Zhen Shiyin, in a Dream, Encounters the Mysterious Jade; Jia Yucun, in His Poverty, Yearns for a Maiden in the Inner Chamber

This is the opening chapter. The author tells us that, having once lived through a series of dreams and illusions, he has concealed the real persons and events behind a veil of allegory, and under the guise of a “spiritual stone” he sets down this Record of the Stone. That is why he speaks of “Zhen Shiyin” (Truth Concealed). But what, then, is this book about—and whom does it concern? The author adds: “Now I toil in the dusty world, having achieved nothing; suddenly I recall the women I knew in years past. On reflection, I find that their conduct and insight far surpass my own. Why should I, a man, fall so short of those ladies? I am deeply ashamed, and regret comes too late—there is no help for it. So I have resolved to take the sins of my own wasted life—how I relied on ancestral bounty, lived in luxury, failed my father’s and brother’s teachings, ignored the admonitions of friends and mentors, and ended up with nothing accomplished and half a lifetime in misery—and weave them into a book, to tell the world: my faults are indeed beyond excuse, yet the women of the inner chambers deserve to be recorded; their stories must not be lost because of my own inadequacy or my wish to hide my shortcomings. Though now I dwell in a thatched hut with broken windows, by an earthen stove and on a rope bed, the morning dew and evening breeze, the willows by the steps and the flowers in the courtyard—none of these hinder my spirit or my pen. My learning is shallow and my writing lacks elegance, but why not use rustic, village tales to spin out a story that will both make these ladies known to posterity and amuse the world, dispelling its cares? That would not be a bad thing.” Hence the name “Jia Yucun” (Fabricated Tale).

In this chapter, wherever the words “dream” or “illusion” appear, they are meant to alert the reader—they are the very essence of this book.

Dear readers, do you know where this book comes from? Its origin may seem absurd, but if you ponder it closely, it has much interest. Let me first tell you its provenance, so that you may read without confusion.

Long ago, when the goddess Nüwa melted stones to repair the heavens, she forged, on Mount Great Waste at Ridge Nonsense, thirty-six thousand five hundred and one blocks of stone, each twelve zhang high and twenty-four zhang square. The goddess used only thirty-six thousand five hundred, leaving a single block unused, which she cast down at the foot of Green Ridge Peak. Now this stone, after refinement, had gained spiritual understanding. Seeing that all its fellows had been employed to mend the sky, while it alone was unfit and unworthy, it lamented its fate and grieved day and night in shame.

One day, as it was sighing in sorrow, it saw a monk and a Taoist approaching from afar—both of striking appearance and extraordinary bearing. They came laughing and chatting to the peak, sat down beside the stone, and began to talk in lofty terms: first of clouds and mountains, of immortals and the mysterious, then of the riches and honours of the mortal world. The stone, hearing this, felt its worldly desires stir; it longed to go down and taste that glory and wealth, but hated its own clumsiness. At last, it ventured to speak in human words and addressed the two: “Venerable masters, I am a dull thing and cannot bow to you. I have overheard your talk of mortal splendour and prosperity, and my heart is filled with envy. Though I am coarse, I do possess a little intelligence; and since you are so transcendent in bearing, you must have the power to aid the world and the virtue to benefit others. If you would take pity on me and carry me into the world of dust, to enjoy a few years among the scenes of wealth and romance, I shall remember your kindness forever, through countless ages.” The two immortals laughed together and said, “Good, good! There are indeed pleasures in that world, but they cannot be relied upon; moreover, the words ‘beauty incomplete, good fortune attended by demons’ are closely bound to them. In an instant, joy turns to sorrow, people change and things pass—it is all but a dream, all emptiness. Better not to go.”

But the stone’s worldly heart was now burning hot; it would not listen. It pleaded again and again. Seeing that they could not force it, the two sighed and said, “This is the fate of stillness seeking motion, and of something arising from nothing. Since it is so, we shall take you to enjoy yourself—but do not regret it when you fall on hard times.” The stone said, “Naturally, naturally.” Then the monk added, “You may have intelligence, but you are too coarse and dull, and you lack any rare quality. You would serve only as a stepping-stone. Very well, I shall use my Buddhist powers to transform you; when your destined trials are over, you shall recover your original form, and this affair will be closed. What do you think?” The stone was overcome with gratitude. The monk then chanted spells and drew charms, and with his magic he shrank the great boulder into a bright, smooth piece of jade, no bigger than a fan-tassel—small enough to wear or play with. He held it in his palm and laughed, “It looks like a treasure now! But it still lacks real merit—I must carve a few words on it, so that all who see it will know it is a wonder. Then I shall take it to a land of bright prosperity, a clan of poetry and ritual, a place of blooming flowers and willow shade, of warmth and romance, where it may find its home.” The stone, overjoyed, asked, “What wondrous qualities have you given me? And where will you take me? Pray tell me plainly, so that I may not be confused.” The monk smiled and said, “Do not ask now; you will understand in time.” So saying, he tucked the jade into his sleeve and drifted away with the Taoist, and no one knew where they went.

After many ages and eons, a certain Void-for-Truth Taoist, while seeking the Way, chanced to pass by Green Ridge Peak on Mount Great Waste at Ridge Nonsense. He saw a great stone on which characters were clearly inscribed, set forth in orderly fashion. He read it from the beginning and found that it was the very story of that stone—unfit to mend heaven, yet transformed and taken into the world by the Buddhist monk Infinite Space and the Taoist Mighty Truth, to experience the vicissitudes of joy and sorrow, warmth and coldness. At the end was a verse:

“Unfit to mend the azure sky,
In vain I passed so many years;
This tale of mine, before and after,
Who will transcribe and make it known?”

After the verse came the story of the stone’s fall to earth, its incarnation, and all it personally underwent—the trivial affairs of family and inner chambers, with occasional verses and idle poems, perhaps enough to pass the time; but the dynasty, the year, the geography and kingdom were all lost and untraceable.

The Void-for-Truth Taoist then said to the stone, “Brother Stone, this tale of yours, as you say, is amusing, and so you have written it out here, wishing to give it to the world. But in my view, first, it lacks a verifiable dynasty or age; second, it contains no great sages or loyal ministers, no good governance or virtuous reforms—only a few extraordinary women, some amorous, some with modest talents, but none with the genius of Ban Zhao or Cai Wenji. Even if I copy it, I fear the world will not care for it.” The stone laughed and replied, “Master, why are you so rigid? If it lacks a dynasty, you could easily borrow one from the Han or Tang—what difficulty is there? But I think that all the unofficial histories follow the same old pattern; mine, by breaking the mould, is novel and distinctive. It merely follows the logic of human feeling and circumstance—why insist on dynasty and age? Moreover, the common folk rarely care for treatises on statecraft; they much prefer light and amusing tales. As for the standard romances, they either slander rulers and ministers, or defame other men’s wives and daughters, teeming with lewdness and villainy. There are also erotic novels, filthy and foul, poisoning the pen and corrupting youth—too many to count. As for the tales of gifted scholars and beautiful maidens, they are all alike, and invariably tainted with licentiousness; they fill their pages with Pan An, Cao Zhi, Xi Shi, Zhuo Wenjun—mere vehicles for the author to display his own love poems and amorous verses, with made-up names, and always a villainous go-between thrown in like a clown in a play. And the maidservants all speak in classical phrases, full of bookish airs. So one sees that they are all self-contradictory and utterly implausible. My story, on the other hand, is based on the women I have seen with my own eyes in half a lifetime—though I dare not claim they surpass all the heroines of old, their deeds and circumstances can yet serve to dispel melancholy; there are a few doggerel verses too, good for a laugh over wine. As for the rise and fall, the meetings and partings, I have traced them to their roots and dared not add the least embellishment for the sake of effect. Nowadays, the poor are burdened with food and clothing, the rich are never content; even in their leisure, they are given over to lust and greed and restless worry—when would they have time to read serious works on government? So I do not expect my story to be hailed as wonderful, nor do I insist that people must read it. I only hope that when they are sated with food and drink, or wish to escape from trouble and boredom, they may take it up for a diversion—saving them some wear and tear of spirit. Compared with vain pursuits, it spares them the harm of gossip and the toil of running about. Moreover, it offers a fresh perspective, unlike those old clichés of sudden meetings and partings, with pages full of gifted scholars and virtuous ladies, Cao Zhi and Wenjun, Hongniang and Xiaoyu. What do you think, Master?”

When the Void-for-Truth Taoist heard this, he pondered for a long while, then examined the Record of the Stone again. He saw that although it contained some censure of the wicked and evil, it was not satire on current politics or abuse of the age; in matters of ruler and minister, father and son—wherever the proper relationships were concerned—it was full of praise and gratitude, unlike any other book. Though its main theme was love, it was merely a truthful record, not a fabrication to seduce and entice. Since it did not meddle with the times, he copied it from beginning to end, intending to give it to the world. From then on, the Void-for-Truth Taoist, seeing emptiness through form, generating love from form, transmitting love into form, and finally awakening to emptiness through love, changed his name to the Passionate Monk, and renamed the Record of the Stone as The Story of the Passionate Monk. Kong Meixi of East Lu gave it the title The Mirror of Love and Desire. Later, Cao Xueqin, in his studio of Mourning the Red, spent ten years revising it, adding and deleting five times, compiling the table of contents and dividing it into chapters, and gave it the name The Twelve Beauties of Jinling. He also wrote a quatrain:

“Pages full of absurd words,
A handful of bitter tears!
All call the author mad,
But who can taste his meaning?”

Now that the origin is clear, let us see what was written on the stone. According to that inscription:

At that time, the southeast corner of the earth had sunk. In that corner was a place called Gusu, and in it a city named Changmen—one of the most bustling and glamorous spots in the mortal world. Outside Changmen ran Ten-Mile Street; in that street was Humanity Lane; in that lane was an old temple, so small that folk called it Gourd Temple. Beside the temple lived a retired scholar-official named Zhen Fei, styled Shiyin. His wife, Lady Feng, was virtuous and well-mannered. Though not enormously wealthy, his family was prominent locally. Zhen Shiyin was of a placid, unworldly nature, caring nothing for fame or rank; his days were spent in tending flowers, trimming bamboos, drinking wine, and composing verses—like an immortal. He had only one regret: nearing fifty, he had no son, only a little daughter of three, whose childhood name was Yinglian.

One long summer day, as Shiyin sat idly in his study, he grew drowsy over his book, laid it aside, and rested his head on the desk, falling asleep. In a dream he found himself in an unknown place. Suddenly he saw a monk and a Taoist approaching, deep in conversation.

He heard the Taoist ask, “Where are you taking that silly thing?” The monk replied, “Set your mind at ease. There is now a karmic entanglement of romance that must be settled—a host of amorous spirits who have yet to be born into the world. I shall take this chance to slip the stone in among them, so that it may have its experience.” The Taoist said, “So there are more romantic destinies to be played out? But where will they be born?” The monk laughed, “The tale is funny—truly the strangest thing in ages. On the bank of the River of Spirit, by the Stone of Three Incarnations, there grew a Crimson Pearl Herb. At that time, the Divine Luminary Attendant in the Palace of Red Jade watered it daily with sweet dew, so that it long survived. Later, having absorbed the essence of heaven and earth and the nourishment of rain and dew, it cast off its grassy form and took on a female body. She roamed beyond the Realm of Separation, eating honey-fruits when hungry and drinking the waters of Sorrow’s Sea when thirsty. But because she had not yet repaid the watering kindness, a deep, lingering affection grew in her heart. Now it happened that the Divine Luminary Attendant was seized with a mortal longing, and in this age of peace and prosperity he wished to descend to the world to experience its illusions. He had already registered with the Fairy Disenchantment. She had asked him about the debt of watering, and saw this as the chance to settle it. The Crimson Pearl Fairy said, ‘He gave me the grace of dew; I have no such water to return. Since he is going down as a mortal, I too shall go down as a mortal—but I shall repay him with all the tears I can shed in a lifetime. That will be enough.’ Because of this, many other romantic souls have been drawn in to accompany them and complete this affair.”

The Taoist said, “Truly a strange tale. I have never heard of repaying with tears. This story must be far more intricate and delicate than any previous romance.” The monk said, “The romances of old only sketch the outline and the verses; they never record the daily life of the inner chambers—the meals and the trifles. Moreover, most of them are about clandestine affairs and elopements, and do not truly express the depth of feeling between men and women. These beings who are to be born will have loves, obsessions, virtues, and follies quite different from what has been written before.” The Taoist said, “Why not you and I go down too and save a few souls—would that not be a meritorious deed?” The monk said, “Just what I was thinking. First, come with me to the palace of Fairy Disenchantment and deliver this silly thing; after all these amorous ghosts have descended, we shall go. Already half of them have fallen to earth, but the number is not yet complete.” The Taoist said, “In that case, I shall go with you.”

Now Zhen Shiyin had heard all this clearly, but he did not know what the “silly thing” was. He stepped forward, made a bow, and said with a smile, “Greetings, immortals.” The monk and Taoist returned the greeting. Shiyin said, “I have just heard you speak of causes and effects—truly rare in this world. But I am dull and cannot grasp it. If you would enlighten me and explain in detail, I shall listen with all attention, and perhaps gain some awakening to escape the sea of misery.” The two smiled and said, “This is celestial secret, not to be revealed beforehand. When the time comes, if you do not forget us, you may leap out of the fiery pit.” Shiyin did not press further, but said, “Since the secret cannot be told, may I at least see this ‘silly thing’?” The monk said, “If you ask for it, you have a chance to see it.” And he took it out and handed it to Shiyin.

Shiyin took it and saw it was a bright, smooth piece of jade, with clear characters on it—engraved with the words “Spiritual Jade of Enlightenment” and several lines of smaller text. He was about to examine them closely when the monk said they had reached the Illusory Realm, and snatched it from his hand. Together with the Taoist, he passed through a great stone archway on which were inscribed four large characters: “The Illusory Realm of Great Void.” On either side was a couplet:

“When the false is taken for true, the true becomes false;
Where nothing is treated as something, something turns to naught.”

Shiyin wished to follow them, but as he raised his foot, there was a thunderclap like the splitting of mountains. He cried out in alarm and opened his eyes. The sun blazed hot, the banana leaves were spread wide—and he had forgotten most of the dream. Just then, the nurse came in carrying Yinglian. Seeing his daughter growing ever more lovely and endearing, he took her in his arms and played with her for a while, then carried her out to the street to watch the festival procession.

As he was about to go back, he saw a monk and a Taoist coming from the other direction—the monk was bald and barefoot, the Taoist lame and dishevelled, both wild and crazy, laughing as they approached. When they reached his gate and saw Shiyin holding Yinglian, the monk began to weep loudly and said to Shiyin, “Benefactor, why do you hold that child in your arms—she who has a fate but no fortune, and will bring misfortune to her parents?” Shiyin knew it was raving, so he paid no heed. The monk went on, “Give her to me! Give her to me!” Shiyin grew annoyed, and turned to go inside with his daughter. The monk pointed at him and laughed, chanting four lines:

“You pamper and spoil her—how I laugh at your folly;
The water-chestnut flower blooms as snow falls fast.
Beware the Lantern Festival after the fifteenth day—
That will be the hour of smoke and flame.”

Shiyin understood the words and hesitated, wanting to ask who they were. Then he heard the Taoist say, “We need not go together—let us part and attend to our separate tasks. After three kalpas, I shall wait for you at Mount Beimang; we shall meet there and go together to the Illusory Realm to cancel our names.” The monk said, “Excellent, excellent!” And with that, they disappeared from sight. Shiyin thought to himself: these two must have some origin—I should have questioned them; now it is too late.

While he stood in a daze, he noticed a poor scholar from the neighbouring Gourd Temple—named Jia Hua, styled Shifei, and also known as Yucun—coming out. This Jia Yucun was originally from Huzhou, and came from a family of scholars and officials. But being born in the declining years of his line, his ancestral estates were exhausted, his kin had dwindled, and he was left alone. With no prospects at home, he had come to the capital to seek office and restore his family fortunes. Two years before, he had arrived here, but again fell on hard times and lodged temporarily in the temple, making a living by selling his calligraphy and writing. Shiyin often visited him.

Now Yucun, seeing Shiyin, bowed with a smile and said, “Sir, you stand at your gate looking out—is there any news in the market?” Shiyin laughed and said, “No. My little girl was crying, so I brought her out to play. I was feeling dull, but you come just in time—pray step into my study and let us chat and while away this long summer day.” So he bade someone carry the child in, and took Yucun by the hand into the study. A boy served tea. They had exchanged but a few words when a servant rushed in to announce, “Master Yan has come to call.” Shiyin rose hurriedly and apologized, “Forgive me for leaving you—please sit a while; I shall return shortly.” Yucun also rose and said, “Go ahead, sir. I am an old guest; I can wait.” Shiyin then went out to the front hall.

Left alone, Yucun idly turned over some books. Suddenly he heard a woman cough outside the window. He rose and looked out—it was a maidservant picking flowers, of pleasing appearance, with fine brows and clear eyes. Though not a great beauty, she had a certain charm. Yucun could not help staring.

The Zhen family maid, having picked her flowers, was about to leave when she glanced up and saw a man in the window—in worn-out clothes, yet with a sturdy build, broad face, square mouth, sword-like brows, star-like eyes, straight nose, and powerful cheekbones. She turned quickly away, but thought to herself: “This man, so handsome and strong, yet so shabby—he must be the Jia Yucun my master often speaks of, the one he wishes to help but has never had the chance. We have no poor relatives like this; it must be he. No wonder my master says he will not remain long in poverty.” So thinking, she could not help glancing back twice more. Yucun saw her look back, and took it as a sign of interest. His heart leapt with joy, and he was certain she was a heroine of discerning eye, a kindred spirit in his adversity. Presently a page came in, and Yucun learned that a dinner was being served in the front hall; not wishing to wait long, he slipped out through the side gate and went home. After Shiyin had seen off his guest, he heard that Yucun had left on his own, and did not send for him again.

In due course came the Mid-Autumn Festival. After his family feast, Shiyin had another table laid in his study, and walked over to the temple to invite Yucun. Now Yucun, ever since the day when the Zhen maid had looked back twice, had taken her for a soulmate, and kept her in his thoughts. This night, the full moon moved him, and he improvised a five-character poem:

“My three-life wish is yet unknown,
Still fresh grief I own;
In pensive mood I knit my brow,
She turned and glanced—how many times?
I view my shadow in the wind—
Who under the moon could be my mate?
If the moon’s light has any will,
Let it first adorn her chamber still.”

Having chanted this, he thought of his lifelong ambition, frustrated by lack of opportunity, and raising his head to the sky, he sighed and then declaimed a couplet:

“The jade in its casket seeks a good price;
The hairpin in its box awaits the time to fly.”

At that moment Shiyin arrived and overheard him. He laughed, “Brother Yucun, your ambition is indeed extraordinary!” Yucun hurriedly smiled and said, “I was merely repeating some old lines—how dare I be so presumptuous.” Then he asked, “What brings you here, sir?” Shiyin replied, “Tonight is the Mid-Autumn, the Festival of Reunion. I thought that you, living alone in a monk’s cell, must feel lonely; so I have prepared a modest wine to invite you to my humble study for a drink. Will you do me the honour?” Yucun did not decline, but said with a smile, “Since you show such kindness, how could I refuse?” So they went together to the study.

After tea, the cups and dishes were laid out—fine wine and delicacies, needless to say. They sat down, sipped slowly at first, then as talk grew lively, they drank freely, passing the cups and playing the wine game. In the streets, flutes and pipes sounded from every house, songs and strings from every door; above them hung the bright full moon, casting its brilliant light. Their spirits rose, and they emptied cup after cup. Yucun, now seven or eight parts drunk, was seized with wild inspiration. Facing the moon, he gave voice to his feelings and chanted a quatrain:

“When the fifteenth comes, the full orb appears,
Holding bright light to guard the jade rails;
The moment the round moon rises in the sky,
All the people below lift their heads to gaze.”

Shiyin cried out, “Excellent! I have often said you are no one to remain long under others’ feet; now your verses show the sign of soaring—you will soon rise high. Congratulations!” He poured a cup of wine to toast him. After emptying it, Yucun sighed, “This is not drunken boasting, but if it comes to the examination essays, I think I could manage to pass and gain a name. Yet I have no travelling funds, and the capital is far—I cannot get there on what I earn from writing.” Shiyin cut him short: “Why did you not say so earlier? I have long had that in mind, but whenever we met, you never mentioned it, so I did not presume. Now that you speak, though I am not a worthy man, I do know something of duty and profit. And next year is the great triennial examination—you should go to the capital at once and try your luck in the spring contest; that would not waste your learning. As for travelling expenses, I shall see to them myself, so that your good opinion of me is not misplaced.” He immediately ordered a page to bring out fifty taels of silver and two suits of winter clothes. He added, “The nineteenth is an auspicious day; you can buy a boat and go west. When you soar high and fly far, we shall meet again next winter—will that not be a great joy?” Yucun accepted the silver and clothes with a perfunctory word of thanks, took it lightly, and continued drinking and laughing as before. It was past the third watch when they parted.

After seeing Yucun off, Shiyin went to bed and slept till the sun was high. Recalling the previous night, he thought to write a couple of letters of recommendation for Yucun to take to the capital, so he could stay with some official family for lodging. He sent a servant to invite him, but the man returned and said, “The monk says that Master Jia left for the capital at the fifth watch this morning. He also left a message through the monk: ‘A scholar does not fuss over lucky or unlucky days—he goes by what is proper. I had no time to take leave in person.’” Shiyin had to let it go.

How quickly idle days pass! Soon it was the Lantern Festival. Shiyin ordered his servant Huo Qi to carry Yinglian out to see the fireworks and lanterns. In the middle of the night, Huo Qi needed to relieve himself, so he set Yinglian down on a doorstep to sit. When he came back, there was no trace of Yinglian. In a panic, he searched for half the night; at dawn there was still no sign. Not daring to return and face his master, he fled to another place. When Shiyin and his wife saw that their daughter had not come home all night, they knew something was wrong. They sent more men to search, but all returned with no news. The couple, having only this one child in half a lifetime, now lost—how could they not grieve? They wept day and night, nearly seeking death. After a month, Shiyin fell ill, and Lady Feng also sickened with longing, calling for doctors every day.

Then, on the fifteenth of the third month, while the monks of Gourd Temple were frying offerings, a careless monk let the oil catch fire, and the flames set the paper window alight. In that area, most houses were of bamboo and wood—perhaps it was fate—and the fire spread from one to another, like a mountain ablaze. Though soldiers and civilians came to put it out, once the fire had gained hold, how could it be stopped? It burned all night before dying down, and no one knew how many homes were destroyed. Poor Zhen’s house, being next door, was reduced to a heap of ashes. Only he, his wife, and a few servants escaped with their lives. Shiyin could only stamp his foot and sigh. He consulted his wife and decided to take refuge on his country estate. But that year had seen floods and droughts, and bandits swarmed—robbing fields and farms, stealing livestock—so the people had no peace; the soldiers came to suppress them, but it was impossible to settle. Shiyin had to sell his estate, and took his wife and two maids to seek shelter with his father-in-law.

His father-in-law was named Feng Su, a native of Dazhou, a farmer with some means. When he saw his son-in-law arrive in such a sorry state, he was displeased. Fortunately, Shiyin still had some silver from the sale of his land, which he gave to Feng Su to buy him some property and houses at a fair price, so as to provide for the future. But Feng Su cheated him with half-honest deals, giving him only poor land and broken houses. Shiyin, being a scholar, was not used to farming and managing such affairs. After struggling for a year or two, he grew poorer still. Whenever Feng Su saw him, he made sarcastic remarks, and before others he complained that they could not manage their lives, that they only ate and loafed. Shiyin knew he had chosen the wrong person to rely on, and was filled with regret. Added to the shocks of the previous year, his anger and grief had already injured him; aged and now beset by poverty and sickness, he began to show signs of approaching death.

One day, leaning on his staff, he dragged himself to the street to distract his mind. There he saw a lame Taoist, wild and crazy, in ragged shoes and clothes, mumbling a few lines:

“All men know that immortals are good,
But fame and rank they never forget!
Where are the generals and ministers of old?
In wasted graves, buried in weeds.
All men know that immortals are good,
But gold and silver they never forget!
All day they only hate they have not enough,
But when they have plenty, their eyes are shut.
All men know that immortals are good,
But their lovely wives they never forget!
While he lives, they speak of love each day—
When he dies, she goes with another man.
All men know that immortals are good,
But their sons and grandsons they never forget!
Fond parents there have always been many,
But who ever saw a filial son?”

When Shiyin heard this, he went up to him and said, “What are you chanting? I only hear the words ‘good’ and ‘finished’.” The Taoist laughed and said, “If you truly hear ‘good’ and ‘finished,’ you are no fool. Know that all things in the world—good means finished, and finished means good. If not finished, then not good; if you want good, you must be finished. My song is called the ‘Song of Finished and Good.’” Shiyin, being naturally endowed with spiritual insight, was instantly enlightened. He laughed and said, “Wait—let me annotate your song. What do you say?” The Taoist laughed, “Go ahead, go ahead.” So Shiyin said:

“A mean hut, an empty hall—
Where once the tablets of office filled the bed.
Withered grass and faded willows—
Where once were singing and dancing grounds.
Spider webs hang on the carved beams,
And green gauze now pastes the paper window.
You speak of rich rouge and fragrant powder—
Why have the temples turned to frost?
Yesterday they buried the white bones by the loess mound,
Tonight in the red-curtained bed lie the mating pair.
Gold fills the chest, silver fills the chest—
But in a flash the beggar is mocked by all.
Just when you pity another’s short life,
You find your own homecoming is death!
Well trained—yet who can guarantee he will not turn bandit?
Choosing a fine match—who would think she ends in the pleasure quarter?
Because they thought their caps too small,
They end with chains and fetters;
Yesterday they pitied the ragged coat,
Today they scorn not the purple gown’s length:
In a whirl, you sing your song, then I take the stage,
Mistaking a strange land for one’s native home.
How absurd—in the end, it’s all just sewing clothes for others!”

The lame, crazy Taoist clapped his hands and laughed, “Well explained, well explained!” Shiyin then said, “Let us go!” And he snatched the Taoist’s sack from his shoulder, put it on his own, and without returning home, drifted away with him. The whole neighbourhood was stirred and the story spread. When Lady Feng heard the news, she wept as though she would die, and had to consult her father to send men to search everywhere—but not a trace was found. There was nothing for it but to rely on her parents for survival. Fortunately, she still had two old maids attending her; the three of them worked day and night on needlework to sell, helping to support her father’s household. Feng Su grumbled daily, but could do nothing.

One day, the Zhen family’s elder maid was outside the gate buying thread when she heard the shouting of a procession in the street. Everyone said the new prefect had arrived. She hid behind the door and peeked out: first came runners and guards in pairs, then a great sedan chair carrying a red-robed official in a black gauze hat. The maid gave a start—the face looked familiar, as if she had seen it somewhere. She went back inside and soon put it out of her mind. That evening, as they were about to retire, there came a violent knocking at the door and a crowd shouting, “The prefect has sent men to summon someone for questioning!” Feng Su was so terrified that his eyes stared and his mouth gaped, not knowing what calamity had befallen.