The grandfather of my elder sister’s husband was Lord Song, whose name was Tao, a stipend licentiate2 of my county1. One day, as he lay ill in bed, he saw a clerk come in holding a summons and leading a horse with a white blaze on its forehead. “Please come and sit the examination,” the clerk said. “The Examiner has not come yet,” said Song. “How can there be an examination so soon?” The clerk said nothing, only pressed him to come. Song forced himself up from his sickbed, mounted the horse and went with him. The road was quite strange to him. They came to a walled city like a king’s capital. After a while they entered a government hall, its buildings grand and splendid. Seated up above were ten or more officials. He had no idea who any of them were, except Lord Guan3, whom he recognized. Under the eaves stood two small tables and two stools. A licentiate was already sitting at the far end, and Song sat down beside him, shoulder to shoulder. On each table were brush and paper. Presently the paper with the topic came floating down. He looked at it: eight characters. “One man, two men; with intent, without intent.” When the two of them had finished their essays, they handed them up into the hall. Song’s essay said, among other things: “Whoever does good with intent, though it be good, shall not be rewarded. Whoever does evil without intent, though it be evil, shall not be punished.”

The gods passed it from hand to hand and could not praise it enough. They called Song up and told him, “A City God4 is wanted in Henan. You are fit for the post.” Only then did Song understand. He knocked his head on the ground and wept. “I am unworthy of so great a favour,” he said. “How could I dare refuse? But my old mother is past seventy, and there is no one else to look after her. I beg to be allowed to see her to the end of her days. After that I am yours to command.” One seated at the top, who looked like an emperor, at once gave the order: “Look up his mother’s span in the register of years.” A clerk with a long beard brought a ledger and leafed through it. “Nine more years among the living,” he reported. As they all hesitated, Lord Guan said, “Why not let the scholar Zhang hold the seal for now? In nine years Song can take over from him5.” Then they said to Song, “You ought to take up your post at once. But in recognition of your kindness and filial devotion, you are granted nine years’ leave. When the time comes, you will be summoned again.” They also said a few words of encouragement to the other licentiate. The two of them bowed their heads to the ground and went down together. The licentiate took Song’s hand and saw him off as far as the open country outside the walls. He said he was a man named Zhang, from Changshan. He gave Song a poem in parting. Song forgot nearly all of it, but it had these lines: “With flowers and with wine, it is always spring; no candle and no lamp, yet the night is bright.” Song mounted the horse, said goodbye and rode away. When he reached his village, it was as if he had woken from a dream.

By then he had been dead for three days. His mother heard groaning inside the coffin. They helped him out, and it was half a day before he could speak. They made inquiries at Changshan: a scholar named Zhang had indeed died on that very day. Nine years later his mother did die. When the burial was over, Song washed himself, went into his room and died. His wife’s family lived in the city, just inside the west gate. Suddenly they saw him arrive, his horses in carved breast-straps and scarlet trappings6, with a great train of carriages and riders. He came up into their hall, bowed once and left. They were all amazed and puzzled, not knowing he had become a god. They hurried to his village to ask, and found he was already dead. Lord Song wrote a short account of his own life, but sadly it was lost in the troubles. This is the gist of it.