Now, when Wang Daoyuan got up in the morning, he said, “Monk, come with me to collect some buns and some cash.” “Where do we collect them?” asked the monk. “North of here there’s Zhao Family Village,” said the old Daoist, “and a man there called Zhao Haoshan feeds monks and Daoists on the first and fifteenth of every month1. Each of us gets a big steamed bun and a hundred cash. Why don’t you come and collect a share too?” “Fine,” said the monk. “And why does this Zhao the Good feed monks and Daoists?” “Ah, don’t ask,” said Wang Daoyuan. “Zhao Haoshan has a son, twelve this year. He used to study his books and talk, a very bright, clever boy. Then all of a sudden, in the first half of this year, without any illness or ailment at all, he was struck dumb. Now isn’t that strange? By rights there’s no one kinder than Zhao Haoshan’s family. He’s the leading household in these parts, and he truly helps the poor and those in trouble: no one who asks of him is turned away. In winter he gives out padded clothes, in summer medicine. A good man like that shouldn’t meet with such a cruel return. Heaven has no eyes, to let his boy be struck dumb. Now Zhao the Good feeds monks and Daoists to store up blessings and do good works, all so his son will get better. But he’s sent for every famous doctor hereabouts, and not one of them can cure him.” “In that case,” said the monk, “I’ll go with you.” The old Daoist was a good man. Seeing how poor and wretched the monk was, he wanted him to get a bun to eat and a hundred cash besides. How was he to know where the Lord Arhat had really come from?

He and the monk left the temple and headed for Zhao Family Village. When they reached the gate of the Zhao house, they saw that everything had long since been handed out. Wang Daoyuan knew that even when he came too late for it, the gatekeeper would set aside three shares for him and his disciples: he had been at his temple here for many years, and everyone knew Wang Daoyuan. Today, when the old Daoist and the monk knocked at the gate of the Zhao house, the steward who kept the gate came out and looked. “Daoist sir,” he said, “you’re late, but we’ve kept yours for you.” “Thank you kindly, thank you kindly,” said Wang Daoyuan. “There’s a monk here with me as well. I beg you, Master Steward, give out one more share.” “Very well,” said the steward. At once he brought out four buns and four hundred cash from inside. He handed the monk one bun and a hundred cash, and gave the old Daoist three shares. “I’m one person and he’s one person,” said the monk. “How come he gets three shares and I get one?” “He has two disciples back at his temple,” said the steward, “so he gets three.” “At our temple there are ten monks counting me,” said the monk, “and two disciples on top of that. Give me ten shares.” “That won’t do,” said the steward. “You say there are ten monks at your temple, but who’s to know? Daoist Wang’s temple is close by, and we all know he has two disciples there. Where’s your temple?” “My temple’s a bit far off,” said the monk. “And you came all this way just to beg alms?” asked the steward. “Not just to beg alms,” said the monk. “Somebody in your village asked me here to cure an illness, and now I’ve come I can’t find him.” “So you can treat the sick as well?” said the steward. “I can,” said the monk. “Internal and external, adults and children2, I treat them all, and mutes are my speciality.” Hearing this, the steward said, “Do you mean it?” “I mean it,” said the monk. “If you can really cure a mute,” said the steward, “I’ll go in and tell the master of the manor. Our young master is mute. If you can cure him, the master is sure to reward you handsomely.” “Go and tell him, then,” said the monk. The steward turned at once and went in. “Monk,” said Wang Daoyuan, “can you really cure mutes?” “No telling,” said the monk. “First let’s con a meal out of it, then we’ll see.” Wang Daoyuan thought, “Well, that’s a fine thing! Yesterday he conned a meal of porridge out of me at my temple, and today he’s here to con these people.” While he was turning this over, the steward came out and said, “The master of the manor invites you in.” “Daoist sir,” said the monk, “come in with me.”

The old Daoist could hardly refuse to go along, so he went in through the main gate with the monk. Facing them was a spirit screen. Turning west, they came to a screen gate of four leaves, two open and two shut, with four square sheets of paper pasted on it bearing four characters: Reverent, Grave, Balanced, Upright3. Inside the screen gate stood a row of five rooms on the south side, facing north. There was a second gate, a pendant-flower gate4, and on the east and west sides two side rooms each. The steward lifted the door curtain of the south hall, and the monk and the Daoist went in. The hall had two open bays and two closed inner rooms. Facing them stood a long table with upturned ends, with an Eight Immortals table in front of it and big armchairs on either side. The furnishings were all carved tables and chairs of rosewood, red sandalwood and nanmu. On the walls hung calligraphy and paintings by famous hands, hanging scrolls and couplets, flowers and birds in fine line and in free brushwork. On the tables stood Shang sacrificial vessels and Zhou tripods5, Qin bricks and Han jades, antiques of the kind listed in collectors’ catalogues: the family plainly had wealth and standing. The monk and the old Daoist sat down, and the steward poured them tea. Before long they heard footsteps outside. “Here comes the master of the manor,” said the steward.