy, using the theory of karma and retribution to account for most of the irrational or cruel incidents described therein.

ENTRY 10. “Scholar Mo” (“Mo Chü-jen”)

Scholar Mo was a native of Kuang-hsi. On his way to the capital to take the third-degree civil service examination, he stopped by Chiang-tu. Now there was a young girl there, from a family of officials, who had just reached adulthood. One day she was visiting a temple to burn some incense for the deity, when Mo also chanced to come strolling along by the temple. Before she was to offer her worship, the girl washed her hands, whereupon her maid presented a handkerchief to her. Mo went up to the water and washed his hands as well, but then began to wipe his hands on the formal garment he had on, whereat the girl indicated to her maid that she should give the handkerchief to Mo. Mo immediately considered their encounter most unusual.

So he waited outside until the maid came out again, then took out some money for the maid to give the girl, in return for the use of her handkerchief. This angered the young girl, who ordered the money returned to Mo. Mo told the maid, “You’re right—this is nothing at all. But I do want you to go back and convey my thanks to your young mistress.” What Mo had said, the maid reported to her mistress who, for fear that someone might have witnessed the incident, instructed her maid to go tell the scholar to leave immediately, lest people find cause to gossip. Mo then said, “I want to see your mistress. Otherwise I will never leave this place.”

The girl was now at a loss, so she took out a hairpin and a kerchief and instructed her maid to present them to Mo. The maid took them to Mo and said, “My young mistress is appreciative of your kind intentions. However, it would be improper for her to see you. She told me to present these to you as a token of her appreciation. Here, and please forget your previous request, and go away immediately.” But Mo replied, “The fact that your lady has presented these to me indicates that she desires to see me.”

Upon hearing Mo’s answer, the girl regretted what she had done, yet she had already given the things to Mo, so she hesitated for a long time, then finally instructed the maid. She was to tell the young man that on such-and-such a day there would be a ceremonial religious sacrifice at her house, that by evening the family would be seeing the deity off outside the gate, that she would see him then and there by the gate, and that this was all she could do. The maid relayed the words of her mistress, which delighted Mo. . . .

On the evening agreed upon, the girl did indeed come outside. When she saw Mo, she bowed to him and then immediately turned around and entered the house. Taking advantage of the din and bustle, Mo suddenly slipped in after her, and followed the girl straight to her own room.

By now it was getting dark, and she hurried him to leave. But Mo said, “Now that I am in, I’ll never go out, never. I have also given up my desire for honor and fame. With the hairpin and the handkerchief you have invited me here, and now, if I can’t get you to marry me, I will kill myself for sure.” Whereupon he took out his sword and made as if to commit suicide. The girl, startled as she was, asked Mo to stay, and under the pretense of not feeling well she also kept to her room. They figured that their affair would sooner or later be discovered, however, so shortly thereafter they fled into the night taking the maid with them.

Finding that the daughter had disappeared, the entire family was greatly appalled. The girl was already betrothed to an official family. So for fear that the secret might leak out, perhaps even to bring down a lawsuit upon them, they poisoned a maidservant who had been sick, and falsely announced that their daughter was dead. The maidservant was buried according to the proceedings due the daughter of such an official.

Mo took the girl home, and she bore two sons for him. Several years later, Mo passed the third-degree civil service examination and was appointed magistrate of a district neighboring Chiang-tu. He took his wife with him to the new post. There he visited the girl’s father, with whom, after some time, he had established a close friendship.

Eventually, Mo invited the girl’s father to a banquet at his official residence, and that night he called his wife out to pay her respects to the guest. Her maid was also there. The father was greatly surprised and said, “So, you’re both here!” He turned then to his son-in-law and said, “It was all my unfilial daughter’s fault—you’ve done nothing wrong. But after my daughter disappeared, for fear that the family of her betrothed might find out the truth, I falsely announced that she had died of an illness, so from now on you must be careful to keep all this an absolute secret . . . and I’d better not visit you too often, either. When your current term of office is over, move somewhere else, and I can go there to see you.” Having thus spoken, he bid them all goodbye and left.

Mo later attained the position of governor-general. Both his sons also rose in the ranks.

CHAPTER 4: “Ch’ing-hsia” (“Knightliness”)

(6 sections and 40 entries)

1. “Hsia-nü-tzu neng tzu-tse-fu che” (“Knightly Women Who Can Choose Their Own Husbands”)—4

2. “Hsia nü-tzu neng ch’eng-jen-chih-shih che” (“Knightly Women Who Can Assist Others in Accomplishing Tasks”)—8

3. “Chi-nü-tzu neng ch’eng-jen-ming-chieh che” (“Knightly Courtesans Who Can Defend the Name and Integrity of Others”)—2

4. “Hsia-chang-fu neng ch’ü-t’i-jen-ch’ing che” (“Knightly Fellows Who Can Understand the More Subtle Human Emotions”)—20

5. “Hsia-chang-fu tai-jen-ch’eng-shih che” (“Knightly Fellows Who Accomplish Tasks for Others”)—4

6. “Hsia-k’e neng chu-wu-ch’ing che” (“Knightly Persons Who Can Kill the Feelingless”)—2

The Compiler of Ch’ing-shih says: When the magnanimous and the heroic have withered in the wind and dust, the bearded and the whiskered can not recognize them, whereas a woman can;[15] when they are in destitution and difficulty, it is not the wealthy and the powerful who can relieve them, but a woman;[16] and when their names and integrity are in jeopardy, those who consider themselves sagacious and worthy can offer no assistance, while a woman can.[17] Now, is not this similar to what Hsieh Hsi-meng has said, i.e., that “the heroic and magnanimous spirit of the universe does not bestow favors upon man, but rather favors women”?[18] This kind of woman is not easy to find, and whenever he finds such a woman, the truly magnanimous and heroic man should devote all his heart to her.

Women as bewitching as flowers, as dazzling as the moon, and those who sing like the oriole and dance like the willow—they are ordinary playthings and no more, baubles not to be treasured. Lords and the nobles, nevertheless, fight over them with the commoners, and for but one day’s pleasure. How base this is! On the other hand, the group headed by Lord Yüeh [Yang Su, that is] are all men capable of understanding the more subtle human emtions; they are freely able to push aside the sweet, to give away the beautiful. Moreover, Yüan and Ko and the others, in so doing, win the hearts of the magnanimous and the heroic from the beginning and thereby obtain their services.[19] These men are certainly not feelingless, for if they were, how could they ever understand the feelings of others? The very fact that they do not act against the human feelings of others indicates that they are themselves endowed with profound feelings. The Yü-hou and the Ya-ya put themselves in danger for the sake of ch’ing; Ch’iu-hsü and K’un-lun employ their intelligence for the sake of ch’ing;[20] and Feng Yen and Ching Niang are moved to indignance for the sake of ch’ing.[21] So we see that if ch’ing does not simultaneously appear, the sense of righteousness will not be kindled and the event will in no way be unusual. Women and girls have always laughed at this kind of man.

The protagonists in this chapter are all men and women who are endowed with the temperament characteristic of a hsia, a “knight” of either sex.[22] But ch’ing is the main theme here, and thus the forty entries deal only with knights who are involved in an emotional affair of the two sexes—the ch’ing-hsia. I have generalized here the major characteristics of a ch’ing-hsia as Feng Meng-lung sees them, specifically:

1) A ch’ing-hsia must be a person rich in emotion or ch’ing. Furthermore, he must be sensitive to and understanding of the ch’ing of others.

2) A ch’ing-hsia is an individual who, for the sake of ch’ing, can and dares act unconventionally. In other words, a ch’ing-hsia may be a nonconformist.

3) Frequently a ch’ing-hsia is gifted with a special ability, that of recognizing his kind. In other words, he can always tell a hsing-ch’ing-chung jen (“a spontaneous and natural person”) from an insincere tao-hsüeh (“moralist”).

4) Because a ch’ing-hsia is a knight of ch’ing, he therefore is endowed with a sense of righteousness and justice—as is any other knight—especially with regard to matters involving ch’ing. He considers the redress of wrongs and the helping of those distressed by ch’ing to be his moral responsibility.

Although Feng Meng-lung has great respect and admiration for ch’ing-hsia, he nevertheless recognizes that the great majority of people are but ordinary human beings, with the human weaknesses common to most. He therefore warns his readers that not every moral and behavioral code of ch’ing-hsia is applicable to every person. An unusual person may act extraordinarily under unusual circumstances, completely outside the bounds of law and convention, but for ordinary citizens under normal circumstances, the compiler emphasizes, tradition and law should always be esteemed.

Of the forty entries in this chapter, we find that about half are anecdotes pertaining to well-known personages of the T’ang. It seems that the compiler of Ch’ing-shih cherishes a special, nostalgic feeling for the T’ang, and in several places in this chapter he indicates, directly or indirectly, his longings for a more open, liberal, romantic, and cultured society—a society like that of the T’ang where the man of talent is valued and the individualist is esteemed. Also in this chapter, he criticizes without mercy the hypocritical behavior of several Sung scholars and statesmen; in entries 13 and 14 he contrasts two upright prostitutes with the two most famed intellectual and political leaders of the Sung, Chu Hsi and Wang An-shih, to show that a man’s social, political, or literary status does not necessarily have anything to do with his moral integrity, and that we cannot judge a person’s ch’ing and sincerity by his worldly achievements.

The story I have chosen to translate for this chapter is entry 6, from section 2. Although not so acknowledged, this story is copied verbatim from Lu Ts’an’s Shuo-t’ing. Along with this entry, the compiler has made some interesting comments as to his concept of a healthy relationship between a man and a woman. In referring to the unusual steps which the heroine, Feng Tieh-ts’ui, takes to help the man who is madly in love with her and who becomes unable to tear himself away from her to be strong and independent again, our compiler says, “The good measures she has taken to help others have, in turn, also helped her. As to those who are concerned only with the prosperity, or else the degeneration, of the present, I do not know what their real intentions are.” From this comment, as well as from other, similar comments upon the entries of this chapter, one can infer that our compiler does not at all incline to that absolute altruism so characteristic of many of the hsia.[23] In his view, as we shall see more clearly after considering the remaining chapters of Ch’ing-shih, a healthy relationship between a man and a woman is always beneficial; if not, it is an undesirable relationship, and not one brought about by ch’ing.[24]

ENTRY 6. “Feng Tieh-ts’ui”

There was once a certain Mr. Yeh from Tung-t’ing who, while doing business at Ta-liang, fell in love with the prostitute Feng Tiehts’ui. Eventually he ran out of money, having spent it all on Feng, and was forced to become a hired servant in a mill in order to stave off hunger and cold—such was the life he led for quite a while.

Then one day Feng went riding by Yeh’s place on a donkey, and it so happened that just at that moment Yeh had some grains of wheat out along the street drying in the sun. She got off the donkey and went into a small alley, sending the groom for Yeh. But Yeh declined to see Feng, saying that it was because he was too ashamed of himself. Only after her repeated requests did he reluctantly come out to see her. Shedding tears, Feng said to him, “It’s all for my sake that you have degenerated to such a plight!” She thereupon took out two taels of silver and handed it to Yeh, saying, “Take this and get something nice, a little gift, and then change your clothing and come to visit my mother [i.e., the madam].”

Yeh did as she had suggested, then went to her place, whereupon Feng secretly presented him with fifty taels of gold, saying, “Go, now, and try to make a living with this.” But Yeh could not loose himself from her and had soon spent all the money. He then went back to work at the mill again.

After more than a year had passed they chanced to meet again, just as before. Feng said, “You have not acted like a man, Yeh.” She then invited him to her place and this time gave him two hundred taels of gold, saying, “Here, that’s all I have. This time if you still linger on here I will strangle myself, to completely cut off your desire for me.”

Yeh took the gold and left. He first purchased some cotton cloth and went to Shan. There he traded the cotton cloth for some coarse woolen material and doubled his investment. Later, he traded herb medicines at Yang-chou and his profits increased several times over. After he had been in the trading business three years, and had accumulated several thousands in cash, he took one thousand of this to marry Feng. The couple, now married, remained together until old age.

CHAPTER 5: “Ch’ing-hao” (“Magnanimity”)

(4 sections and 50 entries)

1. “Hao-she” (“Extravagance”)—26

2. “Hao-hua” (“Splendor”)—9

3. “Hao-k’uang” (“Unrestraint”)—12

4. “Hao-yung” (“Bravery”)—3

The Master of Ch’ing says: The prime minister uses a cotton quilt, and the cart puller desires delicacies—extravagance or thrift reside, perhaps, in one’s nature.[25] However, when it comes to women, the great majority of men are on the extravagant side. A man with but a bit of extra money will always spend it on clothing and jewelry to flatter his woman—the more so kings, lords, and nobles; when they seek to please the beloved, they stop at nothing. But when they follow in the steps of Chieh and Chou, they come to ruin one after another.[26] Chin-ku became a desolate battlefield; the mansions of the powerful officials of T’ang all gave way to thorn-infested land;[27] Shih Ch’ung and Yüan Tsai are now both become mere objects of ridicule.[28] What, then, is the use of such excessive extravagance?

Ching-wen and his peers—some to compensate for the frugal and industrious lives of their youth, some to relieve their melancholy and depression—did on occasion host bouts of carousing and extravagant gatherings.[29] But for the wealthy nobles in the capital—persons both affluent and high-spirited—for them, choosing courtesans and picking out singers, and purchasing pleasure and buying smiles, are all-too-common practices.

Tu Mu, on the other hand, was by nature carefree and unrestrained. Could it also be that he acted so unconventionally because he simply could not resist his ch’ing?[30] Or again, Tui-shan goes so far as to disgrace himself in order to help his friend—his, the spirit of the martyrs of old. His dissipation and unconventionality do not, therefore, mar his character.[31] And both Yung-hsiu and Tzu-wei are capable and talented, but they have been implicated by the law, and their wrongs have not been corrected, so they lead unrestrained and libertine lives and, in so doing, relieve their emotions. When they sing they actually weep—the stories of their lives sadden the upright.[32] Hsi-meng, again, suddenly realizes the emptiness of his life while in the midst of his bustling activities. Actually, he is probably what the Sage would call a “free soul”.[33] But as to anyone who would fool around with those worthless monks—now that can almost be considered licentious.[34]

When Yü-hang Kuang and the two other persons similar to him set their minds to the task, even the demons flee and the wild beasts prostrate themselves.[35] Some say that Yü-hang Kuang et al. are able to express their ch’ing on account of their bravery; the question is, though, how could one devoid of ch’ing ever even become brave?

From the above chapter summary and the various entry commentaries, we see that of the four types of people discussed in this chapter, the compiler disapproves the first type—those who lead a completely extravagant, lustful, and licentious life; approves, but with some reservation, the second type—those who on occasion may indulge in wine and women and other mundane sensual pleasures; and values the third and fourth types—those who act spontaneously and naturally and are not unnecessarily restrained by social conventions, and those brave folk who obtain their courage through ch’ing. Although the compiler has considerable sympathy for talented but unsuccessful young scholars with regard to their unconventional and sometimes dissipated and wasteful lives, he does not, however, go so far as to advocate “free love,” nor a completely open society. He recognizes the value of frugality and distinguishes the man of principle and integrity from the man of lust. Thus, the attachment of K’ang Hai to a low-class prostitute is considered decent and even praiseworthy;[36] bhikshu Ch’eng-hui’s marriage to a courtesan, however, is considered unacceptable.[37] The compiler describes the former with the word “k’uang” (“unrestrained”), and the latter with the word “tsung” (“licentious”).

In this chapter one also reads about the compiler’s longing for and admiration of officials who seek real talent; he considers the political leader who can tolerate the unconventional, sometimes eccentric, behavior of his subordinates to be a chen tao-hsüeh (“true moralist”). One such leader whom the compiler singles out for praise in this chapter is the well-known Sung statesman, Fan Chung-yen, and for this chapter I have chosen to translate an entry that deals with Fan and his protégé Han Ju-yü. I selected this entry to show some of the traits of one unconventional individual whom our compiler has designated as a ch’ing-k’uang, as well as to give an example of how the capable scholar-official is to handle such an individual.

The translated entry is number 42, entitled “Han Ju-yü” after its main character. It is listed in section 3, “Unrestraint.” The story is a verbatim copy of an entry in T’ien Ju-ch’eng’s Hsi-hu yu-lan chih yü, though this is not so acknowledged in Ch’ing-shih.[38] Moreover, in Ch’ing-shih the compiler has moved the concluding sentences of the original to the end of his commentary on this entry—an example of careless, even irresponsible, editorship on the compiler’s part, because it makes the words of T’ien Ju-ch’eng seem his own.[39]

ENTRY 42. “Han Ju-yü”

When Han Ju-yü was the magistrate of Ch’ien-t’ang he fell in love with a prostitute, and once stayed overnight at the prostitute’s place, arising late the next morning. One of his constables, intending to blackmail him, stood waiting outside the gate of the prostitute’s house, ready to present his morning report. Ju-yü ordered the constable flogged—one hundred lashes—after which he immediately resigned from office. In his letter of resignation Han wrote, “I did not behave properly, nor have I the required self-discipline. I have been insulted by my own constable and can no longer govern the people. I request permission to return my official seal, and to go back home.”

At that time Fan Wen-cheng [i.e., Fan Chung-yen] was prefect of Hang-chou. Having read the letter he marvelled at it and commented, “Mr. Han is an exceptional person. I hope he will not undervalue his talents.” He then ordered Ju-yü to return to his office. Later, after Ju-yü’s term of office was up, he went with the prostitute on an excursion to West Lake, and for an entire month Ju-yü could not be induced to depart. Fan Wen-cheng then bought some wine and arranged a farewell party for him, summoning the prostitute to the feast as well. Waiting until Ju-yü was completely drunk, Fan ordered the boatman to untie the rope and to sail off. When Ju-yü woke up, the boat was already a score or more miles from Ch’ien-t’ang.

CHAPTER 6: “Ch’ing-ai” (“Passion”)

(3 sections and 25 entries)

1. “Nan ai nü” (“Men Passionately in Love with Women”)—13

2. “Nü ai nan” (“Women Passionately in Love with Men”)—8

3. “Nan-nü hsiang-ai” (“Men and Women Passionately in Love with Each Other”)—4

The Compiler of Ch’ing-shih says: Ch’ing produces passion (ai) and passion again brings forth ch’ing; just as surely as ch’ing and passion incessantly give birth to each other, then as certainly will there be incidents of death and destruction, and those passionate ones upon whom no harmful incidents have fallen are indeed fortunate. Now, this may sound like an exaggeration, but in most cases it is precisely because people do not know how to handle their passion that there have been so many strange and weird episodes among men and women, which have led us to blame everything on ch’ing. But is it really ch’ing which is at fault here? It was on account of their tyranny that Chieh and Chou perished, and Fu-ch’ai on account of his militarism. If we attribute their demise to Mei-hsi and Hsi-shih, thus having Mei-hsi and Hsi-shih shoulder the notoriety, are we not then in fact doing Mei-hsi and Hsi-shih an injustice?[40]

If one knows how to discipline himself in regard to passion, and how to not abuse his passion through excess, then this same passion will play a life-sustaining role similar to that of a person’s water and food, and will not be harmful to his life. Such a person then would never arrive at a situation like that of Fan Hu-lin.[41]

Furthermore, there are, under this vast heaven, myriads of tasks one can undertake, and there are thousands of people one can become friends with. But for that obstinate person who refuses to change his outlook, although there be beauties of all sorts and young women beyond number—for him, these women will continue to be no more accessible than the deer and birds of some divine garden.[42]

In this chapter our compiler examines the various expressions of ai, or the passion of man and woman. The distinction between passion and infatuation, he says, is very slight, and he cautions his reader to keep passion under control lest it overflow, with subsequent ruin for the reader himself and for his beloved. But in general, the compiler considers passion to be a normal and healthy human emotion stemming from ch’ing.

Nevertheless, we see in this chapter that the compiler uses two different yardsticks, one to measure the passion of man, and one that of woman. Since the woman’s husband, or her lover, is usually her entire world, or at least the center of her life, the passion a woman shows to her beloved, no matter how violent or how detrimental to herself it may be, is considered a normal phenomenon in Ch’ing-shih—as long as it does no harm to the man.[43] But, as is pointed out in the above chapter summary and at various other places in Ch’ing-shih, since women occupy but a small portion of a man’s life, the man’s passion for a woman should be checked as soon as it begins to hinder or interfere with his daily life.

For this chapter I have chosen to translate entry 24, a story probably written by compiler Feng Meng-lung himself. From the commentary appended to the entry by Tzu-yu-shih (i.e., Feng Meng-lung), we know that all the protagonists of the story are contemporaries of Feng. The story, entitled “Ch’iu Ch’ang-ju” after its leading character, is listed in section 3, “Men and Women Passionately in Love with Each Other”. Though unclear and ambiguous in several places, this story was probably included in Ch’ing-shih as an illustration of some of the differences, as our compiler deems them, between ai (“passion”) and ch’ing. Evidently the compiler feels ai is a strong, ardent feeling, often inexplicable and not amenable to reason. Usually ai is but a fleeting, momentary emotion, lacking the permanent and consistent nature characteristic of ch’ing. Thus, we see in this story that the hero, Ch’iu Ch’ang-ju, having lost his courtesan lover, willingly accepts one of her sisters as a “replacement” inasmuch as he considers it a possibility that seeing the sisters of his deceased lover might be no different from seeing the lover herself. However, and perhaps due largely to his previously mentioned position that a man should never let his passion for a woman hinder his life, our compiler remains silent and noncommittal regarding this apparent inconsistency in Ch’iu Ch’ang-ju’s strange manner of expressing his affection and longing—if indeed it is that—for his deceased lover.

ENTRY 24. “Ch’iu Ch’ang-ju”

Ch’iu Ch’ang-ju, whose given name was T’an, was a descendant of an old gentry family of Ma-ch’eng in Ch’u, and was by nature fond of luxury and splendor. He was especially versed in poetry and calligraphy. His brother-in-law, Liu, a captain of the royal guard, was likewise a man in the vein of Ch’ung and K’ai.[44]

Now the secretary of state, Ling Yün-yi from Wu, had once been impeached in connection with a murder case involving a certain scholar. His eldest son Ling Yen-nien, then a high official in the capital, spent a huge amount of money to clear his father of the charges. Captain Liu, as a colleague, had lent him several thousand in cash.[45]

Later, both the father and the son were dismissed from office and returned home. At that time, the Pai family was the most noted among the several groups of courtesans. It was with the sixth of the Pai girls, one named Shan-sheng, Liu-sheng being her art name, whose voice and beauty alike were then unrivaled, that son Ling Yen-nien had become very familiar.[46] When he learned that Captain Liu was planning to make a trip to Wu, Ling expected that the captain would also want him to pay back the debt. He thus procured Liu-sheng in advance as a rare commodity.

When the captain arrived in Wu, Ling presented Liu-sheng as his own family courtesan at the drinking party in honor of Captain Liu. As soon as Liu-sheng began to sing in her clear voice, the entire hall became hushed. The captain, fascinated and rapt with joy, instantly desired to have her, without giving a thought to the peck of pearls he might have to pay in exchange for her.

Ling waited until the captain had fixed a departure date, then he picked out some objets d’art and presented them, along with Liu-sheng, to the captain, who in return burned all the credit notes before he left. But Captain Liu was by nature a person coarse and brusque, who intended nothing more than to show Liu-sheng off to his fellow villagers, but not to treasure her in his inner chambers. Thus, after they had returned to his native place, he daily requested Liu-sheng to entertain his guests by singing. Now the Ch’u people had not been exposed to the speech of Wu, and the only person conversant with that dialect was Liu’s brother-in-law, Ch’iu Ch’ang-ju, and on account of this common ground Ch’ang-ju and Liu-sheng secretly became intimate friends. On the nights when Ch’ang-ju was included among the guests, the two would convey their mutual longings by glances, regretting only that Liu-sheng could not be released from her imprisonment.

As time went on, Liu became ever more negligent towards Liu-sheng. Taking advantage of this opportune period, Ch’ang-ju offered to Captain Liu the sum that Liu had paid to Ling, in return for Liu-sheng as his concubine. Now Liu was a man of vanity pursuing the empty name of noble knight, so he offered Liu-sheng as a gift to Ch’ang-ju the very day Ch’ang-ju had offered to buy her. Ch’ang-ju, overjoyed by this unexpected offer, considered it the ultimate fulfillment of his life. Liu-sheng also remarked that she had at last gotten the man whom she would henceforth serve as her husband.

Shortly thereafter, the rumor arose amongst some of Liu’s guests that the couple had had adulterous relations even before. This rumor prompted Liu’s anger. He immediately summoned Liu-sheng and interrogated her. Unable to get a confession from Liu-sheng, he poisoned her to death.

It so happened that at that moment, Ch’ang-ju was out in the village. When he heard the report, he hastily galloped home at full speed. He mournfully begged for her body, but Liu replied indignantly, “I may have given her to you free when she was alive, but dead? Ha—you won’t get her for free even if you beg!” So Ch’ang-ju was forced to present five hundred taels of gold to Liu; having thus redeemed her body, Ch’ang-ju took her home.

In appearance, Liu-sheng was still the same as when she had been alive, except that her right hand remained firmly clenched, loosening up only after Ch’ang-ju himself tried to open it. There in her palm he found a small box made of rhinoceros bone. Inside the box Liu-sheng had put some trimmings from their fingernails and a strand of her own hair—tokens of the love between Ch’ang-ju and herself. Seeing them, Ch’ang-ju was as deeply and bitterly pained as if his heart had been ripped out. Before he put Liu-sheng’s corpse in the coffin and interred it, Ch’ang-ju held her close in bed and slept with her for three nights, after which the burial ceremonies were all elaborately performed.

After the burial, Ch’ang-ju was constantly in mourning. “Maybe if I could just see Liu-sheng’s sisters,” he said, “it would be the same as seeing Liu-sheng herself.” He therefore took with him one thousand taels of gold and went to Wu. There he invited the second girl of the Pai family to live with him in the Ch’ü-shui T’ang belonging to a certain family surnamed Chang.[47] The second sister, again, presented to Ch’ang-ju her younger sister, Shih-lang.[48] Shih-lang had studied singing with the second sister and was therefore on intimate terms with her. The two girls, moved by Ch’ang-ju’s passion, were quite willing to serve him by following the example of E and Ying.[49] But before their plans could be carried out, it so happened that Shih-lang angered their host when she made certain frivolous, jesting comments, and the angered host at once disclosed their plans to the Pai family. The Pais, leading a group of one hundred persons from the same clan, were waiting early one morning when Ch’ang-ju left home; suddenly entering Ch’ang-ju’s lodging place, they snatched the two girls, stark naked, from their coverlets and abducted them.

Ch’ang-ju was enraged, and was on the verge of bringing the issue to the magistrate of Ch’ang-chou, since the magistrate was also a native of Ch’u. But first he went to consult a certain scholar, surnamed Chu. Chu said, “Let’s take it easy, now; we may not even need to take the issue to court.” Chu thereupon made threats to the Pais, and was thereby able to intimidate them into returning the second sister, but not Shih-lang, to Ch’ang-ju on the latter’s payment of but a small sum of betrothal money. Thereupon Ch’ang-ju dropped the matter completely.

Several years later, one of Captain Liu’s matrimonial relatives was made the supervisor of the judicial office in Yün-chien, upon which occasion Liu made his second visit to Wu. At the same time the father of the Pai sisters had been falsely accused of robbery, and had asked Liu to clear him of the charge. When the matter was finally settled, Pai prepared a feast in honor of Liu and sent Shih-lang, whom Liu then retained for the night, to express the Pai family’s gratitude. Around midnight Shih-lang asked Liu whether he happened to know Ch’ang-ju. Liu answered, “Why yes, he is my younger sister’s husband.” Shih-lang then talked about their past together, and could not keep from weeping. Liu comforted her, saying, “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of this matter for you.”

Thereupon he secretly ordered the boatmen to set sail. By the time the Pai parents discovered it and caught up with them, they had already reached Ching-k’ou. The two parents prostrated themselves before Liu and begged him to return Shih-lang. Liu said, “Your daughter and Master Ch’iu Ch’ang-ju once vowed to remain together always—I would just like to help them fulfill that vow. Now then, I will pay you one hundred taels of gold for her, and no more!” The couple accepted the gold and returned home weeping. Liu then took shih-lang back to Ch’u and sent her to Ch’ang-ju, saying, “This is to make up for the wrong I did to Liu-sheng.”

CHAPTER 7: “Ch’ing-ch’ih” (“Infatuation”)

(20 entries)

The Compiler of Ch’ing-shih says: Man’s anxieties and troubles all arise from his having ch’ing. With human life as transient as water bubbles and flint sparks, how can one still burden himself with ch’ing? From the point of view of a truly wise man, ch’ing is to be equated with suffering, and all the affairs between man and woman are probably his last concern. Nevertheless, there are cases in which a man might become infatuated with the elegant glances and the fashionable songs of his beloved and, coincidentally, the lady might feel the same towards the man. Their love would then become a beautiful story for all posterity. But what occasions the attraction to someone blind, or to someone mute? Are not such choices the exception?[50] Yet one can still say that each man has his own preferences, and that other people’s preferences are of no concern to him.

Now, as for the great lord of some kingdom—why, his concubines are as numerous as clouds; even should he rank them and daily favor them accordingly, he would still feel, no doubt, that his days were all too few. And when compared with his concubines, the courtesans and prostitutes throughout the country can but be seen as blind or mute. Still and all, does not this great lord at times compete with a commoner for them, and at that for but a single night’s pleasure?[51] This is aptly described by the common expression, “to discard gold and to cling to bricks.”

The taking of wives and concubines serves one’s own enjoyment; seeking out the fragrant and selecting the comely also serve one’s own pleasure. Yet some people would ruin their health in order to please their beloveds;[52] and some would mutilate their bodies in order to gain the chance of glancing, only glancing, at their beloved.[53] Such behavior is more than simple naïveté; nevertheless, such people still value their lives.

Wei-sheng’s is an extreme case. When his beloved does not keep her word, how can he keep his?[54] If their two hearts are one, and if they have decided that they will never be parted, and if each prefers dying to living separately, then the fortunate pair will lead a happy life together—like that of Hsi and Lo;[55] while the unfortunate may only manage to gain the name of “ingrate” (i.e., filial ingratitude).[56] Should Wang and T’ao still have feelings after death, they will certainly lead a happy conjugal life together; if not, their death will at least have brought an end to the various sorrows and sufferings of their lives.[57] To relieve one’s beloved of suffering—in the eyes of the infatuated, is not this also a worthwhile achievement? In any case, the harm they might have done is still quite limited.

It is because of their infatuation that Ch’eng-ti kills his own sons; that King Yu deceives his own vassals; and that the lords of Northern Ch’i and Latter Yen destroy the work of myriads of men;[58] they have weakened their clans, caused disorder, made enemies and hastened their own destruction. Comparing these men with those formerly mentioned is just like exchanging a thousand pieces of gold for a single strand of hair—how can we even consider the former to have been destructive?[59]

However, it takes a man of above-average intelligence to predict the approach of disasters to his kingdom due to his involvement in immediate personal pleasures. How dangerous, for example, is the Ching-yang Palace incident! The enemy is nearing, and the joys of the lord are fast becoming bygone things. The well is certainly no place for fun, yet the lord demands that the two concubines go down into it with him.[60] Could there be anyone else as foolish, as shameless, as he is? But even in his case there still remains the hope of survival.

Lastly, we all know that a corpse is always cleaned before it is shrouded. But Duke Ching of the Ch’i—he considers the rotten to be wonderful.[61] Or again, one would hope that after his death, his body would be quick to decompose. But Yang Cheng—he stoops to the knife and the rope in preparing his death mat.[62] Duke Ching, then, treats the dead as living, while Yang Cheng desires that the living die. Yes, it is indeed possible for ch’ing to upset men to such an extent. Outwardly it can harm others, and inwardly it can bring one disgrace. To the lesser degree it may destroy lives, and to the greater degree it can cause the overthrow of a kingdom. “Blessed is the simpleton,” they say—but with regard to ch’ing, one wonders if this is so.

“Ch’ing-ch’ih” is one of the two chapters in Ch’ing-shih which are not subdivided into sections. However, the compiler manages, as can be seen in the above critical summary, to touch upon all but one of the twenty chapter entries, referring to each of the nineteen entries discussed according to the results brought about by the protagonists’ infatuated love.[63] Thus it is easy for the reader to discern the underlying thematic arrangement running through all the entries of this chapter, even though the chapter is not formally subdivided into sections.

With this chapter we find that ch’ih, (“infatuation”), though stemming from ch’ing, is considered in Ch’ing-shih to be a morbid phenomenon. An infatuated person is one who is so completely obsessed with his passion that he behaves irrationally and erratically. Most frequently his infatuation brings only negative results, and we find that almost all of the stories in this chapter end on a tragic note.

It seems that, on the one hand, our compiler attributes the cause of infatuation to low intelligence, while on the other hand, he considers infatuation to be a manifestation of the destructive power of ch’ing. He recognizes this fearful destructiveness of ch’ing and advises his readers to use reason and self-discipline to contain it.

The story I have chosen to translate here is entry 9. According to the compiler, it has been taken from Lu Ts’an’s Shuo-t’ing.

ENTRY 9. “The Wang from Lo-yang” (“Lo-yang Wang mou”)

Mr. Wang, a native of Lo-yang living at Hsiang-fu, dealt in lumber as his occupation, and was on intimate terms with the prostitute T’ang Yü-tsan, who was skilled in singing, dancing, acting, and the like. Wang did his best to please her and was completely infatuated with her, every year sending her one hundred taels of silver.

Lord Chou, whom people had nicknamed “Prince to the East of Drum Pavilion” on account of the location of the lord’s residence, was fond of music. When he heard about Yü-tsan, he summoned her and, having tested her on her skills, immediately took a liking to her. Consequently, he gave the procuress a huge amount of money and kept Yü-tsan.

Wang became heartsick thinking about Yü-tsan. He was able to bribe an elderly maid, and he had her relay to the prostitute the following: “If I could just see you one more time, I would never again have any regrets, even if I were to die instantly. So why don’t you work on the lord, and get me permission to visit . . . ?”

Seizing an opportune moment, the prostitute spoke up for Wang. The prince granted him permission to visit her, and added jokingly, “Tell him to cleanse his body first, before he comes in.” The elderly maid relayed the words to Wang, who immediately castrated himself and almost died. Only after three whole months did he heal up, whereupon he paid his visit to the lord’s mansion. The lord ordered Wang to undress, in order that he be examined. The examination over, the lord laughed and said, “So there really are people in the world as crazy as this one. But now, since you have already cleansed your body, why don’t you stay on here as my servant?” Wang thanked the lord and accepted his offer, whereupon the lord allowed Yü-tsan to stand at the doorway, and only in this way did the couple at last see each other, the only thing they could do being to look at each other and weep. The lord thereafter gave Wang a thousand pieces of gold, upon which sum, every year, Wang would receive a little bit of interest.

The preceding story is found in Shuo-t’ing.

CHAPTER 8: “Ch’ing-kan” (“Pathos”)

(3 sections and 26 entries)

1. “Kan-jen” (“Pathos Moves Men”)—10

2. “Kan shen-kuei” (“Pathos Moves Spirits and Ghosts”)—12

3. “Kan-wu” (“Pathos Moves Inanimate Things”)—4

The Compiler of Ch’ing-shih says: The ancients say, “Ponder over and over again, and you will be able to communicate with ghosts and spirits.” This is in fact possible because thought comes from ch’ing, and because ghosts and spirits are also creations of ch’ing. Had ghosts and spirits no ch’ing, then upon one’s death his ethereal soul (hun) would simply ascend and his humic soul (p’o) descend, at which time [one’s death, that is] there would never be any further attachment to this world, nor would the words “kuei” (ghosts) and “shen” (spirits) exist.[64] But in reality ghosts do possess the same kind of ch’ing as men, and spirits do share the same kind of ch’ing as ghosts. The Dark and the Light enter one into the other in the same way that ice melts into water.[65] Take the fall of the walls of the capital of Ch’i, or the endurance of the words of the lady from T’ai-yüan—they both show the efficaciousness of human feelings when shared by the supernatural. Surely, if ghosts and spirits are frequently moved by ch’ing, then why not human beings!

This chapter, again, deals with the unfathomable power of ch’ing. The twenty-six entries serve to tell us that when ch’ing is expressed in writing, chanting, singing, praying, or mourning, its profound pathos is able to move to response not only men, but also the supernatural and even the inanimate. Ch’ing here transcends all boundaries of time and space, and is the only thing capable of binding together the different elements of the universe. In short, we find this chapter restating and reinforcing the basic ideas of ch’ing as expressed in the preface by Feng Meng-lung.

The twenty-six entries in this chapter are divided into three sections. In section 1, “Pathos Moves Men,” poetry is the only medium adopted for conveying the love thoughts of the hero or heroine. Nine out of the ten entries included in this section deal with women who poetically express their passion and longing for their husbands who, for one reason or another, are separated from them; by the pathos of their poetry they move their readers and subsequently realize their wishes for reunion with their husbands. Of the twelve entries in section 2, “Pathos Moves Spirits and Ghosts,” we find that almost all the T’ang stories are retellings from T’ai-p’ing kuang-chi.[67] All twelve entries in this section contain supernatural elements and have features in common with the entries in the chapters on “Illusion,” “Efficacy,” and “Matchmakers” (chapters 9, 10, and 12). Consequently, it seems that some of the entries in this section might have been as fittingly placed with the stories of those chapters. Section 3 includes four anecdotes, each of which deals with the deep pathos of ch’ing, expressed either in mourning or in sorrowful writing which moves the inanimate to response.

The story I have chosen to translate for this chapter comes from among those twelve stories in section 2 which have an ambiguous thematic focus;[68] the story, entry 11, is here retold from T’ai-p’ing kuang-chi, chapter 152.[69] The well-known Ming playwright Shen Ching has also adapted the story for a ch’uan-ch’i play entitled “Hung-ch’ü chi,” or “Story of Red Lotus Flowers”.

ENTRY 11. “Cheng Te-lin”

During the period of Chen-yüan (785–804), a military officer of the district of Hsiang-t’an, Cheng Te-lin by name, resided at Ch’ang-sha. Cheng had some maternal relatives who lived at Chiang-hsia, whom he always went to visit once a year. He would ferry himself across Tung-t’ing Lake, and passing by Hsiang-t’an he would frequently meet an old man, rowing a boat, selling water chestnuts. Although the old man’s hair was white, he nevertheless looked young. Te-lin, on the occasions when he spoke with the old man, found that he often talked of matters rather obscure. Once Te-lin had asked him, “What is it you eat? You don’t have any dried grain there in your boat.” The old man answered, “Water chestnuts, that’s all.” Now Te-lin was fond of drinking and always carried along a little good heavy pine wine, so on his way to Chiang-hsia, whenever he met the old man he always invited him to share a drink. The old man always accepted the invitation, though he never said much in the way of thanks.

One time after Te-lin had visited Chiang-hsia and was on his way back to Ch’ang-sha, he stopped his boat below the Yellow Crane Pavilion, alongside the huge boat of a certain salt merchant, a Mr. Wei, who had also arrived at Hsiang-t’an and was that very night having a farewell cup or two with some men from a neighboring boat. Mr. Wei’s daughter was at the prow of the boat, along with the daughter of the neighboring boat who had also come to say goodbye. The two girls were laughing and talking together. It was approaching midnight, and somewhere on the water a young scholar was chanting a poem:

Something, nudging the little boat,

Makes itself felt.

Calm wind, quiet waves, and

Moonlight dim.

Night on the river, deep!

Sorrowful thoughts, away!

Picking red lotus

Fragrance teasing my clothing.

The girl from the neighboring boat was good at writing. Spying a piece of red paper in Miss Wei’s toiletry box, she took it and copied down what she has just heard. Then she chanted the poem over and over, though neither of the two girls knew who the poet was. At dawn the partying ended, and the two boats sailed off in opposite directions.

Te-lin’s boat and the boat of Mr. Wei left E Bank at the same time. Two nights later, they stopped along the shore of Tung-t’ing Lake again, Te-lin’s boat near that of the Weis. Miss Wei was fishing at the window, lustrous in the bright moonlight shining down on sharply defined clouds, on budding lotus flowers and glistening ripples, her graceful figure wrapped in the dew of evening, her colorful ornaments radiant. Te-lin watched her, greatly pleased. He took out a piece of red silk, upon which he composed a poem.

Fishing pole in elegant hands,

A window onto the stream.

Red leaves, autumn color contrast

Captivating river!

Jade ornaments

Once given to Chiao-fu.[70]

Yet bright pearls, perhaps

A pair for me?

Te-lin managed to tie the piece of red silk to Miss Wei’s hook, and thereby she obtained the poem. She chanted and recited it over and over. However, although she could read the poem, Miss Wei did not understand its meaning. She was not good at composing poetry and she was, moreover, embarrassed to have no reply for Te-lin’s poem. Therefore she took the piece of red paper upon which was written the poem that the girl from the neighboring boat had copied down, put it on her fishing line, and tossed it over to Te-lin. Te-lin assumed that it had been composed by Miss Wei, and believed that he had pleased her. It goes without saying that he was overjoyed, although he did not understand the meaning of her poem nor did he get a chance to flatter the girl. Miss Wei wrapped the red silk about her arm, treasuring it dearly.

There was a bright moon, and the wind was brisk as Mr. Wei set the sails and the boat moved away. Te-lin was greatly distressed, for his boat was a small one, and because the wind was becoming stronger and the waves more frightening, he dared not set out with Mr. Wei.

As the night wore on, a fisherman coming by told Te-lin that the merchant’s huge boat had capsized, and he and his entire family had drowned in Tung-t’ing Lake. Te-lin was shocked and confused; a long time passed, and he was still unable to relieve himself of his sorrow and mourning. That night, he composed two poems, each entitled “Lament for the Lovely River Maiden”.

Stop, do not blow

Gale of the Lake

Gently on the ripples

Let the moon light reflect

Pondering deeply, my tears

Mingling with the waves

The mermaid sharing my sorrow

And weeping with me

.   .   .

Light wind on Tung-t’ing

Autumn blooming reeds

Young maiden drowned

Saddened gentle waves

Tears on reeds of white

You don’t see

Moon bright, on the river

Seagulls soar and dart

When Te-lin had completed the poems, he poured out a libation and then threw the poem into the lake. His sincerity reached the spirits and moved a water god, who took the poems to the palace. Having read the poems, the lord of the lake summoned the drowned ones and asked, “Who is the beloved of Mr. Cheng?” Miss Wei, however, did not understand what he was asking.

But an official noticed the piece of red silk on Miss Wei’s arm, and reported it to the lord. The lord told Miss Wei, “Te-lin in later days will become an illustrious magistrate of our district; furthermore, he used to treat me with a sense of respectfulness. I shall, then, for the time being, return you to life.” Whereupon he ordered the official to take Miss Wei to Cheng. Miss Wei looked at the lord, whom she saw to be an old man.

Miss Wei followed the official. They walked hastily and met no obstacle along the way. When the road reached its end, she saw a huge lake of green water. The official pushed her into the lake where, now sinking, now floating, she felt extremely uncomfortable.

The third watch had already passed, and Te-lin was still awake. He chanted the poem on the red paper once more and became even sadder. Suddenly he felt something bump the boat. But the boatmen had gone to bed, so Te-lin held up a torch. The light from the torch fell upon something. Te-lin looked. Colorfully embroidered clothes, a form like that of a human. Surprised, Te-lin hauled it up. It was Miss Wei, the piece of red silk still around her arm.

Te-lin was overjoyed. After some time the girl came to. But not until dawn was she able to talk. She said, “The lord returned me to life on account of you.” Te-lin asked, “What lord?” But never did Te-lin comprehend the girl’s story, though he even married her—for he liked her and was touched by the unusual happenings—and took her back to Ch’ang-sha.

Three years later, Te-lin was to be transferred, and he hoped to get the position of magistrate of Li-ling. Wei said, “No, you will become the magistrate of Pa-ling.” “Oh, how do you know?” Te-lin asked. Wei answered, “The lord of the water once told me that you would become ‘an illustrious magistrate of our district,’ and Tung-t’ing Lake is within the jurisdiction of Pa-ling—see, that proves it.” Te-lin kept in mind what she had said, and when the results were announced he was indeed appointed magistrate of Pa-ling.

As soon as Te-lin arrived at Pa-ling, he sent for Wei. When her boat reached the shore of Tung-t’ing, it encountered a head wind and could go no further. Te-lin had five boatmen helping with the boat, among them an old man hauling rather indifferently on the rope. When Miss Wei became angry at his indifference and spat at him, the old man turned around and said, “Previously I saved your life in the water kingdom. Not only do you fail to consider that a favor, but now, quite the contrary, you even get angry at me.” When Wei suddenly realized who the old man was, she was terrified. She asked the old man to board the boat, bowed to him, and presented him with fruits and wine. She then bowed to the floor, and made a request. “My parents must still be in the water world; would it be possible for me to see them?” “Yes it would,” replied the old man, whereupon the boat seemed to sink into the water, although Wei could feel no discomfort.

Before long they arrived at the same water kingdom she had visited before. Old and young alike came crying, pushing and leaning against the boat. Seeking out her parents, she found their residence to be a huge mansion, no different in appearance from those of the mundane human world. But when Wei inquired after her parents’ needs, they answered, “All the things we had with us when we drowned are still here. However, there is no fire down here, so we have only water chestnuts to eat, that’s all.” Whereupon they brought out several silver vessels and gave them to their daughter, saying, “We have no use for things of this sort down here. Take them with you and go home quickly.” They hurried her to leave and she bid them farewell, weeping sadly.

Now the old man took up a brush and began to write on Wei’s scarf. “On numerous occasions, you invited the water-chestnut seller, who formerly dwelled by the river, to share some of your sweet heavy pine wine. To repay your kindness, I returned your wife to life. Take good care of yourself, Cheng Te-lin of Ch’ang-sha!” When he had finished writing, the old man ordered several hundred carriages to escort Wei home. Presently her boat appeared by the shore, all the people in the boat having been observers to everything that had happened.

Only when Te-lin had puzzled long and hard over the meaning of the poem, did he realize that the old man, the lord of the water kingdom, had to be the former water-chestnut seller.

Then, a year later, a young scholar, one Ts’ui Hsi-chou, presented some poem scrolls to Te-lin. Among them was one poem entitled “On the Night I Found a Bunch of Lotus Flowers on the River”—the same poem that was on the sheet of red paper which Wei had tossed to Te-lin. The presence of this particular poem among the scrolls bothered Te-lin, so he asked Hsi-chou about it. “Several years ago,” Hsi-chou replied, “I anchored my light boat somewhere along E Bank. The moon was shining brightly on the river, and I had not yet gone to bed. Suddenly I felt a small object bump against my boat. It smelled extremely fragrant, and when I picked it up it turned out to be a bunch of lotus flowers. Subsequently I composed this poem. After I had written it down, I chanted it over and over for a long while. That’s the truth, I swear.”

“Everything is fated,” Te-lin sighed, and from then on he never dared cross Tung-t’ing again. Te-lin later attained the position of prefect.

The above has been taken from his biography.

CHAPTER 9: “Ch’ing-huan” (“Illusion”)

(7 sections and 32 entries)

1. “Meng-huan” (“Illusory Dreams”)—6

2. “Li-hun” (“Souls Separated from Their Bodies”)—6

3. “Fu-hun” (“Reincarnated Souls”)—2

4. “Chao-hun” (“Summoning Souls”)—5

5. “Hua-huan” (“Illusory Paintings”)—5

6. “Shih-huan” (“Illusory Anecdotes”)—5

7. “Shu-huan” (“Illusory Magic”)—3

The Compiler of Ch’ing-shih says: Dream is the wandering of the ethereal soul (hun). The humic soul (p’o) is bounded, but the ethereal soul is boundless.[71] Therefore, form is bounded, but dream is boundless. Dream can create that which does not exist in reality, and that which intelligence does not comprehend. Dreams can not be verified in this mundane world. Things that can be verified are not dreams. If one considers a dream a dream, the illusory also becomes real; but if one does not consider a dream a dream, then even the real becomes illusory.

Other people can not know my dreams though I do know them; I can not see my own soul, though other people may be able to see it. Thus, although it is I who dream my dreams, I still can not explain them to myself, because I can not talk to my own soul. Other people can see my soul, but my soul is not aware of this.[72] So this also seems but a dream to me.

When one is alive his soul can sometimes leave his body;[73] when one is dead his soul can sometimes be called back.[74] Moreover, the soul can at times even attach itself to the body of somebody never before associated with it.[75] Then, can we not say that the relation of the soul to its body is like that of a traveller to his lodging place?

A superior person has no dreams; this is so because he has freed himself from his emotions (ch’ing) and his soul is therefore calm. A most stupid person also has no dreams; this is so because his emotions are dull and his soul is withered. An ordinary person, however, has many dreams, because his emotions are mixed and confused and his soul, therefore, is unsettled. Finally, an unusual person has extraordinary dreams; this is so because his emotions are concentrated and his soul, therefore, is pure.

Those who excel at painting can put souls into their paintings;[76] and those who excel at magic can use it to command souls.[77] In this vast universe, really, what has not been accomplished by the soul?

All the entries in this chapter deal with strange, weird, or irrational happenings and phenomena related to ch’ing which are not satisfactorily explained by reason. From the various comments attached to the entries as well as from the chapter summary above, we find that our compiler’s views concerning dream and soul are traditional; huan (“illusory”) in Ch’ing-shih is not necessarily the antithesis of chen (“real”), and the dream world is just as illusory and real as is the “real” world. Furthermore, since dream is the “wandering of the ethereal soul (hun),” and is also a natural part of daily life, then all the soul’s evasive and incomprehensible activities and behavior are also considered natural or real.

Of the six sections in this chapter, three (sections 2, 3, and 4) consist of stories of hun, the ethereal soul. Section 2, first, includes six stories concerning souls that have become separated from their bodies; we see that when a living person’s soul has separated from its body, the soul still manifests itself in flesh and blood, while its “actual,” original, body becomes de-spirited, often then appearing sick or even becoming bedridden. The soul and its de-spirited body then each lead separate lives, as might two identical twins living independently in two different places.

The next hun section, “Reincarnated Souls,” consists of only two entries. The first is a story of fu-t’i huan-hun (“returning to life by attaching the soul to the body of a person living”), and the second entry is a story of chieh-shih huan-hun (“returning to life by borrowing the body of a dead person”). While the latter is typical of its kind, the former is a unique story. Normally, in a fu-t’i huan-hun story, the soul of a deceased person temporarily possesses the body of a living person and thus obtains a form with which to finish the task which has brought the soul back to the human world. Our story here, however, is a combination of the li-hun and the fu-t’i huan-hun patterns. In the story, the soul of the deceased older sister possesses, or is reincarnated in the form of, her younger sister; it runs away with its betrothed, who arrives at the two sisters’ place only to find out that the elder sister died two months earlier. The couple then live together as fugitives in a remote village, while the younger sister has in the meantime become bedridden at home. As soon as they arrive in the girl’s hometown she vanishes, while the younger sister suddenly gets up from her sickbed, and presents herself to the family as the deceased girl, her elder sister. Thus we see that the first part of the story follows the pattern of a li-hun tale, in which the reader finds the younger sister appearing simultaneously in two different places, with the two identical forms each leading an existence separate from and independent of the other; the second part, however, takes the pattern of a regular “chieh-t’i huan-hun” story, in which the reader finds the soul of the deceased possessing her younger sister temporarily, in order to address herself to her parents. Having translated this story as representative of this chapter, I will not dwell on it any longer here.

The third and final hun section, “Summoning Souls,” contains five stories. The five entries all tell how a man still living obtains, through the magical powers of a Taoist, the opportunity to see his deceased wife again.

Except for the five stories in section 6, “Illusory Anecdotes,” the great majority of the entries in this chapter can not be considered supernatural stories, despite the fact that all the entries deal with extraordinary or strange events. In all the stories, human interests are the only concern. And the boundless and evasive mind, that is to say, the hun or soul, is the chief agent that brings about the intentions, fulfills the desires, and satisfies the longings of love-seeking men and women.

The story I have chosen to translate for this chapter is entry 13, “Wu Hsing-niang,” from section 3. Although the compiler does not acknowledge it, this story is practically a verbatim copy of “Chin-feng-ch’ai chi” (“Story of a Gold Phoenix Hair Clasp”) by Ch’ü Yu (1341–1427).[78] “Chin-feng-ch’ai chi” was, according to some modern scholars, based on a well-known T’ang tale, “Li-hun chi” (“Story of a Wandering Soul”) by Ch’en Hsüan-yu.[79] A vernacular counterpart of the Ch’ing-shih entry can be found in P’ai-an ching-ch’i, chapter 23. There is also a ch’uan-ch’i drama version of the story about Wu Hsing-niang, Shen Ching’s Yi-chung ch’ing.

ENTRY 13. “Wu Hsing-niang”

During the Ta-te period (1297–1308) there was a wealthy man in Yang-chou, surnamed Wu, who possessed the title of district defense commandant. Wu’s residence was situated by the Spring Breeze Pavilion, neighboring that of a certain official family by the name of Ts’ui, and the two families enjoyed a close friendship. Mr. Ts’ui has a son Hsing-ke and the commandant had a daughter Hsing-niang, both still in their infancy. Mr. Ts’ui had asked to have Hsing-niang as his future daughter-in-law, and the commandant consented and had accepted a gold phoenix hair clasp from the Ts’uis as a token of promise.

Shortly thereafter, Ts’ui was transferred to a faraway place, and for fifteen years there was no news from him. Meanwhile Hsing-niang had turned nineteen. Mrs. Wu told the commandant, “We haven’t heard a single thing of young Master Ts’ui since his departure. Now that Hsing-niang has grown up, we shouldn’t cause her to lose out on any of her marriage opportunities because of feeling bound by something we said so long ago.” “But I already promised her to my long time friend,” the commandant replied. “The agreement was made in all sincerity, so how could I not keep my word?”

The girl, however—disappointed after such a long wait for the young man’s arrival—eventually became ill and after being bedridden for half a year, died. Her parents were overcome with grief. While she was dressing the girl prior to putting her into the coffin, Mrs. Wu picked up the gold phoenix hair clasp and wept beside the body of her daughter, saying, “This comes from your fiance’s house. You’re gone now, so what’s the use of my keeping it? Here.” Then she settled the hair clasp in her daughter’s hair, and closed the lid.

The girl had been buried for two months when the young Ts’ui arrived. The commandant welcomed him, inquiring about the Ts’uis. The young man answered, “My father died during his term as judge of Hsüan-te Prefecture. My mother died too, a few years before my father. But now that the mourning period is over, I have travelled a long way to get here at last.” The commandant, tears in his eyes, said, “Hsing-niang . . . was ill-fated. She became sick when you didn’t come for so long, and then two months ago she died heartbroken. We have already buried her.” He led the young man to the room containing Hsing-niang’s memorial tablet and, according to the custom, burned some paper money to inform her of the young man’s arrival. The entire family cried mournfully. “Since both of your parents are dead,” the commandant told the young man, “and since you have come such a long distance, why don’t you stay on with us, now that you are here. My old friend’s son is the same as my own son—don’t treat us like strangers on account of Hsing-niang’s death.”

This said, he ordered the young man’s luggage brought to a little room near the main gate of the house, and he settled the young man there. It so happened that the Clear-bright Festival fell about half a month later. Inasmuch as his daughter had only recently died, the commandant took his entire family to visit the family cemetery. Hsing-niang’s younger sister, Ch’ing-niang, who had just celebrated her seventeenth birthday, also went with her family that day to the new grave of her sister. The only person staying home, then, was Ts’ui.

When the family returned in the late evening it was already dark. Ts’ui, at the gate, observed two sedan chairs, the first of which had already entered. Just when the second sedan chair was passing by Ts’ui, his attention was caught by something metallic unexpectedly dropping to the ground. The young man hurried forward and picked it up. It was a gold phoenix hair clasp. He would have returned it to the commandant, except that the inner door leading to the main quarters had already been closed, so the young man returned to his room, lit a candle, and sat there quietly, thinking about his lost marriage. Now he was all alone, living under someone else’s roof. This could hardly be considered a long-term arrangement. He sighed deeply now and then, and was just about to retire when he heard a knock at the door. He asked who it was, but nobody answered. He had decided to ignore it when the knock came again. So it went, three times in all, until he finally arose and opened the door, only to see a beautiful maiden standing before him. Picking up her skirts, she slipped quickly into the room. The young man was astounded. The girl, slightly out of breath, lowered her head, began to breathe more calmly, and spoke softly to the young man. “Young master Ts’ui, don’t you recognize me? I am Hsing-niang’s younger sister, Ch’ing-niang. A while ago I dropped a hair clasp from my sedan chair. Do you have it?” It was now clear that she had decided to stay the night at the young man’s room, but the young man, thinking about the warm treatment he had received from her father, refused the proposal firmly, though she repeated her request several times. Suddenly she flushed, saying angrily, “My father has trusted you like a son, has even put you up in this little room. How could you have dared entice me here to this place, at this late hour of the night! What are you going to do with me? If I tell my father to report you to the magistrate, they surely won’t let you off easy.”

The young man, now thoroughly frightened, was forced to give in, and it was at the break of dawn she left. From then on she would come stealthily in each night and leave stealthily the next morning. Suddenly one night—having thus entered and departed the small room for about a month now—she told the young man, “I’m always placed deep inside, within the women’s quarters, while you’re staying at the guest room out here. We’re fortunate thus far that no one has suspected us. But I’m really afraid that our good relationship may run into difficulty, and all our beautiful plans be destroyed. My parents would reprimand us severely if they found out. You know what they say—I’d then be that ‘parrot in a cage,’ and you that ‘duck on the run’. The punishment I could bear, but I am afraid that it would damage your reputation. We had better do something first—run away secretly, maybe. Maybe we could hide in some remote village, or even flee to a different prefecture so that we could be free to grow old together and never be separated.”

The young man considered her scheme a good one. “You’re quite right,” he said. “I was just thinking the same thing—I’ve been alone, all by myself, never have had relatives or friends . . . so even if I wanted to run away, where could I go? But then I remembered that my father once told me about an old servant we used to have, a man by the name of Chin Jung who was a righteous and trustworthy person, living at Lü-ch’eng in Chen-chiang, and working as a farmer. I’m sure he wouldn’t turn us down if we went there now and put ourselves in his care.”

The next morning at the fifth watch they left, travelling light. Hiring a boat, they passed Kua-chou, and headed straight for Tanyang. Having at last reached their destination, they inquired of the villagers about Chin Jung, and there he was, sure enough. He was wealthy now, and had become the village chief. The young man was overjoyed, and went to visit Chin. At first sight Chin Jung did not recognize him. But then when the young man mentioned his father’s name and that of their official fief, as well as his childhood pet name, Chin remembered and recognized him, and as he recalled his former master tears came to his eyes. Taking the young man by the arm, Chin led him to the family hall, where he acknowledged and greeted him, referring to him now as “my young master”. Then the young man told Chin his story, whereupon Chin had the main hall cleared and prepared for the young man to occupy, and thereafter served him just as he had served his former master, and provided all his food and clothing needs.

After the couple had been living in Chin Jung’s place for nearly a year, the girl approached the young man. “Previously I was afraid that my parents would discover our affair and punish us, so I followed the example of Lady Cho and eloped with you, though that was certainly not my original idea.[80] But now would seem to be the right time . . . all parents love their children, and if we take the initiative and return home now, my parents will be delighted to see us again—they’ll certainly forgive us. Besides, there is nothing greater than the love of a parent for his children; how could we be so ungrateful as to completely sever that affiliation?” The young man agreed with her, so the couple bid farewell to Chin Jung and ferried themselves across the river.

As they had entered the city and were nearing the girl’s house, she spoke to the young man. “I’ve been in hiding for a year now, and all of a sudden I return home with you—I’m afraid that this might make my parents angry, so why don’t you go on ahead, and I’ll just tie up the boat and wait for you here.” Just as he was leaving she called him back and gave him the gold hair clasp saying, “Here—if my parents become suspicious and reject you, then you can show them this.”

The young man left, and when he arrived at the Wus’, the commandant received him with joy and, much to the surprise of the young man, apologized to him saying, “Before, I didn’t fulfill my duty as a good host and caused you to leave for other places. It was all my fault, and I hope you can forgive me.” The young man prostrated himself before the commandant, daring not to look up, and claiming only that he deserved a punishment no less than death. The commandant was astonished at the young man. “Please explain to me,” he said, “why you are behaving like this, and clear up the puzzlement and apprehension I have, if you will.” Afraid and ashamed, the young man complied. “Previously, our inner chamber affair was a secret, and the affection between your daughter and me was that of love. The things we did were improper, and we violated the laws against fornication. I took her away without your consent—we ran away secretly. We’ve been hiding in a remote village, cut off from all communication. Now I’ve returned, bringing your daughter with me, so that we might perform our filial duty. If you’d pardon us so we could complete the conjugal proprieties, we’d be forever indebted to you, and I could at last enjoy the full happiness of my marriage. This is what I have been praying for.” The commandant said, “But my daughter has been bedridden for a whole year. She can’t eat anything—she can’t even move by herself. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Thinking that the commandant was afraid of bringing disgrace upon his family, and was therefore contriving a pretense to reject him, the young man said to the commandant, “Ch’ing-niang is in the boat out there right now. Why don’t you have her brought here?” Although the commandant disbelieved the young man, he did nevertheless have a boy servant ride out, but when the servant returned from the river, he reported that there was nothing at all to be seen. The commandant was greatly agitated and scolded Ts’ui, accusing him of talking non-sense and lying. The young man then took out the gold phoenix hair clasp and presented it to the commandant, who could hardly believe his eyes when he saw it. “Why, this was buried with my deceased daughter Hsing-niang,” he said. “How did it get here?”

While the commandant was thus wondering, Ch’ing-niang suddenly rose up from her sickbed, walked into the main hall, and greeted her father. “I, Hsing-niang, was unfortunate,” she said, “inasmuch as I had to bid you all goodbye so early, to be left all alone in a wild field far away. But my affinity with Ts’ui was not completely severed, and the only reason I’ve come back here is to request that you marry my beloved sister Ch’ing-niang to Ts’ui, and by that means continue my marriage. If you consent to my request, my younger sister will immediately be cured—if not, she will soon die.”

The entire family was shocked. It seemed to them that the girl before their eyes was the bedridden Ch’ing-niang, but her speech, her movement, and her bearing all spoke of Hsing-niang. Her father began to interrogate her. “But you are already dead—how could you have come back again to the human world, doing such unnerving things as this?”

“After my death,” the girl answered, “the lord of the underworld considered me innocent and released me. I was thus able to serve the queen of the Jade Emperor, and was in charge of all her letters and documents. Furthermore, on account of my unsevered but incomplete worldly ties, she granted me a year’s leave to complete marriage with Ts’ui.” When the commandant had heard all this, he consented to do as the girl requested, whereupon the girl put on a serious countenance, bowed, and thanked her father. Taking hold of Ts’ui’s hands and weeping, she bid him farewell, telling him, “My parents have consented to do as I ask—now you be a good son-in-law to them, and please don’t forget me, your old friend, on account of your new friend.”

With these words, she wept sadly and fell to the ground, where everyone looking at her could see that she was already dead. Nonetheless, they immediately began pouring water and medications down her, and after some time it was Ch’ing-niang who revived. And her illness had cured itself—she could now walk and move about as before! But when they questioned her afterwards about what had happened, she claimed that she did not know what they were talking about. . . .

The commandant accordingly chose an auspicious day to complete Ts’ui’s vows of marriage to the second daughter Ch’ing-niang. Meanwhile, the young man, grateful to Hsing-niang, sold the gold phoenix hair clasp in the market and received the equivalent of twenty ingots of silver; all of this he spent on incense and paper money, which he took to the Ch’iung-hua temple, where he requested the priests to perform a sacrifice for three days and three nights, as repayment for Hsing-niang’s kindness.

Hsing-niang later on appeared in one of Ts’ui’s dreams. “From your performance of the sacrifice for me,” she said, “I know you are still emotionally attached to me, and I’m deeply grateful to you. My younger sister Ch’ing-niang is gentle and innocent by nature; be sure to treat her well.” The young man, startled and saddened by these words, woke up, and from then on Hsing-niang was never seen or heard from again.

CHAPTER 10: “Ch’ing-ling” (“Efficacy”)

(11 sections and 41 entries)

1. “Yü-ping” (“Curing Illness”)—1

2. “Tsai-sheng” (“Resurrection”)—11

3. “T’ung-ssu” (“Dying Together”)—2

4. “Ssu hou ch’ang-yüan” (“Desires Fulfilled after Death”)—9

5. “Ssu hou chien-meng” (“Promises Carried out after Death”)—1

6. “Ssu hou hsün-huan”[81] (“Pursuing the Beloved after Death”)—1

7. “Tsai shih ch’ang-yüan” (“Desires Fulfilled in the Next Incarnation”)—4

8. “Tsai shih ch’uan-hsin” (“Sending a Message after Death about the Next Incarnation”)—2

9. “Ssu hou hsien-hsing” (“Reappearing after Death”)—6

10. “Ssu hou hsing-huan”[82] (“Lovemaking after Death”)—2

11. “Chiu-ling” (“Haunted Caskets”)—2

The Compiler of Ch’ing-shih says: Man is born from ch’ing and dies on account of ch’ing. Ch’ing, however, is not born from man nor does it die on account of man. After a man is born, ch’ing can make him die; after a man is dead, ch’ing can resurrect him. Even when the form is beyond restoration, ch’ing still does not perish. Ch’ing can bring the desires of this life to their fulfillment after one’s death, and bring the incompleted affinity of one’s previous life to its completion in the next life. Then, is not the efficacy of ch’ing quite evident? If that ch’ing which arises from the merest of desires on the part of a man and a woman can be everlasting like this, then is it not the more so regarding that ch’ing which binds the essences together, unites the spirits, and designs and creates the splendid, grandiose universe itself?

In this chapter the compiler further examines the incomparable power of ch’ing. All the anecdotes included in this chapter deal with miracles, brought about of course by ch’ing. The difference between the entries of this chapter and those of chapter 8, “Pathos,” is that all the characters in the eighth chapter have to rely upon an outside agent—be it a poem, a supernatural being, or an inanimate object—in order to bring their emotional wishes to fruit. In this chapter, however, the miraculous power of ch’ing is described from yet another angle, since not one of the chapter’s characters has to rely upon any outside agent. The almost unbelievable power of ch’ing, alone, is sufficient here to work wonders.

There are several entries in this chapter which might merit special consideration elsewhere, but for our present study I would like to consider only two of them. First, there is the sole entry in section 6, “Pursuing the Beloved after Death”. The story, “Ts’ao-shih Wu-nü,” deserves mention here because it is one of the very few tales in classical Chinese in which unrequited love is the main theme. The coarse but naturalistic description, of the desperate and persistent love of a girl from a wealthy family for the young servant of a tea shop not at all interested in her, has a special strength that stirs the reader’s sympathy for the unfortunate heroine.[83] The second entry, one of the two in section 11, “Haunted Caskets,” is entitled “Pai-nü” (“Miss Pai”) and is the last entry in this chapter. (The story is copied verbatim from Shuo-t’ing.) Since the phenomenon described in this story is even now a common folk belief, and since the full implication of the section heading “Chiu-ling” (“Haunted Caskets”) is obscure, I have here translated this short entry in full:

Miss Pai, a prostitute, was affectionately in love with Yüan Chieh, a man of Wu, and she had sworn that she would never marry anyone else. The more the procuress interfered in their affair, the firmer Pai’s determination became.

There was at that time a rich merchant who asked Pai to marry him, but she refused. The procuress therefore flogged Pai until she became quite ill. Subsequently, Pai wrote a letter to Yüan Chieh, asking him to come to her. Yüan Chieh, however, was afraid of the procuress and dared not go to her place.

Pai was heartbroken. Near death, she told the old woman, “You won’t be able to bury me until my Master Yüan arrives,” and with these words she died. On the burial day, when they attempted to raise the casket, they found it extremely heavy—so much so that even with a dozen persons straining together, they still failed to lift it. The procuress said, “Alas, this is all because young Master Yüan hasn’t arrived yet!” and she immediately sent for Yüan. The moment Yüan arrived, the procuress tapped on the casket and said, “Your young master has arrived.” Presently it was found, as if in response to these very words, that the casket could be lifted up. The spectators marvelled at the incident. Yüan Chieh thereafter hired several Buddhist monks to chant the sutras of comfort for Miss Pai’s soul, just as he might if he had been lamenting the death of a wife.

The reader of Ch’ing-shih will probably have noticed that the compiler frequently does not distinguish lust from love, and here in this chapter there are several entries in which the relation of the hero and heroine can in no way be described as other than physical attraction. One such story, which I have chosen to translate here as representative of this chapter, is entry 4, found in section 2. As the reader will see, this story provides an excellent plot for a full-fledged comedy—in fact, a greatly elaborated, comic vernacular version of the entry can be found in chapter 35 of Ling Meng-ch’u’s Erh-k’e p’ai-an ching-ch’i.

As the title indicates, the story takes place in Wu-sung, located in present-day Chiang-su province. I suspect the story to be one of those which our compiler has written down, based on an actual event. The story pokes fun at middle-class citizens—at their utilitarian attitude towards love as well as at their foolish stubbornness in clinging blindly to the social, ethical, and moral conventions of the time. Although this story is unrefined and terse, its author nevertheless succeeds in vividly presenting the comical love affair of a young couple in Ming China.

ENTRY 4. “The Lad of the Sun Family of Wu-sung” (“Wu-sung Sun-sheng”)

In Wu-sung there once lived a young man by the name of Sun, seventeen years old, a handsome lad, who sometimes flirted with a neighbor’s daughter but had never had a chance to be alone with her. One night, as the girl’s mother was taking her chamber pot out, on her way to the outdoor toilet, Sun mistook her for the daughter and rushed up to her, but when he found out that she was the mother he was quite startled and fled. The woman was stunned; she now suspected that the lad had been having some affair with her daughter, so she closely interrogated the girl. The girl was utterly ashamed, and consequently hanged herself.

The mother tried in vain to revive her daughter, then determined to kill Sun, that she might vent her hatred and regret. She went to see Sun and told him, “Our families are about equal in status, and if you really liked my daughter, we could have established matrimonial ties between our two families. Why did you have to do such an indecent thing?” She took the young man home with her by force, tied him beside the dead body, then went to report him to the local magistrate.

Sun thought that he would certainly be sentenced to death. He reflected upon the fact that he had never had even one night’s pleasure with the girl, and now he would be caught by the law. Was it not his karma which had brought all this upon him? While he was thinking sadly about it all, he happened to glance over at the girl’s body; she seemed to him as attractive now as when she had been alive. He undressed her and took his pleasure with her, thinking that after he had once made love to her, he could die with no regret.

But as soon as he had finished with her, she began to breathe gently. The young man felt it extraordinary and immediately helped her up. She was, in effect, resurrected, had been brought back to life.

Presently, the girl’s mother returned with the constables. When they opened the door they saw the two, sitting together and talking intimately. The mother was at a loss; nevertheless she forced Sun to go with them back to the magistrate’s.

Sun was afraid he would be punished, and so related the incident in its entirety. The magistrate considered it all a prearrangement of the underworld and ruled that the two should, after all, become man and wife.

CHAPTER 11: “Ch’ing-hua” (“Transformation”)

(18 entries)

The Compiler of Ch’ing-shih says: The main characteristic of ch’ing is that it involves motion but not shape. It might suddenly touch a person without his noticing it. It has the characteristics of wind, and therefore might transform itself into wind.[84] Wind, something that whirls incessantly, is a thing of the same category as ch’ing.

On the other hand, ch’ing somethimes transforms itself into stone, a hard substance.[85] At other times it may transform itself into birds or plants, i.e., things without intelligence.[86] However, when the bird’s intention lies in the east, it goes to the east; when its intention lies in the west, it goes to the west—the elusiveness and briskness of the wind are shared only by birds. They soar and alight in pairs. And how can man be inferior to birds! Then, again, the camphor tree can intertwine its branches;[87] and two flowers can bloom on a single stem.[88] Although plants are devoid of intelligence, when they imitate human emotion it seems that they too have intelligence. Should a man have no emotion, he would be even lower than the plants. Po Hsiang-shan says:

We wished to fly in heaven, two birds with the wings of one,

And to grow together on the earth, two branches of one tree.

Earth endures, heaven endures; some time both shall end,

While this unending sorrow goes on and on for ever.[89]

Po’s poem refers to stories similar to those included here.

Now I ask you, if their ch’ing were not as firm as metal or stone, how could we then have stories such as theirs?[90] Therefore, we can rest assured that it is perfectly appropriate for ch’ing occasionally to harden into metal or stone.

“Ch’ing-hua” (“Transformation”) is the second of the two chapters of Ch’ing-shih which are not subdivided into sections (the first is chapter 7). But from the above chapter summary, we see that the compiler manages again here, as he did in the summary for chapter 7, to touch upon most of the entries included in the chapter, and in a fashion that allows his reader to discern clearly the underlying thematic categorization of the entries.

Four types of transformation, each symbolizing a particular attribute of ch’ing, are included in this chapter:[91]

1) Transformations into wind. As the compiler has stated in the chapter summary, the wind is something which moves but has no shape. Therefore it at once symbolizes both the unsurpassable strength, and the elusiveness, of ch’ing. Under this type, we might also include fire which, again, is powerful without having a definite shape.[92]

2) Transformations into metal or stone, including gemstones. Our compiler perceives metal and stone to be symbols of strong will-power, determination, and endurance—characteristics of men and women with profound ch’ing.

3) Transformations into birds. Flying birds, with their great mobility, are seen in Ch’ing-shih as symbols of limitlessness and unrestrained freedom. Additionally, some birds, due to their early association in literature with love between man and woman (e.g., the chü, or osprey), or due to the innate inclinations of the male and the female to stay together always (e.g., the yüan-yang, or Mandarin duck), are seen in Ch’ing-shih as symbols of conjugal affection and fidelity.

4) Transformations into plants. Trees with branches or roots intertwined, twin flowers growing on but a single stem, and other, similar phenomena within the plant world, are often considered imitative expressions of human love between the sexes. Consequently, individual plants are often personified and seen as symbols of the attachment and affinity existing between man and woman.

All the stories included in this chapter indicate the compiler’s belief in the ever-enduring and elusive nature of ch’ing. When it is constrained by, or restricted to, the human form—the mortal body of flesh and blood—or when it is hampered by mundane human conditions, so the compiler intimates through the entries and their commentaries in this chapter, ch’ing can cast away its human body in order to manifest itself more appropriately. Thus ch’ing transcends the boundaries of different species; it enters the animal world, the plant world, and even the inanimate world of stones and metals. And in so doing it liberates itself from the limiting situation, thereupon to manifest or express its intention and determination in a more concrete way.

The story I have chosen to translate for this chapter, entry 5, is an abridged adaptation of the story “Hsin chien chin-shih chuan” (“Story of Hearts as Untarnished and as Firm as Are Gold and Jadeite”), as found in the late Ming miscellany of fiction, Yen-chü pi-chi.[93] This entry, on the one hand, is a tragic story of love between a young scholar and a courtesan at the time of foreign rule under the Mongols; and, on the other hand, the story exposes the evils of a decadent, corrupt government in its final years. The contrast of innocent young love with the calculated scheming of hardened politicians is touching.

In adopting this story into his Ch’ing-shih, our compiler has demonstrated his fine skill as an editor. Basically, the Ch’ing-shih story remains the same as its original. However, by omitting the two long poems at the beginning of the story, and by omitting or rephrasing some of the more coarse and colloquial passages, the compiler has turned a crude, plot-centered story into a refined piece of literary work with both an interesting plot and a consistent narrative style. An anonymous Ming ch’uan-ch’i play, Hsia-chien chi, takes its basic plot from this story.

ENTRY 5. “Hearts as Untarnished and as Firm as Are Gold and Jadeite” (“Hsin chien chin-shih”)

During the period of Chih-yüan of the Yüan dynasty, there lived in Sung-chiang district a student by the name of Li Yen-chih, whose nickname was Yü-lang, or “Jade Lad,” and who was known at an early age for his literary talent.[94] On the grounds behind his school there was a tall building, from the top of which one could look far into the distance. It was here within the tall building that Yen-chih always spent the three summer months in study. The area beyond the grounds in all directions contained mostly houses of prostitution, so that from the tower area one could hear the sound of various musical instruments all day long. Yen-chih, however, had become accustomed to the music and it did not disturb him in the least.

One day when Yen-chih was drinking with his fellow students up in the tower, one of his friends, after listening to the music for a short while, said jokingly, “This is indeed what you would call ‘only hearing the sound, not seeing the form’!” “If you could see the form then you would not enjoy the sound,” Yen-chih remarked, also joking.

It was immediately proposed that each of them write a verse on this theme, and Yen-chih was the first to finish his poem. Just as they were passing the poem around and commenting appreciatively, they were informed that the school master had come to pay a visit. Yen-chih immediately recovered the poem and hid it in his pocket. The students greeted their teacher and invited him up into the tower to share a drink or two with them. Yen-chih was concerned lest his friends mention the poem and so, on the pretext of changing his clothes, he excused himself, then proceeded to crumple the paper into a ball, tossing it over the fence, where it landed, poem and all, alongside the house of an old procuress by the name of Chang.

Now the old woman had at that time but one girl, Li-jung by name, whose nickname was Ts’ui-mei Niang, and who, thanks to her talent and beauty, had become extremely arrogant.[95] Day and night, Li-jung would be found sitting in the small pavilion which looked out upon the tower of Yen-chih’s school. Picking up the crumpled paper and unfolding it, Li-jung now began to read the poem and recognized that it had been written by Yen-chih. Having read it she secretly admired the poet. Therefore she composed a poem herself, patterned after the rhyme scheme of Yen-chih’s poem, and wrote it out on a white silk handkerchief.

Waiting for a day when she knew that Yen-chih would be in the school tower, Li-jung tossed her poem over the fence as he had done; it was Yen-chih who picked it up and read it. From the poem Yen-chih learned that the girl was interested in him, and so he stepped up onto a rock which had come from Grand Lake, in order to look over the fence.[96] Thus it was that the couple met.

The couple talked intimately at this first meeting, and immediately they became close friends. Li-jung asked Yen-chih why he was still single. Yen-chih answered, “I will never marry until I find someone whose talent and beauty equal yours.” Li-jung said, “If you don’t consider me too much beneath you, I would be willing to serve you,” and before they parted, the couple had made a vow.

Yen-chih returned home and told his parents of his wish; his father was enraged, inasmuch as Li-jung’s social status was indeed far beneath that of the Lis. Several times thereafter, Yen-chih had various of his relatives and friends go to his father on his behalf, but still the father would not give his consent.

When almost a year had passed, and Yen-chih had completely given up his study, having become seriously lovesick, and when Li-jung, too, had managed for so long to keep herself at home for the sake of Yen-chih, the father was at last forced to give in. He thereupon sent a matchmaker, with the traditional six kinds of presents, formally and properly to ask Li-jung to be his daughter-in-law. A date was subsequently set for the wedding.

At that time, A-lu-t’ai, the deputy governor of the province to which Sung-chiang district belonged, had served out his term of office at this post and was about to leave for the capital.[97] Po-yen was then prime minister—a dictatorial authority in the government.[98] He routinely demanded that any offical who had served out his term at any of various posts contribute ten thousand taels of silver to him, or be immediately demoted or perhaps banished from officialdom. A-lu-t’ai had been in office nine years, and now, even with all he possessed, he could not pay half the required amount. He therefore reviewed his situation with one of his assistants, who said, “What the prime minister lacks is not wealth. Why, if we could pick out two or three of the most talented and beautiful official courtesans from among the various districts, and then dress them up and present them to the prime minister, it would cost you no more than a thousand taels of gold, and I am sure the prime minister would still be twice as pleased as he would be had he received only the money.”

A-lu-t’ai considered this scheme a good one. Thereupon, counterfeiting an order from the prime minister, A-lu-t’ai ordered his assistant to notify the various districts that they should carry out the preconceived plan.

Now Li-jung was to be the first of two courtesans acquired. Yen-chih and his father upon hearing of the plan immediately went everywhere they could and tried every possible scheme, but in no way could they obtain promise of Li-jung’s release. Li-jung, just before she was to set out, sent a letter to Yen-chih, in which she promised to die for their love rather than accept such a fate, whereupon she began her fast. But the old procuress wept and pleaded with her, saying that if Li-jung were to die now, it would certainly be she, the old woman, who would be found at fault. So Li-jung was forced to stop her fasting.

When her boat did set sail, Yen-chih followed on foot along the bank, his plight moving all those who saw him. Whenever the boat anchored he would sleep nearby at the water’s edge, weeping all night long. In this way, almost two months had passed when the boat at last reached Lin-ch’ing. By then, Yen-chih had already travelled more than three thousand li. His feet were all broken open, and he no longer resembled a human being. Li-jung eventually managed to catch sight of him through the cracks in the panelling of her boat, and she fainted at the grievous sight. Procuress Chang tried to revive Li-jung, but only after a long while did she again come to. Then she mournfully begged the boatman to go to Yen-chih on her behalf, and tell him that “the reason I didn’t immediately commit suicide is that the madam has still not been released. As soon as they free her, I will kill myself. Please go on home—don’t make yourself suffer like this.” When Yen-chih heard what she had said, he looked up at the sky and began to cry bitterly. Then he flung himself to the ground where he died instantly.

The boatmen, pitying him, dug a pit and buried him by the bank. That same night Li-jung strangled herself in the boat, which greatly enraged A-lu-t’ai. He said, “With the most expensive clothing, the best of food, I was to take you to the highest of places . . . but no! All you wanted was that miserable student. You were indeed a hopeless bitch!” With these words he ordered the boatmen to strip her naked and cremate her. The corpse was thoroughly burned to ashes—all except the heart, that is. This, the boatmen stomped on, whereupon a small finger-sized object, shaped like a man, suddenly popped out of the heart. The boatmen rinsed it off in the water, and saw that its color was that of gold, its hardness that of jade. One could see its clothing, its hat, its eyebrows and its hair, all in the most minute detail, nothing missing—a miniature Li Yen-chih—except that it could neither talk nor move.

The boatmen took the object to A-lu-t’ai and reported the incident to him. Astonished, A-lu-t’ai said, “Isn’t it strange that once the heart is set on something, it can actually bring about such a phenomenon as this.” He sighed repeatedly, marvelling at the incident as he toyed with the object. The crowd that had by now gathered asked A-lu-t’ai’s permission to check on Yen-chih’s body, whereupon they dug it up and set it, too, on fire. And within Yen-chih’s heart they did indeed find another small figure, about the same size as the first one, but resembling Chang Li-jung. A-lu-t’ai was overjoyed, saying, “Even though I can’t have the living Li-jung, these two objects are rare treasures indeed!” He then placed them in a small bag made of some rare brocade, and next encased the bag in a box of sandalwood, which he labeled “Jewels of Hearts as Untarnished and as Firm as Are Gold and Jadeite”. Thereafter he liberally recompensed Madam Chang, and also left her free to make the funeral arrangements and to return home at will.

When he arrived in the capital, A-lu-t’ai took the box and presented it to the prime minister, at the same time telling him the story behind its contents. The prime minister was very pleased, and he opened up the box. But the forms seen previously were no longer there! What the prime minister saw now was two blobs of putrescent blood, and the stench was so disagreeable that one could hardly bear it.

The prime minister was furious, and took A-lu-t’ai to court, charging him with the crime of kidnapping another’s wife. When the final verdict was written, it read as follows:

In this instance, although the love of the man and the woman was strong, and their determination firm, they were never able while alive to bring their mutual longings to fulfillment; hence, after their deaths, their desires did not perish, but instead were transformed and concretized. It is likely—after the two images had been placed together in the box—that the desires of the two were met, and their indignation alleviated, and so the concretized substances also took on their more natural forms. A-lu-t’ai’s testimony, then, may indeed be true.

However, even this verdict could not mollify the prime minister’s anger, and A-lu-t’ai was eventually sentenced to death.

CHAPTER 12: “Ch’ing-mei” (“Matchmakers”)

(13 sections and 27 entries)

1. “Hsien-mei” (“Immortals as Matchmakers”)—2

2. “Yu-mei” (“Friends as Matchmakers”)—2

3. “Kuan-mei” (“Officials as Matchmakers”)—3

4. “Ch’i-mei” (“Wives as Matchmakers”)—2

5. “Tzu-mei” (“Calligraphy as Matchmaker”)—1

6. “Shih-mei” (“Poetry as Matchmaker”)—6

7. “Tz’u-mei” (“Lyrics as Matchmakers”)—2

8. “Kuei-mei” (“Ghosts as Matchmakers”)—1

9. “Feng-mei” (“Wind as Matchmaker”)—1

10. “Hung-yeh-mei” (“Red Leaves as Matchmakers”)—1

11. “Hu-mei” (“Tigers as Matchmakers”)—4

12. “Hu-mei” (“Foxes as Matchmakers”)—1

13. “Yi-mei” (“Ants as Matchmakers”)—1

The Compiler of Ch’ing-shih says: Matchmaking is a frequently encountered ingredient of marriages and other relations between man and woman, hence I have not recorded any commonplace happenings, but have written down only those which are extraordinary. Matchmakers who bring about beneficial results to both parties, be they matchmakers as ferocious as tigers or as bewitching as foxes, are well worth recording; but matchmakers who bring about harmful results to either party—even if the matchmaker be the Envoy of the Spirit of Harmony, exerting all his supernatural prowess—such matchmakers only lead people to licentiousness;[99] they thus will leave behind themselves the bases for criticism. Why, just see how the song Fa-k’o has it:

In hewing [the wood for] an axe-handle, how do you proceed?

Without [another] axe it cannot be done.

In taking a wife, how do you proceed?

Without a go-between it cannot be done.

In hewing an axe-handle, in hewing an axe-handle,

The pattern is not far off.

I see the lady,

and forthwith the vessels are arranged in rows.[100]

Now I ask you, should not a matchmaker, then, be very cautious? By reviewing some of the results, both beneficial and harmful, brought about by matchmakers, we can learn at the same time how better to direct our ch’ing.

As the compiler points out in his chapter summary, this chapter deals with extraordinary matchmakers. Inasmuch as most of the entries included in this chapter contain one or more extraordinary elements, we find that several of the stories have counterparts, in either hua-pen or drama form, which have plots nearly identical with the Ch’ing-shih plots.[101] Of course, this does not mean that the counterparts all derive from the Ch’ing-shih entries, or vice versa; rather, one may note the phenomenon that an interesting story is enjoyed by all, and is often told repeatedly in its various forms. But there are, in Ch’ing-shih, not a few stories which do themselves serve unmistakably as the basis for or source of some later composition, even though some of these Ch’ing-shih stories may themselves have been based upon an even earlier written source.

One such story in this chapter is entry 26, “Ta-pieh hu” (“The Fox of Ta-pieh”), the only entry in section 12, “Hu-mei” (“Foxes as Matchmakers”). (Because I have translated this entry as representative of the chapter, I will not here give a synopsis of it.) This story is one of the very few Chinese classical tales which can genuinely be designated a fairy tale, in the sense that the events described belong to a legendary or to an imaginary realm, always with the participation of some nonhuman characters who, however, symbolize human wishes, fears, or fantasies. This story’s motif, moreover, is a familiar one in the folk literatures of many nations: namely, the encounter and establishment of a relationship between a human character and a nonhuman character, and the consequent human character’s realization of a certain wish, or his understanding of some truth, followed by the dissolution of this human-nonhuman relationship.

The Ch’ing-shih story, though no acknowledgment is given, is a skillfully revised version of an anecdote found in Wu Ta-chen’s anthology, Kuang yen-yi pien.[102] The Ch’ing-shih version of the “Ta-pieh hu” plot remains basically the same as that found in Kuang yen-yi pien, but our compiler makes some significant changes and has thereby made his version a piece of literature far superior to its original. The changes can be examined from two aspects, omissions and embellishments. First, the “Ta-pieh hu” in Ch’ing-shih is only approximately three-fifths the length of that in Kuang yen-yi pien. By eliminating the irrelevant, superficial, and redundant descriptions scattered through-out the entire work—including a poem, composed by the male protagonist, near the beginning of the story—our compiler has made his version a more consistent and tightly-knit work. Second, we can see our compiler’s embellishing process at two different levels, the stylistic and the contextual, it sometimes being difficult to distinguish the one from the other. With regard to stylistic embellishment, we see that Feng Meng-lung has replaced the crude, vulgar, coarse, and overly colloquial expressions with an elegant and succinct language.[103] With regard to contextual embellishment, we see that our compiler—by rephrasing, rewriting, or sometimes by omitting, the inconsistent, excessively sentimental, exaggerated and sensational descriptions—has virtually re-created “Ta-pieh hu”.[104]

Particularly admirable is the Ch’ing-shih treatment of the final part of the story. In the Kuang yen-yi pien version we read that, after all medical efforts have failed to cure the Ma girl, Chiang asks the parents for her hand in marriage; thereupon, his nostrils plugged up securely, the scabies-covered girl on his back, Chiang carries his bride-to-be across the busy street full of staring eyes and into the inn at which he lives, where he cures her by washing her in water prepared with the magical herb given him earlier by the fox. The story then ends with these sentences: “Her parents now began to regret what they had done, and to marvel at the miraculous recovery of their daughter. Yet it was too late, for they had lost her.” The ending here is weak and pointless in terms of the main theme—the fulfillment of a human wish with the help of a nonhuman character. Furthermore, the overly detailed and exaggerated descriptions of the girl’s disease, like the earlier crude portrayal of the old fox, are not in keeping with the rather lighthearted, brisk fairy-tale style we have come to expect. But with the “Ta-pieh hu” of Ch’ing-shih, our compiler has succeeded—by omitting all the sensational description, and by changing the setting from that of the busy street and the inn of the young merchant to that of the girl’s parents’ house—in achieving precisely what the Kuang yen-yi pien version of the story fails to achieve. That is, Feng Meng-lung ends the story at its natural, expected place, by following the same course along which the development of the plot has thus far led the reader—and he does this without resorting either to unnecessary digression or to excessive exaggeration.

A vernacular counterpart of the Ch’ing-shih “Ta-pieh hu” can be found in hua-pen form in chapter 29 of Ling Meng-ch’u’s Erh-k’e p’ai-an ching-ch’i. Despite Ling’s claim that his story “has been handed down by those old men [i.e., the storytellers] of the capital, with an original title of ‘The Miraculous Fox and the Three Bunches of Grass’,” it is nevertheless clear that the story is but a vernacularized version of the Ch’ing-shih entry.[105]

ENTRY 26. “The Fox of Ta-pieh” (“Ta-pieh hu”)

In the year of Chia-shen (1464) of the T’ien-shun period, a man from Che, surnamed Chiang, was in the areas of Chiang-hsi and Hukuang on business.[106] When he reached Ma-k’ou in Han-yang, he took up lodgings at an inn. Chiang was at that time young and quite handsome. Several houses down from the inn lived the Ma family. The Mas had only one daughter. One day the girl was standing at her window—slender, graceful, her beauty radiantly imposing—at the same time as Chiang happened to be visiting her family. As soon as he chanced to see her he became infatuated with her.

That night the girl showed up at Chiang’s lodgings. She said to him, “I am grateful to you for your loving glances—I too share your feelings, and so I’ve come to give myself to you, if you wish. My father is stern and strict, though, so you have to be careful of what you say, and you must keep our affairs a secret. That’s the only way our love will last.” The young man was overjoyed, more so even than if he had encountered a fairy. That night the couple shared the same pillows and mattress. . . .

From that night on, Chiang became very taciturn, keeping mostly to himself, lest he betray the girl accidentally. However, the young man gradually wore himself out, and at last one of his friends, hearing the same telltale sounds night after night, grew suspicious. He mentioned it to Chiang, asking him whether he had been bewitched by some weird spirit or the other, but the young man at first would tell him nothing. It was only when he had become very ill that he said at last, “Mr. Ma’s daughter and I are fated to be together. She often comes to see me, and we always have a good time together—that’s all.” The friend said, “Impossible! The walls at the Ma house are high and they’re a big family. How could his daughter get out to see you? I’ve heard that there are fox spirits and ghosts around here. It must be one of them you have met.” Thereupon the friend put several pints of sesame seed into a coarsely woven cloth bag and gave it all to Chiang, saying, “When the girl comes again, give her this—it will reveal her identity.” Then he told Chiang just what he should do.

The young man followed the instructions given him by his friend. At last, by tracing the sesame seeds which had spilled from the bag that he had presented to the girl, Chiang finally came to the foot of the Tapieh mountains.[107] And what should he see there but a fox, snoring away in a cave!

The young man was so terrified that he let out a yell, which woke up the fox. Thus awakened, the fox said, “So; now, you know who I am—but you would have found out anyway now that our predestined relation has come to its end. Well, I won’t hurt you. In fact, I’m even going to repay you for your kindness. Should you now desire to have the real daughter of the Mas, it’ll be easy for you.” The fox then picked some grass from around the cave and divided it into three bunches, handing it to Chiang. “Boil one bunch of this in water and then wash yourself in the water and your illness will cure itself; take another bunch and spread it around on the roof of the Ma house, after which the Ma girl will come down with scabies; then using the last bunch, boil it in water and have the girl wash in the water. Her scabies will clear up and she will then be yours.”

The young man again was rapt with joy. He returned to his lodgings, saying not a word to anyone, but secretly doing what the fox had told him to do. The girl’s body was soon covered with scabies. At first her skin only itched, but then the pus and blood began to ooze out, and finally the pain became so intense that she could only pray night and day that she might die.

After all the physicians had failed to provide her any relief, the Mas finally posted an announcement on their front door, reading, “Whoever can cure our daughter may have her as his wife.” There-upon Chiang, claiming that he could cure her disease, visited the Mas. He prepared the grass and had the girl bathe herself; after a month she was completely cured.

As a result, Chiang obtained a beautiful wife, and moved in to live with his parents-in-law.

CHAPTER 13: “Ch’ing-han” (“Regrettable Love”)

(4 sections and 39 entries)

1. “Wu-yüan”[108] (“Not Fated for Conjugal Ties”)—10

2. “Suo-ts’ung fei-ou” (“Unsuitable Matches”)—4

3. “Shang-shih” (“Lamenting Death”)—23

4. “Tsai-sheng pu-kuo” (“Incomplete Resurrections”)—2

The Compiler of Ch’ing-shih says: In this imperfect world, regrettable incidents abound. Especially when it comes to the private longings between man and woman, there is surely much that is ineffable. Even should the heroic spirits of Ku the Ya-ya and Hsü the Yü-hou not have perished but have transformed themselves into Envoys of the Spirit of Harmony, they would probably still be unable to surreptitiously bring about the fulfillment of all these longings.[109]

And so it is altogether appropriate that when ch’ing grows deeper, that which is regrettable is also magnified. From ancient times onward, it has always been difficult for a beautiful woman and a talented man to come together: Chu Shu has recorded all her sorrow in her poetry;[110] Fei-yen’s love has spilled over the mouth of her embroidered bag.[111] Their stories have won the sympathy of those who are emotionally sensitive.

But if they [i.e., the just-mentioned beautiful woman and the talented man] are fortunate enough to meet, it is sometimes for nothing more than a fruitless exchange of glances in the east room or perhaps some promise made in the west chamber, never to be fulfilled, but only bringing forth endless grief or pages and pages of mournful words. But when even a brief opening of the hearts can sometimes occasion a lifetime of regret, wouldn’t it then be better if the man and woman had never met, if their longings are fated to remain forever unfulfilled? And again, if the two are fortunate in having their longings fulfilled, their situation will sometimes resemble nothing so much as the chance coming together of two ivy tendrils on a wall—at birth not intertwined—staring off into the void, alone, each of them, in the light wind, under a bright moon, only to be separated ere long—their former intimate whisperings, their joyous laughter, now all to become intractable melancholy. Wouldn’t it have been better, then, if their longings had never been fulfilled? But love affairs such as these are no more than flowers in the wind, the moon on the water, and as such belong to the imaginary realm of fancy.[112]

Under yet more favorable circumstances, a flower may actually be transplanted into the man’s inner chamber . . . a sword brought to the lady’s boudoir . . . and promises made now, at last, of everlasting love—but even then togetherness is sometimes as short-lived as are the chih plants, withering before their promised time, or colored clouds, dispersing at the blink of an eye.[113] For beauty and youth can vanish suddenly, the resultant mound of yellow dirt suggesting absolutely nothing of the past. The rouge left over, the lute left behind, only add to the mournful sighs. Then, in such cases, wouldn’t it seem better had each remained a bird in the sky, freely coming, freely going, so that when some untimely spring wind shook the flowers from the branches of the other’s garden, the one, although perhaps not at the time completely indifferent, would at least not feel as if it were his own heart being ripped out? Yes, I know—it is those who are feelingless who are always categorized with the dirt or plants; yet it is the emotionally sensitive who often come to grief. He who has entered the Gate of Emptiness calls mundane human life a “bitter enjoyment,” and oh, how true this is![114]

This chapter and the one following it, “Ch’ing-ch’ou” (“Adversaries”), are the two chapters that focus on the aspect of imperfection in ch’ing. Although both these chapters deal with regrettable incidents—unconsummated love, unhappy relations between man and woman, and so on—the agents bringing about those unfortunate or regrettable happenings belong, in each chapter, to two distinctly different categories. In chapter 14, human factors play the main role; in chapter 13, however, it is circumstance or fate—that irresistible, nonhuman power—which is the chief element occasioning the tragic incidents.

And perhaps it is because fate is not infrequently the chief factor bringing about a regrettable relation between man and woman, that the general tone of the compiler in his commentaries upon this chapter is not one overly charged with sentiment. To paraphrase from the compiler’s chapter summary, imperfection is a normal phenomenon of human life—a phenomenon perhaps regrettable but nonetheless inevitable. It would seem, in fact, that Feng Meng-lung not only accepts the imperfect conditions of the human world, but that he further sees a unique beauty and attraction in these natural imperfections, which leads him to characterize human existence as a k’u-ch’ü (“bitter enjoyment”). This is clearly evidenced when he quotes Chiang Tao-hsing, who is lamenting the unbefitting second marriage of the famous Sung poetess Li Ch’ing-chao. Chiang Tao-hsing had said: “Ever since ancient times, of all the couples who have lived intimately and harmoniously, none can be compared to Yi-an [i.e., Li Ch’ing-chao] and Te-fu. They represent the ultimate match—an ideal match—of the beautiful to the talented. So is not Yi-an’s remarrying Ju-chou after Te-fu’s death like adding legs to a snake?”[115] The compiler’s quoting of this particular passage, referring as it does to a nonexistent phenomenon of nature, exemplifies his view that any human attempt to change a naturally “imperfect”—or seemingly imperfect—situation will only upset the delicate equilibrium of Creation. And it is this “necessitarian” view of our compiler, no doubt, which accounts in part for his including in Ch’ing-shih several of the best of all the tragic stories to be found in classical Chinese.[116]

The story I have chosen to translate for this chapter is entry 31, found in section 3, “Shang-shih” (“Lamenting Death”). This is one of the three stories in Ch’ing-shih which Feng Meng-lung himself says he wrote.[117] To my knowledge, all three stories appear for the first time in Ch’ing-shih; further, it seems that these works did not receive much attention when Ch’ing-shih was compiled, nor have scholars, more recently, made use of these three stories in their study of Feng Meng-lung.[118]

ENTRY 31. “Feng Ai-sheng”

Lung Tzu-yu’s “Story of Ai-sheng” goes this way:

Ai-sheng was not a native of Wu, nor do we know her real family name. When she was fourteen, she was sold to the house of the old procuress, Madam Feng, in Chin-ch’ang [i.e., Su-chou]—the Feng name having for generations been the leading name in the world of courtesans—and in the Wu dialect, since it was then the custom to call a courtesan “such-and-such-a-sheng,” she was given the name Feng Ai-sheng. Now Procuress Feng had four daughters, and all of them had become famous as courtesans, in particular the youngest, the one named Hsi. But one by one all four had gotten married leaving Procuress Feng now a tired old lady, with her younger sister who was called Eighth Lady managing the affairs of the Feng household.[119] Eighth Lady was quite recently widowed, and when she obtained Ai-sheng she thus treated her as she might her own daughter. Ai-sheng was pretty, and intelligent on top of that—after having lived with the Fengs for but half a year she had mastered the Wu dialect, and after only a year she had become quite famous.

Ai-sheng was a great drinker and was good at jesting. If you asked the host of a drinking party, he would always admit it—there would be no fun if Ai-sheng were not present. Most of Ai-sheng’s peers were jealous of her clever tongue but nonetheless could find no fault with her. In fact, Ai-sheng had always hated her life as a courtesan, saying on occasion that she would eventually find herself a sincere man and marry him. But it seemed the few sincere men there were, were unable to afford her, whereas others who could well afford to marry her were just not Ai-sheng’s type, so whenever she entertained her guests and began to feel depressed or frustrated, Ai-sheng would ask for a big wine cup and proceed to drink herself drunk.

One man in the same district, Ting Chung, had always been on good terms with Ai-sheng, and planned to marry her—even if it meant selling all his property. A long time passed, however, and Ting had still not been able to work things out. Meanwhile, Ai-sheng’s health was declining, and she frequently became ill. Even Eighth Lady grew tired of her, and she hastily married Ai-sheng off to some noble from Jungch’eng. The marriage, however, was made against Ai-sheng’s will, and the noble, once he had obtained Ai-sheng, gave but scant care and attention to her, so that Ai-sheng became even more depressed and her illness got progressively worse. Thereupon the noble returned her to the Fengs, after which she died at the tender age of nineteen.

Now I ask you, was there ever any beauty as ill-fated as was Aisheng? When she was fourteen nobody at all had even heard her name, and by the age of nineteen she had died in her sickbed. In between, there were but three or four years during which she ate dainties, dressed herself in brocades, enjoyed the most spectacular of scenic places, and joked and laughed among the powerful and the noble. With those innate gifts of hers, had she lived another ten years, she might have met the man she really wanted and then she could have died with no regrets. Or even had she followed in the steps of the more ordinary courtesans—had she been content with her assigned lot in life, having no further ambitions—why then, for those three or four years, she would at least have enjoyed a fleeting moment of happiness in her life. Unfortunately, already intelligent at an early age, she perceived the evils surrounding the rough life of a courtesan, and thus sought a sincere man whom she could serve—and sought him diligently. But she failed, dying a grievous death. Oh, what a pity it is! But men are unfaithful creatures, and many of them are powerful. So then, even if Ai-sheng had managed to live several years more, she still might not have attained her goal, but might only thereby have suffered longer. We see that Heaven’s liberally endowing Ai-sheng with wisdom brought her only misfortune; so how, then, do we know that Heaven’s withholding a long life from her was not in fact due to Heavenly pity—that she was not thereby released from her human sufferings! Why, then, should Ai-sheng herself grieve over an early death?

Anyway, as soon as Ai-sheng had been put in her casket, it was left in a field outside the city, and a long time passed yet she still had not been interred; it was Ting Chung who then conceived a plan to raise some money, in order to buy a burial site for her. And at the same time there happened to be in the city a man from Tung-t’ing by the name of Hsü Wu-kung, young and fond of performing charities, who, moreover, was also an old friend of Ai-sheng’s. When Ting Chung just happened to mention his plan to Wu-kung, Wu-kung immediately put the plan into action and obtained a sum of money which the two took to the Fengs, imploring them first to re-encoffin Ai-sheng and then to settle upon both a grave site and a burial date. This was done.

On her burial day, all those who had heard about her wore the white cap and white clothing of mouring and walked in the funeral procession.

Recall that when the Sung poet Liu Ch’i died in distress, his ambitions unattained, he was buried with money contributed by all the various courtesans then famous;[120] and now Ai-sheng, instead of being buried by courtesans, has in return been buried by people like you and me—scholars—so how, then, would anybody guess that the Ai-sheng here today was not in fact one of the famous Sung courtesans? Now we have sealed this mound of dirt, in hopes that interested persons hereafter, will lament and mourn her life, and record and write down her story so that, as with the tomb of Liu Ch’i at Lo-yu Yüan, this mound might also become a site of everlasting attraction.[121]

CHAPTER 14: “Ch’ing-ch’ou” (“Adversaries”)

(7 sections and 44 entries)

1. “Tsu-hun” (“Marriages Opposed by Parents”)—2

2. “Sheng-li” (“Parentally Imposed Separations”)—3

3. “Po-hsing” (“Infidelity”)—9

4. “Tu-e” (“Misfortunes Incurred through Jealousy”)—5

5. “Tsao-ts’an” (“Assailed by Slander”)—2

6. “Ch’i-wu” (“Misled by Deceit”)—2

7. “Yü-pao” (“Encountering Ruffians”)—21

The Compiler of Ch’ing-shih says: As the common expression huan-hsi yüan-chia (“the beloved enemy”) has it, enmity may come about by “love”. In each and every love affair between man and woman, there is always a beginning; it is not very often, however, that a love affair attains its ultimate potential—which reminds us of the grubworm: it lives on the roots all the while it is destroying the tree—a cruel phenomenon indeed!

One who spreads slander and practices deceit is like the criminal with the weapon still in his hand—there is no way for him to cover up his crime.[122] And as far as the wrecking of a planned marriage goes, or the separating of a couple already married, or the monopolizing of someone also loved by others, or the taking of another’s beloved—be it due to Heaven or to man—there is always some human enemy of ch’ing involved.[123] But if neither of the two is himself an adversary, then the love between those two will never disappear, but will even grow greater in the face of adversity, while the couple’s awareness of the adversity, in turn, will also become keener on account of their love. Furthermore, when one’s ch’ing is concentrated upon one thing in particular, he feels that the myriads of other things are superfluous, while one disappointed by ch’ing feels that everything is disgusting. One’s adversaries, then, probably exist not only among his enemies.

Should there be no ch’ing, there would be no adversaries; should there be no adversaries, there would also be no ch’ing. Ah, but should you never get the water and drink it for yourself, how would you know whether it be cold or hot?

In this chapter we can discern six kinds of “obstacles” to, or “adversaries” of, ch’ing. They are: parental interference, exemplified in the entries of sections 1 and 2; infidelity, exemplified in the entries of section 3; jealousy, exemplified in the entries of section 4; slander or calumniation, exemplified in the entries of section 5; deceit, exemplified in the entries of section 6; and ruffianism and violence, exemplified in the entries of section 7. These “adversaries” (adversities, obstacles, enemies, etc.) can be found either as one of the lovers themselves, or as a third element.

It is significant that the compiler, though he does not directly state this, considers parental interference with one’s children’s marriages to be completely undersirable—so much that he designates this kind of interference a ch’ou of ch’ing. Feng Meng-lung’s listing in sections 1 and 2 of five tragedies all brought about by parental interference with the children’s marriages on the one hand indicates his opposition to absolute parental authority over the children’s emotional lives; on the other, it points to his strong belief that ch’ing is a private and personal thing, not to be interfered with even by one’s parents.

Any one of several entries in this chapter might deserve a separate study.[124] I will comment here upon only one of them, “Wang Chiao”. “Wang Chiao,” the first story of this chapter, is interesting in that it is the longest entry in Ch’ing-shih. It deals with the tragic love of two cousins, Wang Chiao, the heroine, and Shen Ch’un, Wang Chiao’s boy cousin and lover. The story belongs to a unique group of classical tales, popular in Ming times, which Sun K’ai-ti has designated as shih-wen hsiao-shuo, (“verse-prose fiction”), on account of the heavy interpolation of verse sequences in a basically prose narrative.[125] While the origins and development of this kind of tale are still to be explored, we know that by the time of the Wan-li period (1573–1619), it had already become a very popular pastime among the literati both to read and to compose shih-wen hsiao-shuo. Only a dozen or so of them have survived in the several late Ming miscellanies of fiction—in Kuo-se t’ien-hsiang, Wan-chin ch’ing-lin, and Yen-chü pi-chi, for example—but their influence, then and thereafter, on both classical and vernacular short stories as well as on drama, is nevertheless worthy of the attention of students of Chinese literature.

The story of Wang Chiao and Shen Ch’un probably circulated in the form of a single volume as early as the Chia-ching period (1522–66), since it is listed in the bibliography, the Pao-wen-t’ang shu-mu, of Ch’ao Li (d. 1560).[126] Be that as it may, it has come down to us mainly by way of the previously mentioned miscellanies of fiction, the “Wang Chiao” in Ch’ing-shih being an abridged form of the story’s earlier version as found in the miscellanies.[127] With the elimination, in the Ch’ing-shih version, of several of the many verse sequences of the longer version, and of superfluous passages pertaining to those same poetical compositions, I have found the abridged (but still lengthy) Ch’ing-shih story to be in fact a more enjoyable, faster-moving piece than is the original.

Before moving to the entry which I have chosen to translate, I would here like to examine a remark found in this chapter, made by the compiler Feng Meng-lung, which bears significant information concerning his editorial views. Feng makes the comment following entry 35, “Liu Ts’ui-ts’ui”. The compiler acknowledges that the entry has been taken from “Ts’ui-ts’ui chuan” (“Story of Ts’ui-ts’ui”), in chapter 3 of Chü Yu’s Chien-teng hsin-hua. As with many other entries in Ch’ingshih that are cited as having come from other written sources, however, “Liu Ts’ui-ts’ui” is not a complete copy of “Ts’ui-ts’ui chuan”. Here, then, our compiler explains the omission, from his own “Liu Ts’ui-ts’ui,” of the latter part of “Ts’ui-ts’ui chuan”. He says:

This story is found in Ch’ü Tsung-chi’s [i.e., Ch’ü Yu’s] Chien-teng hsin-hua. In the original, there are still several more paragraphs at the end, stating that after Ts’ui-ts’ui and her husband had both died, a male servant of Ts’ui-ts’ui’s family met the couple at Mount Tao-ch’ang while he was passing through that area on a business trip.[128] Ts’ui-ts’ui entrusted this servant with a letter to her parents. Her father thereafter travelled by boat to pay a visit to the couple, but on arriving at Mount Tao-ch’ang, saw only two tombs. That night, the father nevertheless dreamed of Ts’ui-ts’ui, etc. etc. It seems to me that all these devices are but the hackneyed cliches of a story writer. Thus, I have omitted them all.

Apparently, the compiler considers his compilation, Ch’ing-shih, though an anthology of tales, to be different from the works of the hsiao-shuo chia (story writers).[129] As I mentioned earlier, this does not mean that Ch’ing-shih is indeed a shih, a “history” or true “record,” free of fabrication and irrational or supernatural elements; for as the reader will have noted, not only is Ch’ing-shih replete with supernatural and irrational elements, but its compiler, moreover, has admittedly elaborated on many of its entries. But it might suffice here to say that although Ch’ing-shih was never intended as an instrument for “telling interesting stories,”[130] the implication arising from the compiler’s effort to distinguish Ch’ing-shih from the works of the hsiao-shuo chia is worth our attention and, in my opinion, probably helps confirm the assumption long accepted among scholars of Chinese fiction, that Ch’ing-shih does indeed provide a source for some of the hua-pen stories—stories our compiler designates hsiao-shuo—but not vice versa.[131]

The story I have chosen to translate for this chapter is entry 19, found in section 4, “Tu-e” (“Misfortunes Incurred through Jealousy”). Among my reasons for choosing this entry is the circumstance that the postscript appended thereto includes an important poem composed by Feng Meng-lung himself; this poem, as I mentioned earlier, contains a direct, all-important, and unambiguous statement which identifies the compiler of Ch’ing-shih as the poet himself, Feng Meng-lung.

ENTRY 19. “The Woman at the Posthouse” (“Yi-t’ing nü-tzu”)

We do not know what sort of person this woman was, only that her poems and their preface can be seen on the wall of the posthouse in Hsin-chia. The prose preface reads:[132]

I was born and grew up in K’uai-chi. At an early age I began to study calligraphy and history. As soon as I reached adulthood, I was made a concubine to a man from Yen. Oh, that I, with the contemplative temperament of an anchoress, should be forced to serve an insensitive military man.[133] In addition to this, his wife is a furiously jealous woman, a real “lioness from East-of-the-River,” every day roaring any number of times.[134] This morning I went to tell her something, and found her enraged; she whipped and flogged me, insulting me as if I were her slave or some servant. I was filled with indignation—so much so that I could hardly stand up again. Oh, but for a person imprisoned in a cage, what difference can death make? I am not afraid of anything except being buried in some desolate, barren field—with not a trace, not even a few words, remaining—and therefore I restrained myself from giving in to death immediately, waiting rather until my fellow human beings were all sound asleep, when I stealthily came here from the backyard. Now, grinding the black inkslab with my tears, I have written these poems upon the wall, in the hope that someone sympathetic might read them and lament my untimely birth. Then, even though I may have passed away, there will still be something of me left behind.

The poems read:

Rose garment already half dust-covered,

Accompanying me, a single dying lamp;

Just as, after the red rain of pear blossoms,

The stripped trees, pitiable, show nothing of spring.

Roaming all day then, midst tigers, leopards,

Harboring ch’ing now, still, deeply regretful;

Creator-created, not purposeless, I

Leaving behind, to the talented, story beginnings.

Myriad sorrows, to whom to pour them out?

Forced smiles before others, elsewhere grief.

Do not regard these poems as commonplace—

For each singular phrase, a thousand tears.

.   .   .

As soon as the men of letters came to know these poems, they eagerly began to compose parallel replies in answer to them.

CHAPTER 15: “Ch’ing-ya” (“Sprouting of Ch’ing”)

(4 sections and 25 entries)

1. “Ta-sheng” (“Great Sages”)—5

2. “Ming-hsien” (“Noted Worthies”)—13

3. “Kao-seng” (“Exalted Sangha”)—4

4. “Hsien nü-tzu” (“Worthy Women”)—3

The Master of Ch’ing says: When the urge to life stirs, plants begin to sprout. Ch’ing is the urge to life of man—who, then, can prevent the sprouting of ch’ing? Sages like King Wen and Confucius have ch’ing;[135] those who are upright as Wencheng, Ch’ing-hsien, and their kind have ch’ing;[136] those who are as persevering as Tzu-ch’ing and Chan-an have ch’ing;[137] those who are as magnanimous as Wei-kung have ch’ing;[138] and those who are as pure and clean as Ho-ching and Yüan-chang also have ch’ing.[139] Ch’ing itself, then, as their lives demonstrate, never misleads man; but man sometimes causes ch’ing to mislead him.

The red will wilt; the green will wither—life always has its natural end. And although the butterflies might then continue to dance, and the orioles go on singing, spring, nevertheless, comes to an end. However, if one thereat insists that the plants need never have sprouted, he is thereby desiring that the world end with the coming of winter so severe; I find this sort of thinking unacceptable.

This is the shortest of the twenty-four chapters of Ch’ing-shih. The great majority of its twenty-five entries are short anecdotes concerning well-known historical figures, and consist of two or three lines only. All the entries in this chapter point up a single circumstance: specifically, ch’ing is born with every man. Be one the greatest sage or the most virtuous high priest, he cannot, nor should he attempt to, rid himself of ch’ing. The compiler makes it clear to his readers that ch’ing not only does not hamper man but, on the contrary, actually provides the basis for man’s self-cultivation. Throughout this chapter we see our compiler making remarks such as: “Men all know that it is only sages and worthies who do not overindulge in ch’ing; however, these men do not realize that real sages and worthies never attempt to estrange themselves from ch’ing;[140] or again, “The princely way is based upon a man’s ch’ing, and one who does not understand man’s ch’ing can never become an emperor or a king.”[141]

The entry I have chosen to translate, entry 10 found in section 2, is an anecdote about one of our compiler’s most admired scholar-officials, Fan Chung-yen.[142] The entry is cited as coming from the Sung author Yao K’uan’s Hsi-hsi ts’ung-yü. But at the end of the entry, the compiler quotes a certain Wen Tzu-fei: “Wen Tzu-fei says that this [i.e., the romantic anecdote which the compiler has just cited] could not have happened to a man like Fan Chung-yen. It must, then, have been fabricated by some small man, jealous of Lord Fan.” At this point, our compiler stops to ponder: “I wonder of this anecdote, even assuming it to be true, whether it flaws the great virtue of Lord Fan?”

ENTRY 10. “Fan Wen-cheng”

After Fan Wen-cheng had become the prefect of Po-yang, he came to like a very young courtesan of the local official entertainment bureau, but was soon after summoned back to the capital, whereupon he composed a poem for his successor:

The flower before Ch’ing-shuo Hall, I planted;[143]

Before the bloom, however, I was transferred.

Yearning, year in, year out, I’d be heart-broken.

Spring Wind, I call on you to bring her here.

From the capital, he sent the courtesan some rouge, along with a poem, which reads:

In South-of-the-River there is a beauty living—

After separation, thoughts one of the other, sometimes, always . . .

Now what will cover up those thoughts so wan?

I can here present you only a fine complexion.

CHAPTER 16: “Ch’ing-pao” (“Recompense”)

(2 sections and 19 entries)

1. “Yu-ch’ing pao” (“Recompense for the Passionate”)—5

2. “Fu-ch’ing pao” (“Recompense for the Heartless”)—14

The compiler of Ch’ing-shih says: The proverb goes, “Sow melon, reap melon; sow beans, reap beans.” This refers to the fact that one always gets in return what he has given. Should ch’ing itself, then, have no such recompense, who of us under Heaven would then be concerned with ch’ing? Those who are passionate belong to the category of yang, and therefore their recompense is frequently effected in this world; those who are heartless belong to the category of yin, and therefore their recompense is frequently effected in the underworld.

In this chapter, we see two elements recurring constantly in almost all of the nineteen entries: moralism and superstition. Regarding moralism, we see with each entry that if the moral message is not clearly evident or explicitly stated in the story, it is then pointed out in the comments or remarks appended to the entry. This practice is in keeping with the compiler’s stated purpose in compiling Ch’ing-shih—i.e., the compilation should serve both “as a bright, clear mirror for those who abound in ch’ing and also as a lodestone for those as yet without ch’ing”.[144] That utilitarian, moralistic approach is restated in this chapter when our compiler makes a remark upon entry 5, “Wang Yü-ying”. There he first lists five questionable or absurd points related to the story, which originally appeared in the Ming anthology of fiction, Erh-t’an. Then, explaining his inclusion of the story in spite of its absurdities, he says, “However, to cover up then reinter the exposed human remains is indeed a great, meritorious act. Thus I have decided to include it in my Ch’ing-shih as a positive example encouraging my readers to perform similar deeds.”

With regard to superstition, one should remember that the concept of karma and retribution had already, by the time Ch’ing-shih was being written, become accepted truth, not only with ordinary citizens, but also, in varying degrees, with educated scholars and officials. Nor should we forget that emotional grievances and injustice, even today, are not readily vindicated or corrected by law. Bearing in mind these two things, it then becomes clear why superstitious elements abound in this chapter, and why there are in the stories so many emotional wrongs that are not corrected until the wronged persons have died and consequently have become vengeful ghosts of one kind or another.

Despite the many recurring moral messages and superstitious elements, however, we still find several basically realistic tragedies in this chapter—some of them among the best of the Chinese classical short stories.[145]

The story I have chosen to translate for this chapter is entry 12, listed in section 2. As our compiler points out, it has been copied from Yi Chien chih, and is also included in Erh-t’an, but with the heroine’s name differing from that in Yi Chien chih. “Nien-erh niang” is basically a ghost story. Yet the events described therein are such common folk superstitions that there is a certain make-believe truth or reality lying in the story which appeals to, or rather touches the heart of, the Chinese reader. I think this particular attraction must have contributed greatly to the lasting popularity of the story.[146]

ENTRY 12. “Lady Twenty-two” (“Nien-erh niang”)

A villager of Yü-kan, surnamed Chang, went to the city on a business trip, and took up lodgings at an inn. That night, as he dreamed, he saw a woman, richly dressed, who requested to share his bed. Awaking from his dream he found that the woman was indeed by his side; not before dawn did she bid him good-bye.

The next night he had barely closed his door and was just about to extinguish the lamp, when she again appeared, this time standing before him. Again the two went to bed together, but she would tell him nothing about herself except that she was a “girl from next door”. Ten days passed in this way, and Chang by now appeared rather absentminded. The innkeeper, noting the changes in Chang, became suspicious, whereupon he had a private talk with Chang. “There was once a woman who hanged herself in this room, and I was wondering if she might not also have bewitched you.”

Chang kept the secret of the woman to himself, and said nothing to the innkeeper. He then waited until the woman next arrived, whereupon he told her everything the innkeeper had told him. The woman listened, and seemed not in the least embarrassed, nor did she make even the slightest attempt to deny it. In reply to Chang, she said only “Yes, I’m that woman.” Chang then made love to her, not feeling overly alarmed, after which he suavely and ingratiatingly enquired as to the details. “I am a deceased courtesan,” the woman said. “I used to be on intimate terms with a gentleman from a different district, a certain Mr. Yang. He put up two hundred strings of cash, with the promise that he would marry me, with the proper ceremonies; but three years passed and still he never showed up again. I felt so sick that I was unable to make a living; even my own family became disgusted with me. Finally, overcome by my grief and indignation, I hanged myself. My family then sold off the house, which has now been turned into this very inn—this room, in fact, was my former bedroom. Wasn’t Mr. Yang a fellow villager of yours—I wonder if you might know anything about him?”

Chang said, “Yes, I do. I heard that he moved to the vicinity of South Gate in Jao-chou, and that he married and was running an inn. They say he is quite well off.”

The woman began to sigh, over and over, then at last spoke to Chang. “I have decided that I will entrust myself to you. As I recall, I have fifty taels of silver buried under the bed, and nobody else knows about it. We can dig it up for you now.” Chang thereupon dug into the ground, and indeed found exactly fifty taels of silver. From that time on, the woman would show up at Chang’s place even in the daytime.

One day she spoke confidentially to Chang, saying, “It’s not good for you to stay here too long. Do you think you could take me to your home?” Chang consented to her request, whereupon she asked him to write the words “Tablet of the late Lady Twenty-two” upon a tablet, and then to place the tablet in his trunk, telling him that she would disappear, and whenever he took out the tablet and called for her, she would immediately appear. Chang did just as she wished.

By now, the innkeeper was predicting that since Chang appeared to have become daily more and more possessed, he was certain to die on the road. But on the way back home, Chang was not in the least worried, and every day he would check to make sure that the tablet was still all right.

Having arrived at his home, Chang was placing the tablet on the wall, where his wife took it to be the tablet of some deity whom Chang had chosen to serve—she was looking on piously just as Lady Twenty-two suddenly appeared. The wife was startled, and asked her husband, “Who is this? I hope that you haven’t kidnapped the daughter of some good family and dragged me into it as well.” Chang told her the truth.

Delighted with the fifty taels of silver they had been given by Lady Twenty-two, the wife did not pursue the issue further, and so the woman stayed with the Changs for five days, then asked Chang to accompany her tablet to Jao-chou, where she had some old debts to collect. Chang agreed, and when Chang reached the southern outskirts of Jao-chou, and was about to cross the river and enter the city, the woman appeared before Chang, telling him, “I am very grateful to you. However, I will not be able to serve you any longer after this.” Chang wept, even though he did not comprehend what she was talking about.

Chang then entered the city, and everything appeared normal; going to an inn, he repeatedly called Lady Twenty-two but she did not manifest herself to him this time. So he then hurried over to Mr. Yang’s residence, where he saw the family in a state of extreme confusion. They told him that Yang had been in perfectly good health, but then all of a sudden just now, he had died of hemorrhage from the seven apertures of his head. Chang was greatly terrified and hurriedly returned home, after which he never saw Lady Twenty-two again.

This story comes from Yi Chien chih; Erh-t’an also records it, but the woman is there named Mu Hsiao-ch’iung.

CHAPTER 17: “Ch’ing-hui” (“Degenerates”) (4 sections and 37 entries)

1. “Kung-yeh” (“Degeneracy at the Imperial Palaces”)—21

2. “Ch’i-li” (“Degenerates among the Royal Relatives”)—5

3. “Ch’i-yin” (“Unusual Degenerates”)—5

4. “Tsa-yin” (“Miscellaneous Degenerates”)—6

The Master of Ch’ing says: Ch’ing is like water. If one is cautious and on the defensive, when his ch’ing overflows, be it even like the flooding of rivers and seas, there will always be canals and ditches to contain it.

One’s emotional desires usually depend only upon one’s ability; when an ordinary farmer reaps but ten bushels extra of wheat, he immediately wants to get a new wife. Why? Because he can afford it. All the more so, then, those who have obtained an extremely wealthy and honorable position, and can do at will the things ordinary people can never do.

We see that degeneracy always begins in the imperial palaces and is followed by the royal relatives—all exert themselves in their obscene indulgence. When the superior leads with licentiousness, those who follow will also become licentious. At such a time, I would not be surprised if everyone in the country turned into a Ho-chien.[147]

Those who commit unusual acts of obscenity will certainly encounter unusual disasters. The ridiculous Han and T’ang obscenities, even today, are still something to laugh at. The Sung palace was clean. The palace of Yüan, however, was filthy; but as soon as the Great Sage arrived, within and without, the palace immediately became orderly, so that now the ch’ing of everybody under heaven no longer churns.[148] How fortunate, how wonderful this is!

In this chapter, two-thirds of the entries are scandalous anecdotes about pre-Ming royal families and their relatives. Most of them are copied from the dynastic histories, the earlier fictionlike accounts, the pi-chi works, et al. In our compiler’s view, hui (“degeneracy”) is probably the most undesirable quality associated with ch’ing. This is evidenced by his comment attached to entry 1 of chapter 21, “Ch’ing-yao” (“Monsters”). The compiler, in an effort to distinguish two kinds of entries—those he designates as “degenerates” and those he designates as “monsters”—there remarks:

Wu Chao who, although a woman, ascended the throne, and in her old age still led a licentious life, can be considered a “monster” as well. However, we have already entered her in the category “degenerates”.[149] Why, her ambitious strategy was a hundred times greater than that of any man, yet she was not qualified to be categorized merely as “monster,” since being monstrous is not as bad as being degenerate.

Degeneracy is absolutely undesirable, especially within the ruling class. This chapter clearly demonstrates our compiler’s belief that the moral conduct of the ruler governs, directly and indirectly, the moral conduct of the ruled.[150] In other words, the logical starting point for eliminating degeneracy is with the emperor himself.

The story I have chosen to translate for this chapter is entry 29, found in section 3, “Unusual Degenerates.” It was written by the famous T’ang essayist and prose writer, Liu Tsung-yüan.[151] The story tells of the almost unbelievably sudden change of a virtuous wife into a constantly sex-starved nymphomaniac. One of the main reasons I have chosen this story is that it strikes me as being that rare piece among Chinese classical tales which makes an attempt, albeit somewhat crude, at contrasting in a single character qualities both satanic and saintly.

ENTRY 29. “Woman from Ho-chien” (“Ho-chien fu”)

Ho-chien was a licentious woman, and since I do not wish to mention her real name, I will call her by the name of the city she came from.[152] Previously, this woman dwelled in the district assigned to royal matrimonial relatives, and she was then a virtuous and worthy person—in fact, long before she was married she had become disgusted with the immoral behavior of those royal relatives of hers and, ashamed to mix with them, kept to herself in the innermost quarters of her home and spent her days at needlework. Once married, she still refused to have anything to do with them, even with her father-in-law. However, she was extremely respectful and attentive to her mother-in-law. She never spoke of things outside the household, and she served her husband with propriety and reverence. Some of her acquaintances and friends who had formed a small intimate clique, and some from her own clan who themselves had disgraceful conduct, plotted against her, saying: “Just look at that Ho-chien! Why should she act so outrageously?” Or, “We must smear her somehow.”

Thus it was that one day, carriages prepared in advance, they paid Ho-chien a call and invited her to join them in their pleasure excursions. Furthermore, they tried to disguise their evil intentions by saying, “Ever since you came to live in our district, we all began to guard our conduct day and night, and whenever someone committed even the most insignificant mistake, we were always afraid you would hear about it. And now we intend to change our behavior completely, desiring to pattern ourselves after your propriety and decency, and we’d like to be with you constantly so we might observe your conduct and behavior, and thereby ourselves avoid further error.”

But Ho-chien, unwilling, firmly declined, which angered her mother-in-law. She said to Ho-chien, “Now see here, those people have come with good intentions. They ask you politely to be their model and teacher, and what do you do? How could you be so obstinate as to refuse their request?” Ho-chien explained by saying, “I have been taught that chastity, obedience, calmness and concentration are appropriate virtues for a woman. Boasting of her carriage and clothing, showing off her jewels, going out to feasts, pleasure seeking and sightseeing in a noisy group—those activities are improper for a woman.” Her mother-in-law, however, kept on pressuring her so that she consequently joined the group on their excursion.

As they were passing through the downtown area, someone made a suggestion. “A little bit south of downtown there is a Buddhist pagoda, and the state artist, old Master Wu, has just begun to paint a strange mural on the southeast wall. We could ask the grooms to clear the way for us.” Thereupon they went to watch the mural being painted, after which they were invited to the guest hall for some food which had been placed by the side of the beds.

Suddenly the coughing of a man startled Ho-chien, and she rushed out barefooted, summoned her servants, and hurriedly rode back home, where for several days she wept, now becoming even more isolated and having nothing at all to do with any of her royal relatives. Again they came to her and apologized, saying, “You left so abruptly. Perhaps you are still angry with us on account of what happened before? Why, that was just the cook you heard coughing the other day.” Ho-chien said, “Oh? Then who were all those men laughing behind the door?” When they heard this, they went away, and only after a year did they again dare to extend an invitation to Ho-chien, again through her mother-in-law. They were quite insistent, pressing their request, and as a result Ho-chien was forced to go out with them again.

This time they went to visit two pagodas to the west of the meandering riverbanks, after which they had a sumptuous meal of fish. The entire group were now pleased, for only then did Ho-chien begin to smile.

Presently they led her to a different room, this time empty, with no curtains or screens. The corridor was also clear, so Ho-chien then entered without hesitation. Her company, however, had earlier had some young toughs hidden away behind the north window, and now they called for some female entertainers, who played Ch’in music behind a screen as they all sat, quite dignified, looking on.

After a while, the young toughs popped out from their hiding place behind the north window and, since Ho-chien’s company had previously assigned a very handsome man, and one with a large penis at that, to be Ho-chien’s partner, this man now proceeded to grab hold of Ho-chien, who cried and wept while the maids forcefully held her still, some urging her on, others swearing at her or laughing at her. Ho-chien stole a look at the man who was holding her, and found him extremely handsome indeed. By that time the ones who had organized this evil scheme had all found their desired partners, and lewd noises could be heard on all sides, all of which was now having an influence on Ho-chien, and when she slightly lowered her resistance, the man attained his goal, after which he took Ho-chien to a separate room, where Ho-chien now stopped weeping and felt extremely content, congratulating herself on having had an experience she had never had before.

As the sun was setting, her company called Ho-chien to come out and eat, but she answered, “I don’t want to eat.” By nightfall, when her company had ordered all the carriages prepared and had decided that they must now go back home, Ho-chien said, “I’m not ever going home again—I’d rather die with this man.” This time it was the royal relatives who were at a loss. Finally, seeing no other way out of the situation, they decided that all of them should spend the night there. When Ho-chien’s husband rode up that night to take her home, Ho-chien refused to come out, and only under threat of violence did she agree to return home the next day. Bidding her adulterer good-bye, she then embraced him and cried bitterly; the two, biting one another’s arms, made a blood vow just before she entered the carriage.

Once home, Ho-chien could not bear to look at her husband. Closing her eyes, she declared herself sick. When presented with a variety of foods, she ate nothing; the best medicine, she ordered taken away. She felt a constant anxiety, as if she were a string holding up a pole that was about to fall. Whenever her husband would come to her, she only shouted at him in the most abusive language, not even once opening her eyes, and growing more and more disgusted with him. By now, the husband was becoming extremely worried.

Several days later Ho-chien suddenly told her husband, “I am ill, and may die soon. No medicine can relieve me of my suffering, so go and summon a spirit to rid me of the devil—all this must be carried out at night.” From the time Ho-chien had become ill, she had been talking like a person mad; her husband, if only it should please her, would do anything she requested. Now, even though the emperor at this time loathed nighttime religious rituals and had prohibited them, the husband, in order to please Ho-chien, decided simply to ignore the prohibition. But then, after her husband had managed to get everything set up for the ceremony, Ho-chien sent an official to inform on her husband—the official charged him with summoning a spirit to invoke curses. The husband was found guilty as charged, and was to be flogged to death. He was still saying, before he died, “I failed my wife, I have failed my wife.”

Ho-chien was now overjoyed. She did not even bother to go into mourning for her husband, but immediately threw open her door and called in her adulterer. The couple were constantly chasing around, completely naked, and making love to each other. After living thus for one year with Ho-chien, the adulterer was becoming increasingly debilitated, so that finally Ho-chien sent him away. She now began to invite in all the young hoods of Ch’ang-an. But though she copulated day and night with them, she still did not feel satisfied; therefore, she opened up a wine shop in the southwest corner of Ch’ang-an, situating herself upstairs. She had a small door made in her room, from which she could peep down into the wine shop. She then used the waitresses to lure in all those customers who had big noses, or who were young and strong, or who were handsome, or who were good drinkers—these were then sent upstairs to her room to copulate with her. While making love to one man, Ho-chien would at the same time peep down through the little door, for fear she might miss some other prospect. Even then she still complained that her life was joyless and hard—and still she was never satisfied.

Ho-chien eventually caught a dozen or more diseases, and finally died from exhaustion; from that time on, even those among the royal relations who habitually performed evil deeds would frown and cover their noses with their hands when they heard Ho-chien’s name, none of them desiring even to speak of her anymore.

CHAPTER 18: “Ch’ing-lei” (“Ch’ing as a Hindrance”)

(8 sections and 26 entries)

1. “Sun-ts’ai” (“Financial Loss”)—1

2. “Yü-shih” (“Feminine Charms as Bribery”)—3

3. “Sun-ming” (“Defamation”)—5

4. “Tao-wei” (“Stumbling into Dangers”)—2

5. “Tsao-wu” (“False Accusations”)—2

6. “K’uei-t’i” (“Bodily Harm”)—2

7. “Yün-ming” (“Loss of Life”)—9

8. “Fu-jen yin-lei” (“Licentiousness as a Hindrance for Women”)—2

The Compiler of Ch’ing-shih says: He who is stingy with his money is certainly also stingy with his ch’ing. And though the expenditure of three hu of bright pearls or ten li of embroidered curtains indeed seems extravagant, there is nonetheless a goal to be attained in each instance.[153]

There is a world of difference between working for one’s own magnanimous end, and going along with another’s deceptive, cheating plot, and of all the things under heaven, nothing is more weightily important than ch’ing, and nothing more lightly insignificant than money.[154] Even so, when one makes a choice which would seem to favor ch’ing, it can sometimes bring about such results as only to bring success to another’s deceptive plot, and when this involves ruining careers, defamation, stumbling into dangers, and encountering disasters, it is impossible to balance off the gains against the losses.[155] Hence we must be careful in making our choices.

When ch’ing is set upon something, sometimes even our lives can be sacrificed; but at times when ch’ing needs to be restrained, we should then not waste, even in the name of ch’ing, that which is plentiful. Here, it is not easy to talk about ch’ing with those who have not firmly grasped the relationship between ch’ing and li.[156]

This chapter exposes and examines various aspects of susceptibility or vulnerability one meets with when dealing with ch’ing, as well as the potential harm which dealing with ch’ing can at times bring about, and it seems that our compiler, with the twenty-six entries of this chapter, wishes to make two points. The first point, also stated explicitly in his chapter summary, is that ch’ing when divorced from li becomes vulnerable and purposeless. In other words, ch’ing cannot ever be isolated from li. Li is the guiding principle of ch’ing, and only that ch’ing which has been filtered through li is healthy, desirable ch’ing. Conversely, when speaking of li one should also take ch’ing into consideration. This attitude of regarding “heart” and “mind,” or ch’ing and li, as an inseparable unit, again, demonstrates an aspect of the compiler as Confucian traditionalist.

The second point is that, although one’s ch’ing may seem to become vulnerable, the evil forces that rise on account of the seeming vulnerability of ch’ing cannot win out in the long run. Thus, in almost all the stories of this chapter, not only are those people somehow punished who are led to crime by their own passion and desire, but also and inevitably punished are those who commit crime by taking advantage of other persons’ emotional weaknesses. Furthermore, there are several entries in this chapter which show the compiler to be a believer in the superior power of Light over Dark. He says, “Magic, whenever it becomes involved with avarice, licentiousness, perversity, or atrocity, immediately loses its efficaciousness. This is so because Evil can never triumph over Right.”[157] The compiler’s emphasis on li (“reason”) and his faith in truth and rightness are also evidenced in his repeated warnings (often appended to the end of a cautionary tale), such as “Those who are young and fond of visiting nunneries should learn a lesson from this story,” or “A jealous wife should learn a lesson from this story.”[158]

The story I have chosen to translate for this chapter is entry 5, listed in section 3. Aside from its representativeness, this story has been linked, with some controversy, to a hua-pen story, and is thus particularly suitable for translation here. The hua-pen story is entitled “Chung ming-chi ch’un-feng tiao Liu Ch’i” (“A Bevy of Courtesans Mourns Liu Ch’i in Romantic Sympathy”—hereafter, “A Bevy of Courtesans”).[159] I would here like to examine a few of the questions surrounding this Ch’ing-shih entry and the corresponding hua-pen story.

Basing their conclusions mainly on stylistic and editorial evidence, a few scholars of Chinese fiction have, for some time now, associated the authorship of “A Bevy of Courtesans” with Feng Meng-lung.[160] Aware of the evidence they have already pointed out, I myself have found some significant new clues, suggestive of similar conclusions, as I read Feng Meng-lung’s “Ai-sheng chuan”.[161] Of these, the one which interests me most is tied to the legendary material centered about Liu Ch’i’s death and burial. As we mentioned earlier, it is stated in both “A Bevy of Courtesans” and “Ai-sheng chuan” that Liu was buried by his courtesan friends at Lo-yu Yüan. Historically, questions of Liu Ch’i’s death and burial had gone unanswered and perhaps become unanswerable even in Sung times, almost immediately after Liu’s death, with Sung sources giving three places as his burial site, Lo-yu Yuan not among them.[162] But the legend that Liu was buried by courtesans was already circulating as early as Southern Sung.[163] The fact that Lo-yu Yüan has been identified as the place of Liu Ch’i’s tomb in both “A Bevy of Courtesans” and “Ai-sheng chuan,” but not in any other source, indicates a close relation between these two works.[164]

But despite all the evidence to the positive, the inclusion of “Liu Ch’i-ch’ing” in Ch’ing-shih has prevented some scholars from immediately identifying Feng Meng-lung as the author of “A Bevy of Courtesans”. As Patrick Hanan points out, “Liu Ch’i-ch’ing” is copied, with some minor changes, from Mei Ting-tso’s (1549–1615) Ch’ing-ni lien-hua chi, which in turn is a classical version of the vernacular Chinese story about Liu Ch’i found in Ch’ing-p’ing-shan-t’ang hua-pen.[165] Since the Ch’ing-p’ing-shan-t’ang hua-pen story is negatively criticized in an editorial note to “A Bevy of Courtesans” in Ku-chin hsiao-shuo, and since Feng Meng-lung is intimately associated with both Ch’ing-shih and Ku-chin hsiao-shuo, the scholars ask, how could he have written “A Bevy of Courtesans” in the first place, and at the same time in his Ch’ing-shih have included “Liu Ch’i-ch’ing”—a completely different sort of anecdote which he himself has criticized as being detrimental to the elegant and refined taste of Liu Ch’i? So goes the reasoning.

Now, when we have attentively studied the editorial approach and the genre concept of our Ch’ing-shih compiler Feng Meng-lung, we learn that the inclusion of an anecdote on Liu Ch’i in the Ch’ing-shih does not at all eliminate the possibility of his having composed at another time or place a completely different, even conflicting, version of the same basic anecdote. For as we mentioned earlier, although he does not consider his Ch’ing-shih a history which records only facts, Feng Meng-lung is nevertheless careful to distinguish his Ch’ing-shih from what he designates as hsiao-shuo—the vernacular hua-pen stories; also, as we pointed out, Feng Meng-lung allows to the hsiao-shuo chia an even freer hand in creating or inventing their stories. In this light we can conclude, then, that it is perfectly conceivable that Feng Meng-lung might have written more than one hsiao-shuo having some protagonists and episodes which are also found in Ch’ing-shih, but having plots at variance with or completely different from those in Ch’ing-shih. In fact, not only does the inclusion of “Liu Ch’i-ch’ing” in Ch’ing-shih fail to repudiate the attribution of the authorship of “A Bevy of Courtesans” to Feng Meng-lung, but the following sympathetic remarks by Feng Meng-lung concerning Liu Ch’i, as appended to the entry itself, actually further confirm this attribution: “Ch’i-ch’ing was a romantic and talented young man. Compared with him, what sort of a thing is this Mr. Huang! But he beat out Ch’i-ch’ing to win the love of Chou Yüeh-hsien. I think Yüeh-hsien miscalculated in choosing between the two.”

ENTRY 5. “Liu Ch’i-ch’ing”

Chou Yüeh-hsien was a famous courtesan in Yü-hang. When Liu Ch’i-ch’ing had barely reached the age of twenty-five, he became a magistrate of that same district, whereupon he built Wan-chiang Pavilion by the strand near the water, frequently summoning Yüeh-hsien to sing there. But no matter how he flirted with her, Yüeh-hsien had never responded.

Now it happened that Liu found out that Yüeh-hsien was on intimate terms with a certain gentleman surnamed Huang who lived across the water, and that every night she would ferry herself across to visit Mr. Huang. Liu then secretly ordered the boatman, when he was halfway across the water, to rape Yüeh-hsien. Forced to give in to the boatman, Yüeh-hsien, driven by grief, thereafter composed a poem:

Oh, and I, a courtesan,

Raped, dare not speak out!

Ashamed to return, over the moonlit water,

I sit reluctantly aboard the flower-laden boat.

The next day Ch’i-ch’ing once more summoned Yüeh-hsien to a drinking party where, halfway through the party, he began to sing the poem Yüeh-hsien had earlier composed. Yüeh-hsien, greatly ashamed, consequently yielded herself to Ch’i-ch’ing; Ch’i-ch’ing was delighted and himself wrote a poem:

The beauty would not present herself to Ch’i-ch’ing;

Rather, in a lone boat, she violated the curfew.

Waning moon, dawn breeze, willowed shores—

Who would miss the romantic feelings of this moment!

And from then on, Yüeh-hsien attended Ch’i-ch’ing day and night, although his reputation, on account of this incident, daily became more and more tarnished.

CHAPTER 19: “Ch’ing-yi” (“Implausible Ch’ing”)

(9 sections and 54 entries)

1. “Fo-kuo” (“Buddhaland”)—1

2. “T’ien-hsien” (“Celestial Immortals”)—15

3. “Tsa hsien-nü” (“Miscellaneous Fairies”)—4

4. “Ti-hsien” (“Terrestrial Immortals”)—4

5. “Shan-shen” (“Mountain Spirits”)—4

6. “Shui-shen” (“Water Spirits”)—7

7. “Lung-shen” (“Dragon Spirits”)—2

8. “Miao-hsiang chih shen” (“Temple Image Spirits”)—12

9. “Tsa-shen” (“Miscellaneous Spirits”)—5

The Compiler of Ch’ing-shih says: Religious practitioners say: “He who contemplates frequently but harbors little ch’ing has the intelligence for enlightenment; he who contemplates seldom but harbors abundant ch’ing is a dullard.” Is this not so because unreal shadows can never be pinned down, and because real phenomena are hard to eliminate? However, were a person feelingless, would he be able to contemplate at all? Contemplation comes directly from ch’ing. Furthermore, that which is real instantly becomes unreal as soon as natural mutation takes place; yet that which is unreal never disperses.[166] How, then, are we to know that what is unreal is not indeed the real? The merciful compassion of the Buddha, the deliverance of immortals, and the assistance and protection of spirits and deities—they are all manifestations of ch’ing. And we never see any suspicion until it comes to relations in literature between the two sexes—then, there is suspicion.[167] Why so?

This is so because what has been recorded by the writers of fiction is an abnormal, indecent type of ch’ing. The life-giving forces of heaven and earth are originally without shape or form. What, then, are the bases for anecdotes about encountering a Cowherd or a Spinning Damsel?[168] If such anecdotes are indeed but groundless tales, then we need not even mention those who would profane the purity of the spirits with their filthy, obscene incidents which are all the more groundless. Why, take the tale about the gold chain-bones and the incarnation of the Bodhisattva into a prostitute, preaching the Buddhist teachings;[169] or take the tale about how the Taoist priest Hui Tao-jen, having successfully compounded an elixir after eighty-one days of working at it, desires to contest with White Peony in the techniques of ts’ai-chan—all such tales are examples of malicious calumniation against Taoist immortals or Buddhist saints.[170] Or again, take the two female spirits of Huang-ling that have been mistaken for the wives of Shun.[171] Or Li Ch’ün-yü, ridiculed for being like the duke of P’i-yang;[172] and after Tu Shih-yi had died, he is said to have married Wu Tzu-hsü, this fictionalized relation becoming a story of homosexuality.[173] The errors and absurdities of various fictional accounts are numerous beyond words. Moreover, there are some who would freely add to their stories episodes and incidents of an evil, supernatural, licentious, or lewd nature—and just how in the world could we ever correct all this?

The unlimited extensiveness of the universe being what it is, what happening can we claim impossible? Now, I am no court musician (ku), nor am I a grand officiant (shih), nor do my words have the power of one hundred tongues, and so I dare not totally ignore ch’ing as it happens to show up in the implausible stories of some fiction writers.[174] But I would be greatly remiss should I fail to point out the implausibilities therein.

This chapter deals with various romantic relations between human beings and spirits which, in one way or another, appear questionable or implausible to our compiler. In general, the spirits dealt with are, in either the national or local sense, legendary figures, or else they are unidentified deities. These spirits belong to a completely different category from that of the spirits we will read about in chapter 20, “Ch’ing-kuei” (“Ghosts”), and in chapter 21, “Ch’ing-yao” (“Monsters”). These are the nature spirits—spirits of the waters, the mountains, the stars, the ravines, and so on—and the temple gods and goddesses, as well as the various legendary fairies who live either on earth or in the heavens. Since in each of the fifty-four entries of this chapter, at least one of the protagonists is a spirit—an immortal, a fairy, or a deity of one kind or another—we can perhaps designate the majority of the stories “fairy tales”; some of the stories of this chapter, in fact, are even today widely circulated among the Chinese people, including the children.[175]

One can discern three general areas or points of implausibility among the entries of this chapter:

1) Conflicting sources and doubtful historical origins. When a legend has more than one source, and if the sources differ considerably one from another, the compiler then questions the credibility of the legend; he frequently singles out sources or works which he considers to have doubtful historical origins.[176]

2) Absurdity and inconsistency in presentation and/or style. Though by no means a rationalist, our compiler nevertheless has an analytic literary mind. He seeks in any fictional composition a consistent style and a tightly-knit plot. He feels that literary credibility lies not necessarily in the events described, but rather in the manner in which these events are described. Thus, an absurd piece of work is absurd not necessarily due to its completely unrealistic subject matter, but rather due to the author’s unconvincing approach to his subject matter. In this light, I find that our compiler, in his criticism of the stories, has often taken note of the “insignificant” details—attention to detail being one of the most effective devices of realism.[177]

3) Improper or indecent behavior and conduct on the part of one or another of the protagonists. As I have mentioned several times before, our compiler is in many ways a Confucian traditionalist—he believes that in this universe, each inanimate object or thing, each mortal being—including man—and each spirit has its assigned station or lot, and that each should behave accordingly. Since a spirit is considered a being higher than man, it is therefore obligated to behave in an exemplary manner for man; otherwise, as our compiler repeatedly points out, it does not deserve the designation spirit (shen or hsien).[178] So when the moral integrity of a spirit character is questionable, our compiler then usually questions the authenticity of the story or legend itself.[179]

The questionable elements occurring within these three areas of implausibility are almost always pointed out by the compiler immediately following the entries of the chapter. It is interesting to note, moreover, that this nineteenth chapter in Ch’ing-shih is unique in that sources are given for almost half of its fifty-four entries—another indication of the compiler’s acute skepticism regarding these stories and legends.

The story I have chosen to translate is entry 13, found in section 2. The immediate origin of this story is, at the end of the entry, said to be Yi-shih; but our Ch’ing-shih entry, including this final acknowledgment, is copied not from Yi-shih but rather from T’ai-p’ing kuang-chi.[180] In order that we might examine some of the specific points or areas which our compiler considers of questionable or implausible nature, I have translated both the story and the compiler’s remarks thereupon. Before presenting my translation, however, I should point out that this entry is one of several stories in the chapter wherein ch’ing, or the theme of love, is touched upon but superficially; in my opinion, the reader of Ch’ing-shih, in order to do justice to the stories, will do well to treat these entries as fairy tales rather than as love stories.

ENTRY 13. “The Ravine God’s Daughter” (“Ku-shen nü”)

At the beginning of the Yüan-ho period (806–20) of T’ang, a certain Ma Shih-liang from Wan-nien had committed a crime, and inasmuch as Magistrate Wang Shuang intended to sentence him to death, he fled toward the South Mountains, where at last he came to the banks of a lake in Charcoal Ravine and crept underneath a big willow tree. He awoke at the crack of dawn to see a five-colored cloud carrying a fairy down to a place near the water where a slab of jade lay exposed on the shore, and a gold mallet, with which the fairy proceeded to tap several times in succession upon the slab. Presently there popped up from the water a green lotus, its leaves spreading open. The fairy broke open a lotus pod, took out three or four lotus seeds, and ate them, after which she got back on the cloud and rode off. Shih-liang, seeing that the fairy had left behind both the gold mallet and the slab of jade, hopped over and began to tap upon the slab. After a while, the pod again popped up, yielding some ten or fifteen lotus seeds, all of which Shih-liang ate. He immediately felt that he had become much lighter and could now leap and soar, and so, by easing his way along some of the creeping plants, he began to search for the five-colored cloud.

Presently he arrived at a magnificent palace. There he saw the fairy, the one who had eaten the lotus seeds, among a bevy of celestial beings. They were all greatly surprised when they saw him. Running over to him, they began to beat him with bamboo sticks until at last Shih-liang felt himself going over a vast precipice and down to one bank of a clear stream where, exhausted, he soon fell sound asleep.

When he awoke he saw a young girl, her hair tied up in two knots atop her head, sharpening a knife. She told him, “You have stolen some elixir—I am here, by divine command, to take your life in return.” Shih-liang, greatly terrified, prostrated himself before the girl and begged her to help him. She replied, “It will be difficult indeed for you to escape punishment. However, I do have access to a divine remedy which could save your life—if you take me as your wife, that is.” With these words she left him, only to come back after a while with a small green bowl containing some cooked white rice. Shih-liang ate up the rice, then fell asleep, again awakening after some time to hear the young girl with the two topknots saying, “I’ve got the remedy ready for you.” She showed him the remedy—seven sky-blue, glossy pills. Shih-liang was delighted. Then, looking down at his abdomen, Shih-liang saw a red, threadlike line, and found it to be a knife wound. The girl rubbed the pills into his wound and it disappeared instantly. “From now on,” she cautioned him, “you should live here and cultivate yourself, being careful not to mention this incident to anybody, for if you let the secret leak out, your abdominal wound will immediately break open.” Subsequently the couple went back to the lake banks of Charcoal Ravine and settled down there. In addition, the girl told Shih-liang that she was in fact the ravine god’s daughter, and that it was her duty to guard the elixir of the Superior Immortals, which was why she had been able to save his life.

Even at the beginning of the Hui-ch’ang era (840–46), people would still frequently see the couple, and when any fisherman failed to catch some fish in the lake of Charcoal Ravine, he needed only toss in a written note, after which he was bound to catch some fish of exactly the weight he had requested.

This story comes from Yi-shih. [Compiler’s remarks follow.]

Ma Shih-liang’s having the opportunity to eat the lotus seeds is certainly due to his predestiny. By logic, then, he should not have been sentenced to death by Heaven. Similarly, once he has been sentenced to death by Heaven, the young girl should not be able to help him. Moreover, does the bevy of immortals really so lack suitable servants that they must send a young girl to effect the divine command? And really, have they no sharp knife, so that the girl is forced to sharpen the one she has? All this sounds like something a child might make up, and no more. My conjecture is that after Shih-liang had escaped some similar punishment, he himself fabricated this story with an eye to confusing others.

CHAPTER 20: “Ch’ing-kuei” (“Ghosts of Ch’ing”)

(7 sections and 38 entries)

1. “Kung-wei ming-kuei” (“Well-known Ghosts of the Inner Quarters of Imperial Palaces”)—6

2. “Ts’ai-kuei” (“Talented Ghosts”)—3

3. “Chung-mu chih kuei” (“Graveyard Ghosts”)—8

4. “Ts’o-yü chih kuei” (“Ghosts at Temporary Burial Places”)—4

5. “Lü-ch’en chih kuei” (“Ghosts of Caskets Awaiting Transportation to Grave Sites”)—5

6. “Yu-hun” (“Marriage with the Dead”)—7

7. “Wu-ming kuei” (“Unknown Ghosts”)—5

The Compiler of Ch’ing-shih says: Ever since ancient times, spirits of those who have been loyal, filial, upright, and ardent have always been able to manifest themselves, even after one hundred generations, as living persons, not appearing repulsive even though they are actually corpses; also, the heroic spirits of the fierce and the evil are still able to perform malicious acts in this human world after death. The forces both of good and of evil do not dissipate, then, but merge into the hearts both of those who are pious, and of those who are anxious, respectively.

However, when ch’ing is involved, the situation is even more unusual. Tombs do not seal, coffins do not confine, doors and windows no longer separate, and time cannot age—and is all this due simply to the fact that we are dealing with ghosts, or isn’t it actually all brought about by ch’ing?

When a man’s ch’ing and a ghost’s ch’ing meet and merge into one another, the man and the ghost then both act as if they were mad, or in a trance, neither seeing nor knowing that they are in two different worlds. Among them, those who are fortunate would be like Tou Yü, if male, or like Yün-jung, if female, as they lead peaceful lives with their beloved mates from the other worlds.[181] Their lives, then, would be no different from the carefree existence of the Taoist immortals.[182]

Then, among those who are less fortunate, the ghost might be the one to encounter the disaster of complete ruin;[183] the man might meet the calamity of death—this, however, because the life spans of both man and ghost are already limited, and not at all because of their ch’ing.

When Ma Shu-mo and Yang-lien Chen-chia excavated and ruined the tombs of the emperors, the skeletons were exposed and piled up in a mound;[184] too, we already know that those who are as worthy as saints do die, those who are as quick as birds die, those who are powerful die, and those who are wise die—in short, the perils for both man and ghost are not at all, of necessity, brought about by ch’ing.

The Taoists call a woman a “powdered [i.e., adorned] skeleton”. And he who leads an aimless and meaningless life is also nothing but a walking corpse, a piece of running flesh. So how, then, can one argue that human beings do not at times also lead ghostly existences?

This chapter deals with the ch’ing between men and ghosts, ghosts being the incarnated souls, or spirits, of the dead; in each of the thirty-eight chapter entries, the female protagonist is a ghost of one kind or another, and the male a human being. Though not necessarily of exactly the same pattern, the great majority of these stories begin with a young man’s being attracted to or seduced by a beautiful young lady. The man may or may not be aware that the lady is a ghost. In any case, a romantic relationship soon develops; it is only at this point that each of our stories departs from the common background and begins to develop its own plot, with the endings of the stories, in contrast to their closely similar beginnings, being quite varied one from another.

Most of the female ghosts in this chapter are benign spirits, seeking the comfort and companionship of a male from the human world—the world the female ghost used to live in—for but a few days or a single night. Consequently, the human character seldom gets hurt from his unusual experience. Some ghosts are deities or immortals as well, often bringing either material wealth or longevity to their human lovers.[185] In this chapter, the only evil ghost—i.e., one who actually harms the living—is the heroine of entry 22, “Fu Li-ch’ing,” in which the female ghost kills her human lover, corrupting his soul after his death and bringing disease and death to all those who later encounter her.[186]

The story I have chosen to translate is entry 13, listed in section 3. It is copied from the T’ang author Cheng Huan-ku’s Po-yi chih and can be found in chapter 339 of T’ai-p’ing kuang-chi under the title “Ts’ui shu-sheng” (“Scholar Ts’ui”). As the reader will see, the ghost characters in this story are all benign spirits, described no differently from ordinary human beings. In fact, both the human hero and the reader are kept from the slightest suspicion of the nonhuman identities of the ghost characters until the very last part of the story.

ENTRY 13. “Aunt Jade’s Niece” (“Yü-yi nü-sheng”)

Scholar Ts’ui from Po-ling dwelled in the Yung-lo district of Ch’ang-an, and had previously had some family property in Wei-nan. Once, on the occasion of the Clear-bright Festival, he was returning to Wei-nan. When he reached a place north of Chao-ying, in the midst of a desolate wasteland, the sun was already setting. Halting alongside the disused path to let his horse rest a while, he suddenly saw, about a hundred steps off to the north, a girl, beautifully and splendidly dressed, passing through the thorny field, apparently lost among the pine and cypress trees. Ts’ui began to walk over towards her, but as he approached, the girl covered up her face with her sleeves, stumbling along and several times almost falling. Ts’ui then ordered one of his servant boys to go over and have a look at her, whereupon she was found to be an unusually beautiful girl of fifteen or sixteen. Ts’ui next had the boy go back over and ask her, “Why are you here in this desolate field all alone, unaccompanied, when the sun is going down?”

The girl kept quiet, not answering his query. Thereupon Ts’ui gave his horse to another of his servant boys, telling him to ride over with one of the servants’ horses for the girl. The beauty turned her head to look at Ts’ui—an indication of her thankful acceptance—whereupon Ts’ui decided to follow her secretly, to find out where she was going. The beauty mounted the horse, and with one of Ts’ui’s servants holding the reins for her, she and the servant set off. They had gone no more than a few hundred steps when they suddenly came upon half a dozen breathless maids, their mouths all agape, running and staggering toward the girl, saying, “We have looked all over the place but couldn’t find you!” They now escorted the girl a dozen steps or so more, to a place where several elderly woman servants stood waiting for them.

By now, Ts’ui was also drawing near, and one of the elderly maids bowed to him, saying thankfully, “Imagine, taking pity on our young miss’s straying, and lending her your servant’s horse! Since night is now approaching, couldn’t we invite you to stay over at our manor?” Ts’ui accepted, asking, “How did it happen that the young lady was walking all alone, unaccompanied, in such a pitiful condition?” “She was tipsy—in high spirits,” the woman servant replied, “and on the spur of the moment she just up and went off and got lost.” Then they all walked northward for half a mile or so until they arrived at a woods, where there were some magnificent houses standing enveloped in the fragrance of peach and plum blossoms. Again, seven or eight maids appeared and escorted the girl in.

After a short while another servant woman came out and relayed her mistress’s words. “Being intoxicated, my little niece left the table and went wandering off and got lost. Fortunately she met you and was presented, thanks to your kindness, with your servant’s horse. Otherwise, since it is already dark, she might have encountered some fierce wolves or cunning foxes—then who knows what might have happened to her! We are all very grateful to you. Please make yourself comfortable and rest a while, until we can invite you in.” Several maids then came up to him and waited on him, treating him as if he were their most intimate relative. Presently the mistress had Ts’ui invited in, and the two greeted each other, after which the mistress ordered wine served. When the wine had been brought in, the mistress leisurely spoke to Ts’ui. “My niece, of the Wang family, is both pretty and intelligent—you will never find another one like her in the human world. While you are with us, I intend to make her serve you as your wife. What do you say?” Now Ts’ui was a man with an easygoing and unconventional character and, having had a little wine, he was quick to accept the proposal, and he thanked his hostess right there at the table.

The mistress then called her niece out—indeed, she looked like a fairy or a goddess.

Ts’ui stayed there three days. They feasted and had fun, all in happy harmony and high spirits. The Wang girl called her aunt “Aunt Jade”. Aunt Jade now enjoyed gambling with Ts’ui for his chap-ointment containers, of which she was particularly fond. Each time Aunt Jade lost, she would give Ts’ui a jade ring; Ts’ui, too, lost to her several times. Earlier in Ch’ang-an he had bought six or seven such ointment containers, all of which he now lost to Aunt Jade. But Ts’ui had also won two jade rings.

Then suddenly one day, the whole family was greatly frightened, with everyone shouting that some bandits had arrived. The niece now shoved Ts’ui out the back door; as soon as she had pushed him out of the house, she herself disappeared, and he found himself lying in a hole. The sedges were falling, the wind was blowing through the pines on a clear evening, and here and there were scattered purple flowers with yellow calyxes. His clothing was wet from the dewy grass, and the jade rings he had won were still tied to his belt.

Ts’ui found the path near which he had first seen the beautiful girl, and followed it; he soon discovered his servants, with shovels and hoes, digging out a tomb, in which they had already reached the coffin—on it, there was an epitaph which read: “Tomb of Aunt Jade, daughter of King Chao of the Latter Chou.[187] Alive, she dearly loved her niece, of the Wang family, who passed away before her. Later, Aunt Jade requested that she be buried with her niece.”

It was a majestic coffin. When the inner casket was opened up Ts’ui found two small boxes, one with six or seven jade rings, apparently exactly the same as those Ts’ui himself had won from Aunt Jade, and the other with several chap-ointment containers—the very ones Ts’ui had lost to her! Ts’ui enquired as to what was going on. His servants answered, “We only saw you enter the cypress woods, then we couldn’t find you any more. But we found this tomb and decided to dig it up—we sure did the right thing!” So it was Ts’ui’s servants, then, that Aunt Jade had called bandits. Ts’ui, still under the influence of his recent encounter, ordered the tomb re-covered, to be just as it was before.

CHAPTER 21: “Ch’ing-yao” (“Monsters of Ch’ing”)

(12 sections and 58 entries)

1. “Jen-yao” (“Human Monsters”)—1

2. “Yi-yü” (“Monsters of Strange Regions”)—2

3. “Yeh-ch’a” (“Yakshas”)—1

4. “Shou-shu” (“Beasts”)—13

5. “Yu-tsu” (“Feathered Species”)—4

6. “Lin-tsu” (“Scaled Species”)—5

7. “Chieh-shu” (“Shelled Species”)—3

8. “K’un-ch’ung shu” (“Insects”)—4

9. “Ts’ao-mu shu” (“Plants”)—5

10. “Wu-ch’ing chih wu” (“Inanimate Things”)—2

11. “Ch’i-wu chih shu” (“Implements and Artifacts”)—8

12. “Wu-ming kuai” (“Unidentified Monsters”)—10

The Compiler of Ch’ing-shih says: The character yao is composed of nü [“female,” “woman”] and yao [“young”]. Thus a beautiful, young girl is described as yao-jao. Now, the spirits of birds, beasts, plants, the five material elements, and hundreds of other things frequently take the forms of young persons in order to bewitch man, with those who manifest themselves as young men, however, numbering but one out of every ten.[188]

Ah, but once the spirits of birds, animals, plants, the five elements, or of the hundreds of other things have manifested themselves in human form, men are then unable to distinguish them from real human beings. What, then, can we do about those persons who do monstrous things without even needing to disguise themselves in the form of man? Wu is nothing but a bewitching fox, Chao the water of disaster, and Hsi a poisonous snake.[189] When a man is himself abnormal, it is conceivable that he could also turn into an abnormal, monstrous bird, beast, plant, or one of the five elements, or any of the hundreds of other things.

This chapter deals mainly with the ch’ing between a man and monstrous spirits other than those already included in chapters 19, “Implausible Ch’ing, and 20, “Ghosts of Ch’ing”.[190] They are the spirits of animals, of plants, and of the various tools, implements, and artifacts made by man. The spirits we read about in this chapter, also like the spirits of nature and like dead human beings, or ghosts, never fail to manifest themselves in the form of a human being in order that they might thereby establish a relation with human beings. Different, however, from the spirits in chapters 19 and 20, some of the animal and plant spirits we read about in this chapter are harmful or noxious, frequently bringing illness or even death to their bewitched human victims, particularly to the man, but with physical harm or damage seldom developing for the woman frequented by an animal or plant spirit. Once bewitched, a young woman often falls in love with her exploiter—manifested without fail as a handsome young man—and becomes oblivious of her former, everyday life, until such time as the haunting spirit is at last destroyed or exorcised by a Taoist or Buddhist priest.

But not all the spirits of animals, plants, or artifacts are evil. Several spirits bring wealth, fortune, or both to their chosen human companions; some spirits possess more than simply the human traits—they even have certain virtues which ordinary persons seldom possess, the well-known T’ang tale “Jen-shih chuan” providing an example of this. (In this tale, a devoted fox spirit transforms herself into a gracious and virtuous woman, in the end dying for the sake of her love for her human mate.[191])

Although the compiler, in the above chapter summary, gives his reason for designating this chapter yao, saying that the great majority of monsters manifest themselves as beautiful young women, one nevertheless finds, upon examining the fifty-eight entries collected here, that there is no consistently predominent pattern as to the nature or sex of the spirits.[192] In other words, knowing the true and monstrous identity of a spirit does not necessarily help one to determine the human qualities, good or bad, or the sex of the embodied spirit. The only exception here is with the five entries of section 9, “Plants,” in which all the plant spirits—an ancient willow tree, an old cassia, some white lotus blossoms, some chrysanthemums, and a plantain—manifest themselves as beautiful young women. Even so, there is still no pattern which can be established as to their benign or evil nature, as some bring harm to their human companions but others do not.

The story I have chosen to translate for this chapter is entry 12, found in section 4. It is taken from the anonymous Ho-tung chi, and can be found in chapter 429 of T’ai-p’ing kuang-chi. This story is one of the very few tales included in Ch’ing-shih wherein ch’ing or love is defeated by some other of the protagonist’s longings or pursuits.[193] And this entry is all the more outstanding among these few tales in that it is the female protagonist—the tiger fairy—rather than the male, who finally decides that nature, with its mountains and forests, is even dearer to her heart than is her family, consisting of her human husband and their two children. The story is well written. The simple beauty of man’s everyday life and activities is described against an ever-changing, yet everlasting, nature, in the terse, graceful language of classical Chinese, with much to be read between the lines.

ENTRY 12. “Tiger Fairy” (“Hu-ching”)

In the ninth year of Chen-yüan of the T’ang [i.e., 763], a commoner by the name of Shen-t’u Ch’eng was appointed a constable of Shih-fen in Han-chou.[194] When he arrived at a place some ten or twelve li east of Chen-fu, he encountered a freezing snowstorm, and his horse was unable to go on. He then saw a thatched house by the road, lights within and smoke curling out, so he immediately went up to it.

There he saw inside an old couple and their daughter, sitting around the fire. The girl was about fourteen or fifteen, and though her hair was disheveled and her dress smudged with dirt, she had a snow-like complexion, rosy cheeks, and a charming manner. When the old couple caught sight of Ch’eng coming, they hastily got up. “Oh, you’ve been outside in the freezing snow,” they said. “Please step in, here, by the fire.” Ch’eng thanked them, happily accepting their offer. They all sat around for a long time, but even after it was dark, the wind and the snow showed no signs of letting up. Ch’eng spoke up. “It is still quite a distance west to Chen-fu. Would you mind if I spent the night here?” “Of course not!” the couple said. “Only, we’re afraid you’ll find our thatched hut too humble for the likes of yourself.”

Only then, as Ch’eng was going out to unsaddle and feed his horse, did the daughter get up to dress herself up a bit; returning from behind the curtained bamboo door, she now appeared even more beautiful and graceful than before. Presently the old woman brought in a jar of wine from outside, placing it on the fire to warm up. She said to Ch’eng, “Since you’ve been travelling in the cold, why don’t you help yourself to a cup or two—it’ll warm you up.” “But the young lady hasn’t been seated yet,” replied Ch’eng. The old man and woman both laughed. “But she is only the daughter of a farmer—we’re hardly talking about guests and hostesses here, now are we?” The young girl turned aside to look at her parents. “The wine is not the important thing,” she said. “I think that what the gentleman has just suggested is that it’s improper for him to take a drink before his hosts do.” At this point the mother tugged at her daughter’s skirt and seated the girl at her side.

Ch’eng, in order to learn more about the girl, now suggested that they all play a wine-drinking game. He held up his cup and said, “Let’s try to think of the most fitting quotations from any of the well-known books to describe the situation we find ourselves in now.” Taking the lead, Ch’eng then recited, “Deep we quaff at our night-drinking; not till we are drunk shall we go home.”[195] The girl lowered her head at this, and smiled, saying, “Just look at that sky! Right now, even if you really planned to go home, I don’t know how you could go.” Then after a short while it was the girl’s turn. With a smile she said, “Wind and rain, dark as night, the cock crowed and would not stop.”[196] Ch’eng was greatly surprised. He sighed aloud in admiration. “How bright and intelligent this young lady is! I’m fortunate that I’m still single—do you think I could act as my own matchmaker and ask for your daughter in marriage?”[197] The old man answered, “Although she was born into this poor, low family, she has always been loved and well protected, nonetheless. A while back there was another gentleman passing through this area—he also asked me for my daughter, offering gold and silk—and at that time I just couldn’t part with my girl, so I didn’t give him my consent. Now, you’re asking for the same thing. It must be fate, right? Yes, you may have her.”

Thereupon Ch’eng thanked the old man and addressed himself again to the old couple, this time as their son-in-law. He took out all he had and presented it to his parents-in-law. The old woman, however, firmly declined. “If you don’t mind our poverty and humbleness, then please take this back,” she said.

Next day, the old couple came to Ch’eng. “We live all by ourselves in this remote place, and we don’t have any elaborate dowry for our daughter, so let us just get a few things ready first, and then you can be on your way with her.” Another day passed, and on the third day they all calmly bid one another good-bye. Ch’eng then helped the girl up onto his horse, and the young couple set off.

Upon arriving at his post, Ch’eng discovered that his pay was extremely poor, but thanks to the help of his wife they managed to settle in comfortably. Their circle of friends grew and grew, and within only ten months, Ch’eng had become well known there. The husband and wife also grew fonder of and closer to one another as time went by. She was generous to all Ch’eng’s kith and kin, and would help care for the younger generation of the clan, and was gracious and kind to the servants. Thus, all who knew her liked her.

By the time Ch’eng had almost completed his assignment there, the couple had a son and a daughter. Both children were bright and intelligent, and for this, Ch’eng admired his wife even more and was grateful to her. Once he wrote a poem to her, which goes like this:

Me, a constable, ashamed when I’m compared with Mei Fu;[198]

Three years, and still not worthy of Meng Kuang.[199]

To what shall I compare this love of ours?

A pair of yüan-yang ducks upon the stream. . . .

Ch’eng’s wife would go about chanting and reciting poetry all day long, as if she were silently responding to Ch’eng’s poems. But she never once read anything aloud to Ch’eng, frequently telling him that, as a woman, one should be versed in literature, but that when a woman began to compose poetry she was acting like some maid or concubine.

Having by now served out his assignment, Ch’eng took his entire family and headed back for Ch’in. After they had passed Ho-ch’uan, they came to the shore of Chia-ling River, where they stopped by a large rock in a stream. They were resting on the grassy ground, when suddenly Ch’eng’s wife spoke to him, somewhat depressed. “A few days back, you wrote me a poem, and almost immediately I composed a reply to you. At first I didn’t plan to show it to you, but now, with this landscape here, I can’t keep it to myself any longer.” With that, she began to chant:

Although the love of husband and wife is profound,

The longing for mountains and forests is also deep.

I often fear that the change of time and season

Will cause me to reject my resolve of a hundred years.

When she finished with her chanting, she wept quietly for a long time, as if she were longing for or reminiscing about something. At last Ch’eng said, “Your poem is indeed very lovely. But mountains and forests are not something for the weaker sex to worry about—and if you’re thinking of your parents, we’ll be there soon. So why are you suddenly weeping like this, so sad?”

Some twenty or so days later they were once again in the vicinity of Ch’eng’s wife’s house; the thatched hut was still there, just as before, but they could no longer find any people living there. Ch’eng and his, wife had both paused within the house, and now the wife was deeply wrapped in her thoughts of longing. She spent the whole day weeping. Suddenly, under a pile of her old clothing at one corner of the wall, she caught sight of a tiger skin, all covered with dust. Upon seeing it, she immediately burst into loud laughter, saying, “Hey, I didn’t know this thing was still here!” She threw the tiger skin over her shoulders and was instantly transformed into a tiger, which roared and dashed about, then rushed out the door. Ch’eng was terrified; he took flight and ran. Later on, taking his two children with him, Ch’eng went looking for any traces of the tiger. Looking all about in the forest, the three of them wept for several days, but they never were able to find her again.

This story comes from Ho-tung chi.

CHAPTER 22: “Ch’ing-wai” (“Homosexuality”)

(15 sections and 40 entries)

1. “Ch’ing-chen” (“Chastity”)—1

2. “Ch’ing-ssu” (“Clandestine Ch’ing”)—2

3. “Ch’ing-ai” (“Passion”)—11

4. “Ch’ing-ch’ih” (“Infatuation”)—3

5. “Ch’ing-kan” (“Pathos”)—1

6. “Ch’ing-hua” (“Transformation”)—1

7. “Ch’ing-han” (“Regrettable Love”)—5

8. “Po-hsing” (“Infidelity”)—2

9. “Ch’ing-ch’ou” (“Adversaries”)—2

10. “Tzu-ti ping-ch’ung pu-chung” (“Sisters and Brothers Both Are Favored by Emperors, but That Love is Unlasting”)—2

11. “Ch’ing-pao” (“Recompense”)—1

12. “Ch’ing-hui” (“Degenerates”)—4

13. “Ch’ing-lei” (“Ch’ing as a Hindrance”)—3

14. “Hsieh-shen” (“Evil Spirits”)—1

15. “Ling-kuei” (“Efficacious Ghosts”)—1

The Compiler of Ch’ing-shih says: Food and sex are the major desires of a person. Beautiful women can tangle a tongue; beautiful lads can ruin an older head—one should, therefore, beware of these two kinds of beauty.[200] Hsin-po has also testified on both heterosexual love and homosexual love.[201] Thus, we know that homosexuality has long been spoken of right along with heterosexuality.

However, those who are fond of both homosexual and heterosexual love are frequently criticized and are therefore not necessarily better off than those preferring only heterosexuality. I heard that Yü Ta-fu once said that sex with a woman is for producing offspring, and with a man, for having fun; that with all living things under Heaven, the male is always superior to the female in color, as among the feathered species—from phoenix and peacock to chicken and pheasant—in which those highly ornate and colorful are always male; that this is also true with the gloss of dogs’ or horses’ coats; and, finally, that were the male capable of producing offspring, then there would really be no need for the female.[202] Ah yes, and there are indeed those in this world who are crazy about homosexuality like this! Does ch’ing’ then, lie only with the weaker sex?

In K’ung-ts’ung-tzu it is recorded that when Tzu Shang is received by the king of Wei, he sees a favorite courtier of the king, a courtier with beautiful beard and eyebrows, standing by the king’s side. The king of Wei tells Tzu Shang, “Were beard and eyebrows lendable, I would certainly lend you these [i.e., of the king’s favorite courtier]!” Well, now! Favoring the one that has beautiful beard and eyebrows, and treating him as a most intimate courtier . . . I really do not know what the basis of this kind of ch’ing can be.

From the above chapter summary as well as from the entry comments in this chapter, I find that our compiler, while not particularly favoring homosexuality, nevertheless considers it a perfectly normal human instinct. Therefore, homosexual love in Ch’ing-shih is in general treated the same as is heterosexual love. This is strongly evidenced by the sectional categorization of this chapter—its entries are arranged into fifteen categories which follow the same general pattern that governs, or guides, the categorization of all the other Ch’ing-shih entries dealing with heterosexual ch’ing. Furthermore, we see in the compiler’s comments with this chapter many remarks which he has elsewhere applied in parallel to describe, comment upon, or criticize some aspect of the numerous Ch’ing-shih entries concerning heterosexual relations.

Just as in his dealing with heterosexual love, the compiler in speaking of homosexual love distinguishes ch’ing from se (“beautiful appearance”). He warns his reader to avoid excessive homosexual activity, and he considers a ruler’s indulgence in homosexuality completely undesirable. Genuine ch’ing, or love, between members of the same sex is praised, as also are the virtues—such as fidelity, chastity, the spirit of self-sacrifice, and constancy—arising from this sort of love.

Though the Chinese literature on homosexuality is largely irrelevant to our present discussion, I should point out that homosexual love has always, to a varying degree, been considered a more or less normal and therefore socially and aesthetically acceptable phenomenon in China. This was especially true in the Ming and Ch’ing times.[203] Keeping this in mind, then, we can understand that it is perfectly natural for our compiler to have included this chapter in his Ch’ing-shih.

The story I have chosen to translate for this chapter is entry 14, written by compiler Feng Meng-lung himself, and included in section 3. From his comments upon this story, it is further obvious that Feng Meng-lung, like the great majority of his intellectual contemporaries, considers male homosexual love a normal, natural expression of ch’ing. As long as genuine love exists, a relationship is always praiseworthy, regardless of the sex of the two persons involved.[204]

ENTRY 14. “The Young Man Wan” (“Wan-sheng”)

Lung Tzu-yu’s “Wan-sheng chuan” (“Story of the Young Man Wan”) goes this way:

Wan was a student from the district Ch’u-huang. His intimate friend, a lad surnamed Cheng, was called Meng-ko. Wan met Cheng for the first time in a theater, when Cheng was yet a young boy, with his hair still hanging down over his eyes. Though Cheng had never seen Wan before, he answered the questions Wan asked him; when Wan then presented him with some snow pears, he accepted them. Wan was greatly pleased and planned to flirt further with Cheng the next day, when they would again meet at the same place. However, Cheng did not show up the next day. Upon enquiring, Wan learned that, in obedience to his father’s order, Cheng had had to leave for the central province [i.e., present-day Ho-nan] to study. Wan remained disconcerted for a long time thereafter.

Thus, more than a year had passed when they again met, this time on the road. Cheng now looked completely worn out by hardship, appearing quite different from his former self. Wan felt even more compassion for him, and the two, after several meetings, consequently came to be on the most intimate of terms. Seeing a person like Cheng—who by now looked no better than an ugly ghost—being chosen as a catamite, the youth of the same district where Wan lived all began to criticize and laugh at Cheng, in order to shame Wan. Wan, however, paid no attention to them, but hid Cheng out in a secret place, providing food for him. After a long while Cheng began to look just as handsome and radiant as before, and would now on occasion go into the city. The youth who had previously ridiculed him now competed with one another in praising his beauty—and all attempted to flirt with him. Cheng, however, like Wan, paid them no attention.

The couple remained together several years this way, until Cheng at last reached adulthood. Now, Wan was by no means a rich scholar, but Cheng was even poorer. So Wan at last decided to arrange a marriage for Cheng. He also partitioned off one-third of his house and assigned it to Cheng, inviting Cheng’s parents to come live with them. Whenever Wan went out, Cheng would follow him, like a devoted younger brother. Should Wan have to travel afar, Cheng would then stay home and manage the household affairs, like a capable servant. If Wan was sick, Cheng would attend him, preparing all his medicine, as if he were Wan’s own filial son. In Wan’s studio, there was a separate bed, and Cheng would sleep there five nights out of every ten. Neither family found all of this unacceptable, and nobody showed any surprise, the members of the two families knocking at each other’s gates and ascending to each other’s halls, completely forgetting that they were indeed two families. [Compiler’s remarks follow.]

Tzu-yu says: When it comes to ch’ing, are there any, anywhere, like Wan and Cheng? Some say that Cheng was but an ordinary person, endowed with no gifts such as those of Anling and Lung-yang.[205] Yet he received favors from Wan, similar to the embroidered quilt received by Hsin Ch’ien-yen from Lord Hsiang-ch’eng, or to the pellets of gold used by Han Yen in his slingshot, due to the love expressed by Wu-ti of the Han.[206] Wan, then, certainly did make an unfortunate choice; but had Cheng first had the looks of An-ling or Lung-yang, and only then been favored by Wan, he would have been so favored only because of his beauty—and how, in that case, could we speak of ch’ing? And furthermore, should one indeed be endowed with peach or plum blossom looks, would those good looks then last forever, never wilting, never fading?

Wan, they say, later came to believe the prediction of a fortune-teller, i.e., that he would not die at his home. He therefore said to one of his relatives, Master T’ien P’i, and to his friend, Yang Yeh, “Should it happen exactly as the fortune-teller predicted, would you two gentlemen, in arranging matters, please make sure that I am buried in the same tomb as Cheng.” Now, since Wan was that infatuated with Cheng, I am certain that even if there had been a man a hundred times prettier than Cheng, Wan would still never in the world have exchanged Cheng for that man. Cheng was a modest, taciturn person—completely different from the usual giddy, frivolous young men one finds—and he was a very small person. Someone once weighed him, and found him to weight barely sixty catties—indeed, a most unusual man!

CHAPTER 23: “Ch’ing-t’ung” (“Anthropopathism”)

(4 sections and 36 entries)

1. “Fei-ch’in” (“Birds”)—12

2. “Shou-shu” (“Beasts”)—5

3. “Yü-ch’ung” (“Fish and Insects”)—8

4. “Ts’ao-mu” (“Plants”)—11

The Compiler of Ch’ing-shih says: The myriad of things are all born of emotions and die with emotions, man being but one of the myriad of living things. Man is able to talk, to clothe and cap himself, and to salute and bow; thus he has been considered first among the myriad of things. But in reality, man’s instinct and nature are no different from the instinct and nature of other living things. Therefore, we note that sheep kneel down to be nursed and are considered filial; deer become heartbroken when their young die and are considered parental; bees establish an order between lords and vassals; geese manifest their friendship; and dogs and horses repay the kindness of their masters. Roosters know the time; magpies know the wind; ants know the water; woodpeckers are capable of drawing symbols and writing words; and so on. Their intelligence being sometimes superior to that of man, their emotions, then, must not be inferior to man’s. And this holds true not only for the winged or the finned, for even something as unintelligent as a plant is also born from the ch’ing of Heaven and Earth, thus it, too, frequently reveals the image of its origin. Why so? Because wherever there is life, there is ch’ing. Thus, although he might be called a living person, I would still consider dead any man without ch’ing.

To help illustrate the omnipresence of ch’ing, the compiler in this chapter deals with nonhuman things that are capable of human emotions. Among these thirty-six entries, one can discern perhaps five kinds of expression of ch’ing in the nonhuman world—expression of ch’ing which our compiler sees as mirroring, as being analogous to, the love between man and woman. Such reflective expression of ch’ing is found in the following five categories:

1) Self-sacrifice. Several entries in this chapter deal with birds or beasts that die for the sake of love for their mates.[207] Our compiler, no doubt, considers self-sacrifice, especially sacrifice of life, the most laudable, the quintessential, expression of ch’ing in either the human or the nonhuman world.

2) Activities or appearances which seem to indicate a love between the two sexes. In this chapter, the compiler considers certain birds, animals, and insects, whose male and female always seem to stay together, to be living beings endowed with emotions similar to those of man.[208] Plants having their roots or branches intertwined, or having their leaves or flowers growing in pairs, are likewise considered to be expressing intimate love.[209]

3) The ability to comprehend or understand human emotions. Birds, beasts, fish, insects, and even plants occasionally appear capable of understanding, and sympathizing with, the feelings of man. In this chapter, our compiler includes several entries in which a nonhuman being either serves as a messenger, carrying love messages to help some lover;[210] or else shows its sympathy towards a human lover in one way or another.[211] In one entry, for example, a tiger plays the role of a just knight who brings a couple back together while killing the villain who has attempted to murder the husband and rape the wife.[212]

4) Love between man and a nonhuman being. There are five stories in this chapter dealing with love or sexual relations between a person and a nonhuman being. The nonhuman beings—a male phoenix, a male swallow, a stallion, a tigress, and a male monkey—are, perhaps needless to say, considered capable of human emotions.

5) Aphrodisiacs. Some insects and plants, due to their natural behavior patterns, colors, or shapes, are suggestive of love or passion, and are used by man as aphrodisiacs.[214] Those insects and plants, therefore, are regarded as being endowed with some features characteristic of human sexuality.

The story I have chosen to translate, from section 1, is the second anecdote of entry 1, “Feng” (“Phoenixes”), and it tells of the legendary love between a princess and an intelligent male phoenix. This story, according to the compiler, has been copied from Tung-hsüan-mu-hsing ching.

ENTRY 1. “Phoenixes” (“Feng”)

The king of Wei-lo in the west had a daughter by the name of P’ei-ying. P’ei-ying kept a male phoenix, who was her constant companion. Frequently this intelligent phoenix would caress the girl’s cheeks with its wings. Ten years had passed thus, when suddenly the girl was found pregnant. The king, feeling this uncanny, ordered the phoenix decapitated and buried in the mound of Ch’ang-lin.

The princess later gave birth to a baby girl, naming her Huang-fei. Thinking about the companionship of that intelligent phoenix, the princess one day rode in her carriage to the mound of Ch’ang-lin. There she sang:

Gone forever, intelligent phoenix.

Far away, his long return.

Never-ending, my longing;

Always at odds, reality.

Myriad ages, limitless. . .

When will he come, aflying?

Suddenly the phoenix appeared, picked up the girl, and straightaway flew off into the clouds.

This story comes from Tung-hsüan-mu-hsing ching.

CHAPTER 24: “Ch’ing-chi” (“Vestiges”)

(3 sections and 53 entries)

1. “Shih-hua” (“Anecdotes Concerning Shih Poetry”)—24

2. “Tz’u-hua” (“Anecdotes Concerning Tz’u Verse”)—15

3. “Tsa-shih” (“Miscellaneous Anecdotes”)—14

The Compiler of Ch’ing-shih says: Birds chirp in the spring, and insects cry in the fall—both are emotional expressions, brought about by the seasons, and are spontaneous. When the seasons pass, the emotional expressions for them disappear as well. With man, however, it is different. Man rhymes his emotion, expressing it in poetry (shih); he meters his emotion, expressing it in verse (tz’u). The singing, chanting, sighing, or humming of a single day may then be transmitted to hundreds and thousands of generations, the beautiful stories behind this emotional expression to be told over and over, and written down. Then when later generations recite these poems, sing these verses, or narrate these stories, they will visualize the ch’ing, and distinguish as well between the right and the wrong, the good and the evil, of the past. Since man, on account of his ch’ing, is able to live after death, we then know for sure that ch’ing never fails man, although man at times obscures his ch’ing; so why in the world should man fail his own ch’ing?

This final chapter contains fifty-three well-known anecdotes relating to ch’ing. As the concluding chapter, it serves to echo the statement contained in Feng Meng-lung’s preface to Ch’ing-shih: by means of ch’ing, one can still live even after his biological death.

The entries included in sections 1 and 2 are anecdotes concerning various of the famous poets and poetesses of the past, as well as their poetical compositions. All the shih and tz’u dealt with in these two sections have ch’ing (“love”) as the theme, although not all the anecdotes in these sections are taken from a shih-hua or a tz’u-hua work. Section 3 contains fourteen short anecdotes about well-known historical personages, each anecdote having something to do with ch’ing.

The anecdote I have chosen to translate, from section 3, is entry 42. Though not so acknowledged, this anecdote is copied directly from the section “Wu-ch’i” (“Weapons”) of Ch’ing-yi lu.

ENTRY 42. “Love Arrows” (“Feng-liu chien”)

During the Pao-li (825–27) period of the T’ang, the emperor ordered some paper arrows and bamboo bows made. Between the two layers of arrow-shaft paper, he ordered some powdered musk secretly hidden.[215] Then whenever the court ladies came together, the emperor would shoot at them with these arrows, and she who was hit would be perfumed by the musk, but feel no pain. Within the palace they named these arrows “love arrows”. They all said that to be hit by a “love arrow” was everyone’s wish.

Notes

INTRODUCTION

1. For a pioneer study of the origins of the hua-pen genre, see J. Průšek’s “Researches into the Beginnings of the Chinese Popular Novel,” in his Chinese History and Literature (Dordrecht-Holland: D. Reidel Publishing Company, 1970), pp. 228–302. See also Sun K’ai-ti’s “Chung-kuo tuan-p’ien pai-hua hsiao-shuo ti fa-chan” and “Shuo-hua k’ao” in his Ts’ang-chou chi (Peking, 1965). The two best known hua-pen story enthusiasts and writers—Feng Meng-lung (1574–1646), compiler of the San-yen collections, and Ling Meng-ch’u (1580–1645), author of the liang-p’ai collections—are men of the intellectual elite.

2. The ch’ien ch’i-tzu or Hung-chih (1488–1505) ch’i-tzu are: Ho Chingming, Hsü Chen-ch’ing, Li Meng-yang, K’ang Hai, Pien Kung, Wang Chiu-ssu, and Wang T’ing-hsiang. The hou ch’i-tzu or Chia-ching (1522–66) ch’i-tzu are: Hsieh Chen, Hsü Chung-hsing, Li P’an-lung, Liang Yu-yü, Tsung Ch’eng, Wang Shih-chen, and Wu Kuo-lun.

3. Wang Yang-ming and Li Meng-yang were born and died in the same years (1472–1529), Li Meng-yang being the leader of the Former Seven-scholars.

4. For a detailed examination of this term “liang-chih,” see Tang Chun-i, “The Development of the Concept of Moral Mind from Wang Yang-ming to Wang Chi,” in Self and Society in Ming Thought, ed. Wm. Theodore de Bary (New York: Columbia University Press, 1970), pp. 93–119.

5. For a study of Wang Yang-ming’s theory of the relation of sagehood to the individual, see Wm. Theodore de Bary, “Individualism and Human-itarianism in Late Ming Thought,” in Self and Society in Ming Thought, pp. 145–247.

6. For an illuminating study of Li Chih as an individualistic thinker, see the section entitled “Li Chih, The Arch-individualist,” in de Bary, “Individualism and Humanitarianism.” De Bary has also included a detailed bibliography of works on Li Chih in his note 159 to this long article.

7. See the chapter “T’ung-hsin shuo” (“On the Childlike Heart”) in Fenshu.

8. In more than one place in his Fen-shu, Li Chih praises the literary and artistic excellence of Shui-hu chuan and Hsi-hsiang chi (which Li Chih refers to as Hsi-hsiang ch’ü). His close relation to the 120-chapter Shui-hu chuan has been explored in detail by Richard G. Irwin in The Evolution of a Chinese Novel: Shui-hu chuan (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1953), pp. 75–86.

9. The three Yüan brothers are Yüan Tsung-tao, Yüan Hung-tao, and Yüan Chung-tao. Yüan Hung-tao (i.e., Yüan Chung-lang, 1568–1610) was the best-known and the most active of the brothers.

10. “Hsing-ling,” a term appearing frequently in Yüan Chung-lang’s writings, can refer either to the writer’s emotion (to be expressed through literature), or to the “spirit” of that literary composition containing his emotion. Thus, the term is used by Yüan Chung-lang in multiple senses, and sometimes refers to the writer, sometimes to the writing.

11. See his “Hsü Hsiao-hsiu shih” (“Introduction to Hsiao-hsiu’s [i.e., Chung-tao’s] Poetry”), in the “Wen-ch’ao” (“Prose Essays”) section, vol. 1, of Yüan Chung-lang ch’üan-chi (Complete Works of Yüan Chung-lang; Taipei: Wen-hsing shu-tien, 1965).

12. Yüan Chung-lang, also, has compared Shui-hu chuan with the Six Classics, and is known for his unusual fondness of and high regard for Chin P’ing Mei (see, e.g., his letter to Tung Ssu-pai in vol. 5 of his Complete Works, p. 21). On one occasion, he places Kuan Han-ch’ing, the Yüan playwright, and Lo Kuan-chung, the well-known novelist, on a literary plane with the Grand Historian, Ssu-ma Ch’ien (see his letter to Kung Wei-ch’ang in ibid., pp. 1–2).

13. Among these vernacular and folk literature enthusiasts, the one first deserving our attention is Feng Meng-lung. Not only has he compiled and edited numerous volumes of fictional works, folk songs, games, jokes, and so on, but he has himself actually written in several of these unorthodox literary genres.

14. For an examination of the T’ai-chou school of Wang Yang-ming’s Neo-Confucianism, see Huang Tsung-hsi’s (1610–95) “T’ai-chou hsüen-an” in his Ming-ju hsüeh-an (chapters 32–36). See also the sections on Wang Ken, Yen Chün, and other T’ai-chou masters in de Bary, “Individualism and Humanitarianism,” pp. 162–88.

15. See Huang Tsung-hsi’s introduction to “T’ai-chou hsüeh-an” (chapter 32) in his Ming-ju hsüeh-an.

16. In his “Individualism and Humanitarianism,” p. 178, de Bary quotes Wang Shih-chen, from Yen-chou shih-liao hou chi, chapter 35; “He [i.e., Yen Chün] believed that man’s appetite for wealth and sex all sprang from his true nature. . . .” I have no access to Yen-chou shih-liao hou chi, and my statement here is based completely on de Bary’s interpretation of Yen Chün.

17. For a brief but informative survey of Lo Ju-fang’s influence on T’ang Hsien-tsu, see C. T. Hsia, “Time and the Human Condition in the Plays of T’ang Hsien-tsu,” in Self and Society in Ming Thought, pp. 249–90.

18. De Bary has devoted one section of his “Individualism and Human-itarianism” to Li Chih’s view of human relations. See Self and Society in Ming Thought, pp. 197–99. Note that Li Chih applies the term husband-wife to relationships such as sky-earth, etc.

19. See the opening sentences of the “Tsung-lun” (“General Remarks”) on chapters 1–4, “Fu-fu” (“Husband-Wife”), in Li Chih’s Ch’u T’an chi. This article is one of his most frequently quoted works; in it he has not only recorded Confucian ethical relations by substituting, as the primary human relation, the husband-wife relation for the father-son relation, but he has also denied the Neo-Confucianists’ monistic cosmology.

20. For a stimulating examination of ch’ing as a major theme in T’ang Hsien-tsu’s plays, see Hsia, “Time and the Human Condition.”

21. Cyril Birch has given us a complete English translation of Mu-tan t’ing—The Peony Pavilion (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1980).

22. In all there are 854 titles listed in the table of contents. But sometimes under a single title we find more than one anecdote, which brings the actual entry total to 893. This total would be even higher, should we also include the stories found in the commentaries appended to most of the entries in Ch’ing-shih.

23. Of the twenty-four chapters, only two (chapters 7 and 11) are not formally subdivided into sections.

24. The shortest entry in Ch’ing-shih consists of but 19 characters (entry 23, chapter 5); the longest, more than 12,400 characters (entry 1, chapter 14).

25. Presumably the compiler could have listed this story in chapter 12, under a new subheading such as hu-t’ao mei (“Walnuts as Matchmakers”), since the walnut indeed plays a very important role in the final union of the couple. Such a subheading would not be out of place among the thirteen sections of chapter 12, which include such unusual matchmakers as wind (feng-mei), red leaf (hung-yeh mei), tiger (hu-mei), fox (hu-mei), and ant (yi-mei).

26. It should be noted that several chapters in Ch’ing-shih contain, in addition to the regular entries, addenda entries which are appended at the end of the regular entries and are arranged by subject into different sections, following the same headings as the regular entries. There are two addenda entries in chapter 3, “Ch’ing-ssu,” and one of them is a story categorized under section 1, “Clandestine Ch’ing Leading to Marriage”. However, since it is an addendum entry, it is listed as entry 22, instead of entry 15. In other words, the fifteen entries in section 1 of chapter 3 are divided into two kinds—fourteen regular entries and one addendum entry.

27. Most of the pre-Sung stories can be found in T’ai-p’ing kuang-chi, or in other anthologies of similar nature; quite a few of the Sung stories come from Yi Chien chih; many anecdotes relating to well-known historical or literary figures can be found scattered among their biographies or among various shih-hua and tz’u-hua; stories about famous courtesans and prostitutes are most often taken from Pei-li chih, Ch’ing-lou chi, and other books recording the episodes and activities of such women. Briefly, then, the general nature of the pre-Ming entry sources is a variegated one.

28. At the end of his preface, Feng employs one of the most familiar of his several names: “Preface by Lung Tzu-yu, a man from Wu”. It is by this name, Lung Tzu-yu, or simply Tzu-yu that Feng Meng-lung is referred to, in most cases, in Ch’ing-shih.

29. The four great elements of Buddhism are earth, fire, water, and wind.

30. The Six Classics are Shih (Book of Songs), Shu (Book of Documents), Li (Book of Rites), Yüeh (Book of Music), Yi (Book of Changes), and Ch’un-ch’iu (Spring and Autumn Annals). They were first grouped together, in the order just mentioned, and referred to as the Six Classics, in the Chuang-tzu. Since Book of Music has long been lost, the compiler touches upon only the remaining five in the passage to follow.

31. “Kuan-chü” (“Ospreys”) describes the longings of a noble lord for his bride, and also the virtuous young lady’s beauty. Traditionally, scholars have identified the lord as King Wen of the Chou (Chou Wen-wang).

32. See “Yao-tien” (“The Canon of Yao”) in Book of Documents. The passage our compiler has referred to begins with the aging Emperor Yao’s search for a successor to his throne. After Yü Shun has been unanimously named a candidate, the emperor says, “I will try him! I will wive him and then see his behaviour with my two daughters” (James Legge’s translation). Thereupon he gives orders, and sends his two daughters down to the Kuei river, “to be wives of Yü Shun” (“p’in-yü Yü”).

33. Book of Rites states, “She who is espoused by proper betrothal is the wife; she who is married without the proper betrothal is a concubine” (“p’ing tse-wei-ch’i, pen tse-wei-ch’ieh”).

34. Here our compiler is referring to a passage from Tso-chuan without considering its context. The passage in Tso-chuan first comments upon a military incident which happened in the ninth year of Duke Ch’eng, then cites a now-lost poem from Book of Songs to support its view. The poem reads:

Though you have silk and hemp,

Don’t throw away your grass and rushes;

Though a Chi or Chiang girl be your wife,

Don’t desert the one from a humble village.

This is obviously a love poem, and its message is explicit; in Tso-chuan, it is used in context illustrating the importance of preparations with regard to national defence. Our compiler here evidently refers to the poem in its original context of love.

35. Since Confucius has been credited with the editorship, if not the authorship, of all of the Six Classics, the sheng-jen (“sage”) here no doubt refers to him and is therefore singular.

36. “The heterodox schools” refers to Buddhism and to Taoism.

37. See entry 9, chapter 17, “Yang Huo,” of Analects. I use James Legge’s translation of these phrases.

38. See the Gatha of ch’ing in the previously translated preface to Ch’ing-shih by Feng Meng-lung.

39. The “three obediences” (san-ts’ung) of a woman are: obedience to her father (before marriage), her husband (during married life), and her sons (in widowhood). See the chapter “Records on Mourning Costumes” (“sang-fu chuan”) in Yi-li. The “four virtues” (ssu-te) of a woman are: chastity, physical charm, propriety in speech, and proficiency in needlework. See the section on chiu-p’in in Chou-li. The “four virtues” are also called the “four accomplishments” (ssu-hsing) in some texts.

40. See, e.g., the compiler’s comment on “Wu Chin-t’ung ch’i” (“Wu Chin-t’ung’s Wife”), entry 47 of chapter 1.

41. “Ying-ying chuan” (“The Story of Ying-ying”) can be found in chapter 488 of T’ai-p’ing kuang-chi. Ch’ing-shih includes it in chapter 14, “Ch’ing-ch’ou” (“Adversaries”), entry 9, under the title “Ying-ying”. A more recent study of Yüan Chen and “Ying-ying chuan” is James R. Hightower’s “Yüan Chen and ‘The Story of Ying-ying,’” Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies (hereafter HJAS) 33 (1973): 90–123. There are several English translations of “Ying-ying chuan” available, including the one in Hightower’s article. Harsh criticism of Yüan Chen can be found in at least three places in Ch’ing-shih: in the final chapter summary of chapter 3, “Ch’ing-ssu” (“Clandestine Ch’ing”); in the comment on entry 18, “Yüan Wei-chih,” of chapter 13, “Ch’ing-han” (“Regrettable Love”); and in the comment on entry 9, “Ying-ying,” of chapter 14, “Ch’ing-ch’ou” (“Adversaries”).

42. “Li Wa chuan” (“The Story of Li Wa”) can be found in chapter 484 of T’ai-p’ing kuang-chi. The story is included in Ch’ing-shih, chapter 16, “Ch’ing-pao” (“Recompense”), entry 1, as “Yung-yang Cheng-sheng”. The Ch’ing-shih version of “Li Wa chuan” is copied almost verbatim from the T’ai-p’ing kuang-chi except that the compiler has deleted the first and the last passages, which praise Li Wa’s virtue and give accounts of the origins and history of the composition of the story. There are several English translations of “Li Wa chuan” available, including that by Arthur Waley (see Cyril Birch’s Anthology of Chinese Literature [New York: Grove, 1965], pp. 300–313). In the passages deleted by the compiler of Ch’ing-shih, we find sentences such as: “The devotion of her conduct was so remarkable that I have thought it worth while to record her story,” and “How strange that we should find in the conduct of a prostitute a degree of constancy rarely equalled even by the heroines of history!” (from Arthur Waley’s translation).

43. See “Li Wa chuan”. When the hero, the young scholar Cheng, first sees Li Wa, he is on horseback, on his way to a friend’s house. Passing by Li Wa’s place, he is attracted to her at first sight; he purposely drops his whip on the ground for his attendant to pick up, thereby getting a chance to exchange a few admiring glances with Li Wa.

44. Li Wa disappears, and Cheng goes back to his old lodging place, to become seriously ill after fasting for three days. The landlord fears Cheng will die there in his house and has him moved to an undertaker’s place. There the young man gradually recovers and becomes an expert mourner, singing dirges at funerals. Soon there is a contest between the two groups of professional mourners in the capital. Young Cheng is there. He sings a sad dirge, immediately reducing all who hear to sobs. By chance the young man’s father, the governor of Ch’ang-chou, is in the audience. Recognizing his son, the governor is greatly agitated by the young man’s base profession; he takes his son to a desolate place, strips him naked, and thrashes him with his horsewhip, leaving him there for dead. However, the young man’s singing master has him brought home, and several months later the young man is strong enough to hobble around with the aid of a stick, though he is by now reduced to being a beggar. One wintry day, the young man is driven by hunger to cry mournfully for food. As he begs in the snow-covered streets of Ch’ang-an, he chances to pass Li Wa’s new residence, as before when he had been on horseback, and the girl recognizes his voice, immediately taking him in. There the story takes a happy turn, to end with the reunion and great success of all the protagonists.

45. I.e., “Women Who Choose Their Own Husbands,” section 4 of chapter 2, “Ch’ing-yüan” (“Conjugal Destiny and Affinity”); and “Knightly Women Who Can Choose Their Own Husbands,” section 1 of chapter 4, “Ch’ing-hsia” (“Knightliness”).

46. This episode finds its source in Wang Jen-yü’s K’ai-yüan T’ien-pao yi-shih (Anecdotes from the Reigns of K’ai-yüan [713–41] and T’ien-pao [742–55]).

47. See the compiler’s summary of chapter 6, “Ch’ing-ai” (“Passion”).

48. See the compiler’s comment upon entry 9, “Lo-yang Wang-mou” (“The Wang from Lo-yang”), in chapter 7, “Ch’ing-ch’ih” (“Infatuation”).

49. Supernatural elements run through all of Ch’ing-shih; nevertheless, we can still distinguish two kinds of entries in Ch’ing-shih. To generalize: the entries in chapters 1–7, 12–15, 17–18, and 22–24 contain proportionally more of the historical and realistic elements than do the entries in chapters 8–11, 16, and 19–21, which for the most part have a supernatural base.

50. I have translated this story as the representative entry for chapter 2, “Ch’ing-yüan”. For the translation, see pp. 46–47.

51. The only published study I know of which deals with Ch’ing-shih as a whole is Harada Suekiyo’s “Jōshi ni tsuite” (“On Ch’ing-shih”), a pioneer study of Ch’ing-shih and its relation to seven late Ming hua-pen collections. The article is eight pages long, including four pages of charts listing the Ch’ing-shih entries and their hua-pen counterparts as found in the collections. See “Jōshi ni tsuite” in Taidai bungaku 2, no. 1 (1937): 53–60.

52. In the 1930s, 40s, and 50s, it was common practice among scholars to point out a hua-pen story’s counterpart—its “source,” as some writers might designate a hua-pen story’s always much shorter parallel in classical Chinese. See, e.g., Sun K’ai-ti, “San-yen erh-p’ai yüan-liu k’ao” (“An Investigation of the Sources of the San-yen and Erh-p’ai Collections”), in Ts’ang-chou chi, pp. 149–208; T’an Cheng-pi, Hua-pen yü ku-chü (“Hua-pen” and Old Plays; Shanghai, 1956); and Chao Ching-shen, “‘Ching-shih t’ung-yen’ ti lai-yüan ho ying-hsiang” (“The Origins of Ching-shih t’ung-yen and Its Influence”), in Hsiao-shuo hsi-ch’ü hsin-k’ao (Shanghai, 1939), pp. 1–14; and his “‘Hsing-shih heng-yen’ ti lai yüan ho ying-hsiang” (“The Origins of Hsing-shih heng-yen and Its Influence”), in Hsiao-shuo hsi-ch’ü hsin-k’ao, pp. 15–29.

53. For a detailed and extensive study of Feng Meng-lung and the san-yen, see Patrick Hanan, The Chinese Short Story (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1973).

54. The title “Ch’ing-shih” is among the 238 proscribed works—the so-called Yin-tz’u hsiao-shuo (“pornographic fiction”)—in the list issued by the prefect of Chiang-su, Ting Jih-ch’ang, on 15 April in the seventh year of T’ung-chih (1868).

55. See the T’ung Chih period Su-chou fu chih, chapter 136, “Yi-wen chih” (“Treatise on Art and Literature”).

56. Of these compilations, Shan-ko, a collection of love songs said to have been sung by the people in the Wu region, deserves our special attention. Traditionally, collections of ballads and songs have always been arranged according to the tune of the songs. Feng Meng-lung, however, arranged the songs in Shan-ko mainly according to their contents, or subject matter—methodologically, a major departure from tradition.

57. After its publication, Chih-nang was warmly received by its readers. Thus eight years later, an enlarged edition, entitled Chih-nang pu (Supplemented “Chih-nang”), was published. Though they are two separate works, Chih-nang pu actually consists of Chih-nang plus some additional entries in each chapter, and as such is a supplemented edition of Chih-nang.

58. T’an-kai is referred to in Ch’ing-shih. Chih-nang was completed in the ping-yin year of T’ien-ch’i (1626). According to my calculations, Ch’ing-shih was compiled some time after 1626, and was thus the last of the three anthologies to be compiled.

59. For a pioneer study of Feng Meng-lung’s editorship of the san-yen collections, see Cyril Birch, “Feng Meng-lung and the Ku-chin hsiao-shuo,” in Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies (hereafter BSOAS) 18 (1956): 64–83, especially pp. 82 and 83.

60. In Ch’ing-shih the term hsiao-shuo (“small talk”) is used by the compiler in referring either to certain tales in classical Chinese, or to short stories in vernacular Chinese, i.e., the so-called hua-pen stories.

61. References to Ming ch’uan-ch’i plays and playwrights occur approximately half a dozen times. The term hsiao-shuo also appears several times; and in chapter 2, “Ch’ing-yüan,” two hsiao-shuo in the san-yen collections are compared with their Ch’ing-shih counterparts in classical style.

62. E.g., in his comment upon entry 34, “Ts’ui Ying” (a slightly altered version of “Fu-jung-p’ing chi” by Li Ch’ang-ch’i as found in his Chien-teng yü-hua), of chapter 2, “Ch’ing-yüan,” the compiler says, “its plot is unusual and imaginative—a most suitable basis for a ch’uan-ch’i play. . . .”

63. E.g., compare, with T’ang Hsien-tsu’s plays, the following final chapter summaries by our compiler: those for chapter 8, “Ch’ing-kan” (“Pathos”); 9, “Ch’ing-huan” (“Illusion”); 10, “Ch’ing-ling” (“Efficacy”); 20, “Ch’ing-kuei” (“Ghosts”); 23, “Ch’ing-t’ung” (“Anthropopathism”); and 24, “Ch’ing-chi” (“Vestiges”). Compare them especially with T’ang Hsien-tsu’s so-called ssu-meng (“four dreams”): i.e., his Tzu-ch’ai chi, Huan-hun chi (i.e., Mutan t’ing), Nan-k’o chi, and Han-tan chi.

64. I.e., Kua-chih-erh, Shan-ko, and Hsiao-fu.

65. The three stories are: “Chang Jun chuan” (appended to entry 6, “Feng Tieh-ts’ui” of chapter 4, “Ch’ing-hsia”); “Feng Ai-sheng” (entry 31 of chapter 13, “Ch’ing-han” [“Regrettable Love”]); and “Wan-sheng” (entry 14 of chapter 22, “Ch’ing-wai” [“Homosexuality”]). All fourteen poems (with one being appended to entry 23, “Mei-jen Yü,” of chapter 1, “Ch’ing-chen”; four appended to entry 9, “Wang Yüan-ting,” of chapter 6, “Ch’ing-ai”; and nine appended to entry 19, “Yi-t’ing nü-tzu,” of chapter 14, “Ch’ing-ch’ou”) are seven-character chüeh-chü, or poems of four lines. The anecdote of the old man from Wu is appended to entry 18, “Ch’en hou-chu,” of chapter 7, “Ch’ing-ch’ih” (“Infatuation”).

66. I.e., the commentaries upon entries 32, “Chang Ts’ai,” and 35, “Tou Ts’ung-yi,” of chapter 17, “Ch’ing-hui” (“Degenerates”); and upon entries 2, “Yü Ta-fu,” and 17, “Chang Lang-kou,” of chapter 22, “Ch’ing-wai”.

67. In each of the four separate editions of Ch’ing-shih which I have seen—a Chia-ch’ing ping-yin (i.e., 1806) edition, a Tao-kuang wu-shen (i.e., 1848) edition, a Hsüan-t’ung yüan-nien (i.e., 1908) edition, and a 1932 edition—the name Chan-chan-wai-shih appears in 3 places. It appears first on the title page, where we see the phrase “Chan-chan-wai-shih p’ing-chi” (“compiled with comments by Chan-chan-wai-shih”); next, the name appears in Feng Meng-lung’s preface, where he attributes the compilership to Chan-chan-wai-shih; and last, it appears at the end of the second preface, where we read “Chiang-nan Chan-chan-wai-shih shu” (“Prefaced by Chan-chan-wai-shih of South-of-the-River”).

68. Each term is used twice. Ch’ing-shih-shih is mentioned both in the commentary upon entry 1, “Ssu-ma Ts’ai-chung,” of chapter 9, “Ch’ing-huan,” and in the commentary upon entry 30, “Lu Hsiao,” of chapter 14, “Ch’ing-ch’ou”; Ch’ing-chu-jen is used both in the commentary upon entry 2, “Ya-ch’ang,” of chapter 7, “Ch’ing-ch’ih,” and in the commentary upon entry 14, “Mi Yüan-chang,” of chapter 15, “Ch’ing-ya” (“Sprouting of Ch’ing”).

69. See entry 31, “Feng Ai-sheng,” of chapter 13, “Ch’ing-han”. I have translated this story as the representative entry for chapter 13.

70. A parallel can be noted, with the chapter summaries appended to each of the twenty-four Ch’ing-shih chapters: there, the compiler, Ch’ing-shih-shih or Ch’ing-chu-jen, is always introduced at the beginning of the summary.

71. Altogether, Feng Meng-lung composed nine poems, three in a group, in answer to the three by this unidentified poetess; the statement itself is found in the third line of the ninth, or last, poem.

72. In this second poem, Feng Meng-lung is apparently writing in the role of the unknown posthouse poetess, addressing her husband. Therefore, the first-person pronoun wo in line one should obviously refer to the unidentified poetess. San-hsing (“Three Stars”)—i.e., in either the constellation ts’an in Orion, or the constellation hsin in Scorpio—alludes to the poem “Ch’ou-miao,” a poem of marriage which describes the joy of a newlywed couple and can be found in the section “T’ang-feng” of Book of Songs. That poem (Mao no. 118), in three stanzas, reads (in James Legge’s translation):

Round and round the firewood is bound;

And the Three Stars appear in the sky.

This evening is what evening,

That I see this good man?

O me! O me!

That I should get a good man like this!

Round and round the grass is bound;

And the Three Stars are seen from the corner.

This evening is what evening,

That we have this unexpected meeting?

Happy pair! Happy pair!

That we should have this unexpected meeting!

Round and round the thorns are bound;

And the Three Stars are seen from the door.

This evening is what evening,

That I see this beauty?

O me! O me!

That I should see a beauty like this!

73. See entry 15, “Ch’i fu-jen,” of chapter 14, “Ch’ing-ch’ou,” referring to the words spoken by Ch’i fu-jen, the favorite concubine of Emperor Kao-ti of the Han, on her deathbed. After Kao-ti died, Ch’i fu-jen was tortured to death by Kao-ti’s jealous wife, Empress Lü. The last words spoken by Ch’i fu-jen, according to legend, were: “In our next existence(s) I hope Lü will be reborn a mouse, and I, a cat, so that generation after generation and life after life, I might eat her flesh.”

74. I have translated both Feng Meng-lung’s “Feng Ai-sheng” and his “Wan-sheng” too as representative entries for their respective chapters. “Chang Jun chuan” clearly indicates Feng’s unconsciously forgetting his two separate roles—while writing this story of the prostitute Chang Jun, Feng begins to address his reader in both capacities.

75. The two articles by Jung Chao-tsu on Feng Meng-lung are “Ming Feng Meng-lung ti sheng-p’ing chi ch’i chu-shu” (“The Life and Works of Feng Meng-lung of the Ming Dynasty”), Ling-nan hsüeh-pao 2, no. 2 (July 1931): 61–91; and “Ming Feng Meng-lung ti sheng-p’ing chi ch’i chu-shu hsü-k’ao” (“More on the Life and Works of Feng Meng-lung of the Ming Dynasty”), Ling-nan hsüeh-pao 2, no. 3 (June 1932): 95–124. See also the article “Kuan-yü Feng Meng-lung ti shen-shih” (“Regarding Feng Meng-lung’s Life”) by Yeh Ju, in Ming Ch’ing hsiao-shuo yen-chiu lun-wen chi (Peking, 1959), pp. 34–38. This article furnishes additional information concerning the birth and death of Feng Meng-lung. Tien-yi Li’s entry on Feng Meng-lung as found in Dictionary of Ming Biography 1368–1644, ed. L. Carrington Goodrich and Chaoying Fang (New York: Columbia University Press, 1976), outlines Feng’s literary activities and provides a good, initial bibliography of Chinese and Japanese studies on Feng. Two more recent studies on him are Hu Wan-ch’uan, “Feng Meng-lung yü Fu-she jen-wu” (“Feng Meng-lung and the Associates of Fu-she”), and idem, “Ts’ung ‘Chih-nang,’ ‘Chih-nang pu’ k’an Feng Meng-lung” (“Viewing Feng Meng-lung from Chih-nang and Chih-nang pu”). Both articles are included in Chung-kuo ku-tien hsiao-shuo yen-chiu chuan-chi (Taipei, 1979), 1:123–50. I am at present preparing a comprehensive book-length study of Feng’s life and works.

76. Feng Meng-lung, Feng Meng-kuei (Meng-lung’s elder brother, a painter), and Feng Meng-hsiung (Meng-lung’s younger brother, a poet) were referred to by their literati contemporaries as the “Three Fengs of Wu,” and Feng Meng-lung was considered the most talented, thus the “head of the Three Fengs”.

77. See chapter 25 of Wan-li yeh-hu-pien by Shen Te-fu (1578–1642).

78. This anecdote written by Niu Hsiu can also be found in chapter 17 of Chang Shan-lai’s Yü Ch’u hsin-chih, published in 1683.

79. T’ai-hsia hsin-tsou itself gives neither the date of publication, nor the true name of the compiler; some scholars have attributed the compilership of this work to Feng Meng-lung. The date 1627 is that given by Jen Na in his San-ch’ü kai-lun.

80. See T’ai-hsia hsin-tsou. Aside from these twenty-two pieces, T’ai-hsia hsin-tsou also contains seventeen works which were originally composed by other authors but were adapted or edited by Feng. For the titles of these thirty-nine works, and the chapters where they appear, see Jung Chao-tsu, “Ming Feng Meng-lung ti sheng-p’ing chi ch’i chu-shu hsü-k’ao”.

81. See Feng’s preface to “Tuan-erh yi-pieh,” where he states: “The second day of the fifth month is the day I lost Hui-ch’ing last year. . . .”

82. Li Shih-lang—that is, the T’ang poet Li Yi and an archvillain in Ch’ing-shih—is the heartless and unfaithful lover of Huo Hsiao-yü. See entry 7, “Li Yi,” in chapter 16, “Ch’ing-pao,” of Ch’ing-shih.

83. Shuang-hsiung chi is one of the two ch’uan-ch’i plays (the other is Wan-shih tsu) which we know for sure that Feng Meng-lung wrote. See Mohan-chai ting-pen ch’uan-ch’i (Shanghai, 1960).

84. Several of Feng Meng-lung’s san-ch’ü compositions included in T’ai-hsia hsin-tsou also bear interest for other aspects of Ming literature. E.g., three of his works—“Ch’ing-hsien ch’ü” (“Song of a Ch’ing Immortal”) in chapter 1, “Wei Tung Hsia-chou tseng Hsüeh Yen-sheng” (“For Tung Hsia-chou to Present to Hsüeh Yen-sheng”) in chapter 7, and “Tseng t’ung-tzu Chü Fu-lu: tai-tso” (“To the Lad Chü Fu-lu: Composed for Someone Else”)—deal with homosexual love. Another work, “Sung-yu fang-chi” (“For a Friend Visiting a Courtesan”) in chapter 5, tells of a love episode of one of his friends, a certain “Wu-yai shih”; this “Wu-yai shih” could be the publisher Yüan Wu-yai, who published the 120-chapter edition of the Shui-hu chuan.

85. To my knowledge, there is no extant Ming edition of Ch’ing-shih, nor is there any date given in the two prefaces, or in later written references, for Ch’ing-shih. Nevertheless, I have come to the conclusion, mainly through an investigation of textual evidence contained in the anthology itself, that Ch’ing-shih was compiled during the years 1629–32. For the details of my investigation, see my “Ch’ing-shih and Feng Meng-lung” (Ph.D. diss., University of California, Berkeley, 1976) pp. 440–56.

86. See chapter 17, in Fu-ning fu chih by Li Pa and others.

87. I owe this to Prof. Patrick Hanan of Harvard University. He has also informed me that the only known extant copy of Shou-ning hsien chih is that now kept in the Ueno Library in Tokyo. I have as yet been unable to obtain a microfilm copy from the Ueno Library. The Su-chou fu chih of the T’ung-chih period also mentions that Feng Meng-lung compiled a two-chapter Shou-ning hsien chih. Tien-yi Li in his Dictionary of Ming Biography entry on Feng not only mentions that a copy of Shou-ning hsien chih is preserved in the Ueno Park Library, but also mentions the date 1637—although no information is given as to the significance of this date.

88. For the documents that suggest this year, see “Ming Feng Meng-lung ti sheng-p’ing chi ch’i chu-shu” by Jung Chao-tsu, and Yeh Ju’s “Kuan-yü Feng Meng-lung ti shen-shih”.

89. Aside from the listed works for which we have the dates of publication, there are at least half a dozen additional compilations and books by Feng Meng-lung whose dates of publication we do not know. For those works, see the two articles by Jung Chao-tsu.

90. According to Tung K’ang’s bibliography Shu-po yung-t’an, Feng Meng-lung wrote a biography of Wang Yang-ming, Wang Yang-ming hsien-sheng ch’u-shen ching-luan lu, in three chapters or chüan. Also, Feng is elsewhere said to be “passionately fond of the teachings of Li Chih, regarding him as a prophet.”

91. T’ang Hsien-tsu, when once asked why he did not take up the profession of lecturing (chiang-hsüeh) answered, “What the lecturers nowadays lecture on is hsing; what I am talking about is ch’ing.” (See chapter 15 of Ching-chih-chü shih-hua.) Feng Meng-lung, as he himself has declared in his preface to Ch’ing-shih, also desired to “establish a school of ch’ing to teach all who are living. . . .” (See the gatha of ch’ing in Feng’s preface.)

THE TWENTY-FOUR CHAPTERS OF “CH’ING-SHIH”

1. “A man . . . is burdened with great responsibilities.” The Tao-kuang edition reads, “suo-tan-che chü,” and the Hsüan-t’ung edition reads, “suo-tan-che ch’ieh”. Since neither chü (“to equip”; “implements,” etc.) nor ch’ieh (“moreover,” “and”) makes sense here, I suspect that both chü and ch’ieh are misgraphings of the chü meaning “great,” “huge,” etc., and have here translated accordingly.

2. The “insignificant virtue” is a man’s loyalty to his wife.

3. There are two songs in the Book of Songs with the title “Po-chou” (“Cypress Boat”)—that in the section “Pei-feng” (Mao no. 26), and that in the section “Yung-feng” (Mao no. 45). Here the reference is to the “Po-chou” in the section “Yung-feng”. The traditional interpretation of this song, and no doubt the interpretation here followed by the compiler of Ch’ing-shih, is that it was composed by a virtuous widow as a protest against being forced to remarry. James Legge’s translation based on this interpretation reads:

It floats about, that boat of cypress wood,

There in the middle of the Ho.

With his two tufts of hair falling over his forehead,

He was my mate.

And I swear that till death I will have no other.

O mother, O Heaven,

Why will you not understand me?

It floats about, that boat of cypress wood,

There by the side of the Ho.

With his two tufts of hair falling over his forehead,

He was my only one;

And I swear that till death I will not do the evil thing.

O mother, O Heaven,

Why will you not understand me?

4. From the context we can assume here that the compiler considers a wife and a concubine to have different social and moral expectations to meet: chastity is most importantly observed by the wife who has been espoused by proper betrothal; but the concubine, married without a proper and formal betrothal, has a much lower social status than the wife, and does not have to stick so closely to this virtue.

5. I.e., courtesans and prostitutes—even lower in status than concubines.

6. This tale is included in his Yao-shan t’ang wai-chi. Chiang Yi-k’uei lived in sixteenth-century Ming China. According to the preface to his well-known work on the ancient capital of Ch’ang-an, Ch’ang-an k’e-hua, and to his biography (written by his son-in-law and appended to Ch’ang-an k’e-hua), Yao-shan t’ang wai-chi was written and published before Chiang Yi-k’uei received his first official appointment, i.e., before the chia-wu year of Wan-li (1594). For a study on the origins and development of this popular legend, see my article, “The Legend of Li Miao-hui,” in Legend, Lore, and Religion in China: Essays in Honor of Wolfram Eberhard on His Seventieth Birthday, ed. Sarah Allan and Alvin P. Cohen, (San Francisco: Chinese Materials Center, Inc., 1979), pp. 177–203.

7. The phrase “ho-yi-chi-ch’ü hu” does not make sense to me. I suspect chi (“to record,” “records,” etc.) is a misgraphing of chi meaning “plan,” “scheme,” “strategy,” etc., and have translated accordingly.

8. According to legend, Mo-mu was a concubine of Huang-ti, the Yellow Emperor. She is said to have been very ugly, but the worthiest among the Yellow Emperor’s one wife and three concubines. Hsi-tzu, or Hsi-shih, was a beauty of Yüeh, in the Warring States period. Kou-chien of Yüeh offered her to Fu-ch’ai, king of Wu, with the intention of corrupting him. There are many legends and stories about this famed Chinese beauty, and the compiler of Ch’ing-shih presents an interesting discussion of some of the legends about Hsi-shih in chapter 3, “Clandestine Ch’ing,” entry 3.

9. “Pu-pi pai-ying”—literally, “need not consider their failures failures, or their fulfillment fulfillment.”

10. Stories of ill-matched marriage have been grouped in chapter 13, “Regrettable Love,” in the section “Suo-ts’ung fei-ou” (“Unsuitable Matches”).

11. When a man and a woman are attracted to each other but are not fated to be conjugally tied, the term wu-yüan is used. Stories of this kind are included in section 1 of chapter 13.

12. The phrase wo yi hsün mou-hsiang mou-chia (“I have now found such-and-such a house in such-and-such a lane”) indicates an oversight on the part of the compiler; his failure to state an exact address for the new house, and his use twice of the word mou (“such-and-such,” “so-and-so,” “a certain,” etc.), indicate his confusion regarding what is direct, and what indirect, quotation.

13. Spoken by Ts’ui ying-ying in the classical love story “Ying-ying chuan” (“The Story of Ying-ying”) by Yüan Chen; the complete sentence reads: “Should you decide, having first seduced me, that you would continue our affair, then that would be indeed an act of charity on your part.” The “you” here refers to the unfaithful hero and Ts’ui Ying-ying’s seducer, the young scholar Chang, whom many believe to be the author Yüan Chen himself. Judging from his comment on Yüan Chen to the effect that he “was a man of infidelity,” the compiler of Ch’ing-shih can no doubt be placed among those who consider “Ying-ying chuan” an autobiographical piece. Furthermore, in contrast to many of Yüan Chen’s contemporaries, our compiler is quite critical of and disapproves of Yüan Chen’s lacking the faith and strength to continue the affair which he starts with Ying-ying. See note 41 to the Introduction, above, and note 14 below.

14. After he has decided not to continue, but rather to break off, with the heroine Ts’ui Ying-ying, the contemporaries of the hero of “Ying-ying chuan” praise him, calling him a “man who is good at correcting his own mistakes” (shan-pu-kuo che). The logic of those who might utter such words of praise is questionable at least, and when the compiler here uses the identical words to describe the kind of person Yüan Chen had chosen not to be, his sarcasm is obvious.

15. This refers to the entries included in section 1, “Knightly Women Who Can Choose Their Own Husbands”.

16. This refers to the entries included in section 2, “Knightly Women Who Can Assist Others in Accomplishing Tasks”.

17. This refers to the entries included in section 3, “Knightly Courtesans Who Can Defend the Name and Integrity of Others”.

18. See entry 40 of chapter 5, “Ch’ing-hao” (“Magnanimity”).

19. This refers to Yang Su and others included in section 4, “Knightly Fellows Who Can Understand the More Subtle Human Emotions”. Yüan refers to Yüan Ang, for which see entry 26; Ko refers to Ko Chou, for which see entry 27.

20. These are the four protagonists of the four entries (35–38) in section 5, “knightly Fellows Who Accomplish Tasks for Others”.

21. These are the heroes of the two entries (39 and 40) of section 6, “Knightly Persons Who Can Kill the Feelingless”.

22. James J. Y. Liu in his The Chinese Knight-errant (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1967), pp. 4–6, lists eight qualities which he considers to have formed the basis of Chinese knightly behavior: altruism, justice, individual freedom, personal loyalty, courage, truthfulness and mutual faith, honor and fame, and generosity and contempt for wealth.

23. See the previous note. What is nowadays termed “blind altruism” and “senseless violence” still fill the pages of certain current novels of chivalry—the wu-hsia hsiao-shuo—profusely published in Taiwan and Hong Kong.

24. See especially chapters 6, 7, and 18.

25. This, slightly altered, is an allusion to a phrase found in the section “Shih-huo chih” of Han-shu: “Kung-sun Hung, as prime minister of Han, uses cotton quilts and pays no attention to his food.”

26. Hsia Chieh and Shang Chou were the notoriously licentious, and last, emperors of Hsia and Shang dynasties, respectively. See entries 1 and 2 of this chapter.

27. Chin-ku or Chin-ku-yüan is the extravagant manor that Shih Ch’ung of Chin dynasty built for his favorite concubine Lü-chu. See entry 27 of chapter 1, “Chastity,” and entry 25 of this chapter. “Mu-yao” (“wood monster”) is the nickname given to those powerful and wealthy officials of T’ang who competed with each other in building magnificent, exotic mansions and gardens.

28. Yüan Tsai was a high official of T’ang. As a trusted follower of the eunuch prime minister Li Fu-kuo, he led an extravagant and dissipated life until he was finally sentenced to death by Emperor Tai-tsung. His official biography can be found both in chapter 118 of T’ang-shu and in chapter 145 of Hsin T’ang-shu.

29. Ching-wen is the posthumous name of Sung Ch’i. See entry 27 of this chapter. The phrase “occasionally would have bouts of carousing and extravagant gatherings” is my interpolation supplied from context.

30. See entry 38, “Tu Mu,” of this chapter.

31. Tui-shan is the hao (“nickname”) of K’ang Hai. See entry 43 of this chapter for his story.

32. Yüng-hsiu is the tzu (“style name”) of Yang Shen, and Tzu-wei is the tzu of T’ang Yin. For their stories, see entries 44 and 45 of this chapter.

33. See entry 40, “Hsieh Hsi-meng,” of this chapter.

34. This refers to Li Yü. See entry 46, “Yüan-yang ssu,” and entry 47, “Shuang-fei ssu,” of this chapter.

35. See the three entries (48–50) in section 4, “Bravery”.

36. See in the chapter summary the compiler’s favorable criticism of K’ang Hai; see also entry 43 of this chapter.

37. See in the chapter summary the compiler’s harsh criticism of “bhikshu” Ch’eng-hui; see also entry 47 of this chapter.

38. See chapter 16 of Hsi-hu yu-lan chih yü, whose first edition was published in 1547.

39. The sentences read: “Later Ju-yü served at various posts. And he always won the name of a good official. Fan Wen-cheng values talent. His tolerance and generosity also go far beyond an ordinary person’s.”

40. See entries 1, 2, and 7 of chapter 5, “Magnanimity”.

41. Fan Hu-lin, the hero of final entry number 25 of this chapter. He dies of a lung desease which results from sexual exhaustion, whereupon the heroine, the woman Fan was passionately in love with, commits suicide.

42. I.e., he would consider them either unattainable or undesirable.

43. See section 3, “Women Passionately in Love with Men,” all eight entries and their commentaries.

44. Shih Ch’ung and Wang K’ai, the two well-known, rich Chin dynasty merchants who constantly rivaled one another in displaying their wealth and magnanimity. Two anecdotes concerning Shih Ch’ung can be found in chapter 1, entry 27, and chapter 5, entry 25. See note 27.

45. The text of the Hsüan-t’ung edition is corrupt here; I have based my translation of the sentences upon the Tao-kuang edition.

46. “Liu-sheng” literally means “Sixth-born”. Sheng, according to Feng Meng-lung, is a term common in the Wu dialect for addressing courtesans. See entry 31, “Feng Ai-sheng,” of chapter 13, “Regrettable Love”.

47. “Ch’ü-shui T’ang” literally means “Winding-water Hall”. It is presumably a room looking out onto a stream which meanders through the manor of the Chang host family.

48. “Shih-lang” is literally “Tenth-lass” and presumably means the tenth-ranked among the Pai girls.

49. E and Ying refer to E-huang and Nü-ying, the two daughters of the legendary Emperor Yao, who are said to have simultaneously married their father’s successor Shun. See note 32 to the Introduction.

50. This refers to the first two entries of this chapter. In the first story the hero becomes infatuated with a poor prostitute, blind in one eye; in the second, the hero becomes infatuated with a mute courtesan.

51. Referring to Wang Yen, lord of the Ch’ien-shu during the period of disunity of the Five Dynasties (907–60). See entry 4 of this chapter.

52. This refers to the anecdotes concerning Sung Tzu-ching and Hsün Feng-ch’ien. See entries 5 and 6 of this chapter.

53. Referring to the anecdote (entry 9) about a certain Mr. Wang of Lo-yang: the hero castrates himself in order to get a chance to see his beloved, one forcefully taken by a wealthy and powerful official. I have translated this anecdote as the representative entry for this chapter.

54. See entry 11 of this chapter: “Wei-sheng and his beloved agreed to meet at Liang. The lady did not keep her promise. While the tide kept rising, Wei-sheng held on to a pillar at the site agreed upon and was drowned.”

55. “Hsing tse-wei Hsi Lo” literally means “the fortunate will then be like Hsi and Lo”—Hsi is the surname of the heroine, Lo that of the hero, in entry 10 of this chapter. However, the compound expression made with hsi and lo also means “happiness” or “joy”. Judging from the parallelism of this sentence and the next—i.e., bu-hsing tse-wei po-hsing—we may assume that the compiler is aware of the pun. I have therefore overtranslated this phrase in order to retain both meanings of hsi-lo.

56. This refers to the anecdote regarding Fu Chiu-lang. See entry 12 of this chapter.

57. See entry 13 of this chapter. This well-known legend of Wang-sheng and T’ao Shih-erh is said to be here retold from Ming-chi chuan.

58. This refers respectively to entries 14, 15, 16, and 17.

59. This refers back, to entries 10–13, touched upon by the compiler in the immediately preceding paragraph. See notes 54–57 above.

60. See entry 18, the anecdote about the last emperor of Ch’en on the eve of the takeover of Ch’en by the Sui army.

61. See entry 19, an anecdote about Duke Ching of Ch’i and his favorite concubine, Ying-tzu. Even after Ying-tzu has been dead for three days, Duke Ching does not allow her body to be removed for burial.

62. See entry 20, an anecdote about Yang Cheng, a famous general of Sung, and one fond of killing. Just before his death, he requests that his favorite concubine be brutally killed and buried with him.

63. The only entry not mentioned in the chapter summary is entry 3, “Lao-chi” (“The Old Prostitute”), an anecdote about the love affair between a young man and a prostitute twice his age. From the circumstance that this entry immediately follows “Miao-ch’ang” (“The Blind Prostitute,” entry 1) and “Ya-ch’ang” (“The Mute Prostitute,” entry 2) we know that the compiler considers all three entries to be of the same category.

64. The compiler’s concept of “soul” is typically Chinese. Man’s soul consists of two components. The component with the yin nature is p’o, and it stays with each individual throughout his life span; upon the individual’s death, it remains with the body and is interred with the body—thus, I have, etymologically, rendered p’o as “humic soul”. The component with the yang nature is hun, and each individual acquires it at birth; when the individual dies, this soul leaves the body, to disperse or to be reincarnated into other forms—thus, I have rendered hun as “ethereal soul”. For a brief summary of the development of the Chinese concept of this dual soul theory, see Laurence G. Thompson, Chinese Religion: An Introduction (Encino, Calif.: Dickenson, 1969), pp. 9–12.

65. “Yu-ming hsiang-ju, ju-shui-jung-shui”—although both of the texts available to me have ju-shui-jung-shui, I nevertheless think that one of the two shui (“water”) is a misgraphing for ping (“ice”), and have here translated accordingly. In the first phrase, yu-ming hsiang-ju, the Dark (yu) refers to the ghost and spirit world, while the Light (ming) refers to the human world.

66. See entry 23, “Ch’i Liang ch’i” (“Ch’i Liang’s Wife”), and entry 26, “T’ai-wang T’an shih” (“The Poem of T’ai-wang T’an”).

67. “Cheng Te-lin,” entry 11, can be found in chapter 152 of T’ai-p’ing kuang-chi; “Tang Hsüan,” entry 12, can be found in chapter 332; “Ch’i Jaochou nü” is a composite of T’ai-p’ing kuang-chi chapters 44 and 358; and “Li Chang-wu” can be found in chapter 340.

68. It would seem that this story could as appropriately be placed in chapter 12, “Ch’ing-mei” (“Matchmakers”), either under “Hsien-mei,” section 1 (“Immortals as Matchmakers”), or under “Shih-mei,” section 6 (“Poetry as Matchmaker”).

69. The “Cheng Te-lin” in Ch’ing-shih is copied directly from T’ai-p’ing kuang-chi, which in turn gives as its source Te-lin chuan (Biography of Te-lin), though the author thereof is not mentioned. T’ang-tai ts’ung-shu attributes the authorship of Te-lin chuan to Hsüeh Ying, while both the Lei-shuo of Tseng Ts’ao and the Lü-ch’uang hsin-hua of Huang-tu Feng-yüeh Chu-jen attribute it to the author of Ch’uan-ch’i, P’ei Hsing.

70. This line alludes to an anecdote found in chapter 20 of Shang-yu lu: Cheng Chiao-fu, a man from Chou, was on his way to Ch’u. When he reached Han-kao he met the second daughter of the river goddess. The girl gave the pearls which she was wearing to Chiao-fu. Chiao-fu accepted them and had carried them but a few dozen steps when the girl and the pearls disappeared.

71. With all its metaphysical terms and their rich and varied connotations, this chapter summary is difficult to translate; thus, I have resorted to some paraphrasing, occasionally rendering a single Chinese word differently in different contexts. Hereafter, I have rendered the word hun (“ethereal soul”) as simply “soul,” since p’o (“humic soul”) is not again mentioned, or contrasted with hun, throughout the rest of the compiler’s chapter summary.

72. This refers to the following phenomenon: when the soul has departed from the body, is reincarnated, or has been called back to the human world, the soul often does not realize that it has freed itself from its form; and, for the beholder, the soul appears no different from a normal human being. See entries in sections 2, 3, and 4.

73. This refers to the entries in section 2, “Souls Separated from Their Bodies”.

74. This refers to the entries in section 4, “Summoning Souls”.

75. This refers to the entries in section3, “Reincarnated Souls”.

76. This probably refers to the common belief that a superior artist always brings “life” to his painting. See the five entries in section 5, “Illusory Paintings”.

77. See the three anecdotes included in section 7, “Illusory Magic”.

78. See Chien-teng hsin-hua, chapter 1. According to the author’s preface, Chien-teng hsin-hua was first published in the eleventh year of Hung-wu of Ming (1378). Paul W. Kroll’s recent English translation of “Chin-feng-ch’ai chi” can be found in Traditional Chinese Stories, ed. Y. W. Ma and Joseph S. M. Lau (New York: Columbia University Press, 1978), pp. 400–403.

79. For example, see the short introduction to the story “Chienniang” in Famous Chinese Short Stories as retold by Lin Yutang. “Li-hun chi” can be found in chapter 358, under the title “Wang Chou,” of T’ai-p’ing kuang-chi; there are several English translations of “Li-hun chi” besides Lin Yutang’s retelling.

80. Lady Cho refers to Cho Wen-chün of the Han dynasty, daughter of a wealthy merchant; when she was widowed, she eloped with the well-known fu (“rhapsody” or “prose-poem”) writer, Ssu-ma Hsiang-ju.

81. Here the word huan has precisely the meaning of huan as used in Ch’u-tz’u—i.e., “the person one is pleased with,” or simply “one’s beloved”. See the following note.

82. Here huan is used with its commonly understood meaning, i.e., “pleasure” or “joy”; in both the entries in this section, it refers specifically to sexual pleasure.

83. This entry, however, is copied directly from Yi Chien chih by Hung Mai (1096–1175).

84. This refers to entry 2, in which the heroine transforms herself, after her death, into a strong wind in order to fulfill her vow to help some merchants’ wives stop their husbands from travelling to faraway places.

85. This refers to entries 5 and 6, in which the main characters are transformed into stones.

86. This refers to entries 7–13 and 15–18, in which the main characters are transformed either into birds or into plants.

87. See entries 9 and 10. In both stories, following the death of a loving couple, a camphor tree suddenly grows above their graves, its roots and branches from either side connected and intertwined.

88. See entry 13. Two stories are included in this entry. In each story, the Ping-ti lien (“twin-stemmed lotus blossom”) is found as a symbol of intimate love between man and woman.

89. Quoted from Po Hsiang-shan’s (772–846) well-known, long narrative poem “Ch’ang-hen ko” (“A Song of Unending Sorrow”). The translation here is by Witter Bynner; for the complete translation, see Anthology of Chinese Literature, ed. Cyril Birch (New York: Grove, 1965), 1: 266–69.

90. I.e., stories included in this chapter.

91. The only entry which does not readily fall into any of the four types is the first entry, “Hua-nü” (“Transforming into a Woman”). According to the compiler, this real happening took place in the Ping-hsü year of the Wan-li period (1586). It tells of how the younger of two close merchant friends suddenly changes sex and becomes a woman, and how, after the “transformation,” the two become husband and wife.

92. See entry 3, “Hua-huo” (“Transforming into Fire”).

93. The Yen-chü pi-chi available to me is the Wan-li edition preserved in the Harvard-Yenching Library; “Hsin chien chin-shih” is there the first story in the lower part of chapter 7 of this “double-decker” book.

94. “Chih-yüan” is the reign title of both Yüan Shih-tsu (reigned 1260–94) and Yüan Shun-ti (reigned 1333–68). This story takes place during the reign of the latter; thus, “Chih-yüan” here refers to the period of 1335–40, when “Chih-yüan” was being adopted as the reign title of Shun-ti.

95. “Ts’ui” or “ts’ui-tai” is the name of a cosmetic for blackening the eyebrows. Thus, Ts’ui-mei Niang, literally “Black-eyebrowed Lady,” is probably a nickname given as a compliment to Chang Li-jung by her admirers, in reference to her beautiful, dark, curving eyebrows.

96. “T’ai-hu shih”—rocks from T’ai-hu, or the Grand Lake of Chiangsu and Che-chiang provinces—are even now said to be the best rocks for landscape gardening.

97. Under Mongol rule, the twelve lu, or provincial governments, were direct extensions of the civil administrative branch—i.e., the Chung-shu Sheng of the central government; major provincial administrators thus were appointed directly by the central government, and came under the jurisdiction of the Chung-shu Sheng.

98. Po Yen was the dictatorial prime minister of Yüan Shun-ti. He was in office eight years (1333–40) before he finally yielded the prime ministership to his nephew, T’o-t’o. His official biography can be found in chapter 138 of Yüan-shih.

99. According to folk beliefs and tradition in China, yin-yün is a collective term for the life-giving and the generative influences of nature. “Yin-yün ta-shih” (“the Envoy of the Spirit of Harmony”) is said to be the chief official of the Bureau of Affection (Ch’ien-chüan Ssu), which is responsible for all the love affairs and relations between man and woman. See entry 2, “Yin-yün ta-shih,” section 1, this chapter.

100. “Fa-k’o” is a song stating the importance of matchmakers. It can be found in the chapter “Pin-feng” of book of Songs (Mao no. 158). I have here provided James Legge’s translation of the entire song in order more clearly to bring out the meanings of the sentences following it. Brackets are Legge’s.

101. E.g., entry 3, “P’an Fa-ch’eng,” has been written into drama in two forms—the tsa-chü entitled “Chang Yü-hu wu-su nü chen kuan” and the ch’uan-ch’i entitled “Yü-tsan chi”; entry 5, “Chao Ju-chou,” has a ch’uan-ch’i counterpart entitled “Hung-li chi”; entry 21, “Yü Yu,” mentions Wang Poliang’s T’i-hung ch’uan-ch’i; and each of three entries—22, “Ch’in Tzu-li”; 25, “P’ei Yüeh-k’e”; and 26, “Ta-pieh hu”—has its hua-pen counterpart. The hua-pen counterpart of entry 22 can be found as chapter 5, “Ta-shu p’o yi-hu sung-ch’in,” in Hsing-shih heng-yen; the hua-pen counterpart of entry 25 is chapter 5, “Kan shen-ming Chang Te-jung yü-hu, ts’ou chi-jih P’ei Yüeh-k’e ch’eng-lung,” of P’ai-an ching-ch’i; and the hua-pen counterpart of entry 26 is chapter 29, “Tseng chih-ma shih-p’o chia-hsing, hsieh ts’ao-yao ch’iao hsieh chen-ou,” of Erh-k’e p’ai-an ching-ch’i.

102. In Kuang yen-yi pien, this story is included in the chapter on shou (“animals”). Since I have no access to Kuang yen-yi pien, I have based my study on the text copied from Kuang yen-yi pien, in chapter 91 of Hung-shu by Liu Chung-ta.

103. For an outstanding example regarding replacement of the crude and vulgar, note the passage describing how the hero, by following the instructions of his friend, finally tracks down and reveals the identity of the “girl” he has been sleeping with for some time. In Kuang yen-yi pien, this passage reads:

Chiang presented the object, the bag given him by his friend, to the girl, then said, “But just now I’m sick—there’s something wrong with my thing—so you’d better go home for the time being.” The girl also felt sad. She wept but would not leave. Chiang became frightened and called his friend Lu. The girl was afraid that Lu might recognize her, so she dried her tears and left. The next morning Chiang traced the sesame seeds, and came to the opening of a cave behind the Ta-pieh Mountains. There he saw a fox, with human head and animal body, sound asleep and snoring away.

In Ch’ing-shih this passage has been condensed to half its original length:

The young man followed the instructions given him by his friend. At last, by tracing the sesame seeds which had spilled from the bag that he had presented to the girl, Chiang finally came to the foot of the Ta-pieh mountains. And what should he see there but a fox, snoring away in a cave.

104. This sort of embellishing or changing can also be seen in the passages from the two stories quoted in the preceding note, and the fox in the Ch’ing-shih story appears to possess a much more consistent and, therefore, plausible personality than does its counterpart in Kuang yen-yi pien.

105. When found with the hua-pen story, the phrase “this story has been handed down by those old men of the capital” had, by the time of the publication of Ling Meng-ch’u’s Erh-k’e p’ai-an ching-ch’i, already become no more than another formulaic expression accompanying that literary genre. Some scholars, however, still take the claim seriously and consider it one indication of an earlier oral basis for the particular written work. Sun K’ai-ti, for example, in his bibliography Chung-kuo t’ung-su-hsiao-shuo shu-mu, has listed the title “Ling-hu san-su-ts’ao” (“The Miraculous Fox and the Three Bunches of Grass”) as a separate work “handed down by those old men of the capital” and preserved in Ling Meng-ch’u’s anthology.

106. T’ien-shun is the reign title of Ming Ying-tsung during his resumed rule (1457–64). He died in the year of Chia-shen (1464), the year in which our story takes place. Che is written chien in the Hsüan-t’ung text, and suo in the Tao-kuang text. But since it appears that neither chien nor suo was a place name in Ming, I assume that both chien and suo are misgraphings of che (the abbreviation for Che-chiang). My assumption is lent support by the vernacular counterpart of this entry, as found in chapter 29 of Erh-k’e p’ai-an ching-ch’i, and by the Kuang yen-yi pien text; in both of these, the native place of the protagonist is given as Che-chiang. The Ming dynasty Hu-kuang is comprised of present-day Hu-nan and Hu-pei provinces.

107. The Ta-pieh Mountains are situated in the southeastern part of Hu-pei province, bordering on Hu-pei, Ho-nan, and An-hui provinces.

108. Ch’ing-shih’s concept of yüan is discussed in chapter 2, “Ch’ing-yüan”. See also note 11.

109. For the references here to Ku the Ya-ya and Hsü the Yü-hou, see entry 35, “Hsü Chün,” and entry 36, “Ku Ya-ya,” in Ch’ing-shih’s chapter 4, “Knightliness”. The “Yin-yün ta-shih” (“Envoy of the Spirit of Harmony”) is discussed earlier, in note 99; see also Ch’ing-shih’s chapter 12, entry 2, “Yin-yüan ta-shih”.

110. The name Chu Shu refers to the Sung poetess Chu Shu-chen, whose husband, according to some sources, was a vulgar and uncultured commoner. As a gifted poetess, Chu was disappointed with her marriage and consequently composed many poems to express her sorrow and longing. Her poetry has been collected into one volume by Wei Tuan-li, under the title Tuan-ch’ang chi (Collection of Griefs). See entry 11, “Chu Shu-chen,” of section 2, “Unsuitable Matches”.

111. See entry 14, “Fei-yen”. This entry is copied from the story “Fei-yen chuan” (“Story of Fei-yen”), by the T’ang author Huang-fu Mei, as found in his San-shui hsiao-tu. Pu Fei-yen is the favorite concubine of a crude military officer. She has a secret affair with a young scholar by the name of Chao Hsiang. The lovers frequently exchange poems and occasionally visit one another. The husband at last discovers their love, and ruthlessly beats Fei-yen to death. The reference here is to the episode in “Fei-yen chuan” where Fei-yen sends one of her love poems to Chao Hsiang in an embroidered bag. Chao receives and dearly treasures both the poem and the bag, even tying the bag to his belt so as to have it with him constantly.

112. The two kinds of romantic love described in this paragraph are found in most of the ten entries included in section 1, “Wu-yüan” (“Not Fated for Conjugal Ties”). Since extramarital romantic love affairs are considered socially unacceptable within the orthodox Confucian tradition, and thus are always carried on clandestinely, the compiler has here ascribed this kind of love affair to the “imaginary realm”.

113. See the twenty-three entries in section 3, “Shang-shih” (“Lamenting Death”). A chih plant is a species of parasitic fungus. Since it normally lives a long time, it has long been regarded as a symbol of longevity and prosperity.

114. K’ung-men (“Gate of Emptiness”) is a common term referring to the road or “gate” which leads to Buddhism. Thus, to go into a convent or monastery is often described as tun-ju k’ung-men (“escaping into the Gate of Emptiness”).

115. See the commentary for entry 35, “Li Yi-an”. Chiang Tao-hsing is one of the editors of Ku-chin nü-shih (Women’s Records, Old and New), compiled by Chao Shih-chieh, though Chiang Tao-hsing’s passage quoted here from chapter 1, “Fu,” in Ku-chin nü-shih differs slightly and superficially from that in the Ku-chin nü-shih available to me. The common expression she-tsu, (“snake legs,” i.e., things superfluous) comes from an anecdote in the section “Ch’i-ts’e” of Chan-kuo ts’e where several servants are given a single goblet of wine. But because that goblet of wine is insufficient for all of them, the servants decide to hold a contest in which they are to draw a snake on the ground, with the first finishing to get the goblet for himself. One man completes his snake, but then decides it needs legs. Meanwhile somebody else, by now also finished with his snake, has snatched up the goblet, saying: “Snakes don’t have legs—what prompted you to add them to yours?”

116. Stories with tragic elements are collected mostly in chapters 13, “Regrettable Love”; 14, “Adversaries”; and 16, “Retribution”. In this thirteenth chapter there are several noteworthy entries, some of which, to my knowledge, do not appear in any earlier source. Among them are entry 6, “Chien-k’ang Lung-sheng” (copied from Li Ch’ang-ch’i’s “Feng-wei-ts’ao chi” in his Chien-teng yü-hua); entry 7, “T’ai-man sheng” (source unknown); entry 14, “Fei-yen” (copied from Huang-fu Mei’s “Fei-yen chuan”); entry 26, “Chang Hung-ch’iao” (source unknown, but also included in Ch’ien Ch’ien-yi’s Lieh-ch’ao shih-chi hsiao-chuan); entry 27, “Chang Pi-niang” (source unknown, but also can be found in Lieh-ch’ao shih-chi hsiao-chuan); entry 28, “Yang Yu-yen” (by Ch’en Chi-ju; see “Kung,” 43, Shuo-fu hsü); entry 29, “Yen Ling-pin” (source unknown); and entry 31, “Feng Ai-sheng” (by Feng Meng-lung).

117. The two other stories by Feng Meng-lung are “Chang Jun chuan” (“Story of Chang Jun”), which is appended to entry 6 of chapter 4, “Knight-liness,” and “Wan-sheng” (“The Young Man Wan”), entry 14 in chapter 22, “Homosexuality”.

118. The only place I know of where “Ai-sheng chuan” is mentioned is the opening paragraph of “Yün-hsiang chuan,” in Ti-ch’eng hua-yang, a late Ch’ing work about the then-famous actors in the capital during the Tao-kuang period (1821–50). There, before quoting a passage from “Ai-sheng chuan,” the unidentified author says, “I could not hold back my tears and long sighs when I read Feng Tzu-yu’s ‘Ai-sheng chuan’”. Ti-ch’eng hua-yang can be found in the late Ch’ing miscellany, Hsiang-yen ts’ung-shu, vol. 15, chapter 2.

119. “Pa Niang-tzu” (“Eighth Lady”) is apparently not her given name. Presumably she is so called because she is the eighth-ranked among the Feng women of her generation.

120. Liu Ch’i was the nickname of the well-known Sung poet Liu Yung who, according to some sources, led a dissipated life, died a bum, and was buried by his courtesan friends. A hua-pen story concerning Liu Ch’i and his “ladies” entitled “Chung ming-chi ch’un-feng tiao Liu Ch’i” can be found in chapter 12, Ku-chin hsiao-shuo. Patrick Hanan argues that the author of this hua-pen story is Feng Meng-lung (see his “The Authorship of Some Ku-chin hsiao-shuo Stories,” HJAS 29 [1969]: 198), despite the circumstance that the version included as entry 5 in chapter 18 of Ch’ing-shih is quite different from the hua-pen version. The sympathetic references to Liu Ch’i in this last passage of “Ai-sheng chuan” would seem to support Hanan’s argument.

121. According to the hua-pen story “Chung ming-chi ch’un-feng tiao Liu Ch’i,” mentioned in the previous note, it is at Lo-yu Yüan, a scenic tourist site situated south of the city of Ch’ang-an, that Liu Ch’i lies buried. But in the hua-pen story, Liu Ch’i dies in a courtesan’s house in the Eastern Capital (i.e., K’ai-feng), though it is not there explained how or why Liu Ch’i comes to be buried in distant Ch’ang-an’s Lo-yu Yüan rather than in K’ai-feng. The mention both of Lo-yu Yüan and of Liu Ch’i’s tomb, in “Ai-sheng chuan,” again, indicates a relation between Feng Meng-lung and the story “Chung ming-chi ch’un-feng tiao Liu Ch’i”.

122. This refers to the entries in sections 3, “Infidelity”; 5, “Assailed by Slander”; and 6, “Misled by Deceit”.

123. This refers respectively to the entries in section 1, “Marriages Opposed by Parents”; 2, “Parentally Imposed Separations”; 4, “Misfortunes Incurred through Jealousy”; and 7, “Encountering Ruffians”.

124. E.g., entries 13, “Tu Shih-niang”; 18, “Hsiao-ch’ing”; 23, “Chang Li-chen”; 40, “Chou Ti ch’i” (“Chou Ti’s Wife”); 41, “Liu Luan-ying”; 42, “Chin-shan seng Hui-ming” (“Monk Hui-ming of Chin-shan”); 43, “Wang Wu-kung ch’i” (“Wang Wu-kung’s Wife”); and 44, “Ch’ien-shan fu” (“The Woman of Ch’ien-shan”). Patrick Hanan presents a translation of “Tu Shihniang” as found in chapter 5 of Sung Yu-ch’ing’s Chiu-yüeh chi, as well as a critical analysis of this tale and its vernacular counterpart found in chapter 32 of Ching-shih t’ung-yen. For these, see “‘The Making of the Pearl-sewn Shirt’ and ‘The Courtesan’s Jewel Box’,” HJAS 33 (1973): 124–53. Entries 18, “Hsiao-ch’ing,” and 23, “Chang Li-chen,” bear important information regarding the date of compilation of Ch’ing-shih.

125. See his Jih-pen Tung-ching so-chien Chung-kuo hsiao-shuo shu-mu (Bibliography of Chinese Fictional Works Seen in Tokyo), chapter 6, the comment concerning the listing “Feng-liu shih-chuan,” pp. 126–27.

126. In the Pao-wen-t’ang shu-mu this story is listed by its commonly known, if not original, title “Chiao Hung chuan” (“Story of Chiao and Hung”). Here, Hung refers to the second heroine, Fei-hung, Wang Chiao’s maid who later becomes Wang Chiao’s stepmother.

127. The only such miscellany that I have access to is a Ming “Wan-li” edition of Yen-chü pi-chi edited by Ho Ta-lun. The story of Wang Chiao and Shen Ch’un is found in the upper parts of chapters 7 and 8, under the title “Yung-lu Chiao Hung”. It was common practice for Ming editors and compilers to “adjust” the titles of various works, in order that the titles better suit the overall design of the collections or anthologies in which they were to be included. Thus we often find one story listed under various titles in different anthologies.

128. Mount Tao-ch’ang is the place where the couple, Liu Ts’ui-ts’ui and her husband, are buried.

129. Recall that in Ch’ing-shih the term hsiao-shuo refers either to certain tales in classical Chinese, or to short stories in vernacular Chinese—the so-called hua-pen stories. Occasionally, when the T’ang tales, or what we now designate as T’ang ch’uan-ch’i, are referred to, the compiler specifies this by labeling them T’ang hsiao-shuo.

130. Obviously, the main purpose of Ch’ing-shih is to study ch’ing in its various manifestations; as long as this purpose is being served, our compiler often feels free to trim irrelevant or superfluous details from the originals, as he adapts them to his anthology. Conversely, when the compiler feels that a certain story does not adequately serve his purpose, he may then embellish, elaborate on, or otherwise alter the story according to his own needs.

131. Again, the compiler attempts only to stay within the literary domain that he deems appropriate for his work, Ch’ing-shih. I see no subjective favoritism here on the part of the compiler—while he is conscious of the existence of the various literary forms, and recognizes that each of these forms has its definite literary territory, he does not show his preference for one over the other.

132. This “preface” can also be found in Ch’ien Ch’ien-yi’s Lieh-ch’ao shih-chi haiao-chuan (the last entry of the second section on poetesses, in chapter 6, i.e., in “Jun-chi”), as well as in chapter 3 “Chuan” (“Biographies”) of Ku-chin nü-shih, with some insignificant variations.

133. “Fu fu chih chiang-chün” (literally, “the general with a belly that does not work,” or a brainless and insensitive military man), alludes to the following anecdote found in T’ung-chien ch’ang-pien: “Having eaten his fill, Tang T’ai-wei patted his belly and sighed contentedly, ‘I sure treat you right.’ A peer then remarked, ‘Yes, you surely treat your belly right, but your belly is not treating you right, my general. It has never produced any intelligent strategy.’

134. “Ho-tung shih-tzu,” the common expression referring to a jealous and ferocious woman, comes from the lines of a poem by Su Shih; describing the henpecked Ch’en Ts’ao, Su Shih says: “Suddenly he heard the roaring of the lioness from East-of-the-River. Leaning upon his staff, one hand dropped down, he was at a loss.” “The roaring of a lion” (shih-tzu hou) is a phrase frequently encountered in Buddhist writings, referring to the awesome teaching of the Buddha. “East-of-the-River” (Ho-tung) comes from a line, “The girl from East-of-the-River surnamed Liu,” found in a poem by Tu Fu. Ch’en Ts’ao was fond of Buddhism, and his wife’s maiden name was Liu; hence, Su Shih’s sarcastic lines. For a completely different anecdote about Ch’en Ts’ao, see Ch’ing-shih’s chapter 5, “Magnanimity,” entry 28.

135. See entry 2, “Wen-wang” (“King Wen”); see also entry 3, “K’ung-tzu” (“Confucius”).

136. See entries 10, “Fan Wen-cheng” (i.e., Fan Chung-yen), and 12, “Chao Ch’ing-hsien”.

137. See entries 6, “Su Tzu-ch’ing” (i.e., Su Wu), and 7, “Hu Chan-an”.

138. See entry 9, “Li Wei-kung” (i.e., Li Ching).

139. See entries 8, “Lin Ho-ching,” and 15, “Mi Yüan-chang” (i.e., Mi Fei).

140. See entry 3, “K’ung-tzu” (“Confucius”), and the compiler’s comment thereupon.

141. See entry 5, “Chih hsü” (“The Wise Old Man”), and the compiler’s comment thereupon.

142. For another anecdote about Fan Chung-yen, see “Han Ju-yü,” the story previously translated for chapter 5, “Magnanimity”.

143. Situated in the yard behind his official residence, Ch’ing-shuo Hall, according to Ch’üeh-sao pien, was built by Fan Chung-yen during his term as prefect of Po-yang.

144. See the translation of Chan-chan-wai-shih’s preface to Ch’ing-shih.

145. Among those stories, two—entry 3, “Chen-chu shan,” and entry 6, “Chou T’ing-chang”—deserve comment. Each of these two stories has a hua-pen counterpart (the counterpart of “Chen-chu shan” to be found as the first story of Ku-chin hsiao-shuo, and that of “Chou T’ing-chang” comprising chapter 34, Ching-shih t’ung-yen), and Patrick Hanan has done some work on both hua-pen stories. (For “Chen-chu shan” see his “The Making of the ‘Pearl-sewn Shirt’ and ‘The Coutesan’s Jewel Box’”; for “Chou T’ing-chang” see his Chinese Short Story [Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1973], especially p. 241.) In Ch’ing-shih, both stories are treated as cautionary tales, and the compiler’s sympathetic remarks concerning both the hero and the heroine of “Chen-chu shan” can be taken to indicate some sort of relation between the compiler of Ch’ing-shih and the author of the hua-pen counterpart of “Chen-chu shan” as found in Ku-chin hsiao-shuo.

146. There are two vernacular counterparts of this story. The first is the ju-hua (“introduction”) to chapter 34 of Ching-shih t’ung-yen. The second is found with chapter 13 of Tsui-hsing shih, an early Ch’ing hua-pen story collection.

147. Ho-chien, a nymphomaniac, is the heroine in entry 29. See my English translation of this entry, chosen as representative for this chapter.

148. Ta sheng-jen (“great sage”) presumably refers to the founding emperor of the Ming dynasty.

149. That is, entry 10, “T’ang Kao-tsung Wu-hou” (“Empress Wu of Tang Kao-tsung”), section 1, “Degeneracy at the Imperial Palaces”.

150. See, e.g., the comments appended to entries 12 and 25.

151. It is included in his anthology Liu Ho-tung chi under the title “Ho-chien chuan” (“Story of Ho-chien”).

152. The Ho-chien of T’ang covers approximately the same area as present-day Ho-chien hsien in Ho-pei province.

153. One hu, a dry measure, is five or ten times that of one tou (the Chinese “peck”), one li being approximately half a kilometer. The phrases “three hu of bright pearls” and “ten li of embroidered curtains” refer respectively to anecdotes about Shih Ch’ung and about Liu Mu-chou—see entries 25 and 32 in chapter 5, “Magnanimity”. In both instances, the hero spends a handsome sum of money in order to achieve his romantic purpose.

154. This refers, first, to the anecdotes concerning Shih Ch’ung and Liu Mu-chou in chapter 5, and, second, to entry 1 in section 1, “Financial Loss,” this eighteenth chapter.

155. This refers, first, to section 2 (“Feminine Charms as Bribery”); second, to section 3 (“Defamation”); third, to section 4 (“Stumbling into Dangers”); and lastly, to sections 5 (“False Accusations”), 6 (“Bodily Harm”), 7 (“Loss of Life”) and 8 (“Licentiousness as a Hindrance for Women”).

156. Li (“reason,” “intellect,” “mind”) here refers to that non emotional mental faculty which regulates and guides ch’ing.

157. See the remarks appended to entry 22, “Pei-shan tao-che” (“The Magician from North Mountain”) in section 7, “Loss of Life”.

158. See, respectively, entries 16, “Ho Ying-hsiang,” in section 7, “Loss of Life”; and entry 18, “Shen Hsün,” in section 7.

159. See chapter 12, Ku-chin hsiao-shuo. The title “A Bevy of Courtesans Mourns Liu Ch’i in Romantic Sympathy” is Cyril Birch’s translation as used in his article “Feng Meng-lung and the Ku-chin hsiao-shuo,” BSOAS 18 (1956): 64–83.

160. Cyril Birch, for example, thinks that “it is not out of the question” that Feng may have composed this story (see his “Feng Meng-lung and the Ku-chin hsiao-shuo,” p. 78). Patrick Hanan gives additional evidence in his “The Authorship of Some Ku-chin hsiao-shuo Stories” (HJAS 29 [1969]: 190–200) which more positively links the authorship of this story to Feng, and in his Chinese Short Story, he pursues the assumption further (see p. 237, on KC 12).

161. See preceding notes 120 and 121.

162. Tseng Min-hsing’s Tu-hsing tsa-chih gives Tsao-yang, Ho-pei province; Chu Mu’s Fang-yü sheng-lan gives Hsiang-yang; and Yeh Meng-te’s Pi-shu lu-hua gives Jun-chou (the present-day Tan-t’u, Chiang-su province).

163. See Fang-yü sheng-lan: “when he [i.e., Liu Ch’i] died, he left nothing behind. A group of courtesans contributed some money and buried him outside of South Gate. . . .” This passage is also quoted by Feng Meng-lung in his T’an-kai, being appended to the entry “Liu San-pien” in chapter 12.

164. The obvious parallels in the lives and characters of Ai-sheng and Liu Ch’i are so numerous that one wonders whether “Ai-sheng chuan” is not in fact a deliberate retelling of “A Bevy of Courtesans”.

165. See his “Authorship of Some Ku-chin hsiao-shuo Stories,” p. 198; this anecdote can also be found in Ku-chin nü-shih, with some insignificant variations.

166. I think the compiler intends hsü-che (“that which is unreal”) to refer to things intangible, or things without any substance. Since there is no substance, there is consequently no mutation, nor san (“dispersion”).

167. “Relations between the two sexes” refers to all the love affairs between supernatural beings and men as described in this chapter.

168. See entry 3 and the several anecdotes about “chih-nü” (“spinning damsel”) and “niu-lang” (“cowherd”) in entry 4.

169. The anecdote of suo-tzu-ku (“The Bodhisattva with Chain-Bones”) comes from Hsüan-kuai lu:

There was a woman of Yen-chou, travelling alone in the city. After she died, a foreign monk visited her tomb and saluted it, saying, “This is the Bodhisattva with chain-bones. If you do not believe me, open the tomb and see for yourselves.” When the people opened the tomb they saw a skeleton consisting of bones hooked together in a chain.

The reference here, however, is not to this Hsüan-kuai lu anecdote. Rather, the reference is to a tale—apparently an elaboration based on the Hsüan-kuai lu anecdote—told by the monk Fa-k’ung to the prostitute Liu Ts’ui, in the hua-pen story “Yüeh-ming ho-shang tu Liu Ts’ui” (chapter 29, Ku-chin hsiao-shuo). There, when asked by Liu Ts’ui if there had ever been any prostitutes who had achieved Buddhahood, the monk answers:

Yes. Previously, when Avalokitesavara Bodhisattva saw the rampancy of human desires, he reincarnated himself in the body of a lewd woman and was born into a brothel, there to entertain guests like other prostitutes do. Each man on seeing her—be he king or duke—would become infatuated, but as soon as he began to have sexual intercourse with her, his licentious desires would immediately disappear. This was because she possessed in her the great Dharma which could dissolve and expel all evil forces. Later, she died a natural death, and was buried by her fellow residents from the same district. Then one day there came a foreign monk who, as soon as he saw her tomb, clasped his hands in salutation and said, “Glory! Glory!” The local residents told him, “This is the grave of a prostitute. Master, you must have made a mistake.” The foreign monk answered, “This prostitute was the incarnation of Avalokitesavara Bodhisattva. He was reincarnated in order to deliver the licentious men of this world, to lead them onto the right path. Should you doubt my words, you need only open this tomb up; then you will see for yourselves that the remains of the corpse manifest some unusual and wondrous phenomena.” The skeptical local people immediately dug out the coffin and broke it open. There they saw the bones of the skeleton interlocked with each other and forming a chain, a golden chain, and they now began to marvel at the sight. They built a temple on the grave site and named it “Temple of the Bodhisattva with Gold Chain-bones.”

170. Ts’ai-chan (“vitality-plucking battle” refers to the Taoist sexology, in which sexual intercourse is often viewed as a “battle,” in which each of the two partners tries to maintain his or her own “cool” while manipulating the other—thus the word chan (“battle,” “fighting,” etc.). The ultimate goal of the “battle” is to cause the other person to emit, or to lose, his or her “essence”. The winner, believed to have thus “plucked” the vitality, i.e., the “essence,” of the loser—thus the word ts’ai (“plucking,” “picking,” etc.)—will consequently be benefitted physiologically. For further information on the Taoist sexology, see The Tao of Sex by Akira Ishihara and Howard S. Levy, 2nd ed. (New York: Paragon, 1969). I have yet to gain information concerning any Ming story about Hui Tao-jen and White Peony (Pai Mu-tan).

171. Huang-ling refers to the general area along the northern reaches of the River Hsiang, whose spirits, according to legend and folk belief, are the two daughters of Yao—viz., E-huang and Nü-ying (see note 49); many romantic tales have been written about these two goddesses of the River Hsiang, usually including a short encounter of the goddesses with some young scholar who happens to be travelling through the area.

172. I am not familiar with this allusion. Li Ch’ün-yü was a well-known T’ang poet. P’i-yang was the fief of Shen Yi-chi, a man said to have had adulterous affairs with Empress Lü of the Han dynasty. (See entry 2, chapter 17, “Degenerates”.)

173. I am not familiar with this allusion. Tu Shih-yi no doubt refers to Tu Fu (712–70), the famous T’ang poet. I assume Wu Tzu-hsü is the Wu Tzu-hsü of Wu state during the Spring and Autumn Period (722–481 B.C.)—his biography can be found in chapter 66 of Shih-chi.

174. Both ku and shih are Chou dynasty court officials’ titles, the ku in charge of music and astrology, the shih in charge of rites.

175. These include e.g., entries 8, “Yün-ying” (from Ch’uan-ch’i); 15, “Pai-lo T’ien nü (“The Celestial White Snail Girl”; from Lu-yi chi); 19, “T’ien-t’ai erh-nü (“The Two Fairies of T’ien-t’ai”; from Lü-ch’uang hsin-hua); 21, “Chang Kuo lao (“The Old Orchardist Chang”; from T’ai-p’ing kuang-chi); and 34, “Tung-t’ing-chün nü (“The Daughter of the King of Tung-t’ing”; from T’ai-p’ing kuang-chi). I use the term fairy tale here not with the folklorist definition which would imply that such tales as these all have oral counterparts of one kind or another; rather, I use the term in reference to the circumstance that all the tales in this chapter include as a protagonist at least one supernatural being.

176. E.g., see entries 4, “Chih-nü” (“The Spinning Damsel”); 5, “Tu Lan-hsiang,” titled after the main character; and 7, “Wu-shan shen-nü” (“The goddess of Wu-shan”).

177. E.g., see the compiler’s remarks upon entries 13, “Ku-shen nü” (“The Ravine God’s Daughter”), and 17, “Tung-hsiao mei-jen” (“The Flute Player and the Fairy”).

178. I have used the word spirit to mean, collectively, only the good or benevolent spirits. In this chapter, the compiler terms an evil spirit a mo, a hsieh-sui, or else simply states that so-and-so is “not an upright spirit” (fei cheng-shen).

179. See, e.g., the compilers questions contained in his comments upon entries 30, “Lo-shen”; 38, “Chiu-tzu mo-mu”; 41, “Chiang-hou miao”; and 42, “Ch’ing-hsi hsiao-ku”.

180. See T’ai-p’ing kuang-chi, chapter 69, entry 2, “Ma Shih-liang”. In translating this story, since textual corruption and misgraphing abound in “Ku-shen nü,” I have relied heavily upon the T’ai-p’ing kuang-chi text.

181. See entry 30, “Tou Yü,” and entry 33, “Chang Yün-jung”. Tou Yü is the human hero in entry 30, a story about his marriage to a ghost; Chang Yün-jung is the ghost heroine in entry 33, a story about her marriage to a living person.

182. In both entry 30 and 33, the ghost heroines are not ordinary ghosts. In entry 30, the female ghost is also a shen (“deity”) of the underworld; in entry 33, the female ghost, after having sexual intercourse with the human hero, becomes an immortal. Further, the two human characters involved also benefit from their marital relations with a female ghost, the benefits being in the form of longevity and wealth.

183. The most effective means of ridding anybody of a ghost, it seems, is to find the corpse of the haunting ghost and then destroy it by fire. See, e.g., entries 18, “T’ao-yüan nü-kuei” (“Peach Garden Female Ghost”), and 20, “Mou Shu-mi-shih nü” (“Prime Minister So-and-so’s Daughter”).

184. The identity of Ma Shu-mo is unclear to me. Yang-lien Chen-chia was a foreign monk of the Yüan dynasty who, according to popular legend, was granted permission by the emperor to open up some one hundred and one tombs of various Sung imperial families.

185. See, e.g., entries 29, “T’ien fu-jen” (“Madam T’ien”); 30, “Tou Yü”; 31, “Ch’in nü ta-sheng” (“Princess Ch’in, Great Saint”); and 33, “Chang Yün-jung”.

186. This story is commonly known by its original title, “Mu-tan-teng chi” (“Story of the Peony Lantern”). It was written by the noted Ming author Ch’ü Yu, and can be found in chapter 2 of his Chien-teng hsin-hua.

187. Hou Chou, or the Latter Chou, apparently here refers to the Pei Chou, or Northern Chou, of the Nan-pei-ch’ao period (420–589), rather than to the Hou Chou of the Five Dynasties (907–60).

188. Obviously the compiler is here explaining why he has chosen the word yao as a designation for this kind of spirit.

189. Wu refers to Wu Tse-t’ien, Empress Wu of T’ang (see entry 10, chapter 17); Chao refers to the Chao sisters of Han—i.e., Chao Fei-yen and Chao Ho-te (see entry 2 of chapter 6, and entry 3 of chapter 17). I have yet to identify Hsi, the person our compiler terms a “poisonous snake”.

190. Of the fifty-eight entries, only five—entries 1, 2, 3, 5, and 6—deal with monsters in their true, original forms rather than in their transformed selves, or personified spirits. Mainly with the two following English definitions in mind (as in Webster’s Third New International Dictionary, unabridged), I have translated the word yao in the chapter heading as “monster”: an animal or plant departing greatly in form or structure from the usual type of its species; and one who shows a deviation from the normal in behavior or character.

191. See chapter 452 of T’ai-p’ing kuang-chi. In Ch’ing-shih, it is included as the second story of entry 11, “Hu-ching” (“Fox Spirits”), section 4, “Beasts,” of this chapter 21, “Monsters”.

192. Although our compiler in his chapter summary does not mention it, we should nevertheless note that when he uses the word yao to mean “beautiful” (e.g., as in the compound yao-jao which he gives in the chapter summary), it almost always refers to an unnatural, weird, or abnormal kind of beauty; cf. the definitions of “monster,” note 190.

193. Another Ch’ing-shih tale of similar nature is entry 40, chapter 5, “Magnanimity,” the well-known anecdote about Hsieh Hsi-meng, a disciple of the Sung philosopher Lu Hsiang-shan. In this short tale, the hero, Hsieh Hsi-meng, is suddenly enlightened amidst bustling activities and, without even bidding her good-bye, leaves the courtesan he is infatuated with, to return home.

194. Ch’ing-shih’s huang-yi (“yellow garment”) is given in T’ai-p’ing kuang-chi as pu-yi (“cotton garment,” also “cotton begarmented”—i.e., a commoner). Since huang-yi is not an official title, nor do any of its possible meanings (“a Taoist,” “a monk,” etc.) fit the context, I have here based my translation on the T’ai-p’ing kuang-chi text. Han-chou in T’ang covered the general area of present-day Kuang-han hsien, Ssu-ch’uan province.

195. Quoted from the poem “Chan-lu” (Mao no. 174) in the section “Hsiao-ya” of Book of Songs. The first stanza, from which Ch’eng here quotes, reads (in Arthur Waley’s translation):

Sopping lies the dew;

Not till the sun comes will it dry.

Deep we quaff at our night-drinking;

Not till we are drunk shall we go home.

196. Quoted from the last stanza of the poem “Feng-yü” (Mao no. 90) in the section “Cheng-feng” of Book of Songs. The last stanza, from which the girl here quotes, reads (in Arthur Waley’s translation):

Wind and rain, dark as night,

The cock crowed and would not stop.

Now that I have seen my lord,

How can I any more be sad?

Recall that this poem can be read either as a love poem—Waley includes it in the section on “Marriage” in his translation of the Songs—or as a poem describing that particular virtue, perseverance, which is expected of a chün-tzu (“gentleman”): he is like the cock which crows even in the most stormy weather.

197. In T’ai-p’ing kuang-chi, the Ch’ing-shih phrase “kan ch’ing mei ju-ho” (“Do you think I could get a matchmaker . . .”) is given as “kan ch’ing tzu-mei ju-ho” (“Do you think I could act as my own matchmaker . . . “). I have based my translation on the T’ai-p’ing kuang-chi text which, here, makes better sense.

198. Mei Fu was an upright constable in Nan-ch’ang during Han times, said to have later achieved immortality.

199. Meng Kuang, a woman of the Eastern Han dynasty, was the virtuous and capable wife of Liang Hung. See chapter 2, “Ch’ing-yüan,” entry 20, “Meng Kuang”.

200. At first glance the phrase p’o-she p’o-lao (literally, “ruin tongue ruin old”) might seem unintelligible. However, from the following phrase chieh-yü erh-mei (literally, “beware of two beauties”), I assume it is a condensed allusion to the Chi-chung Chou-shu statement which itself has been cited, as follows, within a passage in the “Ch’in-ts’e” of Chan-kuo ts’e (from p. 62 of J. Crump’s translation):

Tien Hsin persuaded king Hui of Ch’in on Ch’en’s behalf:

I fear your majesty may act the way the ruler of Kuo did. Duke Hsien of Chin wanted to attack Kuo but feared the presence of Chou Chih-ch’iao, so Hsün Hsi said to him, “‘Beautiful women can tangle a tongue’ as it says in the Book of Chou. Send the king a woman for his pleasure. The admonitions of Chou Chih-ch’iao will then go unheeded and his government will be in turmoil.” With that he left. His advice was followed and Kuo was overcome. Next Duke Hsien wished to attack Yü but feared the presence of Kung Chih-ch’i. Hsün Hsi said, “The Book of Chou says, ‘A beautiful lad can ruin an older head.’ Send the king a comely boy whom you have instructed to ruin Kung Chih-ch’i. The latter’s admonitions will go unheeded and he will flee.” Having done this, Duke Hsien attacked Yü and took it. . . .

201. Hsin-po served as a court official in the reign of King Huan of Chou (718–696 B.C.). I have yet to identify the allusion, and hence can not offer a clearer, more accurate translation than the one given here.

202. Yü Ta-fu refers to Yü Hua-li. For two Ch’ing-shih anecdotes about him, see entry 2 of this chapter, and entry 41 of chapter 5, “Magnanimity”.

203. There is a substantial body of writing concerning homosexual activities during the Ming period, including the well-known works of Shen Te-fu and Hsieh Chao-chih. This Ch’ing-shih chapter 22, “Homosexuality,” provides some additional information and interesting anecdotes about homosexual activities among Ming scholars.

204. Feng Meng-lung has written three san-ch’ü pieces on the theme of homosexual love; one of them, entitled “Ch’ing-hsien ch’ü” (“Song of the Love Fairy”), tells of and praises the love of two young men, a love which transcends the boundaries of life and death. See T’ai-hsia hsin-tsou, chapter 1.

205. An-ling refers to Lord An-ling, the catamite courtier of King Kung of Ch’u. Lung-yang refers to Lord Lung-yang, the catamite courtier of a king of Wei. Anecdotes of both these famous catamites of the Warring States period can be found in Chan-kuo ts’e. They have also been copied into Ch’ing-shih—see entry 6, “An-ling chün,” and entry 5, “Lung-yang chün”.

206. For the allusion to hsiu-pei (“embroidered quilt”), see entry 18, “Hsiang-ch’eng chün”; for the allusion to chin-wan (“gold pellets”), see entry 22, “Han Yen”. In order to bring out the connotations of this phrase, I have here over translated it and have included in my translation the essence of each anecdote which the phrase alludes to.

207. See, e.g., both anecdotes of entry 6, “Yüan-yang” (“Mandarin Ducks”); the second, third, and fourth anecdotes of entry 8, “Yen” (“Wild Geese”); the fourth anecdote of entry 9, “Yen” (“Swallows”); entry 10, “Kuan” (“Storks”); and entry 11, “Ko” (“Doves”).

208. See, e.g., the first anecdote of entry 3, “Ho” (“Cranes”); entry 7, “E” (“Geese”); and entry 12, “Chin-e” (“Golden Geese”).

209. See, e.g., entry 26, “Li” (“Pear Trees”); entry 28, “Chu” (“Bamboo”); and entry 31, “Yüan-yang ts’ao” (“Yüan-yang plants”).

210. See, e.g., the first anecdote of entry 3, “Ho” (“Cranes”); the fourth anecdote of entry 9, “Yen” (“Swallows”); and entry 18, “Yü” (“Fish”).

211. See, e.g., entry 19, “Ts’an” (“Silk Worms”), and entry 27, “Hsing” (“Apricot Blossoms”).

212. See the first story of entry 16, “Hu” (“Tigers”). This story is a slightly altered version of Chu Yün-ming’s (1460–1526) “Yi-hu chuan” (“Story of a Righteous Tiger”). A vernacular counterpart of this story can be found in the ju-hua (“introduction”) to chapter 5 of Hsing-shih heng-yen.

213. I.e., the second anecdote of entry 1, “Feng” (“Phoenixes”); the first anecdote of entry 9, “Yen” (“Swallows”); entry 15, “Ma” (“Horses”); the second anecdote of entry 16, “Hu” (“Tigers”); and entry 17, “Hou” (“Monkeys”).

214. See, e.g., entry 20, “Hung pien-fu” (“Red Bats”); entry 23, “Sha-fu” (“‘Sha-fu’ Insects”); entry 24, “Hou-jih ch’ung” (“Sun-awaiting Insects”); and entry 30, “Ho-ts’ao-man” (“Crane Plants”).

215. I have based my translation of these two sentences on the Ch’ing-yi lu text, which here makes better sense to me than the respective Ch’ing-shih sentences.

Character Glossary

TITLES OF THE TWENTY-FOUR CHAPTERS, SECTIONS, AND TRANSLATED STORIES

Chapter 1: “Ch’ing-chen”

Section 1: “Fu-fu chieh-yi”

Section 2: “Chen-fu”

Section 3: “Chen-ch’ieh”

Section 4: “Chen-chi”

“Li Miao-hui”

Chapter 2: “Ch’ing-yüan”

Section 1: “Yi-wai fu-ch’i”

Section 2: “Lao-erh-ch’ü che”

Section 3: “Ch’i tzu tse fu”

Section 4: “Fu-fu Ch’ung-feng”

“Wang Ts’ung-shih ch’i”

Chapter 3: “Ch’ing-ssu”

Section 1: “Hsien-ssu hou-p’ei”

Section 2: “Ssu-erh wei-chi-p’ei che”

Section 3: “Ssu-hui”

Section 4: “Ssu-pei”

“Mo Chü-jen”

Chapter 4: “Ch’ing-hsia”

Section 1: “Hsia-nü-tzu neng tzu-tse-fu che”

Section 2: “Hsia-nü-tzu neng ch’eng-jen-chih-shih che”

Section 3: “Chi-nü-tzu neng ch’eng-jen-ming-chieh che”

Section 4: “Hsia-chang-fu neng ch’ü-t’i-jen-ch’ing che”

Section 5: “Hsia-chang-fu tai-jen-ch’eng-shih che”

Section 6: “Hsia-k’e neng chu-wu-ch’ing che” “Feng Tieh-ts’ui”

Chapter 5: “Ch’ing-hao”

Section 1: “Hao-she”

Section 2: “Hao-hua”

Section 3: “Hao-k’uang”

Section 4: “Hao-yung”

“Han Ju-yü”

Chapter 6: “Ch’ing-ai”

Section 1: “Nan ai nü”

Section 2: “Nü ai nan”

Section 3: “Nan-nü hsiang-ai”

“Ch’iu Ch’ang-ju”

Chapter 7: “Ch’ing-ch’ih”

“Lo-yang Wang mou”

Chapter 8: “Ch’ing-kan”

Section 1: “Kan-jen”

Section 2: “Kan shen-kuei”

Section 3: “Kan-wu”

“Cheng Te-lin”

Chapter 9: “Ch’ing-huan”

Section 1: “Meng-huan”

Section 2: “Li-hun”

Section 3: “Fu-hun”

Section 4: “Chao-hun”

Section 5: “Hua-huan”

Section 6: “Shih-huan”

Section 7: “Shu-huan”

“Wu Hsing-niang”

Chapter 10: “Ch’ing-ling”

Section 1: “Yü-ping”

Section 2: “Tsai-sheng”

Section 3: “T’ung-ssu”

Section 4: “Ssu hou ch’ang-yüan”

Section 5: “Ssu hou chien-meng”

Section 6: “Ssu hou hsün-huan”

Section 7: “Tsai shih ch’ang-yüan”

Section 8: “Tsai shih ch’uan-hsin”

Section 9: “Ssu hou hsien-hsing”

Section 10: “Ssu hou hsing-huan”

Section 11: “Chiu-ling”

“Pai-nü”

“Wu-sung Sun-sheng”

Chapter 11: “Ch’ing-hua”

“Hsin chien chin-shih”

Chapter 12: “Ch’ing-mei”

Section 1: “Hsien-mei”

Section 2: “Yu-mei”

Section 3: “Kuan-mei”

Section 4: “Ch’i-mei”

Section 5: “Tzu-mei”

Section 6: “Shih-mei”

Section 7: “Tz’u-mei”

Section 8: “Kuei-mei”

Section 9: “Feng-mei”

Section 10: “Hung-yeh-mei”

Section 11: “Hu-mei”

Section 12: “Hu-mei”

Section 13: “Yi-mei”

“Ta-pieh hu”

Chapter 13: “Ch’ing-han”

Section 1: “Wu-yüan”

Section 2: “Suo-ts’ung fei-ou”

Section 3: “Shang-shih”

Section 4: “Tsai-sheng pu-kuo”

“Feng Ai-sheng”

Chaper 14: “Ch’ing-ch’ou”

Section 1: “Tsu-hun”

Section 2: “Sheng-li”

Section 3: “Po-hsing”

Section 4: “Tu-e”

Section 5: “Tsao-ts’an”

Section 6: “Ch’i-wu”

Section 7: “Yü-pao”

“Yi-t’ing nü-tzu”

Chapter 15: “Ch’ing-ya”

Section 1: “Ta-sheng”

Section 2: “Ming-hsien”

Section 3: “Kao-seng”

Section 4: “Hsien nü-tzu”

“Fan Wen-cheng”

Chapter 16: “Ch’ing-pao”

Section 1: “Yu-ch’ing pao”

Section 2: “Fu-ch’ing pao”

“Nien-erh niang”

Chapter 17: “Ch’ing-hui”

Section 1: “Kung-yeh”

Section 2: “Ch’i-li”

Section 3: “Ch’i yin”

Section 4: “Tsa-yin”

“Ho-chien fu”

Chapter 18: “Ch’ing-lei”

Section 1: “Sun-ts’ai”

Section 2: “Yü-shih”

Section 3: “Sun-ming”

Section 4: “Tao-wei”

Section 5: “Tsao-wu”

Section 6: “K’uei-t’i”

Section 7: “Yün-ming”

Section 8: “Fu-jen yin-lei”

“Liu Ch’i-ch’ing”

Chapter 19: “Ch’ing-yi”

Section 1: “Fo-kuo”

Section 2: “T’ien-hsien”

Section 3: “Tsa hsien-nü”

Section 4: “Ti-hsien”

Section 5: “Shan-shen”

Section 6: “Shui-shen”

Section 7: “Lung-shen”

Section 8: “Miao-hsiang chih shen”

Section 9: “Tsa-shen”

“Ku-shen nü”

Chapter 20: “Ch’ing-kuei”

Section 1: “Kung-wei ming-kuei”

Section 2: “Ts’ai-kuei”

Section 3: “Chung-mu chih kuei”

Section 4: “Ts’o-yi chih kuei”

Section 5: “Lü-ch’en chih kuei”

Section 6: “Yu-hun”

Section 7: “Wu-ming kuei”

“Yü-yi nü-sheng”

Chapter 21: “Ch’ing-yao”

Section 1: “Jen-yao”

Section 2: “Yi-yü”

Section 3: “Yeh-ch’a”

Section 4: “Shou-shu”

Section 5: “Yü-tsu”

Section 6: “Lin-tsu”

Section 7: “Chieh-shu”

Section 8: “K’un-ch’ung shu”

Section 9: “Ts’ao-mu shu”

Section 10: “Wu-ch’ing chih wu”

Section 11: “Ch’i-wu chih shu”

Section 12: “Wu-ming kuai”

“Hu-ching”

Chapter 22: “Ch’ing-wai”

Section 1: “Ch’ing-chen”

Section 2: “Ch’ing-ssu”

Section 3: “Ch’ing-ai”

Section 4: “Ch’ing-ch’ih”

Section 5: “Ch’ing-kan”

Section 6: “Ch’ing-hua”

Section 7: “Ch’ing-han”

Section 8: “Po-hsing”

Section 9: “Ch’ing-ch’ou”

Section 10: “Tzu-ti ping-ch’ung pu-chung”

Section 11: “Ch’ing-pao”

Section 12: “Ch’ing-hui”

Section 13: “Ch’ing-lei”

Section 14: “Hsieh-shen”

Section 15: “Ling-kuei”

“Wan-sheng”

Chapter 23: “Ch’ing-t’ung”

Section 1: “Fei-ch’in”

Section 2: “Shou-shu”

Section 3: “Yü-ch’ung”

Section 4: “Ts’ao-mu”

“Feng”

Chapter 24: “Ch’ing-chi”

Section 1: “Shih-hua”

Section 2: “Tz’u-hua”

Section 3: “Tsa-shih”

“Feng-liu chien”

OTHER TERMS, NAMES, AND TITLES

Listed here are all the terms, phrases, names, and titles not glossed above, and not included in the Bibliography. However, I have not here given any Ch’ing-shih characters’ names, or any entry titles, except in those few places where the insertion of the original Chinese script helps clarify the meaning, nor have I listed places names, dynasty names, or reign titles.

Chan-chan-wai-shih

Chan-chan-wai-shih p’ing-chi

Chan-kuo ts’e

Chan-lu

Chang Yü-hu wu-su nü chen kuan

Ch’ang-hen ko

che , chien , suo

chen

Ch’en Yi-ch’üan

Cheng Chiao-fu

Chi

Chi-chung “Chou-shu”

Chia-shen chi-shih

Chiang

chiang-hsüeh

Chiang-nan Chan-chan-wai-shih shu

Chiao Hung chuan

(Wang Chiao Yung-lu Chiao Hung )

chieh-shih huan-hun

ch’ien ch’i-tzu

(Hung-chih ch’i-tzu )

Ho Ching-ming

Hsü Chen-ch’ing

Li Meng-yang

K’ang Hai

Pien Kung

Wang Chiu-ssu

Wang T’ing-hsiang

Ch’ien-chüan Ssu

Chin-feng-ch’ai chi

Chin-jen feng-liu

Chin-ku

(Chin-ku-yüan )

Chin P’ing Mei

chin-t’i

Ching-chih-chü shih-hua

Ching-hsiao-chai

ch’ing

Ch’ing-chu-jen

(Ch’ing-shih-shih )

Ch’ing-hsien ch’ü

Ch’ing-lou chi

Ch’ing-lou yüan

Ch’ing-ni lien-hua chi

(by Mei Ting-tso )

Ch’ing-shih

(Ch’ing-shih lei-lüeh )

Ch’ing-yi lu

Chiu-p’in

Chiu T’ang-shu

Chiu-yüeh chi

(by Sung Yu-ch’ing )

Ch’ou-miao

ch’ou-shih

Chu Hsi

Chu Yün-ming

ch’uan-ch’i

Chuang-tzu

Chung-hsing shih-lu

Chung-hsing wei-lüeh

Chung ming-chi ch’un-feng tiao Liu Ch’i

Ch’ü Tsung-chi

(Ch’ü Yu )

chüeh-chü

Ch’üeh-sao pien

E-huang

e yin-yüan

Erh-t’an

Fa-k’o

fang-hsien

Fang-yü sheng-lan

(by Chu Mu )

fei cheng-shen

Fei Hung

Fei-yen chuan

Feng-liu meng

Feng-liu shih-chuan

Feng Meng-hsiung

Feng Meng-kuei

Feng Meng-lung

(Lung Tzu-yu , Tzu-yu , Tzu-yu-shih )

Feng-wei-ts’ao chi

Feng-yü

fu fu chih chiang-chün

Fu-jung-p’ing chi

Fu-ning fu chih

fu-t’i huan-hun

Han-shu

Ho-tung chi

Ho-tung shih-tzu

ho-yi-chi-ch’ü hu

(ho-yi-chi-ch’ü hu )

hou ch’i-tzu

(Chia-ching ch’i-tzu )

Hsieh Chen

Hsü Chung-hsing

Li P’an-lung

Liang Yu-yü

Tsung Ch’eng

Wang Shih-chen

Wu Kuo-lun

Hou Hui-ch’ing

Hsi-hsi ts’ung-yü

(by Yao K’uan )

Hsi-hsiang chi

(Hsi-hsiang ch’ü )

Hsia-chien chi

hsiao-p’in wen

hsiao-shuo

hsiao-shuo chia

Hsieh Chao-chih

hsieh-sui

hsien

hsin

Hsin chien chin-shih chuan

Hsin-po

hsing

hsing-ch’ing-chung jen

hsing-ling

hsing tse-wei Hsi Lo, pu-hsing tse-wei po-hsing ,

hsiu-pei chin-wan

Hsiung T’ing-pi

hsü-che

Hsü Hsiao-hsiu shih

Hsüan-kuai lu

Hsüeh Ying

hua-pen

huan-hsi yüan-chia

Huang Su-niang

huang-yi

(pu-yi )

Hui Tao-jen

hun

Hung-ch’ü chi

(by Shen Ching )

Hung-li chi

Jen-shih chuan

ju-hua

K’ai-yüan T’ien-pao yi-shih

(by Wang Jen-yü )

kan ch’ing tzu-mei ju-ho

(kan ch’ing mei ju-ho )

Kan shen-ming Chang Te-jung yü-hu,

ts’ou chi-jih P’ei Yüeh-k’e ch’eng-lung

ku

ku chiu tu-chi, p’ing yi ch’eng-shu

Ku-sheng hsü-pien

(by Niu Hsiu )

k’u-ch’ü

Kuan-chü

Kuan Han-ch’ing

k’uang

Kung-an p’ai

Kung-an t’i

Kung Wei-ch’ang

k’ung-men

K’ung ts’ung-tzu

Kuo-se t’ien-hsiang

Lei-shuo

(by Tseng Ts’ao )

li

Li Chih

Li Ch’ing-chao

(Li Yi-an )

Li Ch’ün-yü

Li-hun chi

(by Ch’en Hsüan-yu )

Li Wa

“Li Wa chuan”

(by Po Hsing-chien )

liang-chih

liang-p’ai

liang-yüan

(t’ien-tso liang-yüan )

Ling-hu san-su ts’ao

Ling Meng-ch’u

Liu Ho-tung chi

Liu-sheng

Liu Shuang

Liu Tsung-yüan

Liu Yung

(Liu Ch’i , Liu Ch’i-ch’ing , Liu San-pien )

Lo Ju-fang

Lo Kuan-chung

Lo-yu Yüan ()

lu

Lu Meng-hsien chiang-shang hsün-ch’i

Lu-yi chi

Ma Shu-mo

Mang shu-sheng ch’iang-t’u yüan-lü

Mei Fu

mei-t’an

meng

Ming-chi chuan

mo

Mu Hsiao-ch’iung

Mu-tan-teng chi

Mu-tan t’ing

(Huan-hun chi )

mu-yao

Nü-ying

Pai Mu-tan

Pai Hsiao-fan

Pao-wen-t’ang shu-mu

(by Ch’ao Li )

Pei-li chih

pen

Pi-shu lu-hua

(by Yeh Meng-te )

p’in-yü yü

p’ing

p’ing tse-wei-ch’i, pen tse-wei-ch’ieh ,

Po-chou

Po Hsiang-shan

(Po Chü-yi )

Po-p’o yü

Po-yi chih

(by Cheng Huan-ku )

p’o

p’o-she p’o-lao, chieh-yü erh-mei

pu-pi pai-ying

san-ch’ü

san-hsing

San-shui hsiao-tu

(by Huang-fu Mei )

san-ts’ung ssu-te

san-yen

“Sang-fu chuan”

se

shan-pu-kuo che

Shang-yu lu

shen

Shen Yi-chi

sheng

sheng-jen

Shih-lang

shih

shih-hua

Shih , Shu , Li , Yüeh , Yi , Ch’un-ch’iu

shih-tzu hou

shih-wen hsiao-shuo

Shou-ning hsien chih

Shu-po yung-t’an

(by Tung K’ang )

Shuang-hsiung chi

Shui-hu chuan

Shuo-fu hsü

Shuo-t’ing

(by Lu Ts’an )

ssu-hsing

Ssu-ma Ch’ien

ssu-meng

Tzu-ch’ai chi

Huan-hun chi

Nan-k’o chi

Han-tan chi (Han-tan meng )

Su-chou fu chih

Sung-yu fang-chi

suo-tan-che chü

(suo-tan-che ch’ieh , suo-tan-che chü )

suo-tzu-ku

ta sheng-jen

Ta-shu p’o yi-hu sung-ch’in

Ta-ts’ao kan

T’ai-chou

T’ai-hu shih

T’ang ch’uan-ch’i

(T’ang hsiao-shuo )

T’ang Hsien-tsu

T’ang-shu

T’ang-tai ts’ung-shu

tao-hsüeh

chen tao-hsüeh

chia tao-hsüeh

Ti-ch’eng hua-yang

T’i-hung ch’uan-ch’i

Ting Jih-ch’ang

tsa-chü

ts’ai-chan

Tseng chih-ma shih-p’o chia-hsing,

hsieh ts’ao-yao ch’iao hsieh chen-ou

Tseng t’ung-tzu Chü Fu-lu: tai-tso

Tso-chuan

Ts’ui shu-sheng

ts’ui-tai

Ts’ui-ts’ui chuan

tsung

Tu-hsing tsa-chih

(by Tseng Min-hsing )

tu-shih

Tu Shih-yi

(Tu Fu )

Tuan-erh yi-pieh

tun-ju k’ung-men

Tung-hsüan mu-hsing ching

Tung Ssu-pai

T’ung-chien ch’ang-pien

T’ung-hsin shuo

Tzu Shang

tz’u-hua

Wan-chin ch’ing-lin

Wan-li yeh-hu-pien

(by Shen Te-fu )

Wan-shih tsu

Wang ju-jen li-ho t’uan-yü meng

Wang Ken

Wang Yang-ming

Wang Yang-ming hsien-sheng ch’u-shen ching-luan lu

Wei Tung Hsia-chou tseng Hsüeh Yen-sheng

wo yi hsün mou-hsiang mou-chia

wu-hsia hsiao-shuo

Wu Tzu-hsü

(Wu Tzu-hsü )

Yang-lien Chen-chia

Yao

yao-jao

Yao-shan t’ang wai-chi

Yao-tien

Yen-chou shih-liao hou chi

(by Wang Shih-chen )

Yen Chün

Yi-chung ch’ing

Yi-hu chuan

Yi-li

Yi-shih

yin-tz’u hsiao-shuo

Yin-yün ta-shih

Ying-ying chuan

yu-ming hsiang-ju, ju-shui-jung-shui ,

(ju-ping-jung-shui ; ju-shui-jung-ping )

yü shao-fu ch’ing-ch’ih

Yü Shun

Yü-t’ao chi

Yü-tsan chi

Yüan Chen

(Yüan Wei-chih )

Yüan Chung-tao

(Yüan Hsiao-hsiu )

Yüan Hung-tao

(Yüan Chung-lang )

Yüan-li tz’u

yüan-pen

Yüan Tsung-tao

Yüan Wu-yai

(Wu-yai shih )

Yüeh-ming ho-shang tu Liu Ts’ui

Yün-hsiang chuan

Bibliography

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Liu-shih Hung-shu . By Liu Chung-ta (Ming). Ming Wan-li (1573–1619) edition, preserved in Harvard-Yenching Library.

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Ming-ju hsüeh-an . By Huang Tsung-hsi (1610–95). Taipei: Chung-hua shu-chü , 1965 (Ssu-pu pei-yao edition).

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P’ing-yao chuan , forty-chapter edition. Edited by Feng Meng-lung. Shanghai: Ku-tien wen-hsüeh ch’u-pan she , 1956.

Shan-ko . Compiled by Feng Meng-lung. Shanghai, 1962 (Ming Ch’ing min-ko shih-tiao ts’ung-shu edition).

Shih tien-t’ou . By T’ien-jan Ch’ih-sou (pesud., late Ming). First published during the Ch’ung-chen (1628–44) period by Yeh Ching-ch’ih . Shanghai: Pei-yeh shan-fang , 1935.

T’ai-hsia hsin-tsou . Compiled by Ku-ch’ü San-jen (pseud., late Ming). First published in 1627. A reprint of the original preserved in Harvard-Yenching Library.

T’ai-p’ing kuang-chi . Compiled by Li Fang and others (N. Sung). Taipei: Hsin-hsing shu-chü , 1969.

T’ai-p’ing kuang-chi ch’ao . Edited by Feng Meng-lung. A reprint of the original (1626) preserved in Gest Library, Princeton University.

T’ang Hsien-tsu chi . By T’ang Hsien-tsu (1550–1616). Shanghai: Chung-hua shu-chü, 1962.

Tsui-hsing shih . By Tung Lu Ku-k’uang-sheng (pseud., early Ch’ing). First published in early Ch’ing. Shanghai: Ku-tien wen-hsüeh ch’u-pan she, 1956.

Wu-chung jen-wu chih . Compiled by Chang Ch’ang . First published in late Ming. Taipei: Hsüeh-sheng shu-chü , 1969.

Yen-chü pi-chi . Edited by Ho Ta-lun . Late Ming edition, preserved in Harvard-Yenching Library.

Yen-yi pein . Compilation attributed to Wang Shih-chen (1526–90). An abridged, illustrated edition of the 1936 Chen-pen hsiao-shuo ts’ung-k’an edition.

Yi Chien chih . By Hung Mai (1123–1202). Ts’ung-shu chi-ch’eng edition.

Yü Ch’u hsin-chih . Compiled by Chang Shan-lai (early Ch’ing). Taipei: Kuang-wen shu-chü , 1968.

Yüan Chung-lang ch’üan-chi . By Yüan Hung-tao (1568–1610). Taipei: Wen-hsing shu-tien , 1965.

SECONDARY WORKS

A Ying (pseud. of Ch’ien Hsing-ts’un ). Hsiao-shuo erh-t’an . Shanghai: Ku-tien wen-hsüeh ch’u-pan she, 1950.

. Hsiao-shuo hsien-t’an . Shanghai: Ku-tien wen-hsüeh ch’u-pan she, 1958.

Aoki, Masaji , Chung-kuo chin-tai hsi-ch’ü shih . Translated by Wang Chi-lu . Taipei: Shang-wu yin-shu kuan , 1965.

Birch, Cyril. “Feng Meng-lung and the Ku-chin Hsiao-shuo.” Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies 18 (1956): 64–83.

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. The Chinese Short Story. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1973.

. “The Composition of the P’ing-yao chuan,” Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies 31 (1971): 201–19.

. “The Making of ‘The Pearl-Sewn Shirt’ and ‘The Courtesan’s Jewel Box’.” Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies 33 (1973): 124–53.

Harada Suekiyo . “Jōshi ni tsuite” Taidai bungaku 2 no. 1 (1937): 53–60.

Hightower, James. “Yüan Chen and ‘The Story of Ying-ying’.” Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies 33 (1973): 90–123.

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Yeh Ju . “Kuan-yü Feng Meng-lung ti shen-shih” . In Ming Ch’ing hsiao-shuo yen-chiu lun-wen chi , 34–38 Peking: Jen-min wen-hsüeh ch’u-pan she, 1959.

Index

“Ai-sheng chuan” (by Feng Meng-lung), 121, 122, 171 n.118, 172 n.120 and n.121, 176 n.164

Antiquarianism, 1–2

Chan-chan-wai-shih (pseud. of Feng Meng-lung), 11, 13, 15, 26, 156 n.67; his preface to Ch’ing-shih, 14–15, 174 n.144; as a pseudonym of Feng Meng-lung, 23–24

“Chang Jun chuan” (by Feng Meng-lung), 171 n.117

“Chen tao-hsüeh” (“true moralist”), 19, 58

Ch’en Yi-ch’üan, 5

Chia-shen chi-shih (Events of the Chia-shen Year, by Feng Meng-lung), 34

“Chia tao-hsüeh” (“fake moralist”), 19

“Ch’ien ch’i-tzu” (“Hung-chih ch’i-tzu”), 149 n.2. See also Former Seven-scholars

Chih-nang (by Feng Meng-lung), 25, 32, 155 n.57 and n.58

Chih-nang pu (by Feng Meng-lung), 33, 155 n.57

“Chin-feng-ch’ai chi”, 77

Chin P’ing Mei, 2, 30, 150 n.12

“Ch’ing”: as a central concept in Ming philosophy, 5–7; the constructive and destructive power of, 20–21; as a personal and private commitment, 19–20, 105; reciprocation of, 17–19; relationship to “li”, 35, 120–121

Ch’ing-chu-jen, 26, 157 n.68 and n.70. See also Master of Ch’ing

Ch’ing-ni lien-hua chi, 122

Ch’ing-shih (“Ch’ing Records”): the concept “ch’ing” as found in, 15–22, 153–154 n.38–n.50; Feng Meng-lung and, 22–35, 154–160 n.51–n.91; its structure and organization 7–11, 151–52 n.22–n.27; the two prefaces of, 11–15, 152–153 n.28–n.37

Ch’ing-shih lei-lüeh (“Ch’ing Records Categorization Sketch”), 7. See also Ch’ing-shih

Ch’ing-shih-shih, 26, 156 n.68, 157 n.70. See also The Compiler of Ch’ing-shih

Ch’ing-yi lu, 147, 182 n.215

Chu Hsi, 19, 54

Ch’uan-ch’i, 177 n.175

“Ch’uan-ch’i” drama, 2, 7, 156 n.61 and n.62

“Ch’uan-ch’i” of the T’ang, 3, 173 n.129

Chung-hsing shih-lu (True Records of the Period of Restoration, by Feng Meng-lung), 34

Chung-hsing wei lüeh (Sketch of the Great Restoration, by Feng Meng-lung), 34

“Chung ming-chi ch’un-feng tiao Liu Ch’i” (“A Bevy of Courtesans”), 121–23, 172 n.120 and n.121, 175 n.159, 176 n.164

Compiler of Ch’ing-shih, 44, 52, 59, 64, 68, 75, 83, 87, 94, 99, 104, 111, 120, 124, 129, 134, 140, 144, 147

Erh-t’an, 111, 112

Ethereal soul (“hun”), 76; and humic soul (“p’o”), 68, 75, 165 n.64, 166 n.71; stories of, 76–77

Fen-shu (by Li Chih), 2, 149 n.7, 149–50 n.8

“Feng Ai-sheng”, 101–104, 164 n.46, 171 n.116. See also “Ai-sheng chuan”

Feng-liu meng, 26

Feng Meng-hsiung, 158 n.76. See also Three Fengs of Wu

Feng Meng-kuei, 158 n.76. See also Three Fengs of Wu

Feng Meng-lung (Chan-chan-wai-shih, Lung Tzu-yu, Tzu-yu, Tzu-yu-shih): as the compiler of Ch’ing-shih, 22–29, 154–58 (n.51–n.74); and Hou Hui-ch’ing, 32–33; his life and major activities, 30–35, 158–60 (n.75–n.91); his preface to Ch’ing-shih, 11–14, 152 n.28 and n.29; his “san-ch’ü”, 32–33, 159 n.84, 181 n.204; stories he wrote for Ch’ing-shih, 101

Former Seven-scholars (“ch’ien ch’i-tzu”), 1, 2, 149 n.3; and Latter Seven-scholars, 4

Fornication, 48–49

Han-tan chi (by T’ang Hsien-tsu), 26

Han-tan meng (adapted by Feng Meng-lung), 26

Hanan, Patrick, 122, 172 n.120 and n.124, 174 n.145, 175 n.160

Ho-tung chi, 136

Homosexual love, 141, 181 n.203 and n.204

“Hou ch’i-tzu” (“Chia-ching ch’i-tzu”), 149 n.2. See also Latter Seven-scholars

Hou Hui-ch’ing, 32–33

Hsi-hsi ts’ung-yü, 110

Hsi-hsiang chi, 6

Hsi-hsiang ch’ü, 3, 4

Hsia-chien chi, 89

Hsiao-fu (by Feng Meng-lung), 156 n.64

“Hsiao-p’in wen”, 4

“Hsiao-shuo”, 25, 122, 123, 155 n.60, 156 n.61, 173 n.129

“Hsiao-shuo chia” (“story writers”), 107, 122

“Hsin” (“mind”), 5, 6

“Hsin chien chin-shih chuan”, 89

“Hsing” (“human nature”), 5

“Hsing-ch’ing-chung jen”, 53

“Hsing-ling” (naturalness and sensitiveness), 3, 150 n.10

“Hua-pen” (short stories in vernacular Chinese), 1, 2, 4, 5, 23, 25, 95, 107, 149 n.1, 155 n.52, 156 n.60, 169 n.105, 173 n.129

Hung-ch’ü chi, 69

“Jen-shih chuan”, 135

Kua-chih-erh (by Feng Meng-lung), 30, 156 n.64

Kuang yen-yi pien, 95, 96, 169 n.102, n.103 and n.104, 170 n.106

“K’uang” (“unrestrained”) and “tsung” (“licentious”), 58

“Kung-an p’ai”, 3

“Kung-an t’i”, 3

Kuo-se t’ien-hsiang, 106

Latter Seven-scholars (“hou ch’i-tzu”), 1, 5

“Li” (man’s reasoning faculty), 35, 175 n.156; its relationship to “ch’ing”, 120–21

Li Chih, 2, 4, 34, 149 n.6, 160 n.90; on human relations, 151 n.18 and n.19; on husband-wife relationship, 6; his literary theory, 3

Li Ch’ing-chao, 101

“Li-hun chi”, 77

Li Shih-lang (Li Yi), 33, 159 n.82

Li Wa, an insincere lover and an opportunist, 17–19

“Li Wa chuan”, 17, 153 n.42 and n.43, 154 n.44

“Liang-chih” (innate knowledge) theory, 2, 34, 149 n.4

Liu Tsung-yüan, 115

Lo Ju-fang, 5, 6, 150 n.17

Lo-yu Yüan, 122, 172 n.121

“Lu Meng-hsien chiang-shang hsün-ch’i”, 40

Lung Tzu-yu (Feng Meng-lung), 26, 27, 152 n.28. See also Feng Meng-lung

“Mang shu-sheng ch’iang-t’u yüan-lü”, 49

Master of Ch’ing, 38, 47, 56, 109, 114

“The Miraculous Fox and the Three Bunches of Grass” (“Ling-hu san-su-ts’ao”), 97, 169n.105

Modern-style poetry (“chin-t’i”), 3

Mu-tan t’ing (by T’ang Hsien-tsu), 7, 26, 151 n.21, 156 n.63

Niu Hsiu, 158 n.78; his Ku-sheng hsü-pien, 30

Pao-wen-t’ang shu-mu, 106, 172 n.126

Po-yi chih, 131

San Sui p’ing-yao chuan (Feng Meng-lung’s adaptation), 31

“San-yen” collections (ed. by Feng Meng-lung), 23, 25, 31, 32, 149 n.1, 155 n.59, 156 n.61

Shan-ko (by Feng Meng-lung), 155 n.56, 156 n.64

Shen Te-fu, 30, 181 n.203

“Sheng” (“life”), 6

“Shih-wen hsiao-shuo” (“verse-prose fiction”), 105–6

Shou-ning hsien-chih (by Feng Meng-lung), 34, 159 n.87

Shuang-hsiung chi (by Feng Meng-lung), 33, 159n.83

Shui-hu chuan, 3, 4, 6, 150 n.8 and n.12, 159 n.84

Shuo-t’ing, 54, 67, 84

Six Classics, the, 14, 150 n.12, 152 n.30 and n.35

Su-chou fu-chih, of the T’ung-chih period, 24, 155n.55, 159n.87

Sun K’ai-ti, 105

T’ai-chou school, of Wang Yang-ming’s philosophy, 5, 6, 150 n.14

T’ai-hsia hsin-tsou, the “san-ch’ü” collection, 32–33, 158 n.79 and n.80, 159 n.84, 181 n.204

T’ai-p’ing kuang-chi, 31–32, 69, 127, 131, 136, 151 n.27, 166 n.67, 177n.175, 178n.180, 179n.191 and n.194, 180 n.197

T’ai-p’ing kuang-chi ch’ao (by Feng Meng-lung), 32

T’an-kai (by Feng Meng-lung), 25, 26, 155 n.58, 176 n.163

“T’ang hsiao-shuo”, as a synonym of “T’ang ch’uan-ch’i”, 173 n.129

T’ang Hsien-tsu, 6, 7, 26, 34, 150 n.17, 156 n.63; “ch’ing” as a theme in his plays, 7, 151 n.20; his “ssu-meng” (“four dreams”), 156 n.63

“Tao-hsüeh (“moralist”), 19, 53

“Three Fengs of Wu”, 158 n.76

“Three obediences and four virtues”, 16, 153n.39

Three Yüan brothers, the, 3, 150 n.9

“Tsa-chü” genre, the, 3

“Ts’ui-ts’ui chuan”, 106

Ts’ui Ying-ying, 48. See also “Ying-ying chuan”

Tung-hsüan-mu-hsing ching, 146

Tzu-yu (Feng Meng-lung), 18, 26, 33, 152 n.28. See also Feng Meng-lung

Tzu-yu-shih (Feng Meng-lung), 26, 60. See also Feng Meng-lung

Wan-chin ch’ing-lin, 106

“Wan-sheng” (“The Young Man

Wan”, by Feng Meng-lung), 142–44, 171 n.117

Wan-shih tsu (by Feng Meng-lung), 159 n.83

Wang An-shih, 54

“Wang ju-jen li-ho t’uan-yü meng”, 45

Wang Ken, 5, 150 n.14

Wang Shih-chen, 5, 150 n.16

Wang Yang-ming, 1, 2, 5, 34, 149 n.3 and n.5, 160 n.90

Wang Yang-ming hsien-sheng ch’u-shen ching-luan lu (by Feng Meng-lung), 160 n.90

Widow-suicide, 29, 39–40

Yen-chü pi-chi, 89, 106, 168 n.93, 172 n.127

Yen Chün, 6, 150 n.14 and n.16

Yi Chien chih, 112, 151 n.27, 167 n.83

Yi-chung ch’ing, 77

Yi-shih, 127

“Ying-ying chuan”, 17, 153 n.41, 162 n.13 and n.14

Yü-t’ao chi, 32

Yüan Chen, 48, 153 n.41, 162 n.13 and n.14; as an insincere lover 17, 19

Yüan Chung-lang (Yüan Hung-tao), 3, 4, 30, 150 n.9, n.10 and n.12

Yüan Chung-tao, 150 n.9

“Yüan-pen”, 3

Yüan Tsung-tao, 150 n.9