Chapter Fourteen: Too Impatient to Face a New Beginning, She Shames Herself at the Grave — Unimpoverished Through It All, He Carries Off the Highest Honours

A mound of earth at Kuàijī —

all who see it feel a lingering shame.

Poverty and low station are the common lot;

why nurse such bitter resentment?

When the moment came, she could not wait —

stumbling, she fell among hawks and kites.

A wind-blown flower at the foot of the wall —

how could she ever find her branch again?

In vain she ended in a roadside ditch,

too ashamed to be recorded by the red brush.

I wish to engrave this counsel in the marriage bed:

take heed, all you men and women of the world!

Not even men can see clearly through the turns of wealth and station. Hence the grinding poverty of cold studies, the melancholy songs in desolate lodgings, and yet men still submit three memorials to the throne and knock on great men's gates again and again. When fame competes and profit contends, how many men tie their caps and bind their seals together? Before a single examination has been sat, each hopes the other's shoulders are stiff and his recommendations strong; no one remembers classmates or fellow-students. Once a single vacancy appears, each wishes to seize it first and get in ahead of the rest; no one remembers fellow graduates or shared offices. That brooding over one's age and low position already turns friends cold toward one another. A wife faithful through poverty — the moment a husband shows some distinction, he takes a concubine and flaunts his indulgence; some even push their original wives into open enmity. Is this heartlessness toward one's partner also somehow justified?

As for Jìn's Prince of Kuàijī, Dàozǐ, and Sòng's chief minister Cài Jīng — their dominance by power drove fathers against sons and brothers into enmity. Consider too those men who cannot abide poverty and low station: which of them is truly willing to serve the state?

Years bent over a cold study window,

knowing only how to scheme for purple and crimson sashes.

The moment ambition finds room to breathe,

no thought is given to the shame left in the annals.

Such discontent with humble station becomes a canker in the five human bonds. Take Wáng Dūn and Huán Xuán: violating all principles of honour, plotting rebellion and usurpation — first killing trusted colleagues, then overawing the sovereign himself; and in the end their ancestral sacrifices were cut off, wives, children, brothers, and entire clans exterminated. In seeking to glorify themselves, they brought ruin upon themselves; in wishing to do well, they destroyed themselves — all springing from that restless ambition: the hero's heart that does not age, the aspiration that will not rest, the lament that one is old and overlooked, the father's dream of ruling nine provinces, the son's dream of holding five lakes.

Since ancient times, the paths of Shun and Robber Zhì diverged

only at the crossroads of righteousness and self-interest.

Go even a little wrong at that turning

and you are no better than a beast wearing human clothes.

As for women — they read little and seldom grasp great principles. How could they possess great insight or great steadiness? Moreover, when hunger and cold begin to press, when one compares oneself to others and sees the disparity, when the taunts of bystanders become unbearable, when relatives grow hot and cold by turns — when she cannot pluck from the examination list the name she is waiting for, cannot shake from her husband the old blue scholar's gown, cannot rouse that long-suffering, long-unrecognised husband of hers — she may well feel there is nothing left to do but weep. How then can one ask her not to grumble and complain? Yet "death from starvation is a small thing; loss of chastity is a great thing." A living husband is there before her eyes; she goes and takes another man — has she not entirely forgotten whatever tenderness they shared day and night? She has torn decency too far asunder. That is why the wife of Zhū Mǎichén became the laughter of a thousand ages.

Poverty together is grief enough;

the bond of marriage should not be light.

The ditch-water once parted, east from west —

alas, there is no recasting that error.

In the previous dynasty there was such a case, said to be from the region of Huáinán. A man named Mò had no sons — only three daughters. Two by his first wife: one was married off to a well-to-do farmer's son in the same village, named Jiǎng, Jiǎng the Elder; one married a county clerk named Hán, Hán the Petitioner. His third daughter was born of his second wife. From birth she was of great beauty — finely arched brows, a broad forehead, white teeth and bright eyes. Everyone agreed she had good fortune written on her face. And she was skilled in all the needlework and sewing of the inner chambers; there was nothing she could not do, and she was ten parts clever. Her parents, knowing she was no ordinary man's wife, were determined to select an old-family man of letters for her. One day, the county admitted a new group of students; one of them was surnamed Sū. His grandfather had been a recommended scholar and prefectural magistrate; his father too had been a student. Though gentry, his grandfather had been an honest official and had accumulated nothing; his father had spent the first half of his life as a carefree young gentleman, disdaining commerce, and the second half as an impractical Confucian who would have liked to have been a man of business but had no idea how. The estate was nearly gone; all that remained were the books — and the scholar's stubbornness not to abandon them. So the son had read a few lines and passed the examination. Old Mò saw that this young man was presentable, from an established family, and went so far as to send matchmakers to propose that he be taken in as a live-in son-in-law. The Sū student refused — he disdained what he called a commonplace family. Mò's household pressed again and again; the matchmakers worked hard to bring the match together.

In the sandbank the paired wings of mandarin ducks interlock;

in the Qín hall, twin jade flutes are played.

The Sū family managed to put together some semblance of betrothal gifts. The mother-in-law-to-be wanted to give a generous dowry, but old Mò said: "A scholar's family dislikes ostentation. Let us give more fields later on." So the bridal outfit was only ordinary. Not long after the marriage, old Mò was suddenly struck by a palsy. The two elder daughters rushed home and, together with their husbands Jiǎng the Elder and Hán the Petitioner, helped themselves to the family property, dividing it between themselves. Hán the Petitioner occupied the house with his whole family; Jiǎng the Elder took over all the fields, collected the rent, and further harassed the mother-in-law and the young sister-in-law, alleging that all the inner valuables had been hidden away by mother and daughter and demanding they be produced for equal division. The mother-in-law pressed the young Sū student to file a complaint and claim their rights. But the old scholar said: "The books promise a house of gold; the books promise a thousand measures of grain. Why fight over such things?" The young student dared not raise his voice. Those two households, with their fields and property: in winter they lent a picul of rice and collected three or four hundred cash in summer; in summer they lent a tael of silver and received two piculs of rice in winter. With their capital gains they purchased two offices with room and board. In one year promoted, in two years assigned a post, in three years up for review — all landing in good departments. Fine clothes and proud horses; they had not a glance to spare for the impoverished scholar.

In lean years the men of substance grow fat;

in hard times the brutal clerk gains honour.

The whitebait lives happily in its ditch —

and laughs at the great Kūn fish of the northern sea.

Only old Mò's cousin Mò Fǔxuān, seeing that the Sū student was unbothered by the struggle for money and property, said: "This man will one day flourish." But in the Sū student's household, his father had now died too — funeral costs were unavoidable. Then his mother-in-law also died, and the two brothers-in-law declared: "She was his own mother-in-law — nothing to do with the rest of us." So he was left to perform the burial rites alone. He was increasingly strapped. Walls bare as Sīmǎ Xiāngrú's; purse empty as Dù Fǔ's. No income at home — he thought of taking up tutoring. Young in years, people said he was too inexperienced, not serious or dignified enough, not respected enough — no one hired him. Mò Nánxuān worked every angle to get him installed in the Zhōu Hónglú household as a study companion, at no more than five or six taels a year — at least his own food and clothing were covered. Once he arrived, he read from morning to night without cease. This wore out the Zhōu young master, who said: "Brother, I invited you out of courtesy — but you make me quite uncomfortable." He would also invite friends over to write essays; when he proposed two topics for the afternoon's composition, the afternoon was over before anyone had written a word. They called out: "Finish it tomorrow — let's have wine now." The Sū student was still over there bowing his head and thinking, when his paper and brushes were swept away. The wine had to be drunk with uninhibited singing through the night. The Sū student neither drank deeply nor could sing, and was regularly called a bore who spoiled the mood. When they invited him along to the pleasure quarters, he always made excuses, and they said he was being difficult and unsociable. If the master of the study was absent, how could a study companion sit there alone? And even sitting, the meals were inevitably irregular, the servants inevitably negligent. Without being dismissed, he was dismissed — he could not keep his footing there.

Difficult to be sober among the drunk;

the clear-eyed man is bitterly resented.

The straight tree mocks Nìngyuè's flight;

it will not mark the best place to live.

Back home, the Zhōu young master proved a good accountant of days, and sent only half the stipend. The student himself, fearing his learning would grow rusty, went again to join an examination study group. When his turn came to provide the meal, even a lame toad expects a bite when it sits among field frogs — every bit of it had to come from Mò's needlework and pawnbroking. Even for a simple meal, the Sū student would say: "Coarse rice and vegetable soup are the scholar's daily lot." But Mò would say: "Appearances must be maintained — even a small dish of meat should be found somewhere." She managed it all. Not to mention the continuous daily food and clothing, the small courtesies due to relatives — a woman managed it truly.

A Confucian is clumsy at providing;

he leans on his inner helpmate.

We have heard of the ancient sages' wives who cut the loom;

their fragrance endures and does not fade.

Shortly after entering the house, there came a period of mourning — one examination sitting was lost. When the mourning ended, the education intendant had to be called upon, which inevitably required scraping something together. Fortunately the year was one with a qualifying examination, so he did not need to face the prefecture and county, and he obtained a first-rank placement with examination eligibility. At first, full of the vigour of his humble study, he imagined holding the top graduate's prize in his hands. He sought out practice essay questions, selected model policy essays, read examination model compositions, and memorised judgment passages; night after night he did not sleep till midnight. He managed to hoodwink the woman into not letting domestic matters distract him — short of fuel, short of rice, she did not let him know by so much as a hair. She made him a Qīng fur-trimmed robe, lined trousers, and a felt coat; exchanged goods for ginseng; provided travel money for the journey to Nanjing and back — all by digging out the earth and borrowing from heaven, cutting flesh to fill holes. As the examination approached, relatives sent gifts. After the examination, relatives came to inquire. Even those two brothers-in-law who had always been cold and distant suddenly became warm. Mò was greatly pleased. When he came home from the examination, there was wine to drink every day. Idle at home, Mò calculated: the house was too small — if he passed, they would need to rent another. There was no household staff — they would need to take in a few servants. On such-and-such a day they could borrow from so-and-so. On such-and-such a matter, a certain relative was keen to help. She kept a whole day's joy perpetually on her brow. On the day results were to be announced, she went herself to sweep the front gate clean, put on a tidy everyday dress. When she saw someone on the street walking quickly, she peered out through the door crack, pulling at their sleeves but unable to get them in. By and by she heard: such-and-such a person had passed, such-and-such a person had passed — just not her husband. She grew deeply unhappy. The Sū student could only comfort her with brave words: "All this silver of eight or nine percent purity has been spent, while I still have full-weight silver — they just can't use it yet. Wait three more years."

When fortune does not smile — what can one do?

Pour wine by the small window and sing boldly.

The sword of Gān Jiāng will one day become a dragon —

keep polishing it well on the fine stone of Huá Yīn mountain.

The Sū student, having placed first in the qualifying round and gained examination eligibility, was now a man of standing — easy enough to find a teaching post. But the good posts were all taken and held tight. He managed to obtain a position of sorts, and there is an art to holding such a post. First: a wide-brimmed official umbrella and a wide sedan chair, fine clothes and a smart page. Pay calls today on such-and-such a senior teacher; tomorrow host such-and-such an eminent scholar; pull strings to get ahead in a few minor examinations; then carry that air of imposing gravity to overawe the household and cow the students so no one dares look down on you. Second: humble courtesy and care, "my humble opinion" thrice in every sentence, flattering the master, flattering the student. When correcting essays, circle every word as brilliant, praise every word as marvellous. "Your worthy son is surely destined for the highest honours; your venerable self is assuredly to be made a grandfather of officials by imperial decree." One must also put on a gracious air even before the servants who carry the meal hamper, winning everyone with soft words and sweet manner, so that no one wants to let you go. At the lowest level: be the master's hunting dog, be the students' idle hanger-on; handle lawsuits for the master, be a companion in gambling and whoring and scheming for the students — and so one can keep one's position. The Sū student was a man of genuine character; he belonged to none of these three categories. Unable either to solicit posts or to hold them, posts were abundant one year, sparse the next.

Flattery has become ingrained habit;

it cannot be restrained by rules of name and duty.

"Are you all right, are you well, venerable sir?" —

only by such arts is the purse kept full.

Fortunately the two of them did not spend much, and they managed to get by. As for the seasonal examinations and quarterly tests, these had long since become empty names with no stipend attached. Since his poverty was well-known, when a circuit or regional envoy came through, he might receive a relief packet of lamp-oil money from the school — a few coins to be squeezed from it. Struggling through one month, enduring through the next, the examination season came round again. Running the gauntlet of current connections, he was compelled to present a memorial to the prefect: "Placed first in the previous qualifying round, youthful and earnest, I humbly beg to be favourably included." The prefecture squeezed him in as one name; the circuit gave him a third-rank second place. Fortunately the examination was set early, and since one candidate ahead of him had died and another was in mourning, he was promoted a rank. Husband and wife had been despondent at not making two names; now that he had made the list, they thought their luck had turned, and they rolled up their sleeves and again hoped he might pass this time. As he set out for Nanjing, Mò said: "Once was strange, twice is familiar. This time you must certainly pass and give me something to be proud of." The Sū student said: "Certainly, certainly." As before, when the Sū student went to Nanjing for the provincial examination, he had no one at home and had to ask Mò's aunt-by-seniority to stay and keep her company; the same arrangement was made this time.

One night she sobbed in her sleep and woke herself weeping. The aunt asked why. She said: "In the dream I heard that my husband had failed, and it made me sad." The aunt said: "Death in a dream means life; misfortune means good fortune. Failing in a dream means passing." Mò was still in low spirits.

How deeply you let success or failure weigh upon your mind —

so deeply that even your soul is startled in the night.

When will he transform into a great Peng bird

and ease this woman's longing in her inner chambers?

Next day the Sū student returned home and said: "This time all three of the essay questions were ones I had practised — two of the classical texts I had composed, two more I remembered exactly. I am certain to pass." Mò said: "So the aunt's dream-reading was right. Aunt, stay a few more days and help out." In great excitement they waited for the results. But again the news went to other households. Last time Mò had wept in her dreams; now she wept in the daytime. The Sū student himself could only sigh, saying: "Three more years of failing — it seems clear." Mò stopped her weeping, straightened her brows, and glared: "How many three years does a life contain! How are we to go on like this?" And she wept again. The Sū student had been in a bad humour himself — and now to face this tormenting. He could only walk out and leave the aunt to comfort her.

Truly sunk as Sū Qín,

she wept without leaving the loom.

This made even the firm-hearted man

shed tears to wet his gauze sleeves.

From that point on, she did nothing but sigh and sulk, taking no interest in the Sū student's food and clothing. Whenever she saw him she raised the subject of poverty, and reproached him for spending money on clothes. The Sū student at this time still managed a small teaching post and spent each day at the schoolroom to avoid her. A man's spirit rises when he is encouraged, wilts when he is constantly beaten down. Beaten down at home like this, he not only lost heart in his teaching but grew slack in his exam preparations. The post ceased to be a proper post; examination matters lost all momentum. Those who had formerly paid court to him now laughed at him as a hopeless dullard. In the county qualifying exam he failed to make the list; he applied for a reprieve and scraped onto one. At the prefecture he was again left off — no appeal could fix that. For the supplementary list he lost his nerve. He wanted to use connections to get in, but was too embarrassed to tell his wife, and asked Mò Nánxuān to intercede. Mò was furious: "He won't lower himself, but he sends his uncle instead! I've already been stripped bare trying to keep up appearances. He can't fight his way out of a field of hundreds — and he still thinks he'll pass the grand examination? Spending money like that is just pouring it in the river — absolutely not." Mò Nánxuān saw he could not get through to her, and so proposed that the group collectively help. He went to see the two brothers-in-law — both pleaded poverty. The situation grew desperate; he saw Mò again and wore out his tongue. Two or three taels were scraped up from pawned items. Mò Nánxuān supplied the shortfall himself. The prefecture yielded one name; the circuit, by luck, yielded one more. This time the two brothers-in-law each contributed a share of society funds as travel money. Setting out, the Sū student roused himself and went forth like a man burning his boats. Mò too could not cut the ties of the heart entirely; she told herself the grapes would be sweet after all.

In the stone lies the priceless jade of Lián chéng;

Lù Yáng offered it three times and each time his sleeves were bloody.

The stains of blood soaked through the jacket sleeve —

if only they could bring him to pry open the hidden casket.

At home she consulted the tortoise shell and had his fortune told. Once, at the very beginning of the marriage, she had had the Sū student's fortune read: the diviner said he would pass young and rise to the highest offices. Later the predictions seemed perpetually delayed, each exam putting off to the next. This time a wandering fortune-teller said: "This man has the air of purity without distinction — he may have literary fame, but he will not attain greatness." Asked: "Will he pass this examination?" he replied: "Not certain. Not certain." This landed on Mò like a blow to the stomach, yet she did not abandon hope entirely. Then she saw the Sū student return: his composition had failed on a technicality and was rejected — he came home downcast and said nothing. And so Mò still hoped, while he himself had given up hope. Afraid of the quarrel to come, he reckoned that by the time results were posted, he could slip out again.

Standing alone on a high tower,

gazing hard as if watching for a husband.

The wild geese across the blue sky are gone;

no purple imperial letter comes.

Though the Sū student's luck in the examinations was indeed wretched, unexpectedly the woman's heart now changed completely. The previous time she had quarrelled about poverty; this time she quarrelled about not being able to endure any more. The Sū student, seeing she would not stop, deliberately used harsh words to silence her: "You keep saying you can't endure it, can't endure it — come out and say you want to remarry. I am here, alive and breathing — you cannot say you have no husband; we have three meals a day — you cannot say you are starving beyond endurance; even at my worst I am a student's household — you cannot speak words that outrage all morality and decency." Mò said: "What is there that cannot be said! Other people's husbands walk tall and proud — yours is just a bumpkin, no better than a corpse. Other households are full of life — ours is like ice. Do I endure it because I am not poor enough? Not because I want to remarry." The Sū student said: "We have kept house together for more than ten years — can you not endure just three more years?" Mò said: "Ten years I have kept faith with you — you might well spare me the favour. Three years, three years — how many three years have I been deceived into waiting? I will not listen to you again." While the quarrel was at its height, in came the brother-in-law Hán, the petitioner, come to pay his respects. He had completed two terms in office, gone to the capital to purchase advancement, served in a fire-watch room at the Ministry of Personnel, and been assigned as deputy magistrate of Xīngǎn County in Jiangxi — oil-green flower-patterned round-collar robe, quail rank patch, gauze hat, silver-mounted belt; a fringed official umbrella and a chest-carrying page crammed the room. He pulled up a broken chair, settled into it, and sent in his card. The Sū student sent back word that he was at his teaching post; Mò said she had not yet dressed her hair, and sent him away.

When the five grains fail to ripen,

weeds are better than nothing.

A sheep in tiger's skin —

even that gives off a certain shine.

Jiǎng the Elder happened to have scraped together a few taels of silver, and entrusted his brother-in-law to take them south to buy a minor official position. Hán the deputy borrowed them and in return gave him a letter patent for a private tutoring appointment, which allowed him too to go about dressed in official cap and robe, receiving calls. Mò said: "What did I tell you! Men who don't read books are the ones who get to be officials. What is the use of clinging to this vinegar pedant?" The Sū student, with no recourse, went to ask Mò Nánxuān to come and reason with her. The moment he stepped in the door, Mò began to weep: "Uncle, you have done me no kindness! You said it was good to marry a scholar — what day in ten-odd years have I had a moment of satisfaction? Only two sets of clothing, sacrificed for the qualifying examinations, pressured by uncle — I lost them trying to help him. Year after year of endless days — how am I to endure? Uncle, please be the judge. Tell him to divorce me so I can marry someone else." Mò Nánxuān said: "How can you say such a thing! To throw away one husband and take another — people will laugh at you. Have you not seen the opera about Zhū Mǎichén?" Mò said: "Governor of Kuàijī — he'll never manage that. That woman had no ambition! As for me — if he becomes rich, I will have nothing more to do with him; if he stays poor, I will have nothing more to do with him." With that she simply walked away. Mò Nánxuān could not reach her; seeing she had made up her mind entirely, he could only recite his exit lines: "Unworthy, unworthy! I shall not set foot in your door again." And went.

A heart hard as stone —

words of earnest reasoning spent for nothing.

A moment's pride is satisfied;

but what shame awaits in the written records?

Mò, seeing no resolution in sight, and unable to rest from her agitation, began threatening to hang herself. The Sū student had taken refuge in his schoolroom; the neighbours came to find him: "Mr. Sū, your wife has gone quite mad. You are at the schoolroom — if something should happen to her, we would be implicated, which puts us in a difficult position to speak, but we cannot say nothing. The situation is now like old hardened rice — you cannot press it into shape. This is her fault, not yours. Or perhaps she has no good fortune, and cannot live quietly, and perhaps you, sir, are destined for a wife of better circumstances." The Sū student reflected in silence for a long while: "Yet she has suffered and kept faith for ten years. I had no real grounds for divorce — how could I bear to do it?" The neighbours said: "Since she herself can bear to leave you, that is no concern of yours." The Sū student could only say "as she wishes," and the neighbours duly told Mò and put her mind at rest. Mò then went to consult Mò Nánxuān; Mò Nánxuān wanted no part of it. She then found a distant female cousin who was a habitual matchmaker. At first the cousin urged: "A married couple from the first wedding — it should not come to this." But when it got to the part about not being able to endure poverty any longer, the cousin wept along with her, and said: "I will find you a good match." Outside the county yamen was an innkeeper, thirty years old and never married, who had previously asked this cousin to be his matchmaker. She now brought them together, saying: "The wife of the Sū student — a fine-looking woman, can read and do sums. The Sū student can't support her — he is willing to let her go. She comes from a scholarly household." To her niece she said: "A young man — fresh as a flower — who has been in mourning for his parents for years and has not been able to arrange a marriage. He has fields and a house, and a room of servants. In front is a licensed wine-shop, good for income. No elders above, servants below — you won't lift a finger; you'll be your own mistress." Then she brought the man to be looked over: a five-cent gauze cap, a seven-cent sky-blue iced-gauze gown, a plain muslin shirt, red shoes and gauze socks — quite the young gentleman. Mò too had dressed herself neatly. The two of them stole two or three glances at each other — he liked her, she liked him. The betrothal gifts were exchanged. The cousin served as both officiant and matchmaker, earning her fee. She sent word to the Sū student; he said: "I have no objection. In ten years she has spent more on me than I can account for. Let her take it with her." He shed a few tears.

Ten years of bitter nights beneath the same quilt —

can deep feeling be turned cold so easily?

A few tears at the parting of the ways,

to be sent to a heartless one to see.

And so Mò married the wine-shop keeper. As for the fields, the houses, the room of servants — there was only the one small wine-shop, and even that was rented. The "room of servants" was just the two of them. Mò clearly saw she had been deceived, but there was nothing to say. Lucky for her she had been capable and sharp-eyed from girlhood — sole mistress of one enterprise, sitting at the counter counting coins and pouring wine, she quickly adapted to the life.

Tending the bar, she recalled Zhuó's wife;

the apron strange on a woman once compared to Sīmǎ Xiāngrú's lady.

Meanwhile the Sū student was glad to have peace and quiet. The woman had been uncompromising in leaving: she took not a single one of his worn books, broken household things, or old garments. But he was now effectively homeless. Once again Mò Nánxuān took pity on him and kept him at home to tutor his young son. The stipend was ten taels or so a year — enough to keep body and soul together. He took care to avoid passing by the wine-shop. But there were those malicious colleagues, those frivolous young men, who went in groups of three and five to see the Sū student's former wife. Some mocked the Sū student: "He couldn't control a wife — when she wanted to go, she went. What sort of man is that?" Or: "The household wasn't all that bad, and the woman wanted to leave — she must have been hungry for another kind of blade; he couldn't provide it, hence the divorce. He's a useless student." Some mocked the woman: "She threw away a student and found a wine-pourer — a woman with no ambition." Or: "She threw away one husband and took another — a faithless, brazen slut." The whole city made it into a source of ridicule. The Sū student: partly because he had no money, partly because he could not find the right person, simply did not remarry. Two years drifted by. Then came the examination round. The county magistrate who had supervised his original entry into the school had since been transferred up to become prefect. Hearing that the student had been abandoned by his wife on account of poverty, he felt a genuine pang of sympathy and placed him at the head of the list. The education intendant further commended him; he gained his examination eligibility.

The sword of Kūnwú lying in its box,

has drifted through years of dust and wind.

One day it is wiped and polished again —

its light shoots athwart the stars of Dǒu and Niú.

Without Mò, the Sū student was free of household burdens and could give his whole mind to his studies. He often reflected: a man who came so close to failing and was abandoned by his wife — how could he not redouble his efforts! It seemed as though heaven itself took pity on him: he passed, twenty-first on the list. The whole city was in an uproar, laughing that Mò had casually let a future lady slip through her hands and into some unknown woman's fortunate keeping. Over in the wine-shop, Mò heard the people spreading the news and the fingers pointing at her — she pretended not to notice. The Sū student returned. Mò Nánxuān had found him a house; two households of tenants came to attach themselves to his establishment. Matchmakers came knocking without a break, speaking of one gentleman's daughter of perfect looks and talent, with a generous dowry; a merchant's daughter of fine appearance, willing to contribute three hundred taels to make the match. The Sū student, thinking often of how wretched those poverty-years had been, could not help feeling choked: "Let me take my time."

The first branch of the cassia was divided in the Moon Palace —

now the nymphs compete to approach the jasper pool.

But his thoughts flew back to the day the embroidered wings were lightly parted —

when worldly pressures and shifts in warmth had driven him to tears.

Mò Nánxuān saw that this was no way to run a household, and wished to bring his niece back — but there was no way to undo what had been done, so he simply let matters take their course.

In the eleventh month the student set out for the capital; in the second month came the metropolitan examination. He passed that too, in a chain of successes, and in the palace examination was placed in the second tier. Having completed his practical posting as an observer, he was due for assignment the following year. In the eighth month he took leave and returned south. The county magistrate sent official escorts to pay calls on his behalf. Past thirty, in his gauze hat he was still a young man for a new jinshi degree. Arriving for the first time, he paid calls on the prefect and county magistrate. Passing by the yamen gate area, he happened to notice a wine-shop banner bearing the characters "Pure Fragrant Peel Wine." At the counter sat a neat and graceful woman — it was Mò. The Sū official thought: "Let me go and see her. Let us see how she treats me now." He had his sedan chair stopped, had an attendant hold up the umbrella, and walked in his official robes directly into the shop. The shopkeeper was over to one side counting coins, wearing a two-piece suit; seeing an official come in, he slipped away. Mò, at the sight of him stepping from the sedan chair, had already recognised him as the Sū official — yet she felt neither shame nor anger, just composed her face. Sū came forward and made a proper, respectful bow. She replied: "You do your work as an official; I sell my wine." Her body did not stir. The Sū official gave a laugh and left.

Poured water cannot be gathered again;

a woman sent away cannot return.

When they met, he gave a single smile

and stood a while in brief delay.

I imagine that Mò's heart could not have been unmoved. But having committed so final and heartless an act, whether she had gone forward and met him with a face full of joy and delight — hoping for a glad reunion — or whether she had wept tears of grief and pulled at his sleeve in self-reproach — hoping to be taken back in pity — neither would have succeeded. Better then to harden herself, to make a clean break, and keep her dignity. In her heart, she had not been without regret for the rash mistake of those earlier days — but there was simply nothing to be done.

Within my heart, bitter grief and private lament —

how many times have I regretted that old mistake.

I transplanted a tree of jade and lapis from the immortal grove

and made it a common peach and plum flower by the roadside gate.

Mò's conjugal bond had long since been severed. The Sū official could not leave his inner household long unoccupied. A fellow provincial graduate, Shěn the Jǔrén, had a younger sister of eighteen, whose father had also been a jinshi-degree prefect. The matchmakers brought it about. First the gifts were exchanged — blue umbrella and black-uniformed attendants, with a household manager heading the procession — and all of this happened to pass right by the yamen gate area, so that everyone knew it was the Sū official sending betrothal gifts. At the wedding proper, in red round-collar robe, silver belt, gauze hat, and black boots, he followed the wild-goose ceremony. Four or five sets of drummers, attendants pressing in from all sides; on horseback, head high, he passed by. Mò, watching, stood dumbfounded. Then she heard people saying: "What a fortunate woman! A readymade lady's station waiting for her." In her heart it was all crashing and churning — but she could neither weep nor smile. She thought bitterly of those years: a solitary lamp and shared reading, plain rice and salted greens, managing food for the study society meetings, preparing tea for the examination practice sessions — what hardship! And now, embroidered bed-curtains and silk quilts, rare delicacies, maids and manservants called at will — all of it, just like that, surrendered to another woman. Nine years without a pass, and he passed in the third year. She had endured the nine hard years and could not keep herself quiet for three more. These bitter thoughts — to whom could she tell them? So though her business still went on as before, from this time on:

Anxiety wound itself around her heart;

in front of people she forced herself through.

But in the moment she turned away,

the brows would furrow of their own accord.

And so when she tended the shop, her mind was elsewhere, stiff and remote. A young man came in — glib-tongued and light-mannered — and thought: "This woman, standing in a wine-shop, still puts on the airs of a lady. Let me have some sport with her." He said he wanted three catties of wine, but brought out only two and a half catties' worth of coins. He waited until Mò was at the counter, then sauntered past and put the coins on it, saying: "Three catties of wine." Mò counted the coins, put them back on the counter and said: "Not enough to buy that." She was about to turn away. The young man grinned, fished another few coins from his sleeve, added them, and said: "Sister, why such haste! It was just that haste that cost you the station of a wife and lady — and now you're still in a hurry?" Mò had made this shameful mistake, and she had been laughed at and scolded by more people than she could count — but no one had ever mocked her to her face. Hearing these few words from the young man, her face flushed crimson; she could neither quarrel with him nor ignore him. She simply handed over the three catties. The young man walked away still smiling. Back in her room she sighed and sighed, sighing without end. Agonising over that one misstep — how many jokes and rebukes it had provoked. When the night was deep and still, the wine-shop had worked through a long day and the shopkeeper was snoring heavily in his sleep. She got up. She hanged herself from a beam.

Sharp words, keen as spears and halberds —

her slight frame entrusted to a painted rafter.

Surely she still bore some residue of shame —

like wild geese flying in formation across the clouds.

The shopkeeper slept until the fifth watch, reached out to feel for her, and found no one beside him. He called several times — no answer. He got up to look, and walked into a corpse. He felt around — she was hanging high. He quickly brought a light and cut her down in a rush, but she had been dead too long. He did not know the cause; when he interrogated the shop assistants, they said it seemed to be because of the young man's teasing. But the young man had not struck her or laid a hand on her, and could not truly be held responsible. He could only accept the ill fortune; Mò had thrown away her life for nothing, and the shopkeeper spent yet more money on the coffin and burial.

It is laughable — she made so much of passing the examination that she threw away her own life for nothing.

When the Sū official heard, he still sent out twenty taels and asked Mò Nánxuān to find a burial plot for her, saying: "One moment's mistake — that is why she died so quickly. Ten years of living together in hardship — that feeling cannot be erased." Jiǎng the Elder, having provoked a false homicide charge over his rent-collecting, wished to have his original share of the Mò family fields looked after. Hán the deputy magistrate, seeking to be appointed acting seal-holder, wanted to curry favour, and sent back the Mò family house he had occupied. The official, remembering old Mò's wish when he first chose a son-in-law, established Mò Nánxuān's youngest son as heir, gave him all the house and fields, and thus preserved the family sacrifices. He further arranged for the heir to enter school, in repayment of Mò Nánxuān's long-standing kindness. The official himself eventually rose to Provincial Coordinator; he had two sons and lived with his wife to old age.

But consider this: a scholar who bent over his books from childhood, by lamplight, on coarse food — could he truly not wish for success in the examinations, to honour his parents and advance his career, to have a wife ennobled and a son protected? But study and recitation are one's own affair; wealth and honour are decreed by Heaven. Success and failure, early or late — none of it is within one's own power. She had married him as his wife; if she were wise, she might have broken up her dowry to make connections among famous scholars and thus advance his learning; or she might have managed the household herself and let him give his whole mind to his books. When exams brought mixed results, she should have comforted and encouraged him, looking always toward his eventual success. How then could she quarrel with him from day to day, force him to put down his books and attend to making a living? At each reversal, when he was already ashamed and distressed, she heaped more torment upon him. And to leave him — that most extraordinary of things — she joined that woman, the wife of Zhū Mǎichén, as her one successor in history. And for it she received mockery in life and infamy in death. I offer this as a lesson to the wives and families of scholars.