Wang Mian, styled Mianzhai, was a man of Lingshan. He was gifted and quick-witted and had often come first in the examination halls. He was very proud, fond of sneering and abuse, and put a great many people down. Once he happened to meet a Daoist, who looked at him and said, “Your face shows the highest nobility, but the ‘karma of frivolity’ has worn it almost all away. With your wits, if you turned back and cultivated the Way, you could still get your name on the register of immortals.” Wang sneered. “My fortune I truly cannot know. But how can there be immortals in this world?” “How low your view is!” said the Daoist. “Look no further. I myself am an immortal.” At this Wang laughed all the more at the man’s lies. “I am nothing remarkable,” said the Daoist. “Come with me, and you can see dozens of true immortals at once.” “Where are they?” “Only a step away.” He put his staff between his thighs, handed Wang the other end and told him to do as he did. He told him to shut his eyes and shouted, “Rise!” Wang felt the staff grow as thick as a five-peck sack and soar off into the air. He felt it stealthily: it was covered with row upon row of scales. He was terrified and did not dare move again. After a while the Daoist shouted again, “Stop!” He pulled the staff away, and they came down in a huge mansion, tier on tier of towers and long galleries, like an emperor’s dwelling. There was a terrace more than ten feet high, with a hall of eleven bays on it, grand and splendid beyond compare. The Daoist pulled his guest up and at once had a boy set out a feast and invite the guests. Dozens of tables were laid in the hall, dazzlingly arrayed. The Daoist changed into formal dress and waited. Presently the guests came through the air. Some rode dragons, some tigers, some luan birds and phoenixes, of various kinds. Each carried a musical instrument. There were women and men; some went barefoot. Among them was one beauty above all, who rode a phoenix of many colours and was dressed in palace fashion. A maid carried her instrument for her. It was more than five feet long, neither zither nor harp, and Wang did not know its name. The wine went round, with rare delicacies of every kind, sweet and fragrant in the mouth, all unlike ordinary food. Wang sat silent, his eyes only on the beauty. He was taken with her, and he also longed to hear her play, and secretly feared she would never play a note. When the wine was nearly done, an old man spoke up: “Perfected Cui1 has kindly invited us, and today may truly be called a great gathering. We ought to enjoy ourselves to the full. I propose that those whose instruments are alike should join together and play.” So they all paired off into groups. The sound of strings and pipes rang up to the Milky Way. Only the lady who rode the phoenix had no partner for her instrument. When all the others had fallen silent, her maid at last opened an embroidered bag and laid the instrument across a low table. The lady stretched out her jade-white wrists, as though plucking a zither. Its tone was several times as bright as a zither’s; at its fiercest it could burst the breast open, at its gentlest it could melt the soul. She played for about half the time it takes to cook a meal, and the whole hall was hushed, without a single cough. When she finished there was a clear ring, like the striking of a chime stone. All praised her together: “Superb, Lady Yunhe!” Then they all rose and took their leave. With cries of cranes and roars of dragons, they scattered all at once. The Daoist had a precious couch and brocade quilts set out for Wang to sleep on. From his first sight of the beauty Wang’s heart had been stirred; since hearing her music, his fancies had grown more fevered. He thought that with his talents he would pick up the blue and purple sashes of high office as easily as mustard seeds, and once he was rich and noble, what could he not have? In a moment a hundred thoughts were tangled in his head like hemp. The Daoist seemed to know already. “In your former life you studied with me,” he said, “but later your will was not firm, and you fell into the net of the dusty world. I do not count you a stranger, and I truly wanted to pull you out of the filth. I never thought your delusion was so deep, so dark and muddled that you cannot be woken. Now I must send you on your way. We may yet meet again, but to become a heavenly immortal you will need another kalpa2.” He pointed to a long stone at the foot of the steps and had Wang sit on it with his eyes shut, warning him firmly not to look. Then he drove the stone with a whip. The stone flew up. The wind roared in Wang’s ears, and he had no idea how far he travelled.

Suddenly he wondered what the world below looked like, and secretly opened his eyes a crack. He saw the vast sea spread out without end. Terrified, he shut them again at once — but he was already falling with the stone. With a great crash he went under like a gull. Luckily he had always lived near the sea and could swim a little. He heard someone clap and say, “What a lovely fall!” Just as his danger was at its worst, a girl pulled him up into her boat, saying, “Good luck, good luck! The licentiate has passed — with a splash3!” He looked at her: she was perhaps sixteen or seventeen, and very lovely. Wang came out of the water shivering with cold and asked for a fire to dry himself. “Come home with me,” the girl said, “and something will be done for you. If it suits you, don’t forget me.” “What are you saying!” said Wang. “I am a man of talent from the Central Plain, who has met with a mishap. After this I mean to repay you with my whole self — far more than not forgetting!” The girl drove the boat with her oar, swift as wind and rain, and soon they were near the shore. She took a handful of the lotus flowers she had picked from the cabin and led him off with her. Half a li on they came into a village, where he saw a red gate facing south. They went in through several gates, and the girl ran in ahead. A little later a man of about forty came out. He bowed Wang up the steps and had servants bring a cap, a robe, socks and shoes, and change Wang’s clothes. That done, he asked his country and family. “I would not deceive you,” said Wang. “My name for talent is not entirely unheard of. Perfected Cui was so devoted to me that he invited me up to the gates of Heaven. But I reckoned rank and office were mine for the turn of a hand, and so I did not care to live in seclusion.” The man rose in respect. “This place is called the Isle of Immortals, far cut off from the world of men. My name is Wenruo, my surname Huan. My family has lived in this remote place for generations. What fortune to come near so famous a man!” And he set out wine most attentively. Then, at his ease, he said, “I have two daughters. The elder, Fangyun, is sixteen, and has not yet met a good match. I would like to give her to wait on a man of distinction. What do you say?” Wang thought it must be the girl who had picked the lotuses, and left his seat to thank him. Huan had two or three elders of age and virtue invited from among the neighbours. He turned to his attendants and at once had the young lady called. Before long a rich fragrance poured out, and ten or more beautiful girls came out escorting Fangyun. She was radiant and lovely, like a lotus shining in the morning sun. She bowed and sat down, and the girls stood in attendance; the lotus picker was among them. After a few rounds of wine, a girl with her hair still hanging loose came out from the inner rooms. She was only ten or so, but graceful and lovely; she leaned laughing at Fangyun’s elbow, her bright eyes darting. “A girl not in her own room — what are you doing out here?” said Huan. And he turned to his guest: “This is Lüyun, my younger daughter. She is quite clever, and can already recite the most ancient classics.” He had her recite poems for the guest, and she chanted three Bamboo Branch songs, sweet and charming to hear. Then he had her sit in the corner beside her sister. Huan said, “Master Wang, with your genius you must have a rich store of poems already made. May I have the benefit of hearing them?” Wang readily recited a poem in the modern style, looking about him with great self-satisfaction. Its middle couplet ran: “Of all my body, only beard and brows remain; a little wine can melt my lumps away.” An old neighbour repeated it again and again. Fangyun said in a low voice, “The first line is Monkey leaving Fire-Cloud Cave4; the second is Pigsy crossing the Mother-and-Child River.” The whole table clapped. Huan asked for another. Wang recited a poem on a water bird: “At the pool’s head5 it cries ge-zhe…” — and suddenly forgot the next line. He had barely paused to think when Fangyun whispered in her sister’s ear, then covered her mouth and laughed. Lüyun told her father, “She has finished it for her brother-in-law. It goes: ‘At the dog’s rear it goes peng-ba.’” The whole table burst out laughing. Wang looked ashamed. Huan turned to Fangyun and glared at her angrily. When Wang had composed himself a little, Huan asked to hear his prose. Wang supposed that people outside the world would know nothing of the eight-legged essay6, so he showed off the essay that had won him first place. Its topic was the two lines beginning ‘How filial was Min Ziqian7!’, and its opening ran: “The Sage praises the filial piety of a great worthy…” Lüyun turned to her father. “The Sage never calls a disciple by his courtesy name. ‘How filial…’ is what other people said.” Hearing this, Wang lost all heart. Huan laughed. “What does a child know! That isn’t the point. Let us just consider the writing.” So Wang went on reciting. Every few sentences the sisters whispered to each other, as if passing judgment, but their murmurs could not be made out. When Wang came to a fine passage, he quoted the examiner’s comment as well: “Every word painfully incisive.” Lüyun told her father, “Sister says, ‘Better delete incisive.’” None of them understood. Huan feared it was something rude and did not dare press her. When Wang had finished reciting, he quoted the general comment too: “One stroke of the Jie drum, and ten thousand flowers fall together.” Again Fangyun covered her mouth and spoke to her sister, and both laughed so hard they could not sit up. Lüyun told them again, “Sister says, ‘The Jie drum should have four strokes.’” Again no one understood. Lüyun opened her mouth to explain, but Fangyun, holding back her laughter, scolded her: “Dare to say it, you little wretch, and I’ll beat you to death!” Everyone was thoroughly puzzled, and they traded guesses. Lüyun could not hold back. “Take away incisive, and ‘painful’ means ‘it doesn’t get through8.’ Four strokes of the drum go ‘butong, butong’ — ‘it doesn’t get through, and it doesn’t get through again!’” Everyone laughed aloud. Huan scolded her angrily. Then he rose himself to fill the cups, apologizing over and over. At first Wang had prided himself on his name for talent, and truly thought no one in all the ages his equal. Now his spirit was crushed, and he could only sweat. Huan flattered and comforted him: “I have a line just now. Let someone at the table match it: ‘At Wang’s side, there is not a single dot that is not jade9.’” Before anyone could think, Lüyun answered at once: “On Old Mian’s head, add half an evening and he becomes a turtle.” Fangyun burst out laughing, blew on her fingers and pinched her sister’s side several times. Lüyun wriggled free and ran, looking back to say, “What business is it of yours? You’ve mocked him over and over and saw no harm in it. Is no one else allowed a single line?” Huan shouted at her, and only then did she go off laughing. The old neighbours took their leave. Maids led husband and wife into the inner bedroom. Lamps and candles, screens and bed, everything was finely arranged. In the bridal chamber he saw shelves full of ivory-tagged scrolls; there was no book they lacked. He put a few hard questions to her, and the answers came back without end. Only now did Wang begin to feel small and ashamed, like the river gazing out at the ocean. Fangyun called, “Mingdang!” and the girl who had picked the lotuses hurried to answer, and that was how he first learned her name. Mocked and humiliated so often, he was afraid he would not be respected in the women’s rooms; but luckily, though Fangyun’s tongue was cruel, within the bed curtains she was loving. Wang lived at ease with nothing to do, and kept falling back into chanting verses. “I have some good advice,” Fangyun said. “I wonder if you will be willing to take it?” “What is it?” “Stop writing poetry from now on. That too is a way of hiding your clumsiness.” Wang was deeply ashamed, and gave up writing altogether. As time went on, he and Mingdang grew more and more familiar. He told Fangyun, “Mingdang saved my life. I wish you would be a little kinder to her.” Fangyun agreed at once. Whenever they played their bedroom games, she called Mingdang to join in, and the feeling between Wang and Mingdang grew stronger; often they spoke with their eyes and talked with their hands. Fangyun began to notice and scolded him again and again; Wang could only babble, struggling to excuse himself.