Du Zichun

I n the years when one dynasty was giving way to the next, there was a man named Du Zichun who could never hold on to money. He had been born to a good family and had drunk and idled his way through every coin of it, and when the coins ran out he turned to his relatives, who shut their doors on him one after another — a wastrel was a wastrel. Now it was the dead of winter. His coat was in rags, his belly was empty, and he drifted through the streets of Chang'an with no meal in him and nowhere to sleep. At the west gate of the eastern market he stopped, cold and starved past hiding it, looked up at the grey sky, and let out one long breath toward heaven. In the years between the Zhou and the Sui there lived a man named Du Zichun. In his youth he was dissolute and gave no thought to the family estate; free-spirited and idle, he drank and roamed as he pleased until his fortune was spent. He turned to his relatives and old friends, but all cast him off as a good-for-nothing. It was deep winter; his clothes were torn and his belly empty. He wandered on foot through Chang'an, and by nightfall he still had not eaten, at a loss where to go. At the west gate of the eastern market, the cold and hunger plain on his face, he looked up at the sky and let out a long sigh.

An old man came up leaning on a staff and asked him why he was sighing. Zichun told him everything — the empty purse, the doors shut in his face, the relatives who had decided he was nothing — and the bitterness rose hot in his face as he spoke. "How much," the old man asked, "would set you up comfortably?" "Thirty, fifty thousand," Zichun said. "I could live on that." "Not enough." "A hundred thousand, then." "Not enough." "A million." "Not enough." "Three million." "That," said the old man, "will do." He drew one string of coins out of his sleeve. "For tonight. Tomorrow at noon, come to the Persian trading-house in the west market, and don't be late." Zichun went at noon, and the old man was there with three million in cash, just as he had said — and walked off without ever giving his name. An old man came leaning on a staff and asked, "Sir, why do you sigh?" Zichun poured out his heart, railing at the coldness of his kin, and his indignation showed in his face. "How many strings of cash would see you comfortable?" the old man asked. "Thirty or fifty thousand," said Zichun, "and I could live." "Not enough." "A hundred thousand." "Not enough." "A million." "Not enough." "Three million." "That will do." He drew a single string of coins from his sleeve. "This is for tonight. Tomorrow at noon, wait for me at the Persian lodge in the western market — do not be late." Zichun came at the hour, and the old man gave him three million cash exactly as promised, and left without so much as telling his name.

The moment he was rich the old recklessness flared back, and he swore he would never sleep rough again. He rode fat horses and wore light furs, rounded up his drinking friends, hired the flutes and the strings, and sang and danced in the wine-houses without a thought for tomorrow. In a year, maybe two, it drained away. He traded his fine clothes for plain ones, the horse for a donkey, then gave up the donkey for his own two feet — and just like that he was back where he had started. Once he was rich, his reckless heart blazed up again, and he told himself he would never be a vagabond a second time. He rode fat horses and wore light furs, gathered his drinking companions, hired flutes and strings, and sang and danced in the pleasure-houses, giving no thought to a livelihood. Within a year or two it was all gradually gone. His clothes and carriage he traded down, costly for cheap; the horse became a donkey, the donkey his own two feet; and in no time he was as he had been at the start.

“He kept silent through the beasts, the flood, his own beheading, and every torture of hell — and broke, at the very last, for love.”

Out of ideas again, he stood at the market gate and sighed — and had barely made a sound when the old man was there, taking his hand. "You've come to this again? Extraordinary. I'll help you once more. How much do you need?" Zichun was too ashamed to speak. The old man pressed him and got nothing but stammered apologies. "Tomorrow noon," the old man said, "the same place as before." Zichun went, cheeks burning, and was handed ten million cash. Before it touched his palm he was on fire with good intentions — this time he would make himself rich, and the old millionaires Shi Chong and Yidun would look like paupers beside him. Then the money was in his hand, and his heart simply turned over. The old hunger for pleasure came back exactly as it had been, and inside a year or two he was worse off than ever. With no plan left, he stood sighing again at the market gate. He had scarcely made a sound when the old man appeared, took his hand, and said, "You have come to this again? Remarkable. I will help you once more — how much will do?" Zichun was too ashamed to answer. The old man pressed him, and Zichun only apologized, mortified. "Tomorrow at noon," said the old man, "come to the place we met before." Swallowing his shame, Zichun went, and received ten million cash. Before he took it he was full of fierce resolve — from now he would build his fortune, and Shi Chong and Yidun, the great rich men of old, would be mere striplings beside him. But once the money was in his hand his heart turned over again; the old craving for pleasure returned exactly as before, and in a year or two he was poorer than ever.

When he ran into the old man a third time at the same corner, Zichun was so ashamed he covered his face and bolted — but the old man caught his sleeve and held him. "What a poor hand you make of things," he said, and gave him thirty million in cash. "If this doesn't cure you, then your poverty has gone into the bone." And something in Zichun turned over. All my life I've thrown away everything I had, he thought; my rich relations wouldn't spare me a glance, and here is a stranger who has given to me three times. What kind of man does that make me? So he said aloud, "With this I can set the world's business right — feed the widows, clothe the orphans, make my name decent again. I owe you more than I can say. When it is done, I am yours to command." "That is exactly what I hoped to hear," said the old man. "When your work is finished, come to me next year, on the Ghost Festival — the fifteenth night of the seventh month, when the dead walk abroad — beneath the twin junipers at the shrine of Lord Lao." When he met the old man once more at the same spot, Zichun was so overcome with shame that he covered his face and fled. But the old man caught him by the sleeve and stopped him. "Alas," he said, "how badly you manage." And he gave him thirty million cash, saying, "If this does not cure you, then your poverty is lodged past all healing." Zichun thought: I have squandered my life in idle dissipation and exhausted everything I had; my wealthy kinsmen would not spare me a glance, yet this old man has given to me three times — how can I ever deserve it? So he said to him, "With this I can put worldly matters right, feed and clothe the orphaned and the widowed, and restore my good name. I am grateful for your deep kindness; when my affairs are settled, I am yours to command." "That is what I hoped," said the old man. "When you have finished, meet me next year, on the Ghost Festival, beneath the twin junipers by the shrine of Lord Lao."

The orphans and widows were mostly down in Huainan, so Zichun moved his fortune to Yangzhou. He bought a hundred acres of good land, put up a great house inside the walls, and lined the main roads with a hundred and more lodging-houses, and into them he gathered the widowed and the orphaned and gave them homes. He found matches for his nephews and nieces, brought scattered relatives back and laid his dead to rest among their own, repaid every kindness he had ever been shown and settled every score he owed. When it was all finished, he went to keep his appointment. Since the orphaned and the widowed were mostly to be found in Huainan, Zichun moved his money to Yangzhou. He bought a hundred qing of good farmland, raised a great mansion within the city walls, and built more than a hundred lodging-houses along the main roads, gathering the orphaned and widowed and settling them there. He married off his nephews and nieces, brought scattered kin home and reburied his dead with the family, showed warmth to those who had helped him and requited those who had wronged him. When all of it was done, he went at the appointed time.

The old man was standing in the shade of the two junipers, whistling. Together they climbed the Cloud-Terrace Peak of Mount Hua. Forty li up the mountain they came to a place unlike any house that men live in — its rooms bare and spotless, coloured clouds drifting over it, cranes startling up into the air above the roof. In the main hall stood a furnace for the elixir, taller than a man by half, breathing purple fire, its light flaring against the windows. Nine women of jade stood in a circle around it, and a green dragon and a white tiger kept their stations, one before the furnace and one behind. The old man was whistling in the shade of the two junipers. Together they climbed to the Cloud-Terrace Peak of Mount Hua. Some forty li in, they reached a place whose halls were austere and immaculate, no dwelling of ordinary men. Bright clouds hung over it from afar, and startled cranes wheeled above. In the main hall stood an elixir furnace more than nine feet high, giving off purple flame, its light blazing at the windows. Nine Jade Maidens stood in a ring around it, and a Green Dragon and a White Tiger held their places before it and behind.

The light was failing now, and the old man had put off his ordinary clothes: he stood there a Daoist master, yellow-capped, in a patched ceremonial cape. He gave Zichun three pellets of white stone and a cup of wine and told him to swallow them down. Then he laid a tiger skin against the inner west wall, sat Zichun on it facing east, and gave him one instruction. "Whatever comes — do not make a sound. You will see gods and foul demons, yakshas, wild beasts, the whole machinery of hell; you will see your own family bound and broken in front of you a thousand ways. None of it is real. Only sit still and stay silent. Keep your heart quiet, do not be afraid, and nothing in the end can touch you. Hold in your mind the one thing I have told you." And then he was gone. By now the day was near dusk, and the old man was no longer in ordinary clothes: he stood revealed as a Daoist adept in a yellow cap and a patched cape. He held out three pellets of white stone and a cup of wine and told Zichun to swallow them quickly. Then he spread a tiger's skin against the inner west wall, seated Zichun on it facing east, and warned him: "Take care — do not speak. Gods and evil demons, yakshas, wild beasts, the tortures of hell, and even your own kin bound and suffering a thousand agonies before you — none of it is real. Only stay still and silent; keep your heart at peace and do not be afraid, and in the end nothing can harm you. Fix your whole mind on what I have told you." And with that he was gone.

Zichun looked around the courtyard. There was nothing in it but one enormous jar, filled to the brim with water. The instant the Daoist was gone, the cliffs and ravines filled with banners and halberds and armour — a thousand chariots, ten thousand riders, their war-cries shaking the ground under him. A figure who named himself the Grand General, ten feet tall, he and his horse both cased in gold that hurt to look at, came thundering up to the hall with hundreds of guards behind him, swords out, bows drawn. "Who are you, that you dare not make way for the Grand General?" His men rushed in with their blades up, shouting for his name, for what he thought he was doing. Zichun said nothing. They raged; the din of hacking and loosed arrows crashed around him like thunder; he sat and said nothing — until the General, beside himself, turned and left. Zichun looked about the courtyard: there was only a huge jar, brimful of water, and nothing else. The moment the Daoist was gone, banners and halberds and armour appeared, a thousand chariots and ten thousand horsemen filling the cliffs and ravines, their war-cries shaking heaven and earth. One who called himself the Grand General, more than ten feet tall, his man and horse alike sheathed in golden armour that dazzled the eye, came storming up before the hall with hundreds of guards, all with drawn swords and bent bows. "Who are you," he roared, "that you dare not make way for the Grand General?" His men lunged forward with raised swords and demanded his name and his business. Zichun said nothing. The more they raged, and the louder their hacking and shooting thundered around him, the less he answered — and at last the General went away in a fury.

Then came the beasts: tigers and poison-dragons, lions and lynxes, vipers and scorpions beyond counting, roaring and clawing and snatching as they surged toward him to tear him apart, some clearing his head in a single bound. His face never moved, and after a while they were gone. Then the rain came down in sheets. Thunder and lightning blotted out the light; wheels of fire went rolling past his left hand and his right; lightning split the air before him and behind until he could not keep his eyes open. In moments the courtyard lay ten feet deep in water, the lightning pouring, the thunder roaring, the whole of it like mountains and rivers cracking open, and nothing could stop it. The flood rose to the seat beneath him — and he sat straight up and paid it no mind. In a moment came tigers and venomous dragons, lions and lynxes, vipers and scorpions past counting, roaring and clawing and snatching as they fought their way toward him to seize and devour him, some leaping clean over his head. Zichun's face never changed, and after a while they scattered. Then the rain came down in torrents; thunder and lightning turned the day to darkness; wheels of fire rolled to his left and right, lightning cracked before and behind him, and he could not open his eyes. In no time the courtyard stood more than ten feet deep in water, the lightning streaming and the thunder roaring, the whole force of it like mountains and rivers breaking apart, past all stopping. In an instant the flood reached the seat beneath him — and Zichun sat upright and paid it no mind.

Before long the General was back, and now he brought ox-headed jailers and spirits with monstrous faces, who dragged up a great cauldron of boiling water and set it down in front of Zichun, hemming him in on every side with long spears and two-tined forks. The order came down the line: "Give your name and go free. Refuse, and we put the fork through your heart and drop you in the pot." He still said nothing. Before long the General returned, bringing ox-headed jailers and spirits of grotesque aspect, who set a great cauldron of boiling water before Zichun and ringed him about on every side with long spears and two-pronged forks. The command was passed down: "Say your name and we set you free; refuse, and we will take the fork to your heart and pitch you into the cauldron." Still he did not answer.

Then they brought his wife and flung her down at the foot of the steps, pointing at her — "Say your name and we spare her." He did not answer. They whipped her until she bled, shot her, hacked at her, boiled her, burned her, more than any body could bear. And his wife cried out to him: "I know I'm plain, and clumsy, no match for a man like you — but for ten years and more I have been fortunate enough to be your wife. Now these demons have hold of me and I can't stand the pain. I wouldn't ask you to grovel and beg for me — one word from you, just one, and I keep my life. What man alive has no heart? How can you grudge me a single word?" Her tears came down like rain in the courtyard; she begged him, and then she cursed him. Zichun would not even turn his head. Then they brought his wife and threw her down at the foot of the steps, pointing at her: "Say your name and she is spared." Still he did not answer. They whipped her until the blood ran, shot her, hacked her, boiled her, burned her, past all bearing. His wife cried out: "I know I am plain and clumsy and no fit match for you — but I have had the good fortune to serve you as your wife these ten years and more. Now these dread demons have hold of me and I cannot bear the pain. I would not dare ask you to crawl and beg for me — but one word from you and my life is saved. What man has no feeling? How can you begrudge me a single word?" Her tears rained down in the courtyard; she cursed him and railed at him; and still Zichun would not so much as look.

"You think I can't do worse to your wife?" said the General. He called for a chopping-block and had her minced from the feet up, an inch at a time. She screamed, she wept, more desperate with every cut — and still he would not look. "You think," said the General, "that I cannot make an end of your wife?" He ordered a mincing-block brought and had her cut, from the feet upward, inch by inch. She screamed and wept more desperately than before, and still he would not look at her.

"His sorcery is complete," the General said. "He can't be left in the world any longer." And he had Zichun beheaded. When the stroke fell, his soul was led away before King Yama, lord of the dead, who looked at him and said, "So this is the demon-fellow from the Cloud-Terrace Peak. Throw him in the pit." And there Zichun tasted every torment in turn: molten copper poured out and iron rods, the pounding pestle and the grinding stone, the fire-pit and the boiling cauldron, the mountain of knives and the forest of swords. But he kept the Daoist's one instruction in his mind, and it seemed to him a thing he could bear, and he never groaned. "This villain's sorcery is already complete," said the General. "He cannot be left long in the world." He ordered Zichun beheaded. When the stroke had fallen, his soul was led before King Yama, who said, "Is this the demon-fellow of the Cloud-Terrace Peak? Take him and cast him into prison." And there he tasted them all in turn: molten copper and iron staves, the pounding pestle and the grinding mill, the pit of fire and the cauldron of boiling water, the mountain of knives and the forest of swords. But he held the Daoist's words in his mind, and it seemed to him he could bear it, and he never once groaned.

When the jailers reported his punishment complete, Yama said, "This soul is cruel at the root; it does not deserve to be born a man. Make it a woman." And so he was born a girl, into the house of Wang Quan, a minor official at Shanfu. She was sickly from the day she was born, never a day without the needle and the moxa and the bitter medicine; she fell into the fire, she fell from her bed, she knew every kind of pain — and never once made a sound. She grew into a woman of rare beauty, and never a word came out of her; her family decided she was mute. Relatives who took liberties mocked her a hundred ways, and she never answered any of them. When the jailers reported his punishment complete, the King said, "This one is malign of heart; he does not deserve to be born a man. Let him be made a woman." He was assigned to be born into the household of Wang Quan, an aide at Shanfu in Songzhou. The child was sickly from birth, never a day free of needles and moxa and medicine; she fell into fire, she fell from the bed, she suffered every kind of pain — and never once cried out. In time she grew into a woman of matchless beauty, but no sound ever came from her mouth, and her family took her for a mute. Overfamiliar relatives insulted her a thousand ways, and she could never answer.

A man of the same district, a graduate named Lu Gui, heard how beautiful she was and wanted her, and sent a matchmaker to ask for her. Her family put him off — she was mute. "If a wife is good," Lu said, "what does she need words for? She'll be a standing rebuke to every sharp-tongued woman besides." And so it was agreed. He married her with all six rites, and for several years they loved each other deeply. She bore him a son, and by the time the boy was two he was quick and bright past any other child. A man of the same district, a graduate named Lu Gui, heard of her beauty and desired her, and sought her hand through a matchmaker. Her family refused on the grounds that she was mute. "If a wife is virtuous," said Lu, "what need has she of speech? She will serve besides as a reproach to sharp-tongued women." And so they consented. With the six rites Lu took her as his wife, and for several years their love was deep. She bore him a son, and by the age of two the boy was clever beyond compare.

Lu would hold the boy and speak to her, and she would not answer. He tried every way he knew to coax a single word out of her, and got nothing. And at last he broke. "There was a lord once whose wife despised him and never smiled," he said, "until she watched him bring down a pheasant with one arrow, and forgave him everything. I may be a lesser man than he was — but what I can do is more than shoot pheasants, and still you won't give me one word. A man his own wife holds in contempt has no use for the son she gave him." And he took the little boy by both feet and swung his head against the stone, and it broke at the blow, and the blood leapt out across the paving. Lu would hold the child and speak to her, and she would not answer; he tried every way to draw a word from her, and still she said nothing. At last he flew into a rage. "In the old days," he said, "the wife of Grandee Jia despised her husband and would not smile — yet when she saw him shoot down a pheasant, she let her grudge go. I may be a plainer man than Jia, but my gifts are more than pheasant-shooting, and still you will not speak. A man his own wife despises has no use for the son she gave him." And he seized the child by both feet and dashed its head against a stone, so that it shattered at the blow and the blood sprang out several paces.

And in that instant love rose in Zichun's heart, and the pact went clean out of her, and before she knew it a single sound escaped her — "Oh—" The cry had not even faded when he was sitting in the old place again, the Daoist standing before him. It was the fifth watch, near dawn. And he saw purple flame come tearing up through the roof, and fire spring up on every side, until the whole chamber was burning. In that instant love rose in Zichun's heart, and forgetting the pact she let slip, without knowing it, a single cry — "Oh!" The cry had not died away when she found herself sitting where she had sat before, the Daoist standing in front of her. It was the fifth watch of the night. He saw purple flame pierce up through the roof, and fire break out on all four sides, until the whole chamber was ablaze.

"So this is how you fail me — completely, and at the very last." The Daoist caught Zichun by the hair and plunged him into the water jar, and in a moment the fire was out. "How you have failed me — utterly, and just like this!" the Daoist sighed. He caught Zichun by the hair and threw him into the water jar, and in a moment the fire went out.

The Daoist came and stood over him. "Your heart had let go of all of it," he said. "Joy, rage, grief, fear, hatred, greed — every one of them, gone. The one thing you could not get past was love. Had you made no sound, my elixir would have been finished, and you would have risen from here an immortal. But how rare it is — a soul with the gift for transcendence." He shook his head. "The elixir I can smelt again. Your body has to go on belonging to the world. Go home. Keep trying." And he pointed out the road down the mountain and sent him away. The Daoist came and stood before him. "Your heart," he said, "had let go of joy and anger, grief and fear, hatred and desire — every one. The only thing you could not reach was love. Had you made no cry, my elixir would have been complete, and you too would have risen an immortal. Alas — how rare it is to find one with the gift for transcendence! My elixir I can smelt again; but your body must go on belonging to the world. Go, and strive." And he pointed out the road and sent him home.

Zichun made himself climb up to the platform and look. The furnace had already burst; inside it stood an iron pillar as thick as an arm and some feet long, and the Daoist had stripped off his robe and was paring the pillar down with a knife. Later, home again and sick with shame at the vow he had broken, Zichun swore he would find a way to make it good — and he went back up the Cloud-Terrace Peak. But there was no sign that anyone had ever been there, and in the end he came down the mountain with nothing but his regret. Zichun forced himself up onto the platform to look. The furnace had already broken open, and inside it stood an iron pillar as thick as an arm and several feet long; the Daoist had stripped off his outer robe and was paring it down with a knife. When Zichun had gone home, ashamed at having broken his vow, he resolved to make amends and atone for his fault, and went back to the Cloud-Terrace Peak — but there was no trace of anyone there at all, and he came away sighing with regret.

杜子 The original Chinese · honored as an artifact

杜子春者，蓋周隋間人。少落魄，不事家產。

Opening lines, classical Chinese · 傳奇 · Tang chuanqi, via 太平廣記 Taiping Guangji