The Painted Skin

A t dawn, on the road out of Taiyuan, a scholar named Wang met a girl travelling alone. She was perhaps sixteen, lovely as new snow, and she hurried as if her small feet pained her, a bundle clutched to her chest. Wang quickened his step to walk beside her. In Taiyuan there was a man named Wang. Going out early one morning, he encountered a girl going alone, carrying a bundle, walking with difficulty. He hastened and overtook her. She was about sixteen, and exceedingly beautiful. His heart was moved, and he asked why she walked alone at such an hour.

She told him a thin, sad story — a cruel household, a flight by night, nowhere left to go. Wang, who told himself he was being kind, offered her his study to hide in. For days he kept her secret, and the secret kept him happy. She said she was a concubine of a great house, ill-used by the principal wife, and had run away. Wang offered to shelter her, and she consented gladly. He led her to his study and concealed her there, and for several days no one knew.

He let it slip to his wife. Chen took one look at the arithmetic — a lone girl, a fine face, a bundle of belongings — and guessed a runaway concubine some powerful family would come looking for. Send her off, she said. Wang wouldn't hear it. He mentioned it quietly to his wife. Chen supposed the girl was a runaway concubine from some great house, and urged him to send her away. Wang would not hear of it.

“What wears a lovely face by candlelight may keep its true skin folded in a drawer.”

A Daoist priest passed him in the market and stopped short. "You have been among something corrupt," he said. Wang laughed it off. But that evening he climbed the wall to his own study, looked through the window — and went cold. Meeting a Daoist on the road, the priest started and said, "You have been touched by an evil influence." Wang denied it. The priest left, murmuring that a man could be bewitched and not know it. Made uneasy, Wang returned and, finding the study door barred from within, climbed over the wall and peered inside.

A creature the color of green rot sat hunched on his couch. It had teeth like a saw. Across its knees was spread a human skin — her skin, her sweet face — and it was leaning close, working the brush across the surface, painting her back to beauty stroke by careful stroke. He saw a ghastly demon, green-faced, its teeth jagged like a saw. It had spread a human skin upon the couch and was painting it with a brush. Finished, it threw down the brush, lifted the skin like a cloak, shook it out, and put it on — and became the girl once more.

Wang went down on all fours and crawled out like an animal. He ran to find the priest and couldn't, hunted the streets, and finally came on him out in the open fields. He dropped to his knees and begged — kill it, drive it off, anything. The Daoist shook his head. 'The poor thing suffers too. It's only just found someone to take its place; I haven't the heart to end it.' Instead he handed Wang a horsehair fly-whisk and told him to hang it at his bedroom door. They would meet again, he said, at the Temple of the Azure Emperor. Seeing this, Wang was terrified, and crawled out on all fours like a beast. He hurried after the Daoist but could not find where he had gone; he searched everywhere and met him in the open country. Kneeling, he begged to be saved and asked that the thing be driven away. The Daoist said, 'This creature suffers bitterly too; it has only just managed to find a replacement — I cannot bear to take its life.' He gave Wang a fly-whisk and told him to hang it at the door of his bedroom, arranging before they parted to meet again at the Temple of the Azure Emperor.

At home Wang wouldn't go near the study. He slept in the inner room and hung the whisk over the door. Somewhere in the first watch of the night came a dry rustling outside. He hadn't the nerve to look, so he sent Chen. She saw the girl come to the threshold, catch sight of the whisk, and stop cold — standing there working her jaw, teeth grinding, for a long moment before she turned and went. Wang went home and, not daring to enter the study, slept in the inner room, hanging the whisk there. Around the first watch he heard a rustling outside the door; not daring to look himself, he had his wife look. She saw only the girl come, halt at the sight of the whisk, and not dare approach — standing there grinding her teeth. After a long while she left.

A little later she was back, and this time she spoke — a snarl at the door. 'So the priest means to frighten me. As if I'd spit out what's already in my mouth.' She tore the whisk to shreds, broke the door in, crossed straight to the bed, ripped Wang open and scooped out his heart, and walked away with it. Chen screamed. The maid ran in with a lamp: Wang was dead, the cavity a ruin of blood. Chen wept without a sound, too frightened to make one. In a little while she came back, cursing: 'The Daoist would frighten me — but I'll hardly spit out what has gone into my mouth.' She snatched the whisk and tore it to pieces, broke down the bedroom door, went straight up to Wang's bed, ripped open his belly, took his heart in her hand, and left. His wife screamed. The maid came in with a light: Wang was dead, the cavity a mess of blood. Chen, aghast, wept but dared not make a sound.

By morning Chen sent Wang's younger brother, Erlang, running to the priest. The Daoist's face went hard. 'I spared it — and the little demon dares this.' He came at once. The girl was gone from the study, but the priest lifted his head, cast a look around, and said, 'Good. It hasn't gone far.' Whose was the south courtyard? Erlang's own lodging. 'It's in there now.' Erlang swore no stranger had come. Had anyone at all? He had been out at the temple since dawn — he would go and ask. He came back shaken: yes. That very morning an old woman had turned up begging kitchen work, and his wife had taken her on. She was still under his roof. 'That,' said the Daoist, 'is your demon.' The next day she sent Wang's younger brother, Erlang, to hurry and tell the Daoist. The Daoist was angry: 'I pitied it, and the wretch dares this.' He came at once with the brother. The girl had vanished. Then, lifting his head and looking about, he said, 'Luckily it has not fled far.' He asked, 'Whose is the southern court?' Erlang said, 'It is where I lodge.' 'It is there now,' said the Daoist. Erlang was astonished and thought it could not be. The Daoist asked whether any stranger had come. 'I went early to the Temple of the Azure Emperor and truly do not know; let me go and ask.' He went and soon returned: 'There was, indeed. This morning an old woman came wanting to be hired for the housework; my wife kept her on, and she is still there.' 'That is the thing,' said the Daoist.

They went together. In the middle of the courtyard the priest planted a wooden sword and called the demon out. 'Vile thing — give me back my whisk.' Inside, the old woman went white, bolted for the door — and the sword came down. She dropped, and the human skin split away from her with a tearing sound, and what lay there was a savage fiend that thrashed on the ground and howled like a pig. The priest took its head off with the wooden blade. The body unspooled into a thick coil of smoke banked on the ground. He drew out a gourd, worked the stopper loose, and set the mouth of it against the smoke: it drank the whole cloud in with a thin whistle, like a breath pulled through the teeth, and in an eyeblink there was nothing left. He corked it and dropped it in his bag. The skin still lay there — brows, eyes, hands, feet, every part of her intact. He rolled it up like a hanging scroll, with the same soft rasp a painting makes, tucked it away, and turned to go. So they went together. Standing in the middle of the court with a wooden sword, the Daoist called out, 'Vile demon! Give me back my whisk!' The hag inside, panic-stricken and colorless, came out the door to flee; the Daoist struck her. She fell, the human skin peeled off with a tearing sound, and she became a hideous ghost that lay and howled like a pig. With the wooden sword the Daoist cut off its head. The body turned into a thick smoke that coiled on the ground in a heap. The Daoist brought out a gourd, pulled the stopper, and set it in the smoke: with a whistling sound, like a mouth drawing breath, in a blink the smoke was gone. He stoppered the gourd and put it in his bag. They looked at the human skin — brows, eyes, hands, feet, all complete. The Daoist rolled it up, with the sound of rolling a painted scroll, bagged that too, and made ready to leave.

Chen met the priest at the gate, bowing, in tears, begging for some way to bring her husband back. He refused — it was past him. She only wept harder and went down flat on the ground and would not rise. The Daoist thought it over. 'My own art is shallow. I can't raise the dead, truly. But I can send you to a man who might.' Who? 'There's a madman in the market who lies about in the filth of the gutter. Bow to him. Beg him. And if he treats you vilely — madam must not let herself be angry.' Chen met him at the gate with bows, weeping and begging for a way to bring Wang back to life. The Daoist declined, saying he could not. Chen grieved the more and lay prostrate on the ground, refusing to rise. The Daoist thought a while and said, 'My art is shallow; truly I cannot raise the dead. But I can point you to someone who perhaps can.' She asked who. 'In the market there is a madman who sometimes lies in the dung and dirt. Try bowing to him and pleading. Should he insult you madly, madam must not take offense.'

Erlang knew the man too. They left the priest and went, sister-in-law and brother, and found him in the road — a beggar reeling through some tuneless song, snot hanging to his chin, so foul no one would stand near. Chen crossed the last of the distance on her knees. He grinned down at her. 'Does the pretty one love me?' She told him why she had come. He laughed harder. 'Any man alive can be a husband. Why do you want this one back?' She kept begging. 'Now that is rich,' he said. 'A man dies and you come to me to raise him. What am I, the king of the dead?' And he set on her with his staff. Chen took the blows and bore them. Around them the market drew in until the crowd stood like a wall. Erlang also knew the man. So they took leave of the Daoist and went together, sister-in-law and brother. They found the beggar singing crazily along the road, three feet of snot at his nose, so filthy no one could go near. Chen went forward on her knees. The beggar laughed: 'Does the pretty one love me?' Chen told him why she had come. He laughed loudly again: 'Every man could be a husband — why bring this one back to life?' Chen kept pleading. Then he said, 'How strange — a man is dead and you beg me to revive him. Am I King Yama?' In anger he beat Chen with his staff; Chen bore the pain and took it. The people of the market gradually gathered into a wall.

Then he brought up a mouthful — a fistful of phlegm and spit — and held it to her lips. 'Eat it.' Chen went scarlet. Her whole body balked. Then she remembered what the priest had told her, and made herself swallow. It went down hard as a wad of cotton, catching, sinking, and lodging somewhere behind her ribs. The beggar roared. 'So the pretty one does love me.' He got up and walked off without looking back. They followed him as far as a temple and lost him — pressed inside, searched the front and the back, and found not a sign of him. Sick with shame, Chen went home. The beggar hawked up a handful of phlegm and spittle and, raising it to Chen's lips, said, 'Eat it.' Chen's face flushed red and she showed her reluctance; then, remembering the Daoist's charge, she forced herself to swallow it. She felt it go into her throat, hard as a wad of cotton, sliding down with a lump and lodging in her chest. The beggar laughed loudly: 'The pretty one does love me.' Then he rose and walked off without another glance. They followed him into a temple; pressing close to look for him, they could not tell where he had gone; searching front and back, they found no trace at all. Ashamed and bitter, she went home.

She wept over the ruin of her husband, and wept harder over the shame of the thing still sitting in her chest, doubled over and wishing only to die. When at last she went to close the wound and dress the body for burial — the household hanging back, no one willing to come near — she gathered the corpse into her arms and fed the spilled entrails back into the cavity, setting them right as she sobbed. She cried until her voice tore, and then something turned in her chest: the knotted lump surged up her throat, and before she could turn her head it dropped — straight into the open cavity. She stared. It was a human heart, throbbing there in the wound, steam rising off it like smoke. She threw both hands over the opening and pressed with all her strength; the moment she eased off, vapor breathed out through the seam, so she tore strips of silk and bound it fast. She laid a hand on him — the body was warming. She drew a quilt over him. At midnight there was breath at his nose. By dawn he was alive, and all he could say was that it had been hazy, like a dream, with a dull ache low in his belly. Where the demon had opened him, a scab had closed the size of a coin, and before long it healed clean. She grieved bitterly over the horror of her husband's death, and regretted too the shame of swallowing the spittle; bent double, she wailed, wanting only to die. She was about to clean the wound and shroud the body — the household standing at a distance, none daring to come near. Chen took the corpse in her arms and gathered the entrails back in, arranging them as she wept. When her weeping had worn her voice to a rasp, all at once she felt like retching: the thing knotted in her chest rushed up and out, and before she could turn her head it had dropped into the cavity. Startled, she looked — it was a human heart, throbbing away in the cavity, hot breath steaming off it like smoke. In great wonder she quickly clapped both hands over the cavity and squeezed with all her strength; when she let up even a little, vapor seeped out at the seam, so she tore strips of silk and bound it fast. She passed her hand over the body: it grew warm. She covered it with a quilt. Looking in the middle of the night, she found breath at his nostrils; by daybreak he was alive. He said, 'It was hazy, like a dream — only a dull ache in my belly.' Where he had been torn, a scab had formed the size of a coin; before long it healed.

The teller of these strange tales adds a word. What fools we are — a thing is plainly a monster, and we see a beautiful woman. What deluded fools — a warning is plainly honest, and we hear only nonsense. But the man who covets another's beauty and takes what he wants of it should know: the day comes when his own wife swallows a stranger's spit and calls it sweet, to buy him back. Heaven collects what it is owed. Only the fool, lost in his wanting, never sees the bill come due. How sad. The Historian of the Strange remarks: How foolish are the people of the world — a thing plainly a demon, and they take it for a beauty. How deluded the stupid — words plainly loyal, and they take them for nonsense. Yet a man who covets another's beauty and preys upon it — his own wife will end by swallowing another man's spittle and finding it sweet. The Way of Heaven is fond of requital; only the foolish and deluded do not wake to it. How sad.

畫皮 The original Chinese · honored as an artifact

太原王生早行，遇一女郎，抱襆獨奔，甚艱於步。急走趁之，乃二八姝麗。心相愛樂，問：「何夙夜踽踽獨行？」

Opening lines, classical Chinese · Strange Tales 聊齋誌異 · Pu Songling