Chapter Six: A Man of Great Talent Reveals His True Nature and Falls into Ruin; A Friend of Principle Remembers an Orphan and Shares His Salary

To the tune "Full River Red":

Creation is without partiality — it is the East Wind that heaps things up and knocks them down at will. Even if the river flowers seem to bloom from a luminous brush, even if the pouch is full of dangerous lines, without the River Goddess to dip her ladle and dye the thread, one cannot hope to find those brocade words inscribed in the loom. Though for one morning you win your place of honor at the riverside banquet — what wonder is that, after all?

And then what? You take your ease, give free rein to your ambitions, treat your colleagues with contempt, disdain the whole age. See how in times past the flippant and reckless have found their brilliant glory impossible to hold. Add to that a heart full of contempt and arrogance, with no place for it under the high heaven and broad earth — until at last you are transformed into something altogether other, and only then does the heart grow cold. To whom can you make your complaint?

In general, a man must not rely too heavily on any single thing. To rely on something is always to be defeated by that very thing. Those who swim best drown; those who ride best fall. Such is the nature of things. And so: he who relies on power dies by power; he who relies on strength dies by strength; he who relies on schemes dies by schemes; he who relies on trickery dies by trickery; he who relies on talent dies by talent; he who relies on intelligence dies by intelligence. That power and strength, schemes and trickery, are snares and pits that drive men into them goes without saying. But as for talent and intelligence — these are the treasures of humanity, the means by which, at the highest level, nations are governed and the world put in order, and at the lowest, wealth is acquired and fame and position attained. Then why say they must not be relied upon? Master Meng said it well: "Pen Cheng Kuo has a little talent, but has not yet heard of the great Way of the gentleman — and that talent is quite enough to cost him his life." Let me relate a few examples of those who in times past relied on talent and came to grief.

In the Tang dynasty there was a Palace Gentleman by the surname Du, who passed the examination as a young man and made his name resound through the capital. Once he visited a Buddhist temple where a monk in gray robe sat alone in meditation. The monk asked Du his surname and what he studied; the people around him boasted of his successive triumphs in the examinations. The monk smiled and said: "I know nothing of all that." Du sighed in astonishment and wrote a poem:

My home lies south of the city, beside the parish shrine;

Two branches of celestial osmanthus bloomed at the same moment.

The Chan monk has not yet learned my name —

And now at last I taste the true savor of the empty gate.

You see — two brothers had passed the examinations, and ordinary people fawned on them endlessly, yet they had failed to move even a yellow-faced monk in his robe. At that moment Du saw clearly that his glory was nothing very splendid, but after all it was merely a matter of the monk not knowing of him — no one had yet mocked him for it. Then there was Zheng Lichen, who entered the Hanlin Academy and could not stop congratulating himself. The other men at the banquet table could not match him and their laughter grew strained.

A serving courtesan placed a marker against him and pointed at him, saying: "The Academician's speech is self-congratulatory, I dare say. But your present glory, sir, depends entirely on other people. Consider Li Xi and Liu Chengyong — they too once held this position. Can holding it add to its luster?" Everyone laughed. Lichen drained his own cup in self-imposed penalty and said no more. That a man of an Academician's standing could be called out to his face by a courtesan and accept the penalty without daring to object shows how little use the word "arrogance" is. Yet this was still only mockery — no actual harm had yet come to him. As for Xiao Yingshi: he was arrogant and contemptuous, and liked to take a jug of wine out into the countryside, strolling alone and drinking and chanting verses by himself. One day a violent wind and rain came up. An old man in purple robes arrived with a small boy, also seeking shelter from the rain. Yingshi, taking him for some idler of no account, treated him with considerable insolence. Shortly afterward the rain cleared, and a carriage and horses arrived suddenly. The old man mounted and rode off under escort. Yingshi asked his attendants who he was, and learned he was a Minister of the Board. The next day Yingshi went to the Minister's door to apologize. The Minister had him brought to the corridor beneath the main hall, where he sat him down and rebuked him, saying: "You pride yourself on your literary learning and yet you treat men with such disdain — is that why you have never risen beyond a single examination pass?" After this, Yingshi dared not sit for the special literary examination again, and ended his career as a minor official in Yangzhou. So here was a case where the single word "arrogance" actually hindered advancement — though even so, it was merely official stagnation and not yet poverty and ruin or death. Then there was Chen Tongfang, who passed the examination when young. His classmate Wang Bo was fifty-six years old. Tongfang slapped him on the back and joked: "Old Wang, Old Wang — here is a degree to keep you company." Wang was deeply offended. Tongfang went home when a family funeral brought him back, while Wang continued to pass successive examinations and rose to high office. Tongfang, fallen into poverty and wretchedness, asked their mutual classmate Li Xuzhong to intercede on his behalf. Wang could not refuse, and assigned him a post in the Jiangxi regional office — but before he arrived to take it up, he was transferred to the Zhedong office; halfway there, he was reassigned to the Nanling office. Back and forth like this several times, his circumstances grew steadily more wretched. Reflecting on his mistakes, he told his friends: "I happened to make a joke, and I had no idea Wang had taken such deep offense." When Wang became Chief Minister, Tongfang died in despair. In that case, arrogance cost a man his life itself.

We can see, then, that arrogant men come to no good end. Everyone reads the books and everyone knows this, and yet many still fall into the same trap — because of nothing other than an excessive reliance on talent and intelligence.

Strange talent is rare in the world, it is true —

But to parade and boast of it at once makes it cease to be strange.

If even Confucius and Yan Hui were alive today,

Those self-satisfied gentlemen would not know what to make of them.

There is one tale more extraordinary still, beyond all expectation. There was a man who, through relying on his talent and holding the world in contempt, was transformed into a different kind of creature altogether. Even after the transformation, he still retained human speech, with which he made clear his regret and self-reproach. Let me relate it in detail, step by step.

In the time of the Brilliant Emperor of the Tang dynasty, there was a man of Longxi named Li Wei, a scion of the imperial family, who kept his home in the region of Guolue. From his youth he had wide learning; in poetry, prose, calligraphy, and correspondence, there was nothing in which he did not excel. Truly, under his brush a thousand words arose in an instant; standing beside a horse, he could write as fast as the animal could gallop. But he was arrogant and contemptuous, with no equals in his eyes. Even the great talents of his time — men such as Li Bai, Du Fu, Gao Shi, and Cen Shen — he refused to acknowledge as his superiors. He held fame and official position in the palm of his hand and reckoned ministers and chancellors as things he could summon at will, spending his days in wild, unrestrained license. The people of his time acknowledged him as a talent and dared not contend with him, which only made him more puffed up with self-regard. Not yet of age, he was nominated by his prefecture and sent to the capital for the examinations. To his surprise, he failed ten times in succession without obtaining a degree. This was because he trusted his talent too much to conform to the set requirements of the examination format, and he was also prone to rash errors — so that his papers often did not pass muster and he was repeatedly failed and dismissed. One advantage the Tang system had, however, was that examinations were held annually, unlike the three-year intervals of the present day; so ten failures amounted to only a little over ten years' delay. Each time Li Wei failed, he cursed the examiner as blind and illiterate. He also cursed the successful candidates, saying: "Yellow-billed chicks, rotting old pedants — they all pass. How can men of such genius as we are fall through unnoticed? How do they dare to face us?" And so resentment and indignation, reckless and unchecked words — in his heart and on his lips, he complained ceaselessly of Heaven and blamed everyone else.

At the eleventh sitting he at last obtained a degree, but his rank was not high. Under the Tang system, a jinshi degree placed the top few graduates in seventh-rank capital posts; the rest went as county magistrates, county deputies, or county lieutenants. Those who performed well might be taken into the censorate and even, in exceptional cases, into the Bureau of History. Those not selected would sit for additional special examinations; repeatedly placing in the top tier would bring them into the Hanlin Academy or the central boards. So Li Wei, though a jinshi, was assigned as a county lieutenant and then transferred to the lieutenant's post in Shanggiu County in Henan. He considered himself a descendant of the imperial house with extraordinary talent, yet was confined to a minor post, serving alongside common officials. He was perpetually gloomy and dissatisfied, growing ever more haughty and contemptuous toward his colleagues, insulting them without restraint — they could not bear him.

One day, at a drinking party with his office companions, he had drunk a few cups too many and let his tongue run loose: "I am a son of the imperial house, with talent surpassing Zhuo and Gu. You people there — loud mouths three feet long and fists weighing five pounds — what sort of creatures are you, that you should be ranked alongside me!" His colleagues all cast cold looks at him in disgust, and the party broke up in ill feeling, though there was nothing they could do. When Wei's term of office ended and the time came for him to be reassigned, those in authority, disgusted by his outrageous conduct, refused to recommend him, and he could not go immediately to the capital for a new posting. So he retired to his home, growing ever more arrogant and cutting himself off from all social intercourse. From time to time he wrote poems and essays, all nothing but bitter complaint and resentment — with none of the loyal sorrow and concern for the state of Qu Yuan, but rather the scurrilous and defamatory tone of Yang Yun. All that driving, mountain-consuming talent of his former days had been transformed into a belly full of swallowed grievances and silent fury. He brooded constantly on those ignorant men who had gained high positions, and those in power who had never promoted him, wishing he could gulp them down and dissolve them in acid. From the moment he gave himself over to this brooding, he planted within himself the seed of the transformation that was to come.

They say that one who paints horses long enough enters the womb of a horse —

How then shall bitter resentment not bring its own calamity?

From ancient times, the Buddha-nature has always been impartial:

Depart from the six realms, and you may sit upon the lotus throne.

Li Wei had been at home for more than a year. His official funds were exhausted, and pressed by the daily lack of resources, he resolved to go out into the world and gather gifts of money from his acquaintances. He hoped to collect enough to clothe and feed his wife and children on one hand, and on the other to fund the journey to the capital for his new appointment. Once decided, he scraped together enough for the road, put his luggage in order, took leave of his wife, and set out with two servants — one named Yingrong and one named Yilu — traveling south from Guolue into Huguang. The prefectural and county officials there were not many who were his old classmates or close acquaintances, but he had a reputation for talent and people respected him — and besides, they feared him. You may wonder: why, when he was arrogant and unruly, did people fear him? Because a man of talent is always ready to produce something in verse or prose, and whatever he chooses to mock or satirize — whether a poem, an essay, or a memorial — it circulates and is recited aloud. If his subject has done anything discreditable, that discredit may well become a mockery in his own time and a laughingstock in posterity. For that reason, people feared men like him. The ancients said: "Avoid the sharp tongue of a man of talent; avoid the sharp brush of a man of letters" — and it was precisely for such men that this saying was coined. So all the officials along his route opened their gates wide to receive him with feasts and entertainments. Whatever favors he asked were granted. And when the time came to part, each gave him generous gifts to fill his purse. Wei still felt it was not enough, and traveled on to Jinling. Jinling, the ancient capital, was rich in famous sites and scenic wonders; Wei composed inscriptions and verse everywhere he went, and everyone praised him. The officials there were equally generous with their hospitality. He spent nearly a year, and the gifts and donations he received came to two or three thousand taels in all. Wei's spirits rose; he was planning to head west and return to Guolue. As he made his way home, thoughts of his official days came back to him unbidden, and he grew restless and unhappy. The old feelings of grievance and resentment once again showed in his face and words. One day, arriving at Yufen, he felt his strength fail him. He had his servants find him lodgings and settled in to rest for a few days before continuing. But then, without warning, he was seized by a sudden madness: he raged and howled and leaped about like a wolf or tiger. His two servants had no idea what had come over him. When they went near him he kicked and bit; when they stayed away he roared like thunder. He seized whatever came to hand — door bars, carrying poles, rake handles — and swung them about freely. He beat the two servants until they had no peace by day or by night. Nearly ten days passed, and his frenzied jumping grew worse; he tore his hair loose, stripped off his clothes, and with no semblance of dignity, kept trying to run out into the street. The two servants could not stop him. Then one night he suddenly threw open the door of the inn and ran straight off into the darkness. It was extremely dark, and the servants had not the courage to run after him. They could only let him go. The next morning they searched high and low in both directions and found no trace of him. They asked all the passersby and could not find anyone who had seen him. They dragged the riverbanks and searched the wells without any result. They waited blankly at the inn for a month, but there was no news whatsoever. Concluding that he must be dead, their base natures gained the upper hand: with no thought for their master or for his wife at home and his children still young, they divided the silver and goods and luggage into two equal halves, each took his share, and quietly disappeared.

Li Wei's wife sat at home, waiting for the men to return and for news to come — but neither came. Their son was only fifteen or sixteen and lacked the courage to set out on a long journey in search of his father. To sit at home with no one to depend on and no means of support was misery beyond words.

In travel, one can only depend upon one's servant's loyalty —

But how many loyal servants have there ever truly been?

They betrayed their master, took the money for themselves,

With no thought of the road home to Guolue.

Now let us say that from the night Li Wei fled the inn, he ran two or three dozen li and reached a mountain valley, where he found himself moving on all fours. At that moment his mind was still somewhat clear, and he looked at his own arms and saw fur growing upon them. He ran to a stream and looked at his reflection, and saw that he had become a striped old tiger. He tried a roar — it shook heaven and earth. He tried a leap — the wind spun and rose around him. He was full of shame and hatred, but there was nothing to be done. He began devouring men and beasts. Word spread through the region of Shangyuan: there was a strange tiger eating people. Merchants and travelers ceased to walk at dawn or dusk; only between the hours of Siji and Wei — mid-morning to mid-afternoon — did they pass through in groups.

They say that Niu Ai once changed into a tiger —

But who knew that a man of letters might become Niu Ai?

With no chance now of meeting a dragon and rising to the sky,

He might as well serve as lord of the mountain and vent his fury there.

It has happened in the past that wicked persons transformed into different creatures: Lady Xi, through her jealousy, became a python; a woman of Xinzheng who defied her mother-in-law became a dog; a certain official who was cruel and greedy became an ox; Feng Shao, through his violence and love of killing, became a tiger — these things are perhaps understandable. But Li Wei was only a man of letters who had given himself over to reckless license — to think that it came to this! Was it not pitiable?

Nearly a year had passed when a man of Chenjun named Li Yan, serving as an Imperial Censor, was sent on imperial commission to Lingnan on official business. His post carriage brought him to the region of Shangyuan, where he stopped overnight at a relay station. Because his imperial mandate had a fixed time limit, he dared not delay. Early the next morning he made ready to set out. The station officer reported to him: "At the edge of the district, on the mountain pass ahead, there has been a strange tiger preying on people for nearly a year. All travelers must wait until the sun is well up before setting out. The sky is still early; travelers will be scarce, and the tiger will certainly come out to attack people. Please wait a while, and move on only when the sun is higher." Yan did not believe him: "On a highway like this, where would a tiger come from? It is nothing but bandits spreading rumors to frighten people." The station officer implored him several more times; Yan grew angry and said: "I am the Son of Heaven's envoy. I have a guard before and escort behind; my mounted train numbers several hundred. Would a beast of the mountain and marsh dare to harm me?" And he ordered the party to depart at once. The station officer dared say no more and could only comply.

They had not gone quite a li when, on the road itself, amid dense thickets on either side, a tiger — striped and savage — suddenly burst from the tall grass, directly in front of Yan's horse. The attendants had no time to prepare; they scattered in all directions, and the horse shied and reared. Yan was in the grip of extreme terror with no way to defend himself, when he saw the tiger look him over and then, with great haste, turn around and retreat into the grass. Yan brought his horse under control, and then heard the tiger speak in a human voice: "How extraordinary — I nearly harmed an old friend!"

Yan heard these words and was struck with bewilderment: could there really be a man who had been transformed into a tiger? The tiger had called him an old friend — but who was it? As he stood pondering, the tiger spoke again: "Li my friend, Li my friend — can you have forgotten me?" Yan listened carefully to the voice. It sounded very much like Li Wei. Yan and Wei had passed the same examination together, and being of the same surname, they had been extremely close; but several years had passed since they had last met. Suddenly hearing that voice, he was seized with astonishment. If it was truly Li Wei, how had such a strange thing come about? And yet the voice was very like his. So he called out to the tiger: "Who are you? Can you be my old friend Li Wei of Longxi?" The tiger uttered several plaintive cries, as if sighing and weeping; after a long pause it answered: "I am indeed Li Wei. Long has it been since we parted, yet you still know my voice — you are one who has not forgotten his old friend."

Yan dismounted from his horse and addressed the tiger: "My friend, how has it come to this? I remember that you and I sat in the examination halls together for more than ten years, our friendship more than that of ordinary comrades — as close as brothers of the same house. Afterward, I had the good fortune to enter official life first; you continued to serve in a provincial post, each pursuing his career. North and south, east and west, we were separated, with no more of the old exchange of laughter and talk, and much time has passed. I had no idea what had become of you. Today, fortunately, this commission has brought me to meet you — and yet you conceal yourself in the undergrowth rather than come out to meet me. Is that the spirit of our old friendship?"

The tiger uttered several more sighs, then spoke: "I have already become a creature of another kind, grotesque and fearsome to look upon. Should you see my form, you would be frightened and disgusted; you would wish only to be rid of me as quickly as possible. Could you then keep in mind the feelings of former days? Nevertheless — I would ask you to remain a little while. There is something I have kept hidden in my heart that I have had no one to tell. Now at last I have met an old friend, and I wish to lay it all before you. Will my friend be willing to listen?" Yan said: "I have always regarded you as my elder brother. It would be perfectly proper to show yourself to me. But since you will not, let me at least pay my respects to you, and then hear what you have to say." He bowed twice toward the tiger.

The tiger said: "I have been long parted from you; our voices and faces have been strangers to each other. I do not know how your official career has gone, nor where you are bound today. Just now I saw you with two runners before you and relay-post attendants leading the way with your seal-case, and a shouting escort before and behind, making a great commotion on the road — can you be an Imperial Censor sent on a commission? How else would you have such a large and fine following?" Yan replied: "My past career you know well enough. Recently, by the grace of the emperor, I have been elevated to the position of Censor. I am now carrying the imperial commission to Lingnan, and so I am passing through this way." The tiger made a sound that was half laugh, half grief: "You, my friend, have built your career on literary learning and have attained a position in the court — that is indeed glorious. What is more, the Censorate is a place of purity and prestige, charged with the supervision of the hundred offices, and the sage emperor bestows his trust especially upon those who hold it. To receive an imperial commission of this kind — with your great talent, you will certainly discharge it with distinction. I rejoice that my old friend has attained such eminence. But I am no longer a man; I cannot meet with you face to face, and can only add more tears to my grief."

Yan went on: "In former years you and I were classmates, bound by a friendship closer and deeper than most. That you have suffered this misfortune and been changed into a creature of another kind — can our friendship be bounded by outward form? Must you indeed remain stubbornly hidden in the undergrowth?" The two of them went back and forth in conversation, without pause. The attendants in the party all stood to either side; at first they were terrified, but gradually, hearing the words spoken with considerable literary refinement, they all whispered among themselves, their murmurs buzzing like a hive, discussing the wonder. The tiger then said to Yan: "My friend speaks with such warmth and earnestness, wishing to see my form. I, too, might have no objection to showing it once. But your runners and attendants are whispering privately on the side. If I show myself, they will certainly be frightened and disgusted. I am already denied the estate of a man; to be also hated and shunned by men — what further suffering need I inflict upon myself?" Yan said: "Since you will not show yourself, then please tell me in detail how you came to be transformed."

The tiger uttered more sighs and sobs, then said: "It is too painful to speak of, yet I cannot but tell my friend in detail. After leaving my post and returning home, lonely and dispirited, I traveled to the Wu and Chu regions to seek patronage from those in authority, spending nearly a year and receiving gifts of two or three thousand taels in all. I was planning to return to Guolue, settle my wife and children, and use the remaining funds to go to the capital and take up an official post. On the road, at Yufen, I was suddenly seized with a mad illness and raved and howled as if unconscious. Then one night I heard someone outside the door calling my name, and I went out in response. The road was very dark, and I walked some distance until I came to a mountain valley, where without noticing I found myself moving on all fours and felt it to be swift and easy, and was delighted with it. At that moment my heart grew harder and my strength many times greater; leaping and bounding in all directions, everything was as I wished. When I looked at my thighs I saw striped fur covering them like an animal's, and I was greatly astonished. I tried to stand upright and walk, but could not. I ran to a stream and looked at my reflection — I was an unmistakable fierce tiger. My grief was overwhelming; I could barely bring myself to go on. And yet, since things had come to this pass, there was nothing to be done. I concealed myself in the marshland. My stomach was quite hungry, but I still felt I should not eat living creatures — perhaps if I abstained I might be able to take back human form. So I endured my hunger and did not prey on anything. After a long time the hunger became unbearable, and I took deer, boar, roedeer, and hares from the mountain for food. After a while more, the animals, afraid of being eaten, all retreated far away; I could catch nothing, and the hunger grew more severe. One day a woman passed below the mountain. I was desperately hungry and thought of eating her. Then I thought: she is a human being, and I have the misfortune to be a tiger — how can I eat a person and add yet further to my crimes? I let her pass. Then I thought again: to be hungry with nothing to eat — this is Heaven's provision; to fail to eat now that it is presented means not knowing when I might find something to satisfy my belly. Back and forth I went, wavering several times, unable to hold myself back — and in the end I took her and ate her, and found the taste surpassingly rich, altogether different from deer or elephant. Even now the ornaments she wore are still at the foot of a cliff and can be recovered as evidence. From that time on, I have thought of nothing but eating people. Without regard to rank, age, or burden — all those who have passed before me and fallen within my power, I have seized and devoured without leaving anything, and this has become my way of life. I have no more fear of punishment or sense of guilt. Not that I do not think of my wife and children, or miss my friends — but I have been faithless to Heaven and have been changed in one instant into something other, and I am ashamed before people. It is simply not my place to see them. Alas — you and I passed the same examination, bound by the deepest friendship, expecting to rise together in the court until white-haired, each reflecting glory on the other. You today carry the emperor's command in your mouth and hold the power of the heavens in your hand, bringing honor to your wife and glory to your home district; while I hide in the forests and marshland, forever cut off from the human world. I leap up and call to Heaven — Heaven takes no pity on me. I prostrate myself and weep to the earth — the earth takes no thought for me. My body is ruined and I am of no use to anyone — is this truly fate? It has never happened that Heaven assigns a man his fate, only to have him begin as a man and end as a beast. The weight of my crimes has brought me to this. What more is there to say?"

With this the tiger howled and wailed, overcome with grief. Yan asked again: "Since you have become a creature of another kind, you should only be capable of roaring. How is it that you can still speak as a man?" The tiger replied: "My form is that of a tiger, but my heart is still a man's. All the events of former days, I remember and cannot forget. Since I have lived here, I do not know the count of years and months, but I watch the plants flourish and wither, and tears still fall from time to time, soaking the grass and wetting the trees. I have longed for someone to speak with, and yet could not speak with anyone. In recent days there have been no travelers past this way; famished beyond endurance, I suddenly heard the rush of a party on the road and burst out, hoping to make a meal. Unexpectedly I confronted an old friend — I am overwhelmed with shame and confusion."

Yan said: "Since you have been so long without food, I have a spare horse with me — shall I leave it as a gift?" The tiger replied: "That too I cannot accept. To eat the horse of an old friend — how would that differ from wounding my old friend himself? I beg you, say no more of it." Yan said: "In that case — I have mutton in the food basket, some dozen or more catties. May I offer that to you?" The tiger seemed pleased: "That much I will accept as a gift from my old friend. But I am still in conversation with you — I have no thought of food just yet. To sit before my friend and eat meat would be distracting, and moreover would be somewhat lacking in courtesy. Once you leave, it will still be here for me to eat." Yan turned to his attendants and ordered them to bring the mutton. The tiger stopped him again: "Wait — there is still more to say. You and I have been friends in spite of outward form, the truest kind. I have a request to make, and I do not know whether my friend will consent to it." Yan said: "In the old days, old friend, what could you not ask of me? But I do not know what the matter is — please tell me fully, and I will not fail your trust."

The tiger made a gesture of gratitude and said: "Had you not agreed, I would not dare speak. Since you have agreed, how could I forget it? I recall that while I was lodging at the inn at Yufen, the mad illness came upon me; I lashed at the servants without reason and abandoned my luggage. Then I ran out into the wilds and was transformed into a creature of another kind, and never returned to the city's roads — I had even forgotten the way I came. Although my mind is still lucid, I know that with a face like this, I would send any person fleeing in panic — there is no way I could find the servants or recover the money. Unexpectedly, the two wicked servants simply drove off with my horse and luggage, and everything was taken. My wife and son are still in Guolue. They have not seen me return, nor have they seen the servants return — they must be beside themselves with worry, not knowing that I have been changed into a creature of another kind. When your official business in Lingnan is done and you return to the capital, I beg you to send a servant with a letter to seek out my wife and child. Tell them only that I am dead — do not speak of what has happened here today, which would shock people's ears and expose my shame. That is what I pray my old friend will do." Yan cupped his hands and said: "I receive your instructions with all respect."

The tiger went on: "In my official days I did not get along well with my colleagues; my stubbornness and self-regard left me with no good to show for it. My term ended and I returned home with nothing. My son is still young and cannot fend for himself. I do not know how he is managing to survive. You hold a position on the censorate steps; integrity and faithfulness have always been your watchwords; our old friendship is as close as brothers. I trust that my becoming a creature of another kind will not change the feelings of former years. I hope truly that you will take thought for the weakness and helplessness of my young son, and relieve his needs from time to time, so that he does not starve and die by the roadside — that would be an act of supreme generosity." As he finished speaking, the tiger broke out once more into great sobbing cries, like the wailing of a man in grief. Those in the party who heard him weep found their hearts wrung and their own tears falling. Yan, too, could not restrain his own choking sobs: "You and I are bound together in joy and sorrow. Your son is as my own son. Whatever you entrust to me, I will exert all my strength to fulfill — I dare not fail, and why should you fear I would not carry it through?"

The tiger said further: "Since you give me this solemn promise, I have no more cause for worry. But there is yet one more request. I have some tens of old essays — the concentrated effort of a lifetime, and they have not yet circulated in the world. Although my drafts survive, my wife is unlettered and my son is young; they will certainly be scattered and lost. If you would copy them out for me and transmit them, they may not merit a place in the canon of letters, but they would be worth preserving for descendants, so that children and grandchildren might know that their ancestor and father, though he held no distinguished post, was still a man of letters." Yan immediately called forward his attendant scribes and had them listen as the tiger recited his works, writing them down as he spoke. There were nearly twenty pieces, all of elevated literary style and thought. Yan read them through and sighed in admiration, again and again: "Your writing is truly fine and beautiful. But how is it that after all this time you have not forgotten it all?" The tiger replied: "This is the work in which I always took the greatest pride in my life. When I was in the Wu and Chu regions, I thought of it constantly; and here in the wilds, too, I have thought of it constantly. How could I let it sink unremembered and unpreserved?"

Yan asked again: "Is there nothing more you wish to say — or is there yet something unfinished?" The tiger said: "I would compose a poem to give you as a parting gift, to show that though I am outwardly other, inwardly I am unchanged — and also to express my feelings and give voice to my indignation." Yan nodded in agreement: "I would be glad to hear it." He again called on his scribes to hold their brushes ready. The tiger chanted aloud:

Overcome by a mad illness, I became something strange —

Calamities pursued one another; there was no escape.

Today, who can match my claws and fangs?

In those days, our fame and footsteps stood as equals.

I have become an alien thing beneath the hills of Penglai;

You ride your carriage in the capital's splendor and might.

On this day, facing the bright moon over stream and mountain,

I cannot make the long howl — only the howl of a beast.

Yan read it and was greatly moved: "Your talent and conduct have been known to me for years. Even in your transformed state, you can still compose such elevated lines! A man of luminous talent in letters should be reborn in the heavens. That you were not reborn in the heavens but have fallen into the estate of a beast — there must be some transgression in your life that brought you to this. My friend, reflect on your life: is there something you regret in yourself?"

The tiger sighed and said: "Heaven and earth in creating beings show neither special favor nor particular aversion. As for the conditions of one's allotted time and the gifts of one's allotted portion — these I cannot know. Your words have stirred something in my heart. If I search within for what I truly regret, I do have one thing. I still remember that when I was young, in the suburbs south of Nanyang, I formed an intimate relationship with a widowed woman — our feeling was most intense. Afterward our comings and goings became too frequent, and our traces grew conspicuous; her family became aware of it and harbored the thought of doing me harm. She and I could meet no more. In the extremity of my fury and resentment, I set a fire in the wind and burned an entire household of several people to death before I left. At the time I felt a grim satisfaction; afterward I was deeply remorseful. Of all the regrets of my life, that is the greatest. But since I killed people and have received this karmic retribution, and moreover have become a tiger that eats people, my crimes accumulate day by day — and I do not know what further reckoning awaits me. It is enough to make one beat one's breast and rack one's head and weep without ceasing."

Yan said with a sigh: "Your present situation is largely due to this. But since you already know remorse, you need not end your days in a wicked course — do not torment yourself with excessive self-reproach." The tiger uttered another moan: "It is too late — there is no more hope. But I have one last word to say to you: if, when your commission is complete and you return to the capital, you find you can do so, take a different route home and do not pass through here again. Today I am still wakeful enough to recognize an old friend, and this hidden grievance in my heart, with nothing to confide it to, I have at last been able to pour out before you — and my account is complete. From this time on, I shall have no more thoughts of the human world. I fear that I may lose my original nature and sink into ignorance and oblivion. Should you pass through here then, I would no longer recognize you — and I might grind you between my teeth, which would make me a laughingstock among men of learning forever. This is what I sincerely entreat you to remember. Go now a little over a li from here, and you will find a small hill. If you climb it, you can see this whole place, and I shall let you see me from there. Not to show off my bravery — but that you might see how fearsome and terrible I am, and resolve never to pass this way again — that is how I show my deep regard for an old friend."

Yan said yes to everything. The tiger said once more: "When you reach the capital and see the wife and children of my old friend, speak nothing of what happened today, that my shame may not be proclaimed — I implore you this once more, without shame at the repetition. You carry the emperor's commission; I fear I have kept your procession too long and delayed the imperial journey. I wish to take my leave of you. Farewell, old friend — who knows when we shall meet again."

Yan bowed twice, mounted his horse, and looked back at the thicket. From inside came the sounds of howling and sobbing that no one could bear to hear. Yan, too, wept aloud as he looked back, then finally urged his horse forward. A little more than a li away, there was indeed a ridge. He climbed it and looked down at the valley below: the tiger burst from the forest, roaring and leaping, until the rocks and valleys shook. Yan could see that the tiger's words had been true in every detail. He went on to Lingnan and attended to all matters of his commission one by one. By the time his business was done, nearly half a year had passed. Remembering the tiger's words, he dared not take the same road home, and sought another route, making a detour on the way back. He never learned what ultimately became of the tiger.

When he returned to the capital and reported his commission complete, he immediately sent a man carrying the poems and essays the tiger had recited, along with a letter of his own composition, condolence gifts appropriate to an announcement of death, as if Li Wei had truly died — to bring the news to Wei's son. A month or more later, Wei's son came from Guolue to the capital to thank Yan in person, and to request his father's coffin for burial at home. Yan had nothing he could say and was forced to tell the son everything from beginning to end: how Wei had gone traveling through Wu and Chu, how on the road home he had been transformed into a tiger, how they had met and the tiger had orally transmitted his poems and essays, and how he had been entrusted with messages to his wife and child. The son wept bitterly and returned home. Yan, mindful of his old friend and bound by the promise he had made to the tiger, divided his own official salary and sent a portion regularly to support the wife and child, so that they would not suffer from cold or hunger. The son, too, in time gained a reputation for literary ability. Yan rose to the position of Vice President of the Board of War.

From ancient times there have been no shortage of men of talent, yet a man transformed into a tiger — such a thing had never been heard of before. And it came about through nothing other than a single impulse of arrogance and license. Those who are not even genuine talents, having stumbled into a single examination degree through luck, proceed to bully and demean their peers, tyrannize over common people and gentlemen alike, look down on all the ages before them, and despise all the generations to come — into what kind of creature, one wonders, shall they eventually be transformed? As for Li Yan: he fulfilled what an inhuman creature had entrusted to him, kept his word, shared his salary to support the orphaned son. How different from those who, the moment poverty and obscurity of a friend appears, take no notice at all, and in the hour of death treat old companions as strangers on the road — the contrast between the worthy and the unworthy could not be more stark.

Your narrator is too lazy to write a closing poem. Please listen to one verse of "Yellow Oriole":

Spreading your literary talent over the broad sky,

Relying on genius — how many have destroyed themselves this way!

Throughout the ages, how many have fallen into strange hardship?

The tiger-spirit has its satisfaction in the end.

Pen and ink have a voice and bearing;

This tale of a man who showed himself for what he was is altogether to be believed.

Ponder again: without a friend of principle,

Wife and children would have drifted into destitution.