Qiaoniang

In Guangdong there was a gentleman of the official class named Fu. He was past sixty and had one son, named Lian. The boy was very bright, but he had been born a eunuch: at seventeen his member was no bigger than a silkworm. Word of it spread far and near, and no one would give him a daughter to marry. Fu reckoned that his family line was finished. Day and night he grieved over it, but there was nothing to be done. Lian studied with a tutor. One day the tutor happened to go out, and just then a man with performing monkeys came by the gate. Lian went to watch and forgot his lessons. Reckoning that the tutor would soon be back, he grew frightened and ran away. A few li from home2 he saw a young woman dressed in white walking ahead of him with a little maid. She turned her head once: she was bewitchingly lovely beyond compare. Her small bound feet made slow, halting progress, and Lian hurried past her. She turned to the maid and said, “Ask the young gentleman whether he might be going to Qiong1.” The maid called out and asked him. Lian asked why she wanted to know. The young woman said, “If you are going to Qiong, I have a letter I would trouble you to leave at my village on your way. My old mother is at home; she can play host to you.” Lian had set out with nowhere in mind, and thought he might as well cross the sea, so he agreed. She took out the letter and gave it to the maid, and the maid passed it to him. He asked her name and where she lived. “My name is Hua,” she said. “We live at Qin Girl Village, three or four li outside the north wall.” Lian took passage on a boat and went.

By the time he reached the north wall of Qiongzhou, dusk had fallen. He asked for Qin Girl Village, but no one had heard of it. He walked north four or five li. The moon and stars were bright by now, the tall grass blurred before his eyes, and there was no inn anywhere in the wilderness. He was in a sorry plight. Seeing a grave by the road, he thought of resting against the mound, but he was terrified of tigers and wolves. So he climbed a tree like a monkey and crouched in its branches. The wind soughed in the pines and the night insects shrilled mournfully; his heart pounded, and his regret burned like fire. Suddenly he heard voices below. He looked down, and there was a courtyard, plain as day. A beautiful woman sat on a stone, and two maids with their hair in double knots held painted candles on either side of her. The lady turned to her left and said, “The moon is white tonight and the stars are few. Brew a cup of the tea cake Aunt Hua3 gave us, and we will enjoy this fine night.” Lian took them for ghosts or goblins, and his hair stood on end. He dared not breathe. Suddenly a maid looked up and said, “There is someone in the tree!” The woman started up. “What bold rascal is this, spying on people in the dark?” Lian was terrified. There was nowhere to run or hide, so he slid down the trunk and lay on the ground begging pardon. She came close and gave him one look, and her anger turned to pleasure. She pulled him up to sit beside her. He stole a glance: she was about seventeen or eighteen, and dazzling in looks and bearing. From her speech, she was not from these parts either. “Where are you going, sir?” she asked. “I am carrying a letter for someone,” he said. “There are many violent men in the wilds,” she said. “It is dangerous to sleep in the open. If you do not mind a humble hut, I hope you will rest here.” She invited him in. There was only one bed in the room, and she had the maid spread two quilts on it. Lian, ashamed of what he was, asked to sleep on the low couch. She laughed. “When I meet so fine a guest, how could I play the lady Yuanlong4 and keep the high bed to myself?” He had no choice but to share the bed with her, but he was too frightened to stretch out. Before long, in the dark, she slipped a slender hand under his quilt and lightly pinched his leg and thigh. He pretended to be asleep, as though he felt nothing. Before long again she opened his quilt, got in and shook him, but he never moved. Then she reached down to his private parts. Her hand stopped. Disappointed, she quietly left his quilt. In a moment he heard her weeping. Lian was so ashamed and frightened he wished he could vanish, and could only curse Heaven for the flaw it had made in him. The woman called the maid to light a lamp. The maid saw the traces of tears and asked in alarm what was wrong. The woman shook her head. “I am only sighing over my own fate.” The maid stood by the bed, watching her face. The woman said, “Wake the gentleman and send him away.” Hearing this, Lian was more ashamed than ever; and he was afraid too, in the middle of the night, with nowhere in the darkness to go.

While he was turning this over, a woman pushed the door open and came in. “Aunt Hua is here,” said the maid. Lian stole a look at her: she was about fifty, but still had some style. Seeing that the young woman had not gone to sleep, she asked what was the matter. The young woman did not answer. Then the older woman saw someone lying on the bed and asked, “Who is sharing your bed?” The maid answered for her: “A young gentleman came tonight and asked to stay.” The woman laughed. “I did not know Qiaoniang had lit the wedding candles.” Seeing the tears still wet on the girl’s face, she said in surprise, “Weeping on your wedding night is hardly fitting. Was the young man rough with you?” The young woman said nothing, and wept the harder. The older woman went to pull back Lian’s clothes and look at him; at one shake of the clothes, the letter fell onto the bed. She picked it up and looked at it in astonishment. “This is my daughter’s hand!” She broke it open, read it, and sighed. The young woman asked what was wrong. “It is a letter home from Sanniang5,” said the woman. “She says young Wu is dead and she is left alone with no one to rely on. What is to be done?” “He did say he was carrying a letter for someone,” said the young woman. “Luckily we had not sent him away.” The woman called Lian to get up and asked him exactly where the letter had come from. He told her everything. “You have come a long way to bring this letter,” she said. “How shall I repay you?” She looked him over again and asked, smiling, “How did you offend Qiaoniang?” “I do not know what I did wrong,” said Lian. She asked the young woman. Qiaoniang sighed. “I pity myself. In life I was married to a eunuch, and in death I have given myself to a gelded man. That is why I weep.” The older woman turned to Lian. “So, my clever lad, you are a male who is really a female? You are my guest; you must not trouble someone else any longer.” She led him into the east wing, put her hand into the crotch of his trousers and felt him. She laughed. “No wonder Qiaoniang was in tears. But luckily there is a root there, so something can still be done.” She lit a lamp and rummaged through every chest and basket, found a black pill and gave it to him, telling him to swallow it at once. She told him in secret to make no noise, and went out. Lian lay alone thinking, wondering what the medicine could cure. Toward the fifth watch he woke for the first time and felt a thread of heat run from below his navel straight down to his private parts; something stirred and seemed to hang between his thighs. He felt for himself: he was a man now, and a big one. He was astonished and overjoyed, as if he had just received the Nine Bestowals6. As soon as light showed at the window lattice, the woman came in, put some steamed buns in his room, told him to sit patiently, and locked the door behind her. Outside, she said to Qiaoniang, “The young man has had the trouble of bringing our letter. I am going to keep him here till I fetch Sanniang, and the two can swear to be sisters. Meanwhile I have shut him in again, so he will not be a nuisance to anyone.” Then she went out of the gate. Lian paced about with nothing to do, going now and then to the crack of the door like a bird peering out of its cage. When he caught sight of Qiaoniang he longed to call out and show her what he now was, but shame tied his tongue. Not until midnight did the woman come back with her daughter. She opened the door. “You must be bored to death, sir! Sanniang, come and thank him.” The young woman he had met on the road came in hesitantly and curtsied to him. Her mother told them to call each other brother and sister. Qiaoniang laughed. “Sisters would do as well.” They all went out to the hall, sat in a circle and set out wine. As they drank, Qiaoniang asked teasingly, “Can a palace eunuch be stirred by a beauty too?” Lian said, “The lame never forget walking, nor the blind seeing.” They all burst out laughing.

Since Sanniang was tired from the journey, Qiaoniang made her go to bed. Her mother looked at Sanniang and told her to sleep with Lian. Sanniang blushed and would not go. “He is a man in a woman’s headdress7,” said her mother. “What is there to fear?” She pressed them to go together, and whispered to Lian, “Be my son-in-law in secret and my son in public; that will do.” Lian was delighted. He took her by the arm and led her to bed: a blade fresh from the whetstone8, tried for the first time; you can imagine the pleasure. Afterward, on the pillow, he asked her, “Who is Qiaoniang?” “A ghost,” she said. “Her talent and beauty have no equal, but fate was against her. She was married to a young man of the Mao family who was impotent from illness; at eighteen he still could not be a husband. She pined, joyless, and carried her grievance down into the dark.” Lian was startled, and suspected that Sanniang was a ghost too. “To tell you the truth,” she said, “I am not a ghost. I am a fox. Qiaoniang lives alone with no mate, and my mother and I have no home, so we borrowed her house to stay in.” Lian was astounded. “Do not be afraid,” she said. “Ghosts and foxes we may be, but we mean you no harm.” From then on they talked and feasted together every day. Though Lian knew Qiaoniang was not human, he loved her delicate beauty, and only regretted that he found no chance to offer himself. He was refined, and good at flattery and jokes, and Qiaoniang grew fond of him. One day Aunt Hua and her daughter were going off somewhere, and again shut him in his room. Lian, sulking, went round the room calling to Qiaoniang through the door. Qiaoniang had her maid try one key after another until the door opened. Lian whispered in her ear, asking to see her alone. Qiaoniang sent the maid away. Lian drew her to the bed and nestled against her. She teasingly cupped him below the navel and said, “A pity, my darling, that you have nothing here.” Before she had finished speaking, her hand was full. “How was it so tiny before,” she said in surprise, “and now so suddenly heavy?” Lian laughed. “Before, it was shy of meeting a guest, so it shrank. Now it cannot bear your mockery, so it has puffed itself up like an angry frog.” Then they made love. Afterward she said resentfully, “Now I know why the door was locked. Mother and daughter were drifting about with nowhere to live, and I lent them my house. Sanniang learned embroidery from me, and I never kept back the least secret. And she is this jealous!” Lian soothed her, and told her what had really happened. But Qiaoniang went on bearing a grudge. “Keep this secret,” said Lian. “Aunt Hua was strict with me.” Before he had finished, Aunt Hua slipped in. The two scrambled up in a fluster. Aunt Hua glared. “Who opened the door?” Qiaoniang laughed, went to meet her and owned up. Aunt Hua grew angrier and scolded on and on. Qiaoniang said with a mocking smile, “Old mother, you are too absurd! He is a man in a woman’s headdress. What could he do?” Sanniang, seeing her mother and Qiaoniang so bitterly at odds, was uneasy, and put herself between them to make peace, until each at last turned her anger to a smile. Fierce as Qiaoniang’s words had been, from then on she bent herself to please Sanniang. But Aunt Hua watched them day and night, and the lovers could never be alone; they could only speak with their eyes.

One day Aunt Hua said to Lian, “My daughter and her sister have both served you now. Staying on here is no plan for the future. You should go home and tell your parents, and settle the marriage soon.” She packed his things at once and hurried him off. The two young women looked at each other, their faces full of grief, and Qiaoniang most of all could not bear it: her tears rolled down like pearls from a broken string and would not stop. Aunt Hua pushed her aside and pulled Lian out. Outside the gate, the courtyard and buildings were gone; there was only a desolate grave. Aunt Hua saw him onto the boat and said, “After you have gone, I will bring both girls and rent a house in your county. If you do not forget our old affection, we will be waiting in the derelict garden of the Li family for you to come and fetch your bride9.” So Lian went home.

Meanwhile Lian’s father had searched for his son without finding him, and was sick with worry. When his son came home he was overjoyed beyond all hope. Lian told him roughly what had happened, and of his betrothal to the Hua family. His father said, “Why listen to a demon’s talk? The only reason you came back alive is that you were useless as a eunuch. Otherwise you would be dead!” “They may be strange creatures,” said Lian, “but they have feelings like people. And she is clever and lovely besides; marrying her would not make us a laughingstock among our kin.” His father said nothing, only snorted. Lian withdrew. But his new skill itched to be used and he could not keep to his place: he took to sleeping with the maids in secret, and by degrees grew bold enough to do it in broad daylight, hoping word would reach the old couple and startle them. One day a little maid saw him and ran to tell his mother. His mother did not believe it until she went close and looked, and then she was astonished. She called the maid in and questioned her, and got the whole story. She was overjoyed and told everyone she met, to show that her son was no eunuch, and set about arranging a match with a great family. Lian told his mother privately, “I will marry no one but the Hua girl.” “There is no shortage of beautiful women in the world,” said his mother. “Why must it be a ghost?” Lian said, “If not for Aunt Hua, I would never have known how to be a man. To turn my back on her would bring bad luck.” His father gave in, and sent a manservant and an old woman to look into it. Four or five li outside the east wall they searched for the Li garden, and among broken walls and bamboo they saw a thread of cooking smoke. The old woman got down from her carriage and went straight to the door. Inside, mother and daughter were wiping the tables and washing the vessels, as if expecting someone. The old woman bowed and delivered her master’s message. When she saw Sanniang she exclaimed, “Is this our young mistress-to-be? Even I adore her10 at first sight; no wonder the young master’s soul longs for her and his dreams circle round her.” Then she asked about the elder sister. Aunt Hua sighed. “She was my adopted daughter. Three days ago she suddenly passed away.” She gave the old woman and the servant food and wine. When the old woman came home she described Sanniang’s looks and manners in full, and both parents were pleased. Last of all she gave the news of Qiaoniang’s death, and Lian was so grieved he nearly wept. On the night he went to fetch his bride, he saw Aunt Hua and asked her about it himself. “She has already been reborn somewhere in the north,” she answered. Lian sighed and sobbed for a long time. He brought Sanniang home, but he could never forget Qiaoniang, and whenever anyone came from Qiong he always sent for them and asked. Someone said that at the Qin Girl’s grave a ghost could be heard weeping at night. Lian was struck by it, and went in and told Sanniang. Sanniang was silent a long while; then she wept and said, “I have wronged my sister!” He pressed her, and she answered, “When my mother and I came here, we never told her. This weeping and complaining—could it be her? I meant to tell you before, but I was afraid of exposing my mother’s fault.” At this Lian’s grief turned to joy. He called for a carriage at once and hurried to the grave, travelling day and night. He knocked on the tree by the grave and called, “Qiaoniang! Qiaoniang! I am here.” A moment later a young woman came out of the grave holding a baby. She raised her head and sobbed bitterly, reproaching him without end. Lian wept too. He reached for the child in her arms and asked whose it was. “This is the seed you left behind,” said Qiaoniang. “He was born three months ago.” Lian sighed. “I listened to Aunt Hua and left mother and child buried in sorrow underground. How can I escape the blame?” He took them in the carriage with him, crossed the sea and went home. He carried the boy in to his mother; she looked him over, saw that he was plump and sturdy and nothing like a ghost, and was all the happier. The two wives lived in harmony and served their mother-in-law dutifully. Later Lian’s father fell ill and a doctor was sent for. Qiaoniang said, “The illness cannot be cured. His soul has already left its house.” She had the funeral things made ready, and as soon as they were finished he died. The boy grew up the very image of his father, and especially clever: at fourteen he entered the county school11. Weng Zixia of Gaoyou12 heard this story while staying in Guangdong. The place names had dropped out of it, and no one knows how it all ended.