Chinese Fairy Tales and Fantasies (Pantheon Fairy Tale and Folklore Library) (13 page)

Ting Ch’ien-hsi of Chuch’eng in Shantung was a wealthy and chivalrous man who took pleasure in doing justice and setting wrongs to right. But when the imperial censor in residence ordered his arrest to answer certain charges, Ting disappeared. He traveled to Anch’iu county and there ran into a rainstorm, so he took refuge in an inn. By noon the rain had not stopped.

A young man came with a generous gift of food for Ting. Soon it was dusk, and Ting stayed the night at the young man’s home. Both the traveler and his horse were well taken care of. Ting asked the young man his name. “The master of the house is Mr. Yang. I am his wife’s nephew,” he replied. “He likes to be in the company of friends and has gone out. Only his wife is at home. I fear we are too poor to provide properly for a guest; I hope you will forgive us.”

Ting asked Mr. Yang’s occupation and learned that he eked out a living by running a gambling den. The next day the rain continued, and Ting and his horse were treated as generously as the day before. At nightfall hay was cut for the horse in bundles that were soaked and uneven. Ting was surprised, and the young man said to him, “To tell you the truth, we are too poor to feed the horse. My uncle’s wife just now pulled some thatch off the roof.”

Puzzled, Ting thought the lad might be hinting for money and offered him some silver, but it was refused. When Ting insisted, the youth took the silver inside, only to come out again and return it to the guest. “My aunt says that Mr. Yang often goes away for days without any money; he relies on the hospitality of friends. So when a guest comes to
our
house, how can we ask for money?”

Before Ting left he said, “I am Ting from Chuch’eng. When your master returns, please inform him that I would be honored by a visit from him when he is free.”

Many years later, there was a famine. The Yangs were in grave trouble and had nowhere to turn. Mrs. Yang casually asked her husband to go and see Ting Ch’ien-hsi, and he agreed. He arrived in Chuch’eng and gave his name at Ting’s gate.

At first Ting did not remember him, but when Yang’s story was relayed to him he rushed out to greet his guest. Noticing Yang’s tattered clothes and worn-out shoes, Ting placed him in a warm room, feasted him, and treated him with love and respect. The next day Ting had a cap and clothes, warm and well-lined, made for the guest. Although Yang was overwhelmed by Ting’s
hospitality, his worries were increasing, for he was anxious to get relief for his family. Several days went by, however, and his host still made no mention of sending him home with parting gifts.

At last Yang said apprehensively to Ting, “There’s something I cannot keep from you. When I left home, we didn’t have even a peck of rice. Now I have already received so much of your generosity, and while I am surely delighted, what of my family?”

“Nothing to worry about,” replied Ting. “I’ve already taken care of them for you. Please don’t let it concern you. Stay with us a little longer, and then I’ll help you with your travel expenses.” Ting summoned a group of gamblers and arranged for Yang to take a commission out of their game. During the night Yang made one hundred pieces of silver.

After this Ting sent him home, where Yang found his wife in new clothes, with a young maidservant attending her. Amazed, he asked what had happened. “The day after you left,” she said, “carts and men on foot came with gifts of cloth and silk and beans and grain, enough to fill the whole house! They said it was a present from Mr. Ting. He also sent a serving maid to do my bidding.”

Yang’s gratitude knew no measure. From then on he became prosperous and did not have to follow in his former occupation.

The Recorder of Things Strange says: To enjoy company and entertain guests is what drinkers, gamblers, and floating types are best at. More remarkable is Yang’s wife, who offered such generous hospitality though she was no drinker or gambler herself. What humanity is there in those who accept a favor but do not reciprocate? Ting is a man who did not forget even the gift of one meal.

—
P’u Sung-ling

Chu I-chün, a member of the Imperial Academy, was on friendly terms with a Taoist priest. In the temple were two loquat trees, and every year when the fruit ripened, the priest would offer some to Chu. The loquats never had pits, and when Chu asked why, the priest replied that they were a supernatural species. Chu received this explanation with skepticism.

The priest loved fine food and particularly relished steamed pork. One day Chu invited him for dinner, and instructed his servant to purchase a pig and carry it through the house in the priest’s presence. In a short while the meat was presented at the table, well cooked and succulent. They ate their fill, and when the feast ended, the priest asked Chu how the meal had been prepared so quickly.

“It’s really a simple trick,” said Mr. Chu. “I’ll tell you if you tell me the secret of your loquats.”

“Nothing to it, really,” said the priest. “When they first flower, I pinch out the fine hair from the core.”

“Well then,” said Chu, “as for the meal, I had it cooked yesterday.” And smiling broadly, heads thrown back, they parted.

—
Tai Yen-nien

In the land of Ch’i in eastern China there was a man who had so much trouble remembering things that he would even forget to stop when he was walking or to get up when he was sleeping. His wife grew worried and said, “They claim that Ai Tzu has skill and knowledge to cure the most deep-seated ailments. Why don’t you go and put yourself under his care?”

The man agreed. He mounted his horse, took bow and arrows to defend himself on the way, and set off. But soon he felt pressure in his bowels and got off his horse to relieve himself by the side of the road. The arrows he planted in the ground, the horse he tied to a tree.

When the man was finished, he looked to his left and spotted the arrows. “That was close!” he said. “Where did those stray arrows come from? One of them could have hit me!” He looked to his right and saw the horse. “That was some scare,” he thought, “but I have gained a horse.” When he took the reins, he stepped into his own dung. Stamping his foot, he said, “I’ve walked into some dog dung and dirtied my shoes. What a shame!”

He turned the horse toward the way they had come and laid on the whip. Soon he was back at his house. He paced to and fro before the main gate. “Who could live here?” he asked himself. “Don’t tell me it’s Ai Tzu’s place!” His wife saw him and realized that his memory had failed again. She scolded him, but the man said forlornly, “My good woman, I don’t believe we are acquainted. Why should you speak so harshly to me?”

—
Lo Cho

Chang was a poor man of Yi county in Shantung. He happened to meet a Taoist priest on the road who was skilled in physiognomy. The priest read his features and said, “You ought to make your fortune in some profession.” “What should I pursue?” asked Chang. The priest eyed him again. “Medicine should do,” he said.

“How could I go into that,” replied Chang, “when I can hardly read?”

The priest smiled. “A famous doctor doesn’t have to read much. Do it, that’s all.”

Chang returned home and, since he had no work anyhow, resolved to follow the priest’s advice. He got together some quack remedies and cleared a place to set up shop in town. There he displayed fishes’ teeth, honeycombs, and other such, hoping to scare up a few cups of rice with his slippery tongue. But day after day no one took any notice of him.

It happened that the governor of Ch’ingchou was troubled by a cough and ordered his subordinates to summon medical advice. Since Yi county was far off in the mountains, doctors were scarce. But the county magistrate, fearful lest he fail in his duty, ordered the chiefs of the hamlets to produce one. By consensus they recommended Chang.

The county magistrate summoned Chang to come at once. But Chang himself suffered from an asthmatic cough which he could not relieve, so the official command frightened him and he firmly declined. The magistrate would not accept his answer and ordered Chang delivered under escort to the governor.

Chang’s carriage passed through remote mountains, where water
was precious as nectar. His great thirst made his cough worse, and he stopped at a hamlet to find water. No one could spare any, though he begged everywhere. Then he spotted a woman straining a mess of wild vegetables in a small amount of water. Some liquid, turgid as phlegm, remained in the pan, and the parched Chang asked for it. The woman gave it to him, and a short while after he drank it his thirst eased and his cough vanished. “An effective remedy, it seems,” he thought to himself.

When Chang reached the governor’s headquarters, physicians from the various counties had already tried out their treatments with no success. Chang asked for a secluded spot, where he pretended to prepare a prescription. He passed the medicine around for people to see. At the same time, he sent someone to find pigweed and bishopweed among the common folk. Then he strained them and presented the juice to the governor, whose cough improved after a single dose. Overjoyed, the governor rewarded Chang richly and gave him a gold plaque to display. And in this manner Chang’s name was made. His doorway became as crowded as the marketplace, and all who came were cured.

Once a man came to him with a case of typhoid, but Chang was drunk and dosed the patient with the medicine for malaria. When Chang awoke, he realized his mistake but was afraid to tell anyone. Three days later a grand ceremonial procession arrived at his gate to thank him, for the typhoid victim had recovered after a spell of severe vomiting and diarrhea. Incidents of this kind occurred frequently.