Fang Dong, a scholar of Chang’an, had something of a name for his talent, but he was flippant and cared nothing for propriety. Whenever he saw women out walking in the country, he would trail after them with his impudent ways. On the day before the Qingming festival1 he happened to be strolling outside the city wall when he saw a small carriage with a red screen and embroidered curtains, followed by several maids riding at an easy pace. One of the maids, on a little pony, was a great beauty. He edged closer to look, and saw that the carriage curtain was wide open. Inside sat a girl of sixteen, beautifully made up in red, lovelier than anyone he had ever seen. Dazzled and bewitched, he gazed at her and could not tear himself away; now ahead of the carriage, now behind it, he followed it for several li. Suddenly he heard the girl call the maid to the side of the carriage. “Let the curtain down for me! Who is this mad young fellow who keeps coming to peer at me?” The maid let down the curtain and turned on Fang angrily. “This is the new bride of the Seventh Young Lord of the City of Hibiscus2, going home to visit her parents. She is not some farm wife for any licentiate to gawk at as he likes!” With that she scooped up a handful of dirt from the wheel ruts and flung it at him. It got in his eyes and he could not open them. By the time he had wiped them and could look, the carriage and horses were gone. He went home, startled and puzzled. His eyes kept bothering him, so he had someone lift the lids and look: a small film had grown over the pupils. After a night it was worse, and tears streamed from his eyes and would not stop. The film grew bigger. In a few days it was as thick as a coin, and on the right eye a whorl like a snail shell had formed. No medicine did any good. In his misery and despair, he began to think he should repent. He had heard that the Sutra of Light3 could deliver a man from misfortune, so he got a copy and begged someone to teach him to recite it. At first he was restless and impatient, but in time he grew calm. Morning and evening, with nothing else to do, he only sat cross-legged telling his beads. After a year of this, every worldly care had fallen still. Suddenly he heard a small voice in his right eye, like a fly’s: “Black as lacquer in here — it’s enough to kill a person.” From his left eye came the answer: “Let’s go out for a little stroll together and get some air.” Then he felt a wriggling itch in both nostrils, as if something were coming out. It left his nose and went away, and after a long while it came back and went in through his nose again. Then a voice in his eye said, “It’s been so long since we looked in on the garden — and the pearl orchids have withered and died.” Fang had always loved fragrant orchids. He had planted many in his garden and used to water them every day, but since he lost his sight he had left them untended for a long time. Hearing these words, he asked his wife at once, “Why have you let the orchids wither and die?” She asked how he knew, and he told her. She hurried out to look, and the flowers were indeed dried up. She was astonished.

She hid quietly in the room and watched. Out of his nose came little people, no bigger than beans, who went buzzing out of the door. As they went farther off, she lost sight of them. Soon they came back arm in arm, flew up to his face and went in, like bees or ants going into their nest. This went on for two or three days. Then he heard the one on the left say, “This tunnel is so roundabout. Going in and out of it is not at all convenient. We would do better to open a door of our own.” The one on the right answered, “My wall is thick. It won’t be easy.” “I’ll try to open mine,” said the left, “and then we can both use it.” Then Fang felt something inside his left eye, as if it were faintly being scratched and torn. After a while he opened his eyes and could plainly see the table and the things on it. Overjoyed, he told his wife. She looked closely: a small hole had broken through the fatty film, and the black pupil shone in it, no bigger than a split peppercorn. After another night the film was entirely gone. Looking closely, they saw that it was a double pupil4. But the whorl on the right eye was as before, and so they knew that the two pupil-people were now living together in one eye. Though Fang was blind in one eye, he saw more clearly than people with two. From then on he kept himself in check all the more, and the people of his district praised his virtue.

The Historian of the Strange5 says: In my district there was a gentleman walking along the road with two friends. Far off they saw a young woman riding a donkey ahead of them. He chanted in jest, “There is a beauty, oh6 —” and turned to his friends: “After her!” Laughing, they all spurred on together. Soon they caught up with her, and she was his own son’s wife. Mortified and crestfallen, he said not another word. His friends pretended not to know, and passed remarks about her that were most indecent. The gentleman squirmed and stammered, “That is my eldest son’s wife.” Each of them hid a smile, and that was the end of it. The frivolous often bring insult on themselves; it is laughable indeed. But to have dirt thrown in one’s eyes and go blind — that is a cruel retribution from ghosts and gods. The lord of the City of Hibiscus — I do not know what god he is. Could he have been a bodhisattva in disguise? Still, the little gentleman did break open a door. Harsh as ghosts and gods may be, when have they ever refused to let a man make a new start?