The Story of Li Wa

L i Wa, who ended her life as Lady of Qianguo, began it as a courtesan in Chang'an. What she did with the years between was strange enough, and fine enough, to be worth setting down — which is why I, Bai Xingjian, a censor of the court, have written it here. Lady Li Wa of Qianguo was a courtesan of Chang'an. Her conduct and integrity were so remarkable as to be worth recording. Therefore I, the Investigating Censor Bai Xingjian, have set down her story.

In the Tianbao years there was a Governor of Changzhou, the Lord of Xingyang — I leave his name out on purpose; the family stood high. Late, at fifty, he had one son, a boy just turned twenty, quick and gifted with words, a cut above everyone around him, and the young men of the day all deferred to him. His father doted on him. "This," he liked to say, "is the thousand-li colt of our house." In the Tianbao years there was a Lord of Xingyang, Governor of Changzhou — I omit his name and do not write it, for his standing was very high and his house very rich. In his fiftieth year he had a single son, just come of age at twenty, brilliant and gifted with words, set apart from the common run, deeply admired by the men of his time. His father loved and prized him, saying, "This is the thousand-li colt of our house."

He was put forward for the provincial examination, and as he set out his father loaded him with fine clothes, ornaments, a carriage and horses, and enough silver for two full years in the capital. "With your gifts, you should take it in one pass," the old man told him. "I've given you two years and a generous purse — spend them on your ambition." The boy believed it too. Top of the list looked as easy as pointing at his own palm. He left Piling, reached Chang'an in a month, and took rooms in Buzheng ward. He answered the local recommendation for the cultivated-talent examination. As he was about to set off, his father richly furnished his clothes, ornaments, carriage and horses, and reckoned the cost of two years' provisions in the capital, telling him, "Judging your talent, you should conquer at a single stroke. I have provided for two years and made your allowance generous, to serve your ambition." The young man too was self-assured, and regarded the highest place as easy as pointing at his palm. He set out from Piling, and after a month or so reached Chang'an, lodging in Buzheng ward.

“That I brought you to this in a single day — this is my doing.”

One day, coming back from the East Market, he rode in through the east gate of Pingkang — the pleasure quarter — on his way to a friend's in the southwest. At Mingke Lane he passed a house: a modest gate, but deep, handsome rooms behind it, one door standing half-shut. A girl leaned there, a maid with double buns at her side, and her beauty was the kind the age simply did not produce. He reined in without meaning to and could not make himself ride on. So he let his whip drop, and while his servant went to fetch it he stole look after look at her; she turned and held his gaze, and something passed between them — but he lost his nerve, said nothing, and rode away. Once, returning from a trip to the East Market, he came in by the eastern gate of Pingkang and meant to visit a friend to the southwest. At Mingke Lane he saw a house — its gate and court not very wide, but its rooms deep and imposing, one door-leaf shut. There Li Wa stood leaning, a maid with double buns beside her, her bewitching beauty exquisite, such as the age had never held. Seeing her, the young man unknowingly reined in his horse and lingered, unable to leave. He feigned dropping his whip to the ground and waited for his attendant to fetch it, glancing again and again at Wa; Wa turned her eyes and gazed back, the two of them deeply drawn — yet he did not dare say a word, and left.

After that he walked around feeling robbed of something. He went quietly to a friend who knew the city and asked. "That's the courtesan Miss Li's house," the friend said. "Can she be had?" "The Lis are rich. The men before you were mostly great families and imperial kin, and she's done very well out of them — nothing under a few million cash will so much as turn her head." "If the only danger is that it won't work," the young man said, "then a million — why would I grudge it?" Ever after, the young man felt as though he had lost something. He quietly sought out a friend well acquainted with Chang'an and asked about her. The friend said, "That is the house of the courtesan Miss Li." "Can Wa be won?" "The Li household is well-off; those who have kept company with her before were mostly noble kin and powerful clans, and she has gained a great deal — nothing short of several million cash will move her." The young man said, "If my only worry is that it won't come off, then even a million — why should I grudge it?"

Another day he dressed with care, brought a full train of servants, and knocked. A maid opened. "Whose house is this?" he asked. She didn't answer — she bolted inside shouting, "It's the whip gentleman, the one from the other day!" Wa was thrilled. "Keep him there. Let me fix my face and change, and I'll come out." He heard it, and his heart lifted. They walked him to the inner screen, where a white-haired, stooped old woman waited — Wa's mother, or the woman she called mother. He knelt and delivered his line: "I'm told there's a spare court here. Might I really rent it and move in?" "I'm afraid it's too poor and cramped to sully a gentleman like you," she said. "How could I ask you for rent?" She showed him into a fine reception hall and sat across from him. "I have a young daughter — small talents, no real skill — but she loves company. Let me bring her to meet you." She called, and Wa came: bright eyes, pale wrists, every step of her a provocation. He was on his feet before he knew it, not daring to look straight at her. They bowed, made talk about the cold, and there was nothing about her that wasn't lovelier than anything he'd seen. They sat; tea steeped, wine poured, every cup immaculate. Another day he cleaned his clothes, gathered a full retinue, and went to knock at her door. Presently a servant girl opened it. "Whose residence is this?" he asked. The maid did not answer but ran off crying, "It's the gentleman who dropped his whip the other day!" Wa was delighted: "Keep him there — I'll do my face and change my dress and come out." The young man overheard and was secretly pleased. He was led to the screen wall, where he saw an old woman, white-haired and bent — Wa's mother. Kneeling before her, he made his speech: "I hear this place has a spare courtyard; might I truly rent it and live here?" The old woman said, "I fear it is too mean and cramped to sully so distinguished a guest — how dare I name a rent?" She led him into a guest hall, very handsome, and sat facing him. "I have a young daughter, of slight and clumsy accomplishment, who loves to see guests; let me bring her to you." She called Wa out — bright eyes, white wrists, every step alluring. The young man scrambled to his feet and dared not raise his eyes. They bowed, exchanged words about the weather; everything about her was a loveliness he had never seen. They sat again; tea was brewed and wine poured, the vessels spotless.

They talked on until dusk, when the curfew-drums began to beat across the city. The old woman asked where he lived. "A few li past the Yanping Gate," he lied, hoping the distance would earn him the night. "The drums have already gone," she said. "You'd better hurry back — don't break curfew." "Enjoying you all," he said, "I never felt the evening come. It's a long way, and I've no family inside the walls. What am I to do?" "If our poor place is good enough for you," Wa said, "where's the harm in one night?" He shot look after look at the old woman. "Yes, yes," she said. He called his man and had him bring out two bolts of good silk to pay for the meal. Wa laughed and pushed it away. "That isn't how guests are treated. Tonight the house feeds you what plain food it has. Save the rest for another day." He insisted; she wouldn't hear of it. After a long while, dusk came and the watch-drums sounded on every side. The old woman asked how far off he lived. He lied, "A few li beyond the Yanping Gate" — hoping that, being far, he would be kept. "The drums have sounded," she said. "You should hurry home and not break the curfew." "In the pleasure of your company," he said, "I never noticed the day turn to evening. The road is long, and I have no kin inside the walls — what am I to do?" Wa said, "If you don't scorn our poor lodging and mean to stay in it, what harm is one night?" He glanced repeatedly at the old woman, who said, "Yes, yes." Then he called his servant and had him bring two lengths of fine silk, asking to cover one night's meal. Wa laughingly stopped him: "That is not how host and guest behave. Tonight's cost — let our poor house set out what plain fare it can. Keep the rest for another day." He pressed her, and she would not allow it.

They moved to the west hall, where the hangings and couch and screens dazzled and the bedding and toilet-things were all luxury. Candles were lit, dish after dish came out, and when the meal was cleared the old woman withdrew. Then the two of them talked close and low, teasing, sparing nothing. "That day I happened past your gate," he said, "and you happened to be at the screen. I haven't put you down since — not asleep, not at the table, not for a moment." "Nor I you," she said. "I didn't come today only for a room," he said. "I want the thing I've wanted all my life. I only don't know what you'll decide." Before he finished, the old woman was back, asking what was going on; he told her everything. She laughed. "Man and woman — that's where the great wanting lives. When two feelings match, not even a father's word can stop it. My girl's a rough, low thing — how is she fit to serve a gentleman's pillow?" He came down the steps and bowed his thanks: "Let me be your servant." And from then the old woman called him "young master," and they drank their fill, and the party broke up. Presently they moved to the west hall, where curtains, blinds, couch and screens dazzled the eye, and the toilet-case, quilts and pillows were all sumptuous. Candles were lit and dishes brought, the fare abundant. When the food was cleared the mother withdrew. The young man and Wa fell to intimate talk, joking and teasing without restraint. "The other day I chanced to pass your gate," he said, "and you chanced to be at the screen. Ever since, my heart has never let go of you — sleeping or eating, I have not set the thought aside for a moment." "My heart was the same," Wa answered. "My coming today," he said, "is not only to seek lodging. I want to fulfill the wish of my life — but I do not know what my fate is to be." Before he had finished, the old woman came in and asked what was the matter; he told her all. She laughed: "Between man and woman lies the great desire. Where the feeling suits, not even a parent's command can hold it back. My daughter is a coarse, humble thing — how is she fit to serve a gentleman's pillow?" The young man came down the steps, bowed, and thanked her: "Let me be your servant." From then the old woman called him "young master." They drank deep and parted.

At dawn he brought all his baggage over and set up house with the Lis. From then he dropped out of sight — no letters to family, no word to friends — and passed his days with entertainers and their crowd, drinking, gaming, feasting. The purse emptied. He sold the good horses, then the servants. In a little over a year the money and the men and the horses were all gone. And as they went, the old woman's warmth cooled by the same degree — while Wa only held him closer. At daybreak he moved all his baggage in and made his home at the Li house. From then he hid himself away and no longer kept up with kin or friends, spending his days among performers and their kind, at drink and games and feasts. His purse ran dry; he sold his fine horses, then his servants. In a little over a year, money, servants, and horses were all swept away. From then the old woman's warmth slowly cooled, while Wa's feeling only deepened.

One day Wa said to him, "A year together, and still no child. They say the god of the Bamboo Grove answers a prayer the way an echo answers a shout. Let me go and make an offering and ask him. May we?" He had no idea what she was setting up, and was delighted. He pawned some clothes for the sacrificial animal and the wine, and they went to the shrine together to pray. Two nights later they started home. One day Wa said to him, "We have known each other a year and still have no child. I have often heard that the god of the Bamboo Grove answers prayer like an echo. I should like to make offerings there and pray. May we?" Not knowing her scheme, the young man was overjoyed. He pawned clothes to prepare the sacrifice and wine, and went with her to the shrine to worship and pray. After two nights they returned.

He rode a donkey behind her, and at the north gate of the ward she said, "East here, down a little lane, is my aunt's house. Could we stop and look in on her?" He agreed. Not a hundred paces on, there was the carriage-gate, and through it a broad, handsome court. The maid halted them from behind the carriage: "Here we are." He got down. A man came out — "Who is it?" "Li Wa" — and went in to announce them. Out came a woman of about forty. "Has my niece come to me at last?" Wa stepped down; the aunt scolded fondly, "Why so long with no word?" They looked at each other and laughed. Wa had him bow to her, and they all went in past the western gate to a side court where a little pavilion stood in thick bamboo, a pond and terrace tucked away behind. "Is this your aunt's own place?" he asked. She just smiled and talked of something else. Rare tea and fruit were brought out. Riding a donkey behind her, when they reached the north gate of the ward, Wa said, "Turn east here into a small lane, and there is my aunt's house. Might we rest and call on her?" The young man agreed. Not a hundred paces on, sure enough, a carriage-gate appeared; peering in, it was very spacious. Her maid stopped them from behind the carriage: "We have arrived." He dismounted. Just then a man came out and asked, "Who is it?" "Li Wa." He went in to announce them. Soon an old woman of about forty came out to meet them: "Has my niece come?" Wa got down, and the aunt asked reproachfully, "Why so long without a word?" They looked at each other and laughed. Wa led the young man to bow to her. Then all went into a side court within the western halberd-gate, where a hill-pavilion stood among lush bamboo and trees, and a pond and terrace lay deeply secluded. "Is this your aunt's own house?" the young man asked. She only smiled and answered with something else. Presently rare tea and fruit were set out.

Soon a man came galloping up on a big Ferghana horse, streaming sweat. "The mistress has collapsed — a sudden, terrible illness, she barely knows anyone. Come quickly." Wa turned to her aunt: "My head's spinning. Let me ride ahead — I'll send the horse straight back and bring the young master after." He moved to go with her, but the aunt whispered something to the maid and waved him back, keeping him at the door. "The mistress is dying. I have to settle the funeral with you this minute — you can't just run off behind him." So he stayed, and they sat totting up the cost of the rites. Evening came. The horse never came back. "No message — what's keeping them?" the aunt said. "Hurry over and see. I'll come right after." He went. Before long, a man came galloping on a great Ferghana horse, drenched in sweat: "The mistress has been struck down with a sudden, grave illness and hardly knows anyone — you should hurry back." Wa said to her aunt, "My mind is in a whirl. Let me ride ahead; I'll send the horse back and come again with the young master." He meant to follow her, but the aunt murmured with the maid and waved him off, keeping him outside the door: "The mistress is dying. I must settle the funeral arrangements with you to meet the emergency — how can you simply trail after him?" So he stayed, and they reckoned up the cost of the mourning rites. Evening came; the horse did not return. The aunt said, "No word — why? You had better hurry over and see; I'll follow." He went.

He reached the old house to find the gate locked tight and sealed over with mud. Stunned, he asked the neighbors. "The Lis only rented," they said. "Lease is up, the owner's taken it back. The old woman moved out — two nights ago." Where? "No idea." He wanted to ride straight to the aunt's in Xuanyang, but it was late and he'd never make it. He pawned his gear for food, hired a bed, lay down — and lay awake in a rage from dusk till dawn. At first light he drove the lame donkey over and knocked, and knocked, and for the longest time no one came. He shouted, again and again, and at last a servant shuffled out. "Is the aunt in?" "No one here by that name." "She was here last night — why are you hiding her?" Whose house was this, then? "This is Minister Cui's mansion. Somebody rented the court yesterday, said they were waiting on a relative from far off. They left before dark." When he reached the old house, the gate was locked fast and sealed with mud. Aghast, he questioned the neighbors. "The Lis only rented and lived here," they said. "The lease was up; the owner has taken it back. The old woman moved away — two nights ago now." Where to? "We do not know." He meant to race to Xuanyang and question the aunt, but it was already late, and by his reckoning he could not get there. He unstrapped his gear, pawned it for food, hired a bed, and lay down; but in his fury he did not close his eyes from dusk to dawn. At first light he set off on his lame donkey. When he arrived and knocked and knocked, for a long while no one answered. He shouted several times, and a servant came slowly out. "Is the aunt here?" he asked at once. "No such person." "She was here last evening — why hide her?" He asked whose house it was. "This is Minister Cui's mansion. Yesterday someone rented this court, saying they were awaiting a relative come from far away. They left before dark."

Panicked, half-mad, with no idea what to do, he dragged himself back to his old rooms in Buzheng ward. The landlord took pity and fed him. But grief and fury shut his throat; he wouldn't eat for three days and fell dangerously ill, and after a week and a half he was worse. Afraid he would die under his roof, the landlord had him carried to a funeral shop. There he hung between life and death, and the whole shop pitied him and spooned food into him by turns. Slowly he came back and could stand with a cane. So the shop began hiring him by the day to hold the mourning-curtain, and he earned his bread. In a few months his strength returned. Every time he heard the mourners sing, he wept that he hadn't died like the men in the coffins, and sobbed until he had no breath — then went home and taught himself the songs. He was quick, and soon he had the whole art of it, until no singer in all Chang'an could touch him. Panicked and bewildered, half out of his mind, at a loss what to do, he went back to his old lodging in Buzheng ward. The landlord pitied him and gave him food. Choked with grief and rage, he refused to eat for three days and fell gravely ill; after ten-odd days he was worse. The landlord, fearing he would die there, moved him into a funeral shop. He lingered barely alive, and the whole shop pitied him and fed him by turns. Later he mended a little and could rise with a cane. From then the funeral shop hired him each day to hold the mourning-curtain, and he earned his keep. After some months he grew strong again. Whenever he heard their dirges, he would grieve that he had not died like the ones they mourned, and sob until he could not stop; then he would go home and practice. Being quick, before long he had mastered the whole art, until in all Chang'an there was no one to match him.

Now the two funeral houses were forever fighting over which was the finer, and the eastern shop had the better of it in everything — splendid hearses, splendid gear — everything but the singing. So its owner, hearing what the young man could do, laid down twenty thousand cash to sign him. The old hands who judged the singers coached him in secret, new songs, and rehearsed him for weeks, and nobody outside knew. Then the two owners threw down the challenge: each would lay out his gear on Tianmen Street for the city to judge, and the loser would pay fifty thousand toward the winner's feast. They signed a bond, named their guarantors, and set the day. Men and women packed in by the tens of thousands; the ward wardens reported the crowd to the constables, the constables to the mayor; people came from every corner of the city, and the lanes emptied out. Now the two shops that hired out funeral gear were forever contesting which was the better. The eastern shop's carriages and hearses were all splendid, almost unbeatable; only in dirges did it fall short. Its head, knowing the young man's rare skill, put up twenty thousand cash to engage him. The shop's veterans, who ranked their own best singers, secretly taught him new songs and rehearsed with him, and for weeks no one knew. Then the two heads said to one another, "Let us each set out our gear on Tianmen Street and see whose is finer; the loser pays a fine of fifty thousand toward a feast. Agreed?" Both agreed, drew up a signed bond with guarantors, and made ready to show. Men and women thronged together, tens of thousands of them; the ward officers reported it to the constabulary, the constabulary to the mayor; people poured in from every quarter, and the lanes stood empty.

From dawn to midday they showed their wares, and the western shop lost on every hearse and carriage and ornament, until its master's face went dark with shame. Then a stage went up in the south corner, and out came a long-bearded man with a hand-bell, attendants flanking him. He shook his beard, raised his brows, set his jaw, climbed up, and sang the "White Horse." Sure of his old wins, he looked round as if the square were empty, and the crowd roared for him; he thought himself untouchable. After a while the eastern owner set his own stage in the north corner, and a youth in a black turban came up with five or six fan-bearers — the young man. He smoothed his robe, took his time, drew a slow breath, and began, looking almost too frail to stand, and sang the "Dew on the Shallots." His voice went up clear and far and shook the trees, and before he reached the end the whole crowd was weeping into its sleeves. The western master, jeered and burning, set his forfeit money down without a word and slipped off. The square sat stunned, and no one could work out where such a singer had come from. From dawn they showed their wares until midday, and the western shop lost on every carriage, hearse, and ceremonial piece, until its master's face fell with shame. Then a platform was raised in the south corner, and a long-bearded man came forward gripping a hand-bell, several attendants at his side; he shook his beard, arched his brows, gripped his wrist and set his jaw, mounted, and sang the "White Horse" lament. Sure of his old victories, he glanced around him as if no one else were there, and the crowd praised him with one voice; he thought himself unrivaled, not to be brought down. After a while the eastern head, in the north corner, set out a joined platform, and a youth in a black turban came up with five or six attendants bearing feather fans — it was the young man. He straightened his clothes, moved slowly, drew breath and struck the tune, looking almost too frail to bear it, and sang the "Dew on the Shallots." His voice rose clear and soaring, till it shook the very trees, and before the melody ended the listeners were sobbing behind their sleeves. The western head, jeered by the crowd and stung with shame, quietly laid his forfeit down and slipped away. The whole assembly sat astonished, unable to fathom it.

Now the emperor had ordered the provincial governors to court once a year to render their accounts, and the young man's father happened to be in the capital. He and some colleagues put off their official robes and slipped in to watch. Among his people was an old servant, married to the young man's wet-nurse, who caught the singer's face and voice and wanted to call out to him, and didn't dare, and wept instead. "Why are you crying?" the father asked, startled. "That singer," he said, "is the image of your dead son." "My son was murdered by robbers for his money," the father said. "How would he come to this?" And he wept too. Going back, the old servant ran ahead and asked the singer's fellows, "Who is he, that marvelous singer?" "So-and-so's boy." He asked the name — but the name had been changed. A chill went through him. He edged back through the crowd, got close, and stared. The young man saw him, went white, and turned to lose himself in the crowd — but the old man had his sleeve. "Aren't you the young master?" They clung together crying, and he brought him home. Earlier the emperor had decreed that provincial governors come once a year to court, which was called "entering the accounts." It happened that the young man's father was in the capital, and he and his colleagues changed out of their robes and went in secret to watch. There was an old servant — the husband of the young man's wet-nurse — who saw his bearing and heard his voice and wanted to claim him, yet dared not, and wept. The father, startled, asked why. "The singer's face," he said, "is the very likeness of your dead son." "My son was killed by robbers for his money," said the father. "How could it come to this?" And he too wept. On the way back the servant hurried ahead and asked the man's fellows, "Who was that singer, so wonderful?" "So-and-so's son," they all said. He asked the name — but it had been changed. The servant went cold with shock. He came up slowly, pressed close, and looked hard. Seeing him, the young man changed color and turned to hide in the crowd, but the servant caught his sleeve. "Are you not the young master?" They held each other and wept, and he took him home.

At the house the father turned on him. "This — this is what you've made of yourself. You've fouled my house. What face have you left to look at me?" Then he marched him out on foot to the far side of the Apricot Garden, by Qujiang, tore the clothes off him, and laid a horsewhip across him — hundreds of strokes. The young man could not bear it and dropped as if dead, and his father left him lying there and walked away. At the house the father rebuked him: "Your conduct is like this — you have fouled my house. What face have you to look at me again?" Then he led him out on foot to the east of the Apricot Garden, west of Qujiang, stripped off his clothes, and struck him several hundred times with a horsewhip. The young man could not bear the pain and fell as though dead, and his father left him there and went away.

His employer had sent men to trail him in secret, and they carried the news back; the whole shop mourned, and sent two of their own with a reed mat to bury him. But when they reached him there was still a little warmth under his heart. They raised him, and after a long while his breath came back, so they carried him home together and dripped broth down him through a reed tube, and by morning he was alive. A month on, his hands and feet still wouldn't answer. The whip-wounds festered and rotted and stank, and at last his companions, worn out, set him down one night by the road and left. Passersby grieved to see him and tossed him their scraps, and on those he stayed alive. After a hundred days he could stand with a staff. In a cloth gown of a hundred patches, ragged as a molting quail, a broken bowl in his hand, he went ward to ward begging. From autumn into winter he slept in dung-pits and holes by night and drifted through the markets by day. The young man's master had told those close to him to follow in secret, and they went back and told his fellows, who all mourned him and sent two men with a reed mat to bury him. But when they came, there was still a faint warmth below his heart. They lifted him, and after a long while his breath began to pass; so they bore him home together and dripped broth into him through a reed tube, and by the next morning he was alive. After a month his hands and feet still would not move. The whip-wounds all festered and rotted and stank, and his companions, worn out with him, one night left him by the roadside. Passers-by all grieved for him and would throw him their leftovers, and so he filled his belly. After a hundred days he could stand with a staff. In a cloth gown patched a hundred times, ragged as a molting quail, holding a broken bowl, he went round the wards begging for his food. From autumn into winter he slept at night in dung-heaps and holes and by day wandered the markets.

One morning it snowed hard, and hunger and cold drove him out into it, and his begging cry was so wretched that no one who heard it was unmoved. The snow lay deep, and the houses kept their outer doors shut. At the east gate of Anyi, along a wall and north, the seventh or eighth house had a single door-leaf open — Wa's house, though he had no way of knowing. He called out, and called again; frozen and starved to the bone, his voice was more than anyone could stand to hear. Inside, Wa heard it and said to her maid, "That's him. I know his voice." She ran out and found him — shriveled, scabbed over, barely the shape of a man. It went straight to her heart. "Aren't you the young master?" Choked, he folded to the ground, unable to get a word out, and only nodded. She came and put her arms around his neck, wrapped him in her own embroidered jacket, and drew him into the west room, and there her voice broke and she wailed: "That I brought you to this in a single day — this is my doing." She fainted, and came back to herself. One morning of heavy snow, driven out by cold and hunger, he went out into it, and his begging cry was so bitter that none who heard it were unmoved. The snow was deep, and most houses kept their outer doors shut. At the east gate of Anyi, following a wall and turning north, at the seventh or eighth house, one door had only its left leaf open — it was Wa's house. Not knowing it, he cried out again and again; starved and frozen to the bone, his voice was piteous past bearing. Wa, hearing it from within, said to her maid, "That is surely him — I know his voice." She hurried out and saw him, withered and scabbed, hardly a human shape. Moved to the heart, she said, "Are you not the young master?" Choked with grief, he crumpled, unable to speak, and only nodded. Wa came forward, took his neck in her arms, wrapped him in her embroidered jacket, and brought him into the west chamber, and there she lost her voice in a long wail: "That I have brought you to this in a single day — the fault is mine!" She fainted and came to again.

The old woman came running in alarm. "What's happened?" "The young master," Wa said. "Throw him out — now," said the old woman. "What is he doing here?" But Wa set her face and looked her steadily in the eye. "No. He is a good family's son. He drove a fine carriage to my door once, with gold in his hands, and in under a year I stripped him of all of it. Then we set our trap and threw him away — and that was barely a human thing to do. We cost him his place among men; and the tie between a father and a son is Heaven's own, and we killed his father's love for him, so that he was flogged and cast off and brought to this. The whole city knows it was because of me. His family fills the court, and one day some man in power will look into the whole affair, and the ruin will land on us. And to cheat Heaven and wrong a man loses you the gods and the ghosts both — let's not pull our own house down. I've been your daughter twenty years, and I've earned you a thousand in gold if I've earned you a coin. You're past sixty. Let me buy my freedom at the price of twenty years' food and clothes, and go live apart with him. Not far — I can still come to you morning and night. That would be enough for me." The old woman saw there was no moving her, and agreed. The old woman rushed up in alarm: "What is this?" "The young master," said Wa. "Throw him out at once," said the old woman. "Why let him come here?" But Wa, composing her face and looking at her steadily, said, "No. This is a son of a good family. Once he drove a high carriage and carried gold to my door, and in less than a year I stripped him bare. Then we laid a cunning trap, cast him off and drove him away — that was scarcely human. We broke his standing among men; and the bond of father and son is Heaven's own, and we made his father's love die, so that he was beaten and abandoned and brought to this. The whole city knows it was for my sake. His kin fill the court, and one day, when a man in power looks into the whole of it, disaster will fall on us. Besides, to cheat Heaven and wrong a man is to lose the favor of gods and ghosts — let us not call down ruin on ourselves. I have been your daughter twenty years now, and by my reckoning I have earned you no less than a thousand in gold. You are past sixty; let me buy myself free with the price of twenty years' food and clothing, and go to live apart with this young man. We will not go far — morning and evening I can still tend to you. That would content me." The old woman, seeing her will could not be turned, agreed.

When the old woman was paid off, Wa had a hundred in gold left. Five doors to the north she rented an empty court. There she washed him and put him in clean clothes; she fed him thin broth and gruel to wake his stomach, then cheese and milk to settle him, and after ten days or so she was setting the best of land and sea in front of him. Cap, kerchief, shoes, stockings — she dressed him in the finest of everything. In a few months the flesh came back onto him, and by the end of the year he was himself again. When she had given the old woman her due, Wa had a hundred in gold left. Five houses to the north she rented a vacant court. There she bathed the young man and changed his clothes; she made him broth and gruel to open his stomach, then soothed his insides with cheese and milk, and after ten-odd days set before him the delicacies of land and water. Cap and kerchief, shoes and stockings, she dressed him in the finest. In a few months his flesh began to fill out, and by year's end he was whole again as before.

In time Wa said, "You're well now, and your spirit's back. When you sit quietly and reach for the old studies, how much comes?" He thought. "Two or three parts in ten." She called a carriage and rode out, him following on horseback, and at a bookshop by the market-tower she had him pick out the classics and buy them — a hundred in gold — and they hauled the whole load home. Then she made him put every other thought down and bend to the books, turning nights into days, and she gave him no slack. She sat with him, often past midnight, and when he flagged she set him to writing poems and rhapsodies. In two years his learning was whole, and there was no book in the empire he hadn't read to the end. In time Wa said to him, "Your body is sound now, and your spirit strong. When you search your mind and quietly recall your old studies, how much can be brought back?" He thought and said, "Two or three parts in ten." She called for a carriage and went out, the young man following on horseback. At a shop selling the classics by the southern gate of the market-tower, she had him choose and buy, at a cost of a hundred in gold, and they carried the whole load home. Then she made him put every other thought aside and set his will on study, turning night into day, tireless and unrelenting. Wa often sat beside him and did not sleep till midnight; when she saw him tire, she would set him to composing poems and rhapsodies. In two years his learning was complete, and there was no book in the empire he had not read through.

In time he told her he was ready to put his name in. "Not yet," said Wa. "Make it perfect first. Wait for a hundred battles." A year later she said, "Now go." And at one pass he took the top rank, and his name shook the examination hall; even his elders read his work, drew their robes straight in admiration, and wished — and failed — to befriend him. "Not yet," Wa said. "Win one degree and a scholar thinks he can seize a great office and own the fame of the age. Your past is foul, your name low; you're not their equal yet. Sharpen the blade and win again — then you can stand among the best and fight for first." So he pushed harder, and his name only grew. That year came the grand examination; the emperor called for the finest men in the realm, and the young man sat the test in Frank Words and Blunt Remonstrance, placed first, and was made Adjutant of Chengdu Prefecture. The great ministers, and everyone under them, counted themselves his friends. When at length he said he might put his name forward and try, Wa said, "Not yet. Make it perfect, and wait for a hundred battles." A year later: "Now you may go." So at a single attempt he passed into the highest rank, and his fame shook the examination hall; even his elders, reading his work, straightened their robes in admiration and wished to befriend him, in vain. "Not yet," Wa said. "A scholar who wins one degree thinks he can seize a high court office and own the fame of the realm. Your record is foul and your name low — you are not the equal of other men yet. Whet the blade sharper and win again; then you can stand among the best and contend for the first place." So he drove himself harder, and his reputation only grew. That year the great examination fell, and the emperor summoned the finest of the realm; the young man answered the examination in Frank Words and Extreme Remonstrance, placed first, and was made Adjutant of Chengdu Prefecture. The high ministers and below were all his friends.

As he was about to leave for his post, Wa said, "I've given you back your own self — I haven't failed you. Let me spend what years I have left going home to care for the old woman. You should marry into a great house and keep its ancestral rites; don't lower yourself with a match like me. Look after yourself. Work hard. From here I go." He wept. "If you leave me, I'll cut my own throat." She held firm; the harder he begged, the firmer she held. At last she said, "See me over the river as far as Jianmen, and there I'll turn back." He agreed. As he was about to take up his post, Wa said to him, "Now that I have given you back your own self, I have not failed you. Let me spend my remaining years going home to care for the old woman. You should marry into a great clan and serve the ancestral rites; do not demean yourself with an unequal match. Take care of yourself, and strive on — from here I go." The young man wept: "If you leave me, I will cut my throat." Wa held firm and would not yield; the more he begged, the firmer she was. At last she said, "See me across the river as far as Jianmen, and then I will turn back." He agreed.

A month later they came to Jianmen. Before they could go on, a letter of appointment caught up with them: the young man's father, called in from Changzhou, was made Governor of Chengdu and Commissioner of Jiannan. Twelve days on, he arrived. The young man sent in his card and waited on him at the post-station. The father didn't dare believe it was him — but he saw the grandfather's name and office written on the card and was seized with amazement, and had him up the steps, and held his back and wept aloud. After a while he said, "You and I are father and son again, as before." He asked how it had all come about, and his son told him everything. Astonished, he asked where Wa was. "She brought me this far. She means to go home." "That cannot be," the father said. The next day he ordered his carriage and rode ahead with his son to Chengdu, leaving Wa at Jianmen with a lodge built for her. The day after that, he sent a matchmaker to join the two houses, and with the full wedding rites brought her in — and so they were married. A month later they reached Jianmen. Before they set out again, a letter of appointment arrived: the young man's father had been summoned from Changzhou and made Governor of Chengdu and Investigating Commissioner of Jiannan. In twelve days the father arrived. The young man sent in his card and presented himself at the post-station. The father dared not claim him; but seeing his grandfather's name and office written there, he was struck with amazement, ordered him up the steps, and, stroking his back, wept aloud. After a while he said, "You and I are father and son as before." He asked how it had happened, and the young man told the whole of it. Marveling, the father asked where Wa was. "She saw me this far; she means to go back." "That cannot be," said the father. The next day he ordered his carriage and went ahead with his son to Chengdu, leaving Wa at Jianmen and building a lodge for her there. The day after, he sent a matchmaker to arrange the union of the two houses, and with the full six rites welcomed her — and so they were joined as man and wife.

Once the rites were done, Wa played the wife's part to the letter at every sacrifice of the year, ran the household with a firm hand, and was cherished by all his family. Some years on, both his parents died, and he mourned them so devoutly that a magic fungus grew at his mourning hut — one stalk, three flowers — and the province reported it to the throne, and several dozen white swallows nested under his eaves, until the emperor marveled and piled honors on him. When the mourning ended he climbed from one high post to the next, and inside ten years he had governed several commanderies. Wa was made Lady of Qianguo. They had four sons, every one a high official, the least of them Governor of Taiyuan; their brothers and in-laws all married into the first families, and no house in the land, in the court or out of it, could match them. Wa, having completed the rites, fulfilled the wife's part to the letter at every seasonal sacrifice; she governed the household with a firm hand and was deeply cherished by his family. Some years on, the young man's parents both died, and he mourned them with such devotion that a magic fungus grew at his mourning hut — one stalk, three blossoms — which the province reported to the throne; and several dozen white swallows nested under his eaves, so that the emperor marveled and heaped honors on him. When his mourning was done, he rose through one high office after another, and within ten years governed several commanderies. Wa was ennobled Lady of Qianguo. They had four sons, all high officials, the least of them Governor of Taiyuan; brothers and in-laws alike married into the first families, and no house within or without the court could match their flourishing.

And think of it — a wanton singing-girl, and integrity like that; the famed virtuous women of the old books could not have bettered her, and how is one to hold back a sigh? My own great-uncle governed Jinzhou, then went to the Board of Revenue as Commissioner of Land and Water Transport, and in all three posts he followed the young man in office, so he knew the whole affair closely. In the Zhenyuan years, when Li Gongzuo of Longxi and I fell to talking of the strength and character of women, I told him the story of the Lady of Qianguo. He clapped his hands and listened hard, and told me to set it down as a biography. So I wet the brush and wrote it out in outline. It was the eighth month of autumn, in the year yihai. — Bai Xingjian of Taiyuan. Alas! That a wanton singing-girl should keep such integrity — even the exemplary women of old could not surpass her; how can one not sigh over it? My great-uncle once governed Jinzhou, then moved to the Board of Revenue and served as Commissioner of Land and Water Transport; in all three posts he was the young man's successor, and so he knew the affair in detail. In the Zhenyuan years, as Gongzuo of Longxi and I were discussing the mettle and virtue of women, I told him the story of Qianguo. Gongzuo clapped his hands, listened intently, and bade me write it as a biography. So I took up the brush, wet the ink, and set it down in outline. It was the eighth month, autumn, in the year yihai. — Bai Xingjian of Taiyuan.

李娃 The original Chinese · honored as an artifact

汧國夫人李娃,長安之倡女也。節行瑰奇,有足稱者。故監察御史白行簡為傳述。

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