When the Taoist returned to his lodgings, he called Shang to come out and inquired how their meeting had passed off. Shang did not tell him the whole story. The Taoist smiled and turned his sleeve inside out for him to see. There, barely discernible, in tiny characters the size of louse eggs, were the four lines of verse they had written.

Ten days later, Shang asked if he could go again to the palace. In all he went three times. On his third visit, Mercy said to him, 'I can feel a child moving in my womb, and am most concerned. I keep my waist tightly confined with a sash, but in the palace people are quick to notice and there is nowhere for me to give birth unobserved. They will hear the baby cry. Talk to the Taoist, tell him to come and rescue me when he sees that my time is near.'

Shang promised to do this, and on his return he went to see the Taoist and fell on his knees before him. The Taoist raised him and said, 'I already know what has happened. Do not be distressed. Your family line depends on this child, and I shall do all that I can. But from now on, you will not be able to enter the palace again. I told you I could not act as a go-between for your private love affairs...'

Several months went by, and one day the Taoist came in and announced to his friend, with a smile, 'I have brought your son with me! Quickly, bring out his swaddling clothes!'

Shang's wife was a very worthy and understanding sort. She was nearly thirty years old, and though she had given birth several times, only one son had survived. She had recently given birth to a daughter, who had died when she was barely one month old. When Shang told her about this infant son of his, she was overcome with joy and came hurrying out. The Taoist dipped his hand into his sleeve and produced the baby, who was sound asleep and still had the umbilical cord trailing from its stomach. Shang's wife took it in her arms, and it began crying at once.

The Taoist took off his own gown. 'The blood of childbirth has stained my robe, a thing we Taoists abhor. I have done this for your sake. Now I am obliged to discard this old friend of twenty years.'

Shang presented him with a change of clothes, and the Taoist enjoined him, 'Do not throw away this old robe of mine. Burn a tiny amount of it and the ashes will help in cases of difficult birth, or bring down a stillborn child.'

Shang followed the Taoist's instructions and put the old robe safely away.

One day, a long time later, the Taoist said to Shang out of the blue, 'Be sure to keep a piece of that old robe I gave you for yourself. You may need it. When I am dead and gone, do not forget!'

Shang sensed something ill-omened about this remark. The Taoist walked off without saying anything further, and made his way to the palace to see the Prince.

'Your subject wishes to die!' he announced, and when the distraught Prince protested, he replied, 'This is fated. There is nothing more to be said about it.'

The Prince refused to believe this, and begged him to stay. They played a game of Go, after which the Taoist rose abruptly to his feet. The Prince tried to detain him yet again, but he asked to be allowed to withdraw to an outer room. Eventually the Prince gave him leave to go and the Taoist hurried out to the room, where he lay down, and when the Prince went to find him he was already dead. The Prince bought him a coffin and buried him with due ceremony. Shang, for his part, mourned his departed friend with bitter tears, understanding now that his earlier words had indeed been a prophecy.

The tattered robe turned out to be most efficacious in hastening birth, and many came to ask for a piece of it. At first Shang gave out strips from the bloodstained sleeve, then from the collar, which proved every bit as potent. Heeding the Taoist's parting injunction, and thinking that his own wife might one day have a difficult birth, he had torn off a bloodstained patch the size of a hand, which he carefully put away.

Now, one of the Prince's most beloved consorts had a prolonged and difficult labour, and after three days, the doctors having done all they could for her, someone mentioned Shang's remedy. Shang was sent for at once, and after one dose of the miraculous ash-potion, the baby was safely born. The Prince was ecstatic and rewarded Shang with silver and bolts of brocaded silk all of which he declined. The Prince asked him what it was he desired.

'I dare not say, sire,' replied Shang.

Once more the Prince asked, and this time Shang prostrated himself before him. 'If truly you wish to show me a favour, then what I desire above all else is Mercy, who was once a singing girl before entering your palace.'

The Prince sent for Mercy and, when she arrived, asked her age.

'I entered your palace when I was eighteen, sire, and have been here fourteen years.'

The Prince thought her too old for what Shang had in mind, and summoned his entire harem, parading them before Shang and telling him to take his pick. But Shang insisted that Mercy was the one he wanted.

'Why, you lovesick scholar!' jested the Prince. 'I'll wager the two of you were betrothed years ago!'

Shang finally told him the truth, and the Prince prepared a fine carriage and horses, presenting Mercy with the bolts of brocade that Shang had declined, as her trousseau, and saw her off in person.

Mercy's son had been named Xiusheng Sleeveborn and he was by this time already eleven years old. They never forgot the Taoist's kindness, and visited his grave every Qing Ming Festival.

A frequent visitor to Sichuan Province once encountered the Taoist on the road, carrying a scroll.

'This scroll,' he said, 'comes from the Prince of Lu's palace. I left in such haste, I never had time to return it to the Prince. Would you be so kind as to do so for me?'

When the traveller returned and learned that the Taoist was in fact already dead, he decided not to trouble the Prince with the scroll. It was Shang who told the Prince about the encounter and returned the scroll. The Prince opened it, and sure enough, it was something he had once lent the Taoist. He was intrigued by this strange turn of events and gave orders for the Taoist's grave to be opened. The coffin was found to be empty.

The son born to Scholar Shang's wife died young, and it fell to Sleeveborn to continue the family line, as had been foreseen by the Taoist.

94.

SILVER ABOVE BEAUTY.

A certain scholar of Yishui was studying in the mountains when one night two beautiful women came into his room and sat down side by side on his bed, smiling quietly, their light silken sleeves brushing silently against the bedstead.

Presently one of them rose and spread a white silk scarf on the table, inscribed with three or four lines of fine grass-script calligraphy, which the young scholar did not bother to study closely. Beside it the other lady placed a lump of silver, three or four taels in weight, which he took at once and placed in the sleeve of his gown.

The first lady picked up the scarf and took the other lady by the hand. They went out, laughing, 'What an unbearably vulgar fellow!'

The scholar felt for his silver, and it was gone.

Two beautiful women had sat beside him and offered him a thing of beauty, and he had paid it no heed but instead had pocketed the silver, like the unbearable beggar that he was!

As for the foxes, what charming creatures they must have been! One can just imagine their enchanting appearance!

Caption

He took the silver at once.

95.

THE ANTIQUE LUTE.

A gentleman of Jiaxiang named Li, an accomplished player of the Chinese lute, was out strolling one day in the eastern outskirts of the town when he saw a workman dig out of the ground what was clearly a lute of considerable antiquity. He bought the instrument from him very cheaply and took it home. When he dusted it clean, it gave off a strange light. He fitted it with strings and played it, and it produced an unusually clear, full tone. He was as delighted with it as if he had acquired a rare and precious piece of jade, and stored it away in a secret place, wrapped in a brocade bag, showing it to no one, not even his closest relations.

One day, the newly appointed Deputy Magistrate of Jiaxiang, a man named Cheng, sent his card and called on Li. Li had never been one for socializing, but since the man had taken the first step he reciprocated and went to call on him. A few days later, the Deputy Magistrate invited Li over again for a drink, and persisted until finally Li accepted. This Cheng turned out to be a cultivated man of a debonair disposition, spirited in his conversation, and Li found himself enjoying his company. The very next day, he sent over his card and an invitation, and the two of them spent another pleasant evening in each other's company. From that day forward, they never missed a chance to celebrate some special occasion together the blooming of a flower, a moonlit night.

A year or more later, Li was at Cheng's residence when he noticed a lute lying in a brocade bag on a table. He took it out of its bag and began playing it.

'So you are a lute-player too!' exclaimed Cheng.

'It is what I have always loved most in life,' replied Li.

'In all the time we have known each other,' said Cheng in some amazement, 'you have never once spoken of this accomplishment of yours!'

He poked the brazier and threw some fragrant sandalwood on the coals, and as he did so he asked Li to give him a little recital. Li obliged.

'You are a master!' exclaimed Cheng when it was finished. 'I should like to play a little something too, but you must promise not to laugh at me.'

He played the piece known as 'Riding the Wind'. His performance had a crystalline quality about it, and conveyed to perfection a transcendental sense of leaving the world and its dust behind. Li was overwhelmed and begged Cheng to accept him as a pupil.

The two men, having discovered this shared passion, became the closest of friends, and over the course of the following year Cheng taught Li everything he knew of the art of the lute. But every time he went to visit Li, Li always offered him his ordinary lute to play on. He never once let him see the treasure he had hidden away.

One night, they had both been drinking and were a little tipsy.

'I have been learning a new air,' said Cheng. 'Would you like to hear it?'

He played him 'The Lament of the Fairy of the River Xiang', interpreting it with a sadness that brought tears to the eyes of Li, who waxed lyrical in his praise.

'Ah,' said Cheng, 'if I only had a really fine old instrument to play it on! Then you might hear some true beauty in the music.'

'I have a lute put away,' said Li, on a sudden impulse. 'It is a most unusual instrument. By now it is clear beyond a doubt that we are soul-brothers. We "know each other's sound". How can I keep this wonderful instrument of mine a secret from you any longer?'

He opened the cupboard and took out the lute, removing it from its bag. Cheng dusted it with the sleeve of his gown, sat up at the little lute table and played the lament once more. This time the music was sheer perfection. It blended strength and tenderness to a rare degree. Li was profoundly moved and found himself tapping his fingers ecstatically in time to the notes.

'Alas, this superb instrument merely draws attention to my inadequate technique,' mused Cheng aloud. 'Now if my wife could play on it, then you would hear some real music.'

'Is she also a skilled lute-player?' asked Li in surprise.

'The melody I played just now,' replied Cheng, 'is something I learned from her.'

'A pity that she resides in your inner apartments,' said Li, 'and that I shall never have the good fortune to hear her play.'

'Surely good friends such as ourselves need not be confined by such conventions,' said Cheng. 'Tomorrow, come to my house with this instrument of yours. I will ask my wife to play, and we can listen through a blind.'

Li was delighted at the idea and went the following day with his lute. Cheng set a fine meal and excellent wine before him, and after a while he carried the lute through to the inner apartment, returning to sit down again with Li. Presently through the blind they distinguished the outline of a beautiful form, and then a subtle fragrance emanated from behind the blind, followed by the sound of the lute. Li listened, and although he did not recognize the melody, he felt his senses ravished and his soul transported to another realm. When the music ceased, he peeped through the blind and saw a young woman, some twenty years old, of a striking beauty. Cheng now poured him a large goblet of wine, and from behind the blind the lady struck up another melody, this time the piece known as 'All My Heart's Care'. Once again Li was ravished by the sheer beauty of the sound. He was quite carried away by the experience and began drinking recklessly. Finally he rose to take his leave and asked for his lute.

'You are drunk,' protested Cheng. 'Imagine what would happen to the lute if you were to stumble on your way home? Come back tomorrow, and I will bid my wife show you the full extent of her skill.'

Caption

Li was ravished by the sheer beauty of the sound.

So Li went home and called again the next day, only to find Cheng's residence quite deserted. An old concierge answered the door, and in answer to his inquiries she told him that the entire household had gone away that very morning.

'I have no idea where or why. They said they might be away three days.'

Three days later, Li returned and waited, but evening came and still there was no sign of them. The yamen staff themselves were beginning to have misgivings and reported the disappearance to the Chief Magistrate, who gave orders for the doors to be broken down and the premises searched. The place was completely empty. There was nothing left but a few sticks of furniture. The strange affair was reported to the senior authorities, who were unable to unearth any clues.

The loss of his lute utterly devastated Li, so much so that he could neither eat nor sleep. He travelled hundreds of miles seeking information about Cheng, but succeeded only in ascertaining that his home was in the southern region of Chu, and that he had been transferred from there to Jiaxiang some three years before, having paid a handsome bribe for the posting. Li searched throughout Chu, inquiring everywhere, but nowhere could he find a man of that name, until eventually someone mentioned a Taoist recluse named Cheng, who was reputed to be a very fine lute-player.

'This Cheng was said to possess certain magical arts, and to be able to turn base metals into gold. Three years ago he disappeared, and has not been seen since.'

That must be the man, thought Li. Further inquiries confirmed that the ages and physical appearances of Cheng the Taoist recluse and Cheng the Deputy Magistrate tallied perfectly. So it became clear that the hermit had purchased the office in Jiaxiang simply in order to obtain the antique lute. Li recalled that during the first year of their friendship he had not once mentioned his interest in music, but little by little had brought out his own lute, then demonstrated his musical skill, then cast a spell on him with the woman's beauty. The whole process had taken three years, at the end of which time he had succeeded in his goal, which was to make off with the lute. The Taoist's passionate craving for the rare instrument had turned out to be stronger even than Li's!

This Taoist was surely one of the most subtle and refined swindlers the world has ever seen!

96.

WAITING ROOM FOR DEATH.

A gentleman named Li of Shang River County was a devotee of the Tao. Half a mile or so outside his village stood a temple, where he built himself a little hermitage and used to sit performing his meditations. Itinerant Buddhist and Taoist monks would sometimes pass by and put up for the night, and Li would enter into conversation with them and extend to them whatever hospitality he could.

One day, during a sharp cold spell following a heavy fall of snow, an old monk came by with his bag, asking for shelter. The man's speech struck Li as being full of the most unexpected and marvellous insights. He stayed a couple of nights and was about to go on his way again, but Li prevailed upon him to stay a few days longer.

It so happened that Li was obliged to make a visit home, and as he left, the old monk begged him to lose no time in coming back, saying that he wished to be sure to bid him a proper farewell. Li hurried back at cockcrow the very next morning, knocked at the gate and, when there was no reply, climbed in over the wall. He saw a lamp burning in the room and, thinking there must be something strange going on, stood there secretly observing.

The old monk was packing his bag. He had a skinny ass with him in the room, tethered to the lampstand. On closer inspection, it was not a real beast but one of the effigies buried with the dead. Its ears and its tail twitched from time to time, however, and it was quite visibly breathing.