Now, Zhao Wenhui, Su Beishan and Ji Gong had sat down in the outer room when the curtain of the east inner room rose and a young woman came out. She was lovely in face and figure, about eighteen or nineteen years old, her hair done up in a coiled-dragon chignon, and she was dressed in plain mourning clothes. The moment Su Beishan saw her, he knew she was a daughter of a respectable family. When they asked about her birth and background, a look of sorrow came over her face, and she told them the whole story from beginning to end: how she had sold herself to pay for her father’s burial, how a villain had then tricked her and sold her off, and how she had ended up, against her will, in Yanhua Lane. The two squires were deeply grieved to hear it. “Yin Chunxiang,” they asked, “can you compose poetry?” “I have a rough grasp of letters,” said Yin Chunxiang. “I know a little.” “If you can,” said Squire Zhao, “then write me a couple of poems — some quatrains on what you feel, say — and let me see them.” When Squire Zhao had seen that poem a little earlier, he had suspected that Yin Chunxiang had not written it herself, and that was why he wanted to test her learning to her face. Yin Chunxiang did not stop to think for a moment. She took up the brush and wrote:

When she had finished, she handed it to Su and Zhao to read, and they praised it, and Ji Gong with them. What a pity, they thought, that such talent and such character should have fallen into a house of pleasure — how very sad, how very lamentable. While they were still sighing over it, Yin Chunxiang wrote another poem, a regulated verse3 of seven-character lines. It read:

Ji Gong read the poem through and kept saying, “Good!” “Come, come,” said Zhao Wenhui, “I’ll write a seven-character quatrain.” The madam brought over the Four Treasures of the Study7, and Zhao Wenhui, without stopping to think, took up the brush and dashed it off in a single sweep. It read:

Su Beishan, too, tossed off a quatrain on the spot. It read:

The arhat10 was walking along when he heard someone shout from up the hill: “Ji Gong, venerable sir, you’ve come at last! I went to Lingyin Temple three times and never once found you. Today you’ve come at last, venerable sir.” As he spoke, he ran up, dropped to both knees in front of him and kowtowed. Ji Gong looked: it was an old man past sixty, with a square-cornered scarf on his head and an earth-coloured cloak over his shoulders, a silk cord at his waist, white socks and cloud-patterned shoes. His features, for that matter, were honest and regular.

A word of explanation: who was this man, and how had it all come about? It began with an old nun on Chenghuang Hill named Qingzhen. On her own family’s side she had a niece named Lu Suzhen, who was married to Gao Guotai. They came from Yuhang County, where they lived in Rulin Street, inside the South Gate of the county town. Gao Guotai’s family had once been well off, but he knew nothing but his books and had no idea how to make a living, and the household sank into utter poverty until only husband and wife were left. They had not a tile above them for shelter nor a patch of ground beneath them to stand on, not a meal put by for the next day, not a stick of firewood, not a grain of rice. Madam Lu said, “Are you and I, husband and wife, just going to sit here and wait for death? As the saying goes, people thrive when they move, trees die when they’re moved. We’d do better to go to Lin’an. I have an aunt who has taken vows on Chenghuang Hill. If we go to her, you can find a post teaching school there. For one thing we can get by, and for another you can keep up your studies, and when the great examination year11 comes round, you can go and win yourself a degree. What do you think, husband?” “It’s all you and I can do,” said Gao Guotai. “Let’s go! There’s nothing else for it.” Only then did husband and wife sell off their broken bits of furniture and odds and ends and scrape together money for the road. They set out, and in due course they reached Chenghuang Hill. The old nun was delighted to see them. She had three rooms swept out especially for them and let the couple live there. Madam Lu helped with the sewing, and Gao Guotai threw himself into his books in the temple. Here in the temple, husband and wife lived in peace.

A month and more went by. Then one day, as fate would have it, trouble came. The old nun had a senior disciple named Huixing. She saw that Gao Guotai was a man fit for the highest halls of learning — refined and cultivated, his belly full of statecraft, an elegant scholar of upright looks and bearing — and the two of them often sat together in lofty debate. This Huixing was the daughter of an official family and well read, and Gao Guotai answered her as readily as water flows. One day, when there was no one else in the room, Huixing took up a brush and wrote a seven-character quatrain and presented it to Gao Guotai. Gao Guotai took it and looked. It read:

Gao Guotai read it, and his face changed. “Young Master14, you must not do this. In this life, men and women ruin the good name of a lifetime for a moment’s pleasure, and leave a stink for ten thousand years, a laughing stock to all. Besides, this is holy Buddhist ground. How could it be defiled?” When Huixing heard this, she flushed red to the ears and simply walked away.

From then on, whenever Huixing saw Gao Guotai, she was so ashamed that she hurried out of his way. Guotai knew too that things had become awkward in many ways, and he asked the old nun, “Please find us a couple of rooms at the foot of the hill. My wife and I will move down there to live. Staying in the temple is awkward in many ways.” The old nun had no choice. At the foot of the hill she found them three rooms with a gate and courtyard of their own, in a house belonging to Squire Zhou, Half-the-City Zhou15. “Who’s going to live there?” Squire Zhou asked the old nun. “A relative of mine,” said the old nun, “who’s come from Yuhang County and has been living in the temple. She’s my niece, from my own family — just the two of them, she and her husband. My niece’s husband is surnamed Gao, and his given name is Guotai. He’s a scholar, and since staying in the temple is awkward for him in many ways, he wants to find a place to rent.” “Bring Gao Guotai along tomorrow and let me have a look at him,” said Half-the-City Zhou.

The next day the old nun took Guotai to see the landlord. Squire Zhou saw that Gao Guotai’s bearing was upright and his manner refined, and he had a mind to help him out. But this was their first meeting; he was afraid Gao Guotai would not accept, and it seemed rash of him besides. So he quietly instructed his servants, “If Gao Guotai falls behind with the rent, you are not to press him for it.” This was a touch of compassion on Squire Zhou’s part. So the couple moved down the hill, and Guotai made his living telling fortunes. When he took in a hundred coppers, they ate a hundred; when he took in two hundred, they ate two hundred. Husband and wife scraped by in great hardship, and before they knew it, half a year, six months’ rent, had gone by without their paying any of it.

Then one day, as fate would have it, trouble came. The servant who collected the rents had asked for leave and got one of the hands to collect them for him. The hand did not know how matters stood. He went through the rent book and found that only Gao Guotai owed rent: six months of it. “What, has this Gao Guotai got three heads on his neck and six arms on his shoulders?” he thought. “Somebody else’s roof over his head, somebody else’s property under his feet, and he pays no rent! I’ll go and see him!” The man went to Guotai’s gate and called out. From inside, Madam Lu asked, “Who’s calling at the gate?” “Someone from the Zhou residence, come for the rent,” said the man. “My husband isn’t at home,” said Madam Lu. “When he gets back I’ll tell him.” “The man’s not at home — is the money not at home either?” said the man. “Six months, and nobody’s ever at home? Living in somebody’s house, his roof over your heads and his floor under your feet, and not paying — you think you can just drag it out and that’s the end of it?” “When my husband gets back, he’ll bring the money round,” said Madam Lu. “No need to bring it,” said the man. “We’re doing repairs on a house down at the end of the street. Lend us your street gate to use.” And the man hoisted the street gate onto his shoulder and carried it off. That evening Gao Guotai came home, saw that the street gate was gone and asked Madam Lu about it. “The landlord came for the rent,” said Madam Lu, “and his man carried it off.” At this Guotai’s fury rose to the stars. “That insolent Half-the-City Zhou! How dare he insult a man of letters! I’ll go to Qiantang County and take him to court!” “Husband,” said Madam Lu, “we have no money, so we have no case. We haven’t paid back a penny of six months’ rent. If we sue them, wouldn’t that be going against all reason?” While husband and wife were talking it over, the old nun Qingzhen came by and found the two of them fretting. The old nun asked what was wrong, and Madam Lu told her all about the rent and the gate being carried off. “Sir,” said the old nun, “don’t live out here any longer. Come back to my temple. It’s hard to earn money out here, and you depend on telling fortunes. These days you can sell three false ones in a single day16, but in three days you can’t sell one true one. You speak too plainly, sir. There’s no need for you to stay out here.” She told Madam Lu to pack their things, gave up the house on their behalf, and took husband and wife back with her to Chenghuang Hill. Who would have thought it? They had been at the temple only two days when, early one morning, Guotai went off without a word, leaving three notes behind for Madam Lu. Madam Lu read them and was frightened out of her wits!

What could the reason be? To learn what happened next, read the next chapter.