The Governor of the Southern Tributary

C hunyu Fen was a hard-drinking man of Dongping, a swaggering wanderer of the Wu and Chu country who lived by his temper and his fists. He had made a great fortune and spent it keeping a houseful of rough companions. Once, on the strength of his swordsmanship, he had been a junior officer in the Huainan army — until he insulted his commander in a fit of drink and was thrown out to drift, and after that he did nothing but drink. His house stood ten li east of Guangling, and on its south side grew a single great old pagoda tree, its trunk broad, its branches long and dense, its cool shade spread over whole acres. Day after day it was here that Chunyu Fen sat down with his friends to their wine. Chunyu Fen of Dongping was a knight-errant of the Wu and Chu region, fond of wine and given to temper, careless of small proprieties. He had amassed a great fortune and kept a following of bold guests. On the strength of his martial skill he had once been made a junior general in the Huainan army, but having offended his commander while drunk, he was dismissed and fell into ruin, and gave himself over entirely to drinking. He lived ten li east of Guangling commandery. South of his dwelling stood a great old pagoda tree (a huai, the Chinese scholar tree), its branches long and dense, its cool shade covering several acres, and beneath it Chunyu Fen would daily drink deep with his companions.

In the ninth month of the seventh year of Zhenyuan, he drank himself sick. Two friends who were with him half-carried him home and laid him down in the gallery east of the hall. "Sleep it off," they said. "We'll see to the horses and wash our feet, and wait until you're a little better." He loosened his headcloth, settled onto the pillow, and the world went dim and swimming — it felt like the edge of a dream. Two men in purple robes came and knelt before him. "The King of Huai'an sends us," they said, "and bids us invite you." In the ninth month of the seventh year of Zhenyuan, he fell ill from heavy drunkenness. Two friends who were sitting with him supported him home and laid him down beneath the eastern gallery of the hall. They said, "Sleep now. We will feed the horses and wash our feet, and leave once you are a little recovered." He took off his headcloth and lay down on the pillow. Dazed and hazy, he seemed to be dreaming. He saw two envoys in purple robes, who knelt and bowed to him and said, "The King of Huai'an has sent us, his humble officials, to convey his command and invite you."

Without quite meaning to, he rose, straightened his clothes, and followed them to the gate. A small carriage stood there, lacquered in dark oil, drawn by four horses, with seven or eight attendants to either side. They helped him up, drove out through the main door, and turned straight toward an opening at the foot of the old pagoda tree — and into the hollow in the tree the carriage went. Chunyu Fen thought it very strange, but he did not dare to ask. Without realizing it, he got down from the couch, arranged his clothes, and followed the two envoys to the gate. There he saw a small carriage lacquered with green oil, drawn by four horses, with seven or eight attendants on either side. They helped him into the carriage, went out through the main door, and headed toward the hollow in the old pagoda tree; the envoys then drove straight into the hole. He thought this exceedingly strange but did not dare to ask.

“In that swift flicker of a dream, he seemed to have lived a whole lifetime.”

All at once the hills and rivers, the weather and the roads, the grass and trees — none of it belonged to the world he knew. They went on for some tens of li. There were walled towns and battlements, carriages and crowds unbroken along the road. His outriders called out sternly to clear the way, and travelers scattered aside. They entered a great city with vermilion gates and tiered towers, and above the gate, in golden letters, were written the words: The Great Kingdom of Huai'an. The gatekeepers bowed and hurried about. A rider galloped up crying, "By the King's order, since the consort has come from afar, let him rest first at the Eastern Flower Lodge." And so they led him on. Suddenly the mountains and rivers, the climate, the plants and roads were utterly unlike the human world. They traveled several tens of li and came upon walls and battlements, with carriages and people unceasing along the road. His escorts shouted commands very sternly, and passersby hurried aside. They entered a great city with vermilion gates and layered towers, and on the tower, in gold writing, was inscribed "The Great Kingdom of Huai'an." The gatekeepers bowed and rushed to attend. Soon a rider called out, "Since the King's son-in-law has come from afar, he is to rest a while at the Eastern Flower Lodge." And they led the way forward.

A gate swung wide, and he stepped down and went in. Carved railings and painted pillars, flowering trees and rare fruit stood about the courtyard; couches and cushions, curtains and laid dishes were spread within, and his heart lifted despite himself. Someone announced, "The Minister of the Right approaches," and Chunyu Fen came down the steps to receive him. A man in purple robes, an ivory tablet at his belt, advanced, and host and guest observed every courtesy. "Our king," the minister said, "though his poor country is remote, has invited you to be joined to his house by marriage." "I am a mean and worthless creature," said Chunyu Fen. "How should I dare hope for such a thing?" And the minister asked him to come along to the palace. Presently a gate opened wide, and he alighted and entered. Painted railings and carved pillars, flowering trees and precious fruits were planted throughout the courtyard; tables, mats, curtains, and food were set out within, and his heart was greatly pleased. A voice announced, "The Minister of the Right is arriving," and he descended the steps in respect. A man in purple robes carrying an ivory tablet came forward, and the courtesies of host and guest were fully exchanged. The Minister of the Right said, "Our lord, not minding that his humble country is remote, welcomes you and would entrust you with a marriage tie." Chunyu Fen said, "How should one of my base and lowly person dare hope for this?" The minister then invited him to go with him to the king's place.

They walked perhaps a hundred paces and passed through a vermilion gate. Spears and halberds, axes and battle-glaives were ranged to left and right, and hundreds of soldiers stood back to let them by. Among them Chunyu Fen saw an old drinking companion of his, a man named Zhou Bian, and was privately glad of it, though he did not dare step forward and speak. The minister led him up into a wide hall where the guard stood stiff and solemn, as in the presence of a supreme lord. On the throne sat a man tall and grave, dressed in plain white silk, a crown of red blossoms pinned at his brow. Chunyu Fen trembled and dared not look up. The attendants bade him bow. "Some time ago," the king said, "I received your honored father's consent that I might not scorn my small kingdom, and give my second daughter, Yaofang, to wait upon you." Chunyu Fen only pressed his face to the ground and dared say nothing. "Go to the guest lodge for now," said the king; "the ceremony will follow in due course." And the minister returned with him to the lodge. Alone, Chunyu Fen turned it over in his mind. His father had been a general on the frontier and had vanished into barbarian hands, alive or dead none knew — could the old man, off among the northern tribes, somehow have arranged this match? He could make no sense of it, and the puzzle would not leave him. They walked about a hundred paces and entered a vermilion gate. Spears, halberds, axes, and battle-glaives were arrayed to left and right, and several hundred soldiers drew back to the side of the road. Among them was Zhou Bian, an old drinking companion of Chunyu Fen's; he was privately pleased but did not dare go forward to ask after him. The Minister of the Right led him up into a broad hall, where the guard was strict and solemn as in the presence of the most exalted. He saw a man, tall and dignified, seated in the central place, dressed in plain white silk, wearing a crown of red flowers. Chunyu Fen trembled and did not dare look up. The attendants had him bow. The king said, "Formerly I received your worthy father's command that I should not scorn my small country, and he consented that my second daughter, Yaofang, should serve you." Chunyu Fen only prostrated himself and dared not speak. The king said, "Go to the guest lodge for now; the ceremony will follow." By order the Minister of the Right returned with him to the lodge. Chunyu Fen pondered it: his father had been a general on the frontier and was lost among the barbarians, alive or dead unknown; he wondered whether his father, in contact with the northern tribes, had brought this about. He was much bewildered and could not understand the reason.

That evening every rite of betrothal was made ready — the lamb and the goose, the silks and gifts, the solemn pomp, the singing-girls and strings, the dishes and candles, the carriages and ceremonial things, all complete. A troop of women appeared — one called herself the Lady of Huayang, another the Lady of Blue Creek, this one an Upper Immortal, that one a Lower Immortal — and there were several such, each with thousands of attendants, wearing kingfisher-phoenix crowns and cloaks of golden mist, their ornaments too bright to look at. They wandered and played and passed to and fro through the gate, and they made a game of teasing "young Master Chunyu." Their manner was bewitching, their talk quick and lovely, and he could find nothing to answer. That evening the lamb and goose, the silks and gifts, the pomp and ceremony, the singing-girls and strings, the food and lamps, the carriages and ritual goods — nothing was not provided. There were troops of women: some called themselves the Lady of Huayang, some the Lady of Blue Creek, some Upper Immortals, some Lower Immortals — several such, each with thousands of attendants, wearing kingfisher-phoenix crowns and cloaks of golden mist, their jade and gold ornaments too dazzling to look at. They roamed and played, coming and going at the gate, vying to tease young Chunyu. Their bearing was bewitchingly lovely and their words clever and alluring, and he could not answer them.

One of the women said to him, "Last Shangsi festival I went with Lady Lingzhi to Chanzhi Temple, and in the Tianzhu court we watched You Yan dance the Brahman dance. I sat with the other girls on the stone couch by the north window. You were young then, and you too had ridden out to watch — and you alone pushed close to us, joking and teasing. My sister Qiongying and I tied a crimson kerchief on a branch of bamboo. Have you truly forgotten? And on the sixteenth of the seventh month, at Xiaogan Temple, I heard Master Qixuan expound the Guanyin Sutra. There beneath the pulpit I gave two golden phoenix hairpins, and the Immortal Shangzhen gave a rhinoceros-horn box. You were in the congregation, and you asked the master to let you see the pins and the box, and you sighed over them again and again, and wondered at them a long while. You said to your friends, 'People and things like these are not of this world.' You asked who I was, asked where I lived, and I would not answer. My eyes clung to you and would not let go. Surely you remember?" "I have kept it hidden in my heart," said Chunyu Fen. "What day could I forget it?" And the women said, "We never dreamed that today you would become one of our own." Then one woman said to him, "At the last Shangsi festival I accompanied Lady Lingzhi to Chanzhi Temple, and in the Tianzhu court watched You Yan dance the Brahman dance. The girls and I sat on the stone couch by the north window. You were young then; you too had ridden out to watch, and you alone came forward to be familiar with us, joking and teasing. Qiongying and I tied a crimson kerchief on a bamboo branch — do you not remember? And on the sixteenth of the seventh month, at Xiaogan Temple, I met the Immortal Shangzhen and heard Master Qixuan expound the Guanyin Sutra. Beneath the pulpit I donated two golden phoenix hairpins, and Shangzhen donated a rhinoceros-horn box. You were also at the lecture, and asked the master for the pins and box to look at them, praising and marveling over them a long while, and said to us, 'These people and things are not of the mortal world.' You asked my name and my village, and I did not answer. My feelings clung to you and my gaze would not leave — surely you remember?" Chunyu Fen said, "I have kept it in my heart; what day could I forget it?" The women said, "We never thought that today you would become our kinsman."

Then three men in magnificent caps and belts came and bowed to him. "We are appointed to attend the consort," they said. One of them was an old acquaintance, and Chunyu Fen pointed at him: "Aren't you Tian Zihua of Pingyi?" "I am," said Tian. Chunyu Fen took his hand and they spoke of old times a long while. "How do you come to be here?" he asked. "I was wandering," said Zihua, "and won the favor of the Minister of the Right, the Marquis of Wucheng, Duke Duan; and so I settled here." "Zhou Bian is here — did you know?" "Zhou is a great man now," said Zihua. "He holds the office of Intendant, with wide power; more than once he has been my protector." And they laughed together warmly. Then a voice announced, "The consort may come forward." The three took up sword and pendant, cap and robes, and dressed him. "I never thought I'd witness so splendid a rite today," said Zihua. "Let us not forget one another." Then three men in splendid caps and belts came and bowed to him, saying, "We are ordered to be the consort's attendants." One was an old friend, and Chunyu Fen pointed at him: "Are you not Tian Zihua of Pingyi?" Tian said, "I am." Chunyu Fen came forward, took his hand, and talked of old times a long while. He asked, "How do you come to be here?" Zihua said, "In my wanderings I gained the favor of the Minister of the Right, the Marquis of Wucheng, Duke Duan, and so I lodged here." Chunyu Fen asked, "Zhou Bian is here — did you know?" Zihua said, "Zhou is a great man now, holding the office of Intendant, with great power; more than once he has protected me." They talked and laughed happily. Soon a voice announced, "The consort may come forward." The three took sword, pendant, cap, and robes and dressed him. Zihua said, "I never expected to witness so grand a rite today; let us not forget one another."

Scores of fairy handmaids played strange music, winding and clear and mournful, such as no mortal ever heard; scores more went before with candles, and to left and right, curtained screens of gold and kingfisher-blue stretched glittering for a mile without a break. He sat upright in the carriage, his mind adrift and uneasy, and Tian Zihua joked with him to put him at ease. The women he had met came and went among the procession, each riding a phoenix-winged palanquin. At a gate called the Palace of Cultivated Ceremony, the fairy sisters thronged at his side. They had him step down and bow, and the bowing and yielding, the ascending and descending, were just as among men. When the screens were drawn back and the fans lifted away, there sat a girl called the Princess Golden Branch, perhaps fourteen or fifteen, grave and lovely as an immortal. The rites of union were plainly and fully done. From that time his love for her deepened by the day, and his glory rose by the day; his carriages and robes, his outings and feasts and retinue, were second only to the king's. Several tens of fairy handmaids played strange music, winding, clear, and mournful, such as is not heard among men. Several tens more led the way with candles, and to left and right stretched screens of gold and kingfisher-blue, glittering and translucent, unbroken for several li. He sat upright in the carriage, his mind confused and ill at ease, and Tian Zihua eased him with jokes. The women he had met came and went among the procession, each riding a phoenix-winged palanquin. They reached a gate called the Palace of Cultivated Ceremony, where the fairy sisters thronged at his side. They had him descend and bow, and the bowing, yielding, ascending, and descending were entirely as among men. When the screens were drawn and the fans removed, he saw a girl called the Princess Golden Branch, perhaps fourteen or fifteen, grave and lovely as an immortal. The rites of union were plainly performed. From then his love deepened daily and his glory grew daily; his carriages and robes, his outings, feasts, and retinue were second only to the king's.

One day the king had Chunyu Fen and the officials arm themselves and hunt on Mount Lingui, the Spirit-Turtle Mountain, west of the capital. Its slopes rose sharp and beautiful, its rivers and marshes ran wide, its woods stood thick, and every kind of bird and beast was kept there. The hunt took a great bag, and they came home only at nightfall. The king had Chunyu Fen and the officials arm and hunt greatly on Mount Lingui, west of the capital. Its heights were steep and fair, its rivers and marshes broad, its woods lush, and every kind of bird and beast was kept there. The host took a great bag and returned only at nightfall.

One day he said to the king, "When our match was made, Your Majesty spoke of my father's command. My father served under a frontier general, lost a battle, and was taken among the Hu; for seventeen or eighteen years now no letter has come. If Your Majesty knows where he is, I beg leave to go and pay my respects." "Your father guards the northern land," the king said quickly. "Letters pass between us still. Only write to him — there is no need to go yourself." And he had the princess send gifts of congratulation along with the letter. Within a few nights a reply came. Chunyu Fen studied it, and every turn of it was his father's own hand — the remembering, the fatherly instruction, the tenderness and care, all as in years past. His father asked after their kin, living and dead, and after the fortunes of the old neighborhood. He wrote that the roads lay far apart, the mists and passes between them closed, and his words were bitter and grieving; he would not let his son come to him. In the year of the Ox, he wrote, they would meet. Chunyu Fen held the letter and wept, and could not master himself. On another day Chunyu Fen addressed the king: "When our match was made, Your Majesty spoke of my father's command. My father lately assisted a frontier general, met defeat in war, and was lost among the Hu; for seventeen or eighteen years no letter has come. Since Your Majesty knows where he is, I beg to go and pay my respects." The king said at once, "Your father guards the northern land; letters between us are unbroken. Only send a letter to inform him — there is no need to go." He had the wife send gifts of congratulation with it. After a few nights a reply came. Chunyu Fen examined it: it was all in his father's own hand — the remembrance and instruction, the tender and intricate feeling, all as in former years. He asked after their kin, living and dead, and the rise and fall of the old neighborhood; he said the roads were far and sundered, the mists and passes cut off, his words bitter and sorrowful; and he would not let his son come. He wrote that in the year dingchou they would meet. Chunyu Fen held the letter and sobbed, unable to bear it.

Another day his wife said, "Wouldn't you like to govern?" "I've been a wastrel," he said. "I know nothing of administration." "Only take it up," she said, "and I will help you." She spoke to the king. Some days later the king told him, "My province of Nanke — the Southern Tributary — is badly run, and its governor has been dismissed. I should like to borrow your talents. Bend to it, and go there together with my daughter." Chunyu Fen bowed and accepted the charge. The king ordered his officers to prepare a governor's train, and gold and jade, brocade and coffers, servants and horses were ranged along the broad road to see the princess off. Chunyu Fen had been a rough adventurer with no such hopes in him, and now he was full of joy. He sent up a memorial: "I am the idle son of a military house, with no art or learning. To take so great a charge is to court the ruin of the state's good order. I beg leave to seek out wise men to make up what I lack. I know the Intendant Zhou Bian of Yingchuan to be loyal, upright, and firm, a man who keeps the law and does not bend — fit to assist me; and the recluse Tian Zihua of Pingyi to be honest, prudent, and adaptable, one who understands the roots of good government. These two have been my friends for ten years, and I know their worth. Let Zhou be made Justiciar of Nanke and Tian its Minister of Agriculture, that my rule may have something to show and the law be kept in order." The king granted it all, and sent them off. On another day his wife said, "Do you not wish to govern?" Chunyu Fen said, "I am dissolute and unpracticed in affairs." The wife said, "Only undertake it, and I will assist you." She spoke to the king. After some days the king said to him, "My province of Nanke is ill-governed and its governor dismissed. I wish to use your talents. Condescend to it, and go with my daughter." Chunyu Fen respectfully accepted the charge. The king ordered his officers to prepare a governor's baggage, and gold, jade, brocade, coffers, servants, and horses were arrayed along the broad road to send off the princess. Having been a petty adventurer who never dared such hopes, Chunyu Fen was greatly pleased. He sent up a memorial: "I am the idle son of a military house, with no arts. To bear so great a charge would surely wreck the order of the court. I wish to seek widely for worthy men to aid my shortcomings. I find the Intendant Zhou Bian of Yingchuan loyal, upright, firm, and law-abiding, a man fit to assist; and the recluse Tian Zihua of Pingyi pure, prudent, and adaptable, one who reaches the source of good governance. Both have been my friends for ten years, and I know their abilities. Let Zhou be appointed Justiciar of Nanke and Tian Minister of Agriculture, that my administration may have repute and the statutes not fall into disorder." The king approved the memorial and sent them off.

That evening the king and his lady gave them a farewell feast south of the capital. "Nanke is a great province," the king told him, "rich in land and bold in its people; nothing but good government will hold it. You have Zhou and Tian to help you — do your best, and answer the kingdom's trust." And the queen warned the princess, "Chunyu Fen is hot-tempered and fond of wine, and young besides. A wife's way is to be gentle and yielding; serve him well, and I shall not worry. Nanke is not far, but a day will lie between our mornings and our nights. To part today — how should I not wet my sleeve?" The couple bowed and set off south. They rode with a train of horsemen, talking and laughing, and after several nights reached the province. That evening the king and his lady feasted them south of the capital. The king said to him, "Nanke is a great province of the kingdom, rich in land and bold in its people; without benevolent rule it cannot be governed. Moreover you have Zhou and Tian to aid you. Exert yourself and answer the kingdom's hopes." The lady admonished the princess, "Chunyu Fen is hard-tempered and fond of wine, and young besides. A wife's way values gentleness and obedience; serve him well, and I shall not worry. Nanke is not far, but our mornings and evenings will be sundered. To part today — how should I not wet my kerchief?" The couple bowed and went south, riding with a train of horsemen, talking and laughing, and after several nights reached the province.

Officials and monks and Daoists, elders and musicians, carriages and guardsmen with bells came crowding out to welcome them; the press of people and the din of bells and drums went unbroken for a dozen li and more. He saw battlements and watchtowers, and a fine air hanging over the walls. Over the great gate, again in golden letters, was written: The Wall of Nanke Commandery. Behind red-shafted lances the barred gates stood deep and solemn. Chunyu Fen got down, looked into the customs of the place, tended its sick and suffering, and left the business of rule to Zhou and Tian — and the province was well ordered. For twenty years he governed there. His teaching spread far; the people made songs in his praise, raised him a monument of merit, and built him a living shrine. The king honored him greatly, granted him a fief and a title, and set him among the great ministers. Zhou and Tian both grew famous for their rule and rose in turn to high place. Chunyu Fen had five sons and two daughters; his sons received office through their father's rank, his daughters were betrothed into the royal house, and his splendor and renown were such that no one in that age could match him. The province's officials, monks and Daoists, elders, musicians, carriages, guardsmen, and bells came vying to welcome them; the throng of people, the clamor of bells and drums, went on unbroken for a dozen li and more. He saw battlements and towers, a fine air thick over them. Entering the great gate — which also bore a great placard inscribed in gold, "The Wall of Nanke Commandery" — the red-shafted, barred gates stood deep and severe. Chunyu Fen alighted, inquired into the local customs, tended the sick and suffering, and entrusted affairs to Zhou and Tian; and the province was well governed. He held the province twenty years. His influence spread widely, the people sang his praises, raised a monument of merit, and set up a living shrine to him. The king esteemed him greatly, granted him a fief, bestowed rank, and placed him among the chief ministers. Zhou and Tian both became renowned for their governance and rose in turn to high office. He had five sons and two daughters; the sons received office through their father's rank, the daughters were betrothed to the royal house, and his splendor was such as no one of the age could equal.

That year a kingdom called Tanluo came to attack the province. The king ordered Chunyu Fen to drill his officers and train his troops against them, and Chunyu Fen sent Zhou Bian with thirty thousand men to hold the enemy at the city of Jade Terrace. But Zhou was brave and rash and pushed forward too far; his army was broken, and he crept back to the city by night, alone and stripped, on a single horse, while the enemy carried off his baggage and armor. Chunyu Fen put him under guard and asked the king for punishment, but the king pardoned them both. That same month Zhou Bian died of an abscess on his back. And the princess, Chunyu Fen's wife, fell ill, and within ten days she too was gone. That year a Kingdom of Tanluo came to attack the province. The king ordered Chunyu Fen to train officers and drill troops to campaign against them, and he memorialized to send Zhou Bian with thirty thousand men to resist the enemy host at the city of Jade Terrace. Zhou, brave and rash, advanced too far; his army was routed, and he fled back by night alone and stripped on a single horse, while the enemy carried off the baggage and armor. Chunyu Fen imprisoned Zhou and begged the king for punishment, but the king pardoned them both. That month the Justiciar Zhou Bian died of an abscess on his back. And Chunyu Fen's wife, the princess, fell ill, and within ten days she too died.

Chunyu Fen begged to lay down the province and escort her coffin back to the capital, and the king allowed it, setting Tian Zihua to act as governor of Nanke in his place. He set out with the funeral in bitter grief, the cortege stately along the road; men and women cried out, officials laid offerings, and those who clung to the carriage-shafts and blocked the way were beyond counting. So they reached the capital. The king and his lady, in white mourning, wept in the outskirts as they waited for the hearse. The princess was given the posthumous name Princess Shunyi, and with a guard of honor and feathered canopies and drums and pipes she was buried on Panlong Hill, the Coiled Dragon Hill, ten li east of the capital. That month the dead Justiciar's son Rongxin also brought his father's coffin back to the capital. Chunyu Fen asked to be relieved of the province and to escort the coffin to the capital; the king allowed it, and had the Minister of Agriculture, Tian Zihua, act as Governor of Nanke. Chunyu Fen set out with the funeral in grief, the cortege stately on the road; men and women wailed, officials laid out offerings, and those who clutched the shafts and blocked the way were beyond number. So they reached the capital. The king and his lady, in plain mourning, wept in the suburbs awaiting the hearse. The princess was given the posthumous title Princess Shunyi, and with honor guard, feathered canopies, drums, and pipes she was buried on Panlong (Coiled Dragon) Hill, ten li east of the capital. That month the late Justiciar's son Rongxin also escorted his father's coffin to the capital.

Chunyu Fen had long held the outer province and had bound himself in friendship with the great families of the capital; there was no noble house he was not close to. After he gave up the province and returned, he came and went without restraint, and his friends and followers, his power to help and to harm, grew greater by the day, until the king began to fear and mistrust him. About then someone in the kingdom sent up a memorial: "The heavens show a warning. A great terror hangs over the state. The capital will be moved; the ancestral temples will fall. The rupture will come from another clan, and the trouble lies within our own walls." The court took this for a sign of Chunyu Fen's overreaching pride. So they stripped away his guard, forbade his comings and goings, and shut him up in his own house. Sure of the long years he had governed without a single failure of rule, Chunyu Fen chafed at the slander and the whispers, and sank into gloom. Chunyu Fen had long garrisoned the outer province and formed ties with the capital; there was no noble house or great clan he was not intimate with. After giving up the province and returning, he came and went without restraint, and his companions and retinue, his power to benefit and harm, grew daily, until the king grew suspicious and wary of him. Then a man of the kingdom memorialized: "The celestial signs show a warning. The state faces a great terror. The capital will remove; the ancestral temples will collapse. The rupture arises from another clan; the trouble lies within the walls." The court took this as the response to Chunyu Fen's extravagant overreaching. So they stripped his guard, forbade his associations, and confined him to his private residence. Trusting in his many years of governing without a single failure, Chunyu Fen fretted at the slander and grew melancholy.

The king came to know of it, and said to him, "We have been kin these twenty years and more. It is my sorrow that my poor daughter died so young and could not grow old with you — a grievous wound." The queen kept the grandchildren to raise herself. "You have been from home a long time," the king went on. "Go back to your own village for a while and see your kin. As for your grandchildren, leave them here; do not trouble yourself over them. In three years I shall send for you again." "But this is my home," said Chunyu Fen. "Where else should I go back to?" The king laughed. "You belong to the world of men. Your home is not here." And at that a heaviness came over Chunyu Fen like sleep; his sight darkened, and for a long while he was lost — and then, slowly, the memory of what had been before came back to him, and he wept and asked to return. The king glanced to his attendants to see him off, and Chunyu Fen bowed twice and went. The king too came to know of it, and said to him, "We have been kin more than twenty years. Unhappily my daughter died young and could not grow old with you — a grievous sorrow." The lady kept the grandchildren to raise them. The king said further, "You have long been from home; return to your village a while and see your kin. Leave your grandchildren here; do not be anxious for them. In three years I shall send for you again." Chunyu Fen said, "This is my home; where else should I return to?" The king laughed and said, "You belong to the world of men; your home is not here." At this Chunyu Fen felt as if drowsing, and was dazed a long while before he awoke to his former life; then he wept and asked to return. The king looked to his attendants to escort him; Chunyu Fen bowed twice and departed.

The same two envoys in purple went with him again. Outside the great gate he found the carriage waiting for him mean and shabby, and not one of his attendants or grooms was there; his heart sank in wonder. He got in and rode a few li, out again through the great city, and the way was the very road he had come by years before, coming east — the hills and plains lay exactly as they had. The two envoys who saw him off had no dignity or state about them at all, and he grew more and more disheartened. "When shall we reach Guangling?" he asked them. The two only sang to themselves and would not answer, and after a long while said, "Soon." Then they came out of a hole, and there were his own lanes and alleys, unchanged from other days. Grief rose in him, and without knowing it he wept. Again the two purple-robed envoys attended him. Outside the great gate he saw the carriage he was to ride was very poor, and of his attendants, grooms, and servants not one remained; he marveled in dismay. He mounted and rode a few li, out again through the great city, and it was the very road he had come east by in former years; the hills, streams, and plains were as before. The two escorting envoys had no majesty about them at all, and he grew more and more dispirited. He asked them, "When shall we reach Guangling?" The two sang on unconcerned, and after a long while answered, "Soon." Then they came out of a hole, and there were his own lanes and alleys, unchanged from former days. Grieving, he wept without knowing it.

The two envoys led him down from the carriage and in through his gate and up the steps — and there was his own body, lying under the eastern gallery of the hall. Terror took him, and he dared not go near it. But the envoys called his name aloud, several times, and at that he woke as before. His household servants were sweeping the yard; his two friends were washing their feet on the couch; the slanting sun had not yet sunk behind the western wall, and the wine he had left stood still brimming by the eastern window. In that swift flicker of a dream, he seemed to have lived a whole lifetime. Shaken and sighing, he called his two friends and told them everything. Astonished, they went out with him to look for the hole beneath the pagoda tree. He pointed: "This is where I was carried in, in the dream." The two thought some fox or tree-spirit had worked a spell, and called for a servant to bring an axe. They cut through the swollen bole, broke away the gnarls and knots, and followed the hole down to its source. The two envoys led him from the carriage, in through his gate and up the steps — and there his own body lay beneath the eastern gallery of the hall. Terrified, he dared not approach. The envoys called his name aloud several times, and at that he awoke as before. He saw his household servants sweeping the courtyard, his two guests washing their feet on the couch; the slanting sun had not yet set behind the western wall, and the wine he had left still brimmed by the eastern window. In that swift instant of the dream he seemed to have passed a lifetime. Moved and sighing, he called his two guests and told them; astonished, they went out with him to seek the hole beneath the pagoda tree. He pointed and said, "This is where I was startled into, in the dream." The guests supposed a fox or tree-spirit had made the haunting, and ordered a servant to bring an axe. They cut through the swollen bole, broke off the knots and burls, and traced the hole to its source.

About a fathom to the side there was a great hollow, wide enough that the roots opened into a clear space that could have held a couch, and over it lay heaped earth shaped into the walls and terraces and halls of a city. Within it, gathered close, were several pecks of ants. At the center stood a little terrace the color of cinnabar, and there two great ants lived — white-winged, red-headed, some three inches long — with several dozen large ants attending them to either side, and no common ant dared come near. This was the king; this was the capital of the Kingdom of Huai'an. They opened another hole. It ran straight up a southern branch some four fathoms, twisting and squared off within, and there too was an earthen wall and a little tower, with a swarm of ants living inside — and this was the province of Nanke that Chunyu Fen had governed. Another hole, two fathoms to the west, hollow and rotted and strangely cavernous, held a decayed turtle shell as big as a peck-measure, soaked through by the rains, with little plants grown thick over it — and this was Mount Lingui, where he had hunted. Another, a fathom or so to the east, where an old root coiled like a dragon or a serpent, held a small mound of earth a foot high — and this was the grave on Coiled Dragon Hill where he had buried his wife. He thought back over all that had happened, and it stirred him to the heart; searched to their very ends, every trace of it matched his dream. He could not bear to have his friends destroy it, and quickly had them close it up as before. About a fathom to the side was a great hollow, the roots opening into a bright space that could hold a couch, with earth heaped above in the shape of city walls, terraces, and halls. Within, gathered close, were several pecks of ants. In the midst was a little terrace the color of cinnabar, where two great ants dwelt — white-winged, red-headed, about three inches long — with several dozen large ants attending them on either side; and no other ant dared approach. This was the king; this was the capital of the Kingdom of Huai'an. They followed another hole straight up a southern branch some four fathoms, winding and squared within, where too was an earthen wall and a small tower with a swarm of ants — this was the province of Nanke he had governed. Another hole, two fathoms to the west, hollow, rotted, and strangely cavernous, held a decayed turtle shell as big as a peck-measure, soaked by the accumulated rains and overgrown with small dense plants — this was Mount Lingui where he had hunted. Another, a fathom or so to the east, where an old root coiled like a dragon or serpent, held a mound of earth over a foot high — this was the grave on Coiled Dragon Hill where he had buried his wife. Recalling all that had happened, he was moved to the heart; searched to their ends, all the traces matched his dream. Unwilling to let his guests destroy it, he had them at once close it up as before.

That night a storm broke, wind and rain together. In the morning he looked into the hole — and the ants were gone, vanished, no one knew where. So the warning had been true: a great terror over the state, the capital moved. Here was its proof. He thought again of the war with Tanluo, and asked his friends to search for its traces outside. A li east of the house there was an old dried-up gully, and beside it a great sandalwood tree, so wound about with vines that no sun came through, and by it a small hole where another colony of ants lay hidden. The Kingdom of Tanluo — was this not it? Ah — if the strangeness of ants cannot be sounded to the bottom, what then of the greater things that hide in the mountains and lie low in the trees, and work their changes on the world? That night a storm of wind and rain broke out. At dawn he looked at the hole: the ants were gone, none knew where. So the earlier words — "the state faces a great terror; the capital will remove" — were borne out here. He thought again of the Tanluo campaign and asked his guests to seek its traces outside. A li east of the house was an old dried gully, and beside it a great sandalwood tree, so entwined with vines that no sun showed through, with a small hole at its side where another swarm of ants lay hidden. The Kingdom of Tanluo — was this not it? Ah — the strangeness of ants cannot be sounded; how much more the changes worked by the greater things that hide in mountains and lurk in trees.

His old drinking companions Zhou Bian and Tian Zihua were both living then in Liuhe county, and had not come by for some ten days. Chunyu Fen sent a servant hurrying to ask after them. Zhou Bian had died suddenly of a fever, and Tian Zihua lay sick in bed. Feeling the emptiness of his southern-bough dream, and understanding how quickly the world of men goes by, Chunyu Fen turned his heart to the Way, and gave up wine and women altogether. Three years later, in the year of the Ox, he died at home. He was forty-seven — meeting, to the very year, the term that had been appointed him. His drinking companions Zhou Bian and Tian Zihua were then both living in Liuhe county and had not visited him for some ten days. Chunyu Fen sent a servant hurrying to inquire. Zhou Bian had died suddenly of illness, and Tian Zihua lay sick in bed. Feeling the emptiness of the Nanke dream and understanding the swiftness of the human world, Chunyu Fen turned his heart to the Way and renounced wine and women. Three years later, in the year dingchou, he too died at home, aged forty-seven — matching, to the term, the limit long appointed him.

In the eighth month of autumn, in the eighteenth year of Zhenyuan, I, Gongzuo, was traveling from Wu to Luo and put in for a while at the Huai shore, and there I happened to meet Chunyu Fen and asked him about all this. I went over it again and again, and found every part of it borne out by fact, and so I have set it down as a tale, for the pleasure of the curious. It deals in gods and speaks of marvels, and wanders from the classic and the proper; yet for a man who holds office in vain it may serve as a warning. Let the gentlemen who come after take Nanke as a lesson in chance, and think no name or rank worth their pride under heaven. And Li Zhao, once aide-de-camp of Huazhou, added these lines in praise: Rank at its highest, pay and power / enough to tip the whole capital over — / to the one who sees clear, what is all this / but ants in a heap, no more, no less? In the eighth month of autumn in the eighteenth year of Zhenyuan, I, Gongzuo, going from Wu to Luo, briefly moored at the Huai shore, and by chance met Chunyu Fen and inquired after these traces. Going over them again and again, I found them all founded in fact, and so compiled them into a tale for the curious. Though it inquires into spirits and speaks of marvels, straying from the classics, yet a man who takes office in vain may find in it a warning. Let the gentlemen who come after take Nanke as a matter of chance, and not be proud of name and rank in the world. Li Zhao, formerly aide-de-camp of Huazhou, added in praise: "Rank at its height, emolument and office; power enough to overturn the capital. To the enlightened man who looks on this — how does it differ from a heap of ants?"

南柯 The original Chinese · honored as an artifact

東平淳于棼，吳楚遊俠之士，嗜酒使氣，不守細行，累巨產，養豪客。曾以武藝補淮南軍裨將，因使酒忤帥，斥逐落魄，縱誕飲酒為事。

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