Luo Zifu was a man of Bin. His parents both died early, and at eight or nine he went to live with his uncle, Daye. Daye held a post at the Imperial Academy. He was rich in gold and silk but had no son, and he loved Zifu as his own. At fourteen the boy was led off by bad companions to the pleasure quarters. A courtesan from Jinling happened to be living in the prefecture for a time; Luo fell for her and lost his head. When she went back to Jinling, he slipped away after her. He lived in her house for half a year, until the money at his bedside was gone and the other girls of the house sneered at him. Even so, they did not throw him out at once. Before long, though, he came down with the Canton sores1. They burst and stank and soiled the bed and the mats, and he was turned out. He begged in the market. People who saw him kept well away.

Afraid he would die in a strange land, he begged his way west, thirty or forty li2 a day, until at last he neared the border of Bin. Then he thought of his rotten rags, all pus and filth, and could not face going in at the gate of his home village; he hung back, dithering, near the town. As the day ended he set off for a mountain temple to spend the night. On the way he met a young woman as lovely as an immortal. She came up and asked, “Where are you going?” He told her the truth. “I am one who has left home3,” she said. “I live in a mountain cave. You can sleep there, and you needn’t fear tigers or wolves.” Luo was delighted and went with her. Deep in the mountains they came to a grotto. Inside, a stream ran across in front of the door, with a stone bridge over it. A few paces on were two stone chambers, so bright that there was no need of lamp or candle. She told him to take off his rags and bathe in the stream. “Wash,” she said, “and your sores will heal.” Then she drew back the bed curtains, smoothed the quilt and hurried him to bed. “Go to sleep now,” she said. “I’ll make you some trousers.” She took some big leaves, like banana leaves, and cut and stitched them into clothes. Luo lay watching her. She was done in no time. She folded the clothes and put them at the head of his bed. “Put these on when you get up,” she said. Then she lay down on the bed facing his and went to sleep. Since his bath Luo had felt no pain from his sores. When he woke and felt them, they had scabbed over thickly. At dawn, as he was getting up, he doubted that banana leaves could be worn. He picked them up to look: they were green brocade, smooth as could be. Soon she laid out a meal. She took leaves from the hillside and called them cakes, and when he ate them, they were cakes. She cut more leaves into a chicken and a fish, and when she cooked them they were like the real things. In a corner of the room stood a jar of fine wine, and they drank from it whenever they liked; when it ran a little low, she topped it up with water from the stream. In a few days his scabs had all fallen off, and he asked to share her bed. “Shameless boy!” she said. “You’re barely on your feet and already you’re getting ideas!” “It’s only to repay your kindness,” he said. So they lay together and loved each other dearly.

One day a young woman came in laughing. “Pianpian, you little imp, you must be happy enough to die! Sister Xue’s sweet dream4 — when did you get to dream it?” Pianpian met her with a laugh. “Huacheng! Your precious feet haven’t trodden here in ages. The southwest wind must be blowing hard today, to blow you in! Have you got a little boy to hold yet?” “Another little girl,” said Huacheng. Pianpian laughed. “Huacheng, you’re a regular tile kiln5! Why didn’t you bring her?” “I’d just hushed her, and she fell asleep.” So they sat down, and Pianpian served wine. Huacheng turned to Luo. “You must have burned good incense, young sir,” she said. Luo looked at her. She was twenty-three or twenty-four, and lovely still, with beauty to spare. He took a fancy to her. Peeling a fruit, he dropped it under the table, bent down to the floor as if to pick it up, and secretly pinched the upturned tip of her phoenix shoe6. Huacheng looked away and laughed, as if she had not noticed. Luo was in a daze, his wits gone, when all at once his robe and trousers lost their warmth. He looked down at his clothes: they had all turned to autumn leaves. He nearly died of fright. He sat bolt upright for a while, and little by little they changed back. He was secretly glad the two women had not seen. A little later, as the cups went round, he scratched Huacheng’s slender palm with his finger. She went on laughing and joking calmly, as if she felt nothing. While his heart was still thumping, his clothes had turned to leaves again, and only after a while did they change back. After that he composed his face, stilled his thoughts, and dared not get ideas. Huacheng laughed. “That young man of yours is no good at all! If you weren’t such a jealous vinegar gourd of a wife, he’d have jumped clean up into the clouds by now.” Pianpian smiled too. “The faithless wretch — he deserves to freeze to death!” And the two of them clapped their hands. Huacheng rose from her seat. “My little girl will be awake. I’m afraid she’s crying her heart out.” Pianpian rose too. “Busy leading on other women’s men, and you forget little Jiangcheng crying herself hoarse!” When Huacheng had gone, Luo was afraid he would be scolded, but Pianpian treated him just as usual.