Chapter Thirteen: Mu Qiongjie Mistakes a Paramour — Dong Wenfu Becomes an Ingrate's Ghost

Lamenting a cruel fate —

the wind-blown flowers drift and never settle,

grief enough to kill, like duckweed, like a wandering stem.

Vainly she hoped to cling like ivy to the cliff,

yet could not ask after cloud-traces, wisps of willow-fluff.

Though a single inch of ardour's cinders, still not cold,

she takes up once more the grievance of years past.

— "A Woman of Cruel Fate"

How grievous is resentment between people! If ingratitude and faithlessness — profiting oneself by injuring others — were allowed to go unanswered; if the wronged party could only nurse hatred in silence with no hope of redress; if one could evade all consequence — what limits would human wickedness know? Yet reprisal is a principle, and resentment is a feeling. Under heaven there is no grievance that cannot find expression, no principle that cannot be enacted. Nowadays the lightest-regarded creatures are women. Men imagine that women, confined within their chambers, can devise no schemes; that one may take advantage of them, leaving them to swallow bitterness indefinitely, and suffer nothing for it. Little do they realise that it is precisely because women have nowhere to vent their grievances that accumulated resentment and deepening fury must seek an outlet. If not in life, then after death. Thus Páng É's daughter avenged her father's murder; Xiè Xiǎo'é avenged both father and husband — each a solitary woman who accomplished revenge while still alive. Then there was the pipa girl who repaid Yán Wǔ, and Guì Yīng who repaid Wáng Kuí — both taking their vengeance from beyond the grave upon those who had wronged them. Consider as well a certain woman of Zhejiang, around the Wanli years of Dīnghài and Wùzǐ: floods and droughts had reduced the land to ruin; her husband, unable to support himself, secretly pocketed a handsome sum and sold her to a boatman. That a desperate man might abandon his wife was already indefensible — but to covet the surplus price and push her into prostitution: could any conscience bear it?

Wishing for a moment's delay before death,

he suddenly forgot the bond of their marriage vows.

Could he truly drive his lady of the inner chambers

to paint her face and serve men with a smile?

So he sold the woman to the boatman, claiming she was to be a wife. Later, arriving at a certain place, they found several other women there — all of good family, all having been lured in previously as wives or concubines. The woman understood at once what her situation was. She deceived the boatman, saying: "Because my husband proved worthless, I set aside some secret savings, which I left with a neighbour. Let me fetch them and we shall return home together." The greedy boatman took her back. At home she cried out to all the neighbours, declaring that he had bought a decent woman to make her a whore. At first the neighbours came to speak for her — but her husband had sold her with a signed bill of sale, and there was nothing to be done. She could only spend money to bribe local ruffians; she could not recover her own person. Returning to the boatman, she faced beatings and humiliations of every kind.

Like a bird already caged,

stretching its wings — to whom can it cry?

She rued her heartless husband

who had ruined a lady of the inner chambers.

This woman had spirit. Unable to endure such abuse, she died with her grievance unspoken. At the moment of death, her breath coiled out like a serpent and passed through the door. Some time later a physician dreamed of a woman who begged to accompany him on his journey. Waking, he could make nothing of it. Setting out on the road, he came across a shed snakeskin — black with white markings. He collected it and put it in his medicine chest. Two days into his journey, as he was crossing a river, he heard a rattling from the chest. He opened it: the shed skin had become a living snake, which flew out of the box and crossed the river on its own. He was still marvelling when he heard a commotion on the opposite bank: someone had suddenly been set upon by a snake that had bitten him by the throat and coiled around him; now both man and snake lay dead. The physician inquired after the man's character. People said: "He once sold his wife into a life on the water. She suffered dishonour and died of grief. This must be that reckoning." The physician thought of the woman in his dream — she must have been that wife. She had transformed herself into a shed skin so that he would carry her in his chest; she had ridden along with him to seek out her husband and exact revenge.

Her pent-up spirit became a serpent;

clinging to a stranger, she returned to her hometown.

She killed the faithless husband —

and only then did her life's hatred find its end.

There was another case. A woman of the pleasure quarters, surnamed Mù, given name Qióngjíong. She had originally been a girl of good family — indeed a family of some distinction. Her first marriage had been a match of mutual happiness. But her father-in-law, shunning the fields and ignorant of commerce, had once had some money in the family — which was then lured away by a gang of scoundrels into government supply schemes. Such dealings as dyes and lacquers, tea and wax, raw silk and padded garments — all carried double profits, it was said. One drew government silver, paid for goods, and siphoned off the surplus: a fine business, people reckoned. Once a man smells profit, the foolish are easily swayed. He had a little money; they made him a backer. First they fixed up an official to manage the forwarding; he himself played the merchant. They went to press influential connections, made payments to the clerks in the relevant offices. Once the connection came through, the assignment was confirmed and the silver disbursed — but the officials skimmed their cut, at least twenty percent. The treasury clerks needed to be kept from looking too closely — another ten percent for that. Once the goods were supplied, the forwarding officer and his men could hardly be expected to go without; the clerks too had their shares. All told, on a consignment of a thousand measures, five hundred might be genuine goods and five hundred pure profit-skimming. Yet the incidental expenses had already consumed three or four hundred taels. Moreover, the bribes and fees had to be paid in a lump sum, while the consignments often came in four or five instalments. In the first and second rounds, one rarely received the full supply budget for purchasing goods. And since the costs were heavy and one could not meet them alone, borrowing at interest became necessary. These ruffians who had joined the venture expected the whole household to feed them. In the yamens, their behind-the-scenes deductions all flowed out of the consignment funds — all out of the backer's pocket. After a venture or two, a corrupt official would turn a blind eye; a scrupulous one would demand full inspection and delivery. If one had money and connections, one could produce the silver. Nephews or sons managing the purchasing themselves — that was manageable. But front-heavy and back-empty operations inevitably led to borrowing at heavy interest, awaiting the next consignment to repay. If one worked alone or was not shrewd at business, and entrusted these scoundrels to do the buying, the goods purchased would inevitably be shoddy and overpriced. Pigments, lacquer, and tung oil adulterated; red and yellow lead substituted; tea with cheap leaves hidden under fine; wax with false mixed in; padded coats of thin coarse cloth; raw silk with heavyweights used as samples and the rest all loose and worthless — everything depended on the yamen's protection. Then came the inspections, the weighing and assaying — each step cost money, and every fraction came out of the consignment funds. If by luck the goods were delivered and there were no mishaps in transit, and if the costs could be scraped together and the upper and lower offices kept conveniently blind — perhaps it might pass. If one then met with a vigilant superior who kept a keen eye on the stores and insisted on proper verification, the false could not be passed off as genuine, and the consignment could not be submitted. Between the costs in the capital and the dunning and comparison fees at home, concealment became necessary. So one scheme might cover a silk consignment by adding a dye consignment, and before the first was complete, a second delivery would be contracted, covering the new with the old, the later with the earlier. The arrears deepened day by day, the shortfall grew, and in the end there had to be a reckoning.

Digging flesh to plug a sore —

the hole grows larger by the day.

A body buried in snow

must melt and be revealed when the sun comes.

After long delay, when the forwarded accounts were already incomplete and the purchased goods still not arrived, the tally came due. Those officials and clerks who had pocketed their cuts had long since risen and moved on — there was nowhere to lay the blame. Those who had taken bribes still needed to be appeased — no one dared expose them. The idle ruffians who had eaten and lived at one's expense were all empty-handed; household expenses had been immense and there was nothing saved. Credit and pawning were exhausted; the authorities pressed their demands without cease; and so fields were sold, property mortgaged, relatives implicated, the man himself died in prison, and wife and children were scattered.

In profit, harm lies always hidden —

how could the dull and foolish have known?

The decision was made in a single moment;

the disaster endured without end.

The Mù Qióngjíong household had been ruined in precisely this manner. Her husband spent his days in silks and fine food, eating and wearing what the consignment money brought — and in the end died the death that the consignment money brought. Property exhausted, relatives all implicated, the man dead, the family destroyed. Mù Qióngjíong, who had not been married even a year and had barely tasted any happiness, was sold by the authorities.

How brief is joy —

I had barely tasted it before calamity overwhelmed me.

The authorities care only for silver;

what does it matter who they sell her to?

Poor Qióngjíong — she fell into the floating world. Mù was itself a surname of the pleasure-quarter folk; Qióngjíong was a pleasure-house name. Once she had lost her virtue, she gave herself to song and laughter, to selling smiles and flattering guests — and became fully one of that sisterhood.

She raised her wine-cup in apparent mirth, yet wept within.

To whom could she entrust her heart, her very gall?

Flowers without a master — from whoever's hand to be plucked;

how many springs of two or three months can they boast?

Qióngjíong drifted to Jinling and took up her trade. Fortunately she was uncommonly beautiful, and her character was lively and perceptive. She also retained a certain quality of the inner chambers — none of the coarse, oily mannerisms of the quarter. Thus those who knew nothing of such matters were drawn to her beauty and charmed by her gentleness; even the connoisseurs accorded her a certain refinement. Moreover, in her grief, she improvised a few lines of verse which, imperfect as they were, had a shape to them. With a little guidance from others, what came from her lips was called poetry, and she acquired a reputation for it. And so what had begun as a clientele of rough merchants and common men gradually came to include a few sons of wealthy families, and from them in turn a scattering of literary men.

Both phoenix and crow nest in the same boughs;

morning white lead and evening rouge — painted as occasion demands.

The moon's light falls on ten thousand rivers equally;

its pure radiance cannot linger in any one home.

Her name spread. At first the madam kept a close watch on her: when she refused clients, she was forced; when she didn't know how to set a price, she was taught. Now the days passed and there was never a gap — men willingly brought out their own money, and private gifts needed no soliciting. But Mù Qióngjíong was a clever woman and often reflected: "I am a daughter of a good family who suffered the misfortune of family disaster and lost myself in this dust. In the secret of my heart, I find it shameful and hateful. Now while my years are young and my looks are still fine, I can attract several men — yet which among them truly knows my heart? They all come for my beauty. In the end, when beauty fades, they will go. If I do not use this time to find someone on whom I can depend for the rest of my life, what will become of me in the end?"

The morning hibiscus is not always fair;

the evening market grows bitter and still.

When old, she married a merchant —

and even the merchant thought little of her.

In receiving guests, she applied her whole heart to the task. The impoverished scribblers who wielded their brushes — they were not men who would spend money on women.

The mountain hermits and ink-soaked scholars — they only wanted to sponge off people's money. How would they have money for her to sponge? She welcomed them warmly, let them spread her name and establish her reputation. The brass-smelling, pot-bellied merchants — people she privately despised — she managed with a show of dignity, extracting some money from them to appease the madam. The silk-stockinged idlers and misers were not to her inner liking either, but she wove a net of false affection around them, coaxing out money to fill her own purse — a scheme for gathering coin. As for those with genuine feeling — she could not bring herself to fail them. Those with chivalrous spirit she was most willing to help. Naïve newcomers to the quarter, or sturdy, dependable men — these she would engage with her whole heart, putting in both feeling and effort, hoping to find someone for her life's reliance. Yet such things are hard to arrange in this world. The ones she deemed handsome and spirited in appearance, eloquent and impressive in speech — these tended, when one knew them better, to be men who loved variety and could not settle on one. The ones who seemed measured and composed, courteous and modest — these, on closer acquaintance, proved spineless and without vigour. She wanted a solitary man, one without other ties, to live as husband and wife to old age — that was Qióngjíong's wish. Among the unmarried clients of some age there were a few bachelors. But those who had family property invariably wished to make her a concubine. When she fixed on a man who seemed gentle and lovable, it turned out there was a vicious jealous wife at home who could make life miserable. When she chose a bold, easy-mannered man who didn't seem bound by his wife, he turned out to have little interest in family responsibilities and less in sentiment. And so she drifted through more than a year without finding a single man.

There is no perfect person under heaven;

flaws and virtues do not cancel each other out.

To seek a mate without blemish —

how could the wish ever be fulfilled?

Qióngjíong reflected: "I am already nearing twenty. Another few years and the flower will be past, the person aged. There will be men picking over me — I will not be the one doing the picking." She began to feel a certain urgency. Then, unexpectedly, she met a young man from Zuìlǐ. His surname was Dǒng, and he was just twenty years old. He had lost his parents early and had never married. He worked for his maternal uncle, a silk and satin broker named Tán Jìnqiáo. He was handsome in person and quick in manner. That year, business from Fujian and Guangdong had been slow. Tán Jìnqiáo and a business associate, Mǎ Xiǎozhōu, asked him to take some patterned and plain light silks down to Nanjing to sell; Dǒng Yīguān went along to look after things. Dǒng also brought about ten or so taels of his own capital.

The waves stirred the Golden Hills;

mist bore the swallows into flight.

The road beneath Stone City's walls —

the reeds clothed men in green.

In Nanjing, business was brisk. In ten-odd days more than half the goods were sold, and they began buying Nanjing machine-soft crepe and gauze, waiting only to sell off the remaining stock before heading home. One day the two of them changed their headbands and put on wide-sleeved gowns, and went to try their luck at the pleasure quarters. They landed at the Mù establishment. Just then a certain young gentleman who had an appointment with Qióngjíong had been invited elsewhere by an elder of his father's generation and could not come; he had sent a page to convey his apologies and was seeing the boy to the door. The two parties met on the step. Each found the other interesting. Mù Qióngjíong looked at Dǒng Yīguān — he still reddened slightly at being seen, and she knew at once he was a novice, an honest man — which made her all the keener on him. In the polite exchange of pleasantries, she asked his honourable name. He fumbled for a while and offered a courtesy name: "A base character, Wénfǔ." Mǎ Xiǎozhōu trumpeted on his behalf that he was from a great family in western Zhejiang; Qióngjíong recognised a fellow provincial. Dǒng Yīguān began to think of lingering. Mǎ Xiǎozhōu knew his companion had a few taels in his pocket, and being eager to please the young relative of his business partner, helped to encourage the visit and contributed toward the tab. Qióngjíong was drawn to the young man, and besides had no other client that evening — so she kept him.

The lad coveted the lady's beauty;

the lady doted on the lad's youth.

Their feelings set like lacquer and glue —

so entwined they forgot the hour.

Over wine, Qióngjíong, suspecting Dǒng Wénfǔ was a young bachelor, deliberately tested him, asking: "How many sons has Mr. Dǒng?" Dǒng Wénfǔ could not bring himself to say he had no wife, and answered evasively: "Married not long ago — no children yet." Qióngjíong said: "A newlywed, and willing to leave her behind?" Dǒng Wénfǔ's parents were already dead, but he invented: "My widowed mother is at home to keep her company." She asked: "What business brings you here?" Dǒng Wénfǔ, reflecting to himself that she was a woman of the pleasure quarters, that he had no education, and that pretending to be a student would only give her cause to laugh at him, said instead: "I lost my father early and left school. I have only been in commerce. Just now, by chance, I have come along with a relative, bringing some silks here to sell." Qióngjíong, seeing that he did not put on the airs of a student or licentiate, and was honest about being a merchant, was all the more delighted by his straightforwardness. That night she was genuinely warm with him, and he was thoroughly attentive. Dǒng Wénfǔ said, after the manner of a young man with money: "Tomorrow I'll send over some silk for a dress — whatever you like." But it was Qióngjíong who demurred: "A house like this is not easy to visit often. There is no need for you to waste money — true acquaintance does not depend on such things. I have had people booked for days on end and have had no free moment. When I am free, I will send for you." After that, Dǒng Wénfǔ came often to look in; Qióngjíong was busy but always managed to sit and chat with him a while. When she had time, she sent someone to fetch him, produced her own money for the bill and lodging.

Her feeling found its proper home, like a wren in its nest;

with warmth she sent for him, unhooking the jade pendant.

Not like the goddess of Wū Gorge —

who revels in her cloud-and-rain trysts morn after morn.

In Dǒng Wénfǔ's mind, he supposed that Qióngjíong admired him for his looks and youth, not guessing her deeper purpose. Between the pillows, Dǒng Wénfǔ still relied on his physical talents to please her. But Qióngjíong gave him her honest heart, saying: "My family was originally from Zhejiang. Because my uncle defaulted on government silver and my husband was implicated and died, I was sold by the authorities. At the time my mother was widowed and my young brother helpless — no one could come to my rescue. Every day I spend here is like a year. My original intention was to find a hero who could give me something to depend on for the rest of my life, and I have not found one. And so whenever I meet someone from our province, I treat them with especial warmth. I have wished to send word to my elderly mother, and my close friends are already borrowing to accumulate funds for when she comes to redeem me. Then I can work to pay off what I owe, plainly and honestly, and find a man to be my husband. If you would show compassion, I entrust you with this matter." At that time Dǒng Wénfǔ was indeed unmarried and honestly desired her. He said: "If you truly wish to leave the floating world, I will stay here to help you redeem yourself and take you back to Zhejiang, where you can be reunited with your mother. Sending letters could spare you that extra trouble."

Soft words murmured against the pillow-screen —

how unexpected to meet so young a man of valour.

He will not grudge the gold to redeem this beauty;

even Wénjī should be freed from the stench of captivity.

Qióngjíong said: "When I was sold by the authorities, the price was four thousand cash. After changing hands several times, I am worth already over two hundred taels. Nothing less than three hundred would secure my release now. I can manage a little more than half; if I had a hundred taels more, it could be settled." Dǒng Wénfǔ said: "Let me think it over." He went back and discussed it with Mǎ Xiǎozhōu: "What if we used the proceeds from selling the goods to help redeem her? Once she earns it back, I'd have gotten a woman for free." Mǎ Xiǎozhōu said: "That would be using your uncle's money to buy yourself a cuckold's wife. I can't advise that." The silver was in Mǎ Xiǎozhōu's keeping and there was nothing Dǒng could do. At Qióngjíong's he could only plead that the goods hadn't sold yet.

As luck would have it, Mǎ Xiǎozhōu was a man fond of pretty boys. He spotted a fetching lad from a barbershop and bought the boy for himself, often keeping him at their lodgings. One day, after collecting payments from several accounts amounting to thirty or fifty taels, Mǎ Xiǎozhōu pocketed the money and vanished without a trace. There was then an unexpected visitor: an acquaintance of the city's Censor, who claimed that over a hundred taels of his silver had been stolen by a page — and that the page had been a regular drinking companion of Mǎ Xiǎozhōu's, who must have been in on it. The Censor had both of them arrested and threatened with flogging and the screw press. They could only admit to the boy's having regularly been summoned to the barbershop, but denied any conspiracy. The Censor first had them held pending recovery, then ordered them to make restitution. The remaining goods were sold at a loss, and the ones already in pawn were redeemed to settle the debt. The two of them were stripped clean.

Beauty is a magnet for calamity;

fools fall into a clever man's trap.

When it was over and he went to see Qióngjíong, Dǒng Wénfǔ said: "I have fallen into this calamity — all the goods are pawned, and I cannot return home. The matter of redeeming you must wait until I go back and come again." Qióngjíong consoled him warmly and in secret provided him with travel money. As the saying goes, desperation sharpens the mind. Mǎ Xiǎozhōu, learning of the close bond between Qióngjíong and Dǒng Wénfǔ and knowing she had money set aside for her redemption, devised a scheme with Dǒng Wénfǔ. While Dǒng was at the Mù house, a letter arrived saying his wife had taken a chill and died, and asking him to return home at once. Dǒng Wénfǔ — not knowing from whom he was supposed to be crying — wept and wailed theatrically. This was a trick: Dǒng Wénfǔ had no wife but wanted one; the fiction of a dead wife was designed to hook Qióngjíong's heart. Then, as if thinking aloud, he said: "I don't mind going back, but I have goods pawned here — if I leave them, and the timing slips two or three months, the market will turn. What to do?" He pretended to deliberate, then said: "If I could get a hundred taels to redeem them, I'd have two hundred taels when I got home." This too was calculated to move Qióngjíong subtly. So she kept Dǒng Wénfǔ to comfort him in his grief. Dǒng played his part, speaking of his wife's devotion and her many virtues, sighing without end. Qióngjíong probed: "Go home and find yourself another good woman." Dǒng Wénfǔ replied: "No one at home will be there to care for me — I'll certainly need to remarry. But there is something I must say: I have been most generously treated by you. I have heard that you wish to leave this life. I dared not openly propose to redeem you myself — a merchant like me, how could I presume to take a concubine? And how would it be proper to ask you to be my concubine? But now my wife is dead. If you would not disdain me, I'll go home and make arrangements, then come back to redeem you. I was worried the market might turn, so I wouldn't want to be gone more than a month — I will surely come back. I will not break my word." Qióngjíong had always harboured the hope of marrying Wénfǔ. Hearing that his wife was dead, she was secretly overjoyed; when he proposed to redeem her as his next wife, her face was all smiles. She said: "To redeem your goods you'll need a hundred taels or so, and to redeem me another three hundred — and your household has just had a funeral. How can you possibly manage?" Dǒng Wénfǔ replied: "Keep this. I'll go home and sell the land and come back to redeem you. That silver is still mine." Qióngjíong said: "Selling land takes time — better you take it." Late that night, under the bed, she dug up two small wine flasks, containing whole and loose coins that together came to over a hundred and eighty taels. She told him to take them out to redeem the goods and then set off for home. She also handed him some gold and jewellery worth about forty or fifty taels, saying he should find a way to exchange them for cash and add them to the sum. Qióngjíong implored him ten thousand times; Dǒng Wénfǔ swore ten thousand oaths: "I will return the moment I arrive home."

Urge upon urge, reminder upon reminder —

reminder upon reminder, voices never ceasing.

Above stretches the clear, clear sky;

within burns a feeling that cannot be concealed.

My heart is stone — it will not move.

Do not let cold come to this vow.

I lean on the balustrade and watch the lone boat go;

on bent fingers I count the days of the journey home.

I count on it: when the fallen blossoms come,

you will take my hand and walk with me.

From that day forward, Mù Qióngjíong was utterly resolved, her thoughts anchored on Dǒng Wénfǔ. The tiresome old creditors and coarse common men — she received none of them. When a well-monied young man came her way, she would knock him gently a time or two while her heart stayed with Dǒng Wénfǔ, keeping house in her imagination. She was truly in a daze, dreaming of him day and night. She did not know that upon arriving home, Tán Jìnqiáo said: "Those two stirred up that whole mess — it was through my connections that it was finally resolved, and the cost was shared." They sold the goods: Qióngjíong's original one hundred and eighty taels, plus the gold and jewellery, came to over two hundred — but by the time they arrived, it was barely a hundred and eighty taels. He had originally said he would make up the difference at home — but relying on his uncle for his livelihood, where was there anything to make up? Rather than go back to Nanjing, where the original sum was now short and it would be awkward to show his face, he decided it was simpler to be faithless: take forty or fifty taels, find a wife, keep the remaining hundred or so as working capital, and get on with his life. But that money of Mù Qióngjíong — what sort of money was it? With what heart had she entrusted it to him! He should have gone back to discuss things with her; he had no right simply to look after himself.

Her heart she sent with the golden gift, entrusted;

she asked only that he not betray her.

Yet when did a word reach her, some news arrive?

In vain she watches the drifting tumbleweed.

Mù Qióngjíong, expecting to leave the life within a month or two at most, received clients without enthusiasm — which gave rise to several unpleasant scenes. The days went by, yet there was no sign of a Dǒng Wénfǔ. She sent a page to make enquiries; not a word of him. She sought divination and consulted fortune-tellers — whether the verdict was good or ill, nothing was reliable. She could speak of longing for a lone old man; she could not speak of longing for him to come and redeem her. All she could do was weep in secret, sigh in the still hours, beat the bed and pound the pillow, cursing the faithless wretch — to no avail. She often told herself: that money — who knows how much face I lost, how many stratagems I employed to coax it bit by bit from men. How could I so lightly hand it to this heartless one? He took that money — who knows if he used it to get another woman, or to fritter it away on wine and flowers elsewhere, while I laboured for nothing to give him his stake. The proverb says: wealth and life are bound together. My wealth was stolen; I cannot ransom myself from this life. What rage, what shame, what fury! And worst of all — suffering known only to oneself, with no one to tell — she fell gradually into a despairing illness.

Gold — an empty chest now.

The faithless one will not return.

Clear tears in the wine among the flowers.

No words — only private grief.

For a woman of the pleasure quarters, what keeps clients coming is good looks and a pleasant disposition. Once illness set in, her beauty faded. Once illness set in, her temperament turned unpredictable. Moreover, each time she sent someone to inquire — the first time nothing; the next time, news that he had always been a poor man dependent on his uncle, but that recently, somehow, money had come his way and he had taken a wife, and was doing a lively trade in Suzhou and Hangzhou selling silk from Zhèn Lake. Since Dǒng Wénfǔ had been gone so long, Qióngjíong had still told herself: after the way I treated him, the trust I placed in him — surely he would not betray it. Perhaps his family could not raise the money all at once, or something went wrong on the road — hence the delay. But when it came to his having a wife and doing well — that was plainly faithlessness. Even a Buddha would have been angered. She grew distracted and agitated: blank in her responses, discomposed in her bearing. Others did not understand and thought merely that she was haughty and inattentive to guests. In less than a year, clients grew rare; even her sister in the house stopped showing her courtesy, and the madam ceased coming to look after her. Her illness fed on anxiety; within half a year she died.

The spring flower does not stay long in bloom —

how much less when battered by wind and rain.

What was beautiful on the bough at dawn

is soil at the root before dusk.

She died with her mind clear till the end. She herself had set aside money for a shroud and coffin — but who was there to feel the tenderness of knowing her pain and tending to her in death?

The willow by the embankment sways, dependent;

it bends for whoever's hand comes to pluck it.

Who was there to plant and nurture it?

It withers old in a roadside ditch.

The spirit of Mù Qióngjíong was not extinguished. She often appeared in bodily form. The Mù household, uneasy with the ghost in the rooms, moved away, and the house changed tenants several times. A man eventually rented it as a lodging house for travelling merchants. One night, a guest named Bǔ Shǎoquán was staying there. Toward evening, he heard a rustling outside the paper window, as of someone walking, followed by faint sounds of sighing and grievance. The moonlight was dim. Bǔ Shǎoquán quietly moistened the paper window and poked a small hole with his fingertip. He peered through and saw a woman:

Wearing a jacket of apricot-coloured fabric,

slender as a swaying branch, her waist a narrow wisp.

Ravens at her temples shimmering green;

askew the golden hairpin, glowing red.

Jade skin pale beside the coral of her lips —

she pressed her finger toward those cherry-mouth lips.

Feeling upon feeling, she breathed a soft sigh,

exhaled it faintly — and moved another man's very soul.

— To the tune of "Dot of Scarlet Lips"

Bǔ Shǎoquán thought she must be one of the inner-household women who had come out to take the air and admire the moon; he dared not disturb her. Looking closely, he saw she was quite beautiful, and bore an air of quiet distress. After a while she drifted away, and Bǔ Shǎoquán found himself tossing and turning the whole night without sleep. The next day he saw her again, walking slowly in the same melancholy fashion. Could she be waiting for someone she had arranged to meet here? She waited a long time and no one came; the woman departed on her own. Bǔ Shǎoquán thought: "This woman has the look of someone pining in spring — alone. Tomorrow I will try to court her." On the third evening he listened for her approach, intending to wait for her to appear and then engage her. Just as he was wondering, he heard slender fingers tapping at the door. He opened it — and the woman walked straight in. Bǔ Shǎoquán was as pleased as if he had found a precious gem; he quickly bolted the door and reached out to embrace her. The woman said: "I have come especially to keep you company — do not be hasty." The two of them took each other's hands and sat together on the bed.

Two mandarin ducks alighting as a pair;

a lotus grown from a double stem.

The spring breeze stirred the gauze curtains —

joy unbounded as a village dog's bark.

Bǔ Shǎoquán wasted no pleasantries; he began at once to help the woman undress to her inner garments, then stripped himself, and they tumbled together into the bed — more than words can describe. He asked: "Are you one of the inner-household ladies?" She said: "I am the master's concubine. My master has no sons, so I have come especially to seek seed. I will come each evening at dusk and leave at the fifth watch, to keep you company. Tell no one."

Bǔ Shǎoquán sealed this in his heart — a needle could not have drawn it out. Each evening he could barely wait for her to come; he would crane his neck at the door in eager watch.

The slender crescent floats on the Milky Way;

a light breeze stirs the brocade robe.

The Herd Boy waits by the riverbank —

wishing he could borrow Lǔ Yáng's lance to make the sun stand still.

A month or so passed in this fashion. Bǔ Shǎoquán's business was done; he deliberately lingered a few more days. That evening when the woman arrived, she said: "Sir, your business is finished — if you do not leave, won't people grow suspicious?" Bǔ Shǎoquán said: "You are right that I should go — only I cannot bear to leave the beauty." The woman said: "I will go with you." Bǔ Shǎoquán started in alarm: "That would hardly be convenient. Not to mention my wife at home, who may not accept you. To travel together on the road is risky — any whisper of a scandal and the trouble would be severe. You spoke of seeking seed — the seed has been sown. Even if it hasn't been, we can try again next time." The woman said: "Speak of a next time — I have been deceived enough by such words. Do not be frightened — I have something to tell you."

To clear a lifetime's grievance,

she must raise once more past sorrows.

The green of her brows knitted halfway;

crimson-edged, twin tears fell.

"Are you from Jiaxing?" Bǔ Shǎoquán said: "I am from Jiaxing." She asked: "At the silk and satin brokerage outside North Gate, is there a man named Dǒng Wénfǔ?" Bǔ Shǎoquán said: "There is. His house is no more than half a li from mine." The woman said: "Then it is perfect." Bǔ Shǎoquán said: "Can it be that you had some dealings with him before?" She said: "Indeed." At the mention of his name, her delicate brows shot up and her bright eyes blazed with fury. She said: "I am no concubine of any household. I am a woman of the floating world, surnamed Mù, given name Qióngjíong. I was originally of good family but lost my virtue through misfortune, and I sought a way to redeem myself and return to my home. When I first met this man, I felt a bond of provincial kinship and was drawn to his youth; I opened my heart to him entirely. But this wretch repaid me with faithlessness — he tricked me out of over two hundred taels of silver and goods, and went away never to return. My savings were gone, my body still enslaved, and I died in this very room of grief and bitterness." At these words, Bǔ Shǎoquán's face went the colour of ash — he could find no way out. The woman said: "Do not be afraid — I will not harm you. But this man took my money, married a wife, and set up a business. This grievance will not be cleared unless I settle it. I want to ask you to take me along and help me find him for my revenge; I will repay you handsomely." Bǔ Shǎoquán could not close his mouth. The woman said: "I will certainly not harm you. Only tomorrow, buy a spirit-tablet and write upon it 'The spirit of Mù Qióngjíong'; place it in your travel chest. Hire a private boat, and at night when you call my name, I will come out to accompany you. Beneath the ground outside this room, I have hidden fifty taels of silver — money I had set aside, waiting for that wretch to come and make up the redemption price. Now I give it to you." She took Bǔ Shǎoquán to dig, and indeed fifty taels were found. Bǔ Shǎoquán was overjoyed and no longer feared her at all.

Revealed from where it lay beneath the earth,

the wealth becomes provision for the traveller.

She clings to the tail of a fine horse —

and flies lightly westward toward Zhejiang.

Bǔ Shǎoquán collected the silver and the two of them kept their uncanny company through the night. The next day he duly bought a wooden tablet, wrote the inscription, and at Shuǐxī Gate hired a small rocking boat. By evening, arriving at Lóngjiāng Pass, he softly called her name — and she answered. Fearing the boatman might notice, they dared not speak. Travelling on, as they neared Jiaxing, late one night Mù Qióngjíong murmured softly to Bǔ Shǎoquán: "I thank you for bringing me. From here we part forever." Bǔ Shǎoquán reached out quickly — and at once there was no one beside him.

Tender words still lingered like cotton threads;

yet the pillow-side held no lovely person.

Only the fragrant traces remained,

and fresh powder marks on his cheek.

Home he went, and was reunited with his wife. His wife, unpacking his luggage, found a spirit-tablet. He explained: "This is a goddess. In Nanjing I dreamed of her, and she told me to dig and I found fifty taels of silver. She also said: 'If you make offerings to me sincerely, I will make your business flourish.' Light incense and candles and set her up in the small room beside the house." His wife needed no second urging and installed it at once with all proper care. The moment she finished and stepped out to the front of the house, she heard people saying: "Dǒng Wénfǔ has seen a ghost — he is dead on the spot. And Mǎ Xiǎozhōu has been so badly frightened he has collapsed to the ground and is being carried home." Bǔ Shǎoquán hurried to see what had happened.

It was as follows: Dǒng Wénfǔ had conspired with Mǎ Xiǎozhōu to defraud Mù Qióngjíong of her silver. They had covered the cost of their lawsuit with that money; the remainder Dǒng had kept, used it to start a business, and taken a wife. Later, when his uncle's son failed to make anything of himself, Dǒng took over the brokerage and opened the firm at North Gate — doing a thriving trade. That day, Dǒng Wénfǔ was sitting idly chatting with Mǎ Xiǎozhōu and several buying clients. A woman in a pale red jacket walked up to the counter. The others saw nothing; only Dǒng and Mǎ Xiǎozhōu could see her, and took her for a singing girl. But as she drew right up close, they looked carefully and saw it was Mù Qióngjíong. A shock went through him. Qióngjíong seized him: "Faithless wretch! Today I have finally found you." Dǒng Wénfǔ cried out: "I was faithless! Have mercy on me, elder sister!" And through all seven orifices of his face fresh blood began to flow, and he fell dead to the ground.

A years-long grievance at last finds voice —

though even arriving now, the reprisal came late.

When enemies meet, will they show forgiveness?

Can one bear to spare this heartless man?

Mǎ Xiǎozhōu recognised Qióngjíong; he did not know whether she was dead or alive. Remembering the wine he had drunk and the good times at her house, he thought he was on familiar enough terms to come and intervene. He looked — Qióngjíong had already vanished; Dǒng Wénfǔ was already dead. He cried out over and over: "What retribution! What retribution!" — and in his terror fell backward to the ground. When the crowd revived him, he told them: "That same Dǒng Wénfǔ and I were in Nanjing once, where we patronised a certain young woman called Mù Qióngjíong. Qióngjíong loved him for his youth and practically paid him to stay with her, intending to marry him. She gave him silver and jewellery — over two hundred taels — and asked him to save up for her redemption. But Wénfǔ returned home and could not raise the money, so he simply never went back. He used her silver to set up house. I suppose the poor girl, her silver gone and her freedom unattained, died of despair. Just now I saw a woman approach — she looked exactly like Qióngjíong. She seized Wénfǔ and I tried to intervene, but in an instant Qióngjíong was gone and Wénfǔ was dead. Clearly a ghost came to take its revenge and carry him off bodily. As for me — seeing a ghost in broad daylight means I have not long myself." The crowd murmured and exclaimed at one another, saying Wénfǔ had been faithless. Mǎ Xiǎozhōu went home; the Dǒng household prepared for burial.

Accumulated grievance will surely find release —

and yet the reckoning came late even when it came.

Could one who had been so faithless

hope to escape and still face the world with pride?

When Bǔ Shǎoquán heard all this, his hair stood on end. He went home and called to the spirit-tablet — a thousand calls, ten thousand calls — but she did not appear. Her revenge was complete; she was gone. Bǔ Shǎoquán, in gratitude for her feeling, and grateful for her gift, and also more than a little in awe of her lethal power, set her up as a household deity and did not dare be negligent. With that money as working capital, his livelihood gradually grew comfortable. Dǒng Wénfǔ, for his part, had taken Qióngjíong's money home, built a household, clasped wife and children to his breast, and given not a thought to her bitter, pent-up grievance. Yet when her one undimmed spirit came following in the footsteps of a stranger to find him — even what he had obtained through her he could not enjoy.

He got these windfall goods

and traded well enough on them.

Yet there in the green tower above —

a painted brow that could not unfurrow.

I say: what binds people to each other is feeling; what one must honour is trust. She herself was ashamed of her fallen state and wanted to escape it — that makes her a worthy woman. And she had given him the whole of her heart — what a feeling that was! If he had no distaste for her low station and truly meant to marry her, and had the means to make it possible, he should have done his utmost on her behalf. If his heart was not in it or he lacked the means, he should have told her honestly and not deceived her. When she entrusted her money to him, the inability to fulfil the task was all the more reason to decline. How could he take it to rescue himself in a moment of need and then never think of her again? Day after day she strained her eyes and broke her heart, and where was his word and his honour? He lived happily at home while she languished in sorrow, until she died of despair. The wrong was plain in the world of men; reproach came from the world of ghosts. He had driven her to her death — how could she forgive him? Perhaps his accumulated luck was not yet exhausted, and the moment for retribution had not yet arrived — which was the only reason he had a moment's borrowed reprieve. Thus the serpent of the Zhejiang woman, and the ghost of Mù Qióngjíong — these things follow inevitably from principle, inevitably from the nature of events. Were it otherwise, would not every faithless person in the world count it a success?