The Story of Yingying

I n the Zhenyuan years there was a young man named Zhang — even-tempered, good to look at, and privately unbending: nothing improper could reach him. When his friends went out carousing and the room turned loud and grasping, Zhang sat easy among them and, in the end, never lost himself. He was twenty-three and had never gone near a woman. When someone who knew him pressed the point, he only smiled. "The old byword for a lecher was not a lover of beauty at all — he was a man of coarse appetites. I am the true lover of beauty; I have simply never met the one who moves me. How do I know it? Whatever is exquisite never fails to catch in me and stay. That is how I know I am not a man without feeling." His questioner let it go. In the Zhenyuan period there was a man named Zhang, of a warm and gentle nature and handsome bearing, inwardly firm and solitary; nothing contrary to propriety could enter him. Sometimes when companions went feasting and made a wild clamor around him, the others were all boisterous and eager, as if afraid of falling short; Zhang merely went along complaisantly and in the end could not be led into disorder. Thus at twenty-three he had never yet come near a woman. When one who knew him questioned this, he excused himself, saying: "Dengtu zi was no lover of beauty — his was base conduct. I am a true lover of beauty, but I have simply not met the one for me. How do I say so? Whatever is most exquisite among things never fails to linger in the heart — by this I know I am not one without feeling." His questioner understood.

Not long after, Zhang traveled to Pu and lodged at the Monastery of Universal Salvation, some ten miles east of the town. As it happened, a widow of the Cui family had stopped there too, breaking a journey back to Chang'an. She had been born a Zheng; and traced through the family lines, she was a distant maternal aunt of his. That year the garrison commander died at Pu, and the soldiers, loosed by his death, fell to plundering the town. The Cui household was rich, with many servants and no man to lead it, and the widow was frantic, with nowhere to turn. But Zhang stood on good terms with the officers and had a guard sent to the family, so no harm came to them. Within days a new commander arrived bearing the emperor's authority, and the troops were brought to heel. Before long Zhang traveled to Pu. Some ten li east of Pu was a monastery called Pujiu, and there Zhang lodged. It chanced that a widow of the Cui family, returning to Chang'an, broke her journey and stopped at that same temple. The Cui widow was a daughter of the Zheng; and Zhang, tracing his descent through the Zheng, found her a maternal aunt of a collateral branch. That year Hun Zhen died at Pu; the eunuch Ding Wenya handled the troops poorly, and the soldiers, taking advantage of the death, rioted and plundered the people of Pu. The Cui household, being wealthy, with many servants and no protector, was seized with terror, not knowing where to turn for shelter. Now Zhang had a friendship with the party of the Pu generals, and requested officers to guard the family, so they escaped the calamity. Some ten days later, the commissioner Du Que arrived bearing the Son of Heaven's command to take overall charge of the army, issued his orders, and the soldiers were thereby quieted.

The widow, deeply grateful, laid out a feast and seated Zhang in the main hall. "Your widowed aunt," she said, "with her fatherless children, came through the mutiny alive only because of you. It is no ordinary debt." She called out her son, Huanlang, a sweet-faced boy of about ten, and then sent for her daughter. "Come out and bow to your brother — he is the one who kept you alive." A long silence; then word came back that the girl was unwell. The mother's voice hardened. "Your brother saved you from being carried off. Will you still hold him at arm's length?" Zheng was deeply grateful for Zhang's kindness, and so had a banquet prepared and invited Zhang, feasting him in the central hall. She said to him: "Your widowed aunt, left alive with her orphaned young, met the great rout of the soldiery and truly could not have preserved herself. My weak son and small daughter owe you their lives — how can this be measured against ordinary gratitude? Let me now present them to you with the rites due an elder brother, that they may repay your kindness." She summoned her son, named Huanlang, about ten years old, of a gentle and comely countenance. Next she called her daughter: "Come out and bow to your brother; your brother saved your life." After a long while, the girl declined, pleading illness. Zheng grew angry: "Your brother preserved your life. Otherwise you would have been taken captive — can you still keep so distant a reserve?" After another long while she came.

“Take the love you once had for me, and spend its tenderness on the one before your eyes.”

At last she came — everyday clothes, a face with no fresh paint, the hair loose at her temples, only the faintest worn red at her cheeks. And she was dazzling: her color rare and strange, her brightness enough to stir a room. Zhang started, rose, and made his bow, and she sat down beside her mother because her mother made her. She kept her eyes fixed and full of resentment, as if she could barely hold up her own body. He asked her age; the mother answered for her — seventeen. Zhang tried to draw her into talk; she would not answer. The meal ended. From that hour he was lost, and had no way to reach her. In everyday dress, with a clear face, hair coiled loose at the temples and the last of her rouge worn thin at each cheek, she added nothing new to adorn herself — yet her beauty was extraordinary, her radiance enough to move a beholder. Zhang, startled, saluted her, and she sat down beside her mother. Because it was by her mother's compulsion that she appeared, she stared fixedly, resentful and withdrawn, as if she could not bear the weight of her own frame. He asked her age; Zheng said, "Born in the year of the present Son of Heaven's accession, coming to the gengchen year of Zhenyuan — seventeen years old." Zhang tried a little to lead her into conversation; she did not reply. The banquet ended. From this time Zhang was bewitched by her, and longed to convey his feeling, but had no way to reach it.

The Cui maid was called Hongniang. Four separate times Zhang stopped her with a bow, and at last, catching her alone, poured out his heart. The girl took fright and fled, mortified, and Zhang was sorry he had spoken. But she came back the next day, and he, ashamed, apologized and asked nothing more. Then she offered it herself. "What you said, sir, I dare not repeat and dare not pass on. But you know the Cui family well enough — why not ask for her hand honestly, on the strength of what you have done?" Zhang answered: "Since I was a boy I have never been able to force my feelings. A few days ago at the table I nearly could not keep my seat. Since then I walk and forget to stop, eat and forget to be full — I do not think I can last out another day or two. If I must go through a matchmaker — the betrothal gifts, the asking of names — it will be three months and more, and you may look for me in the dried-fish stall. What would you have me do?" The Cui's maid was named Hongniang. Zhang privately saluted her, four times over, and, seizing a chance, told her his heart. The maid, alarmed and abashed, fled in confusion, and Zhang regretted it. The next day the maid came again; Zhang, ashamed, apologized and made no further request of her. The maid then said to Zhang: "What you spoke of, sir, I dare not speak of, nor dare I let it out. Yet you know well the kin and connections of the Cui — why not, on the strength of the kindness you have done, seek her in marriage?" Zhang said: "From my childhood my nature has never inclined to loose attachments. Yet after a single banquet I could scarcely master myself. These several days I walk and forget to halt, eat and forget my fill — I fear I cannot outlast a morning and an evening. Were I to marry through a go-between, with the sending of gifts and the asking of names, it would be three months or more — and you might seek me in the stall of dried fish. What, then, would you have me do?"

"My mistress guards herself so closely," Hongniang said, "that even those she honors could not press her with an improper word; a servant's scheming will get nowhere with her. But she writes well, and will brood over a line of verse a long while, moved by it. Try her with a poem that speaks your feeling. There is no other road." Zhang was overjoyed. On the spot he wrote two spring poems and put them in her hands. The maid said: "My mistress guards her chastity and self-possession so strictly that even one she reveres could not offend her with an improper word; a servant's scheme could hardly reach her. But she is skilled at writing, and often broods over verses and passages, resentful or longing, for a long time. Try composing a poem that stirs her feeling to unsettle her; otherwise there is no way." Zhang, greatly pleased, at once composed two spring poems and gave them to her.

That evening Hongniang came back with a colored sheet and laid it in his hands. "From my mistress," she said. It was titled Bright Moon, Night of the Fifteenth: "Below the western chamber, waiting for the moon, / the door half-open to the wind — / when flower-shadows stir along the wall, / I think: it is my jade one, come." Zhang caught its drift well enough. It was the fourteenth of the second month. East of the Cui quarters stood an apricot tree one could climb to cross the wall. That evening Hongniang came again, holding out a colored sheet to Zhang: "By my mistress's command." The piece was titled "Bright Moon, Night of the Fifteenth," and its words ran: "Waiting for the moon below the western chamber, / the door half-open to the wind. / Flower-shadows brush the wall and stir — / I suspect it is the jade one, come." Zhang faintly grasped its intent. That evening was the fourteenth day of the second month. East of the Cui's rooms stood a single apricot tree, which could be climbed to cross over.

On the night of the sixteenth he set a foot in the tree, went over, and reached the western chamber, where the door stood half-open. Hongniang lay asleep on the bed; he startled her awake. "How did you get here?" she gasped. He lied to her: "Your mistress's note summoned me — go and tell her." Soon she was back. "She is coming! She is coming!" Zhang, half in joy and half in dread, was sure he had won. But when Yingying came, she was in formal dress, her face severe, and she called him to account. "My brother's kindness saved our family — that is why my mother trusted her young children to you. How could you loose a wanton go-between and send me lewd verses? You began by protecting us from disorder, and you end by using disorder to take what you want. That is trading one violation for another. I meant to say nothing and hide your fault, but that would be to shield a wrong. I meant to tell my mother, but that would be to betray the man who helped us. I thought to send word by a servant, and feared she would not tell it true. So I sent a few poor lines to call you myself — and even then feared you would think it improper. Hold yourself to what is right. Do not sink into disorder." And she turned and was gone. Zhang stood stunned a long while, climbed back over the wall, and from then on gave up hope. On the night after the full moon, Zhang used the tree as a ladder and climbed over, reaching the western chamber, where the door stood half-open. Hongniang lay asleep on the bed; Zhang startled her. Hongniang, alarmed, said, "How have you come here?" Zhang deceived her: "Yingying's note summoned me — tell her for me." Shortly Hongniang came again, saying over and over, "She comes! She comes!" Zhang was both delighted and afraid, certain he would surely succeed. But when Yingying arrived, her dress was proper and her face stern, and she reproached Zhang sharply: "My brother's kindness saved our family — that was rich indeed, and so my kind mother entrusted her weak son and young daughter to you. Why then, through an unruly maid, did you deliver licentious verses? You began by protecting us from disorder as a righteous act, and you end by seizing on disorder to make your suit — this is to exchange disorder for disorder, and the difference between them is small. I wished to suppress the matter in silence, but that would be to conceal another's misdeed — not right; to make it plain to my mother would be to betray a benefactor's kindness — not auspicious; to entrust it to a servant, I feared, would not convey my true meaning. So I relied on a short poem to state my case myself, still fearing you would think me forward — which is why I used base and yielding words to make sure you would come. A movement against propriety: can the heart not be ashamed? I only beg you to hold to the rites, and fall not into disorder." Having spoken, she turned abruptly and left. Zhang was at a loss for a long while, then climbed back over and went out, and from this gave up hope.

Some nights later, Zhang was sleeping alone by the veranda when someone shook him awake. He started up to find Hongniang there, bedding and a pillow in her arms. She patted him. "She is coming! She is coming! Why are you asleep?" She spread the quilts, doubled the pillows, and left. Zhang rubbed his eyes and sat bolt upright, half sure he was still dreaming — but he composed himself and waited. Then Hongniang came carrying Yingying, and she was all soft shame now, too faint to hold up her own limbs, with nothing left of the stern girl of before. It was the eighteenth night; the slanting moon lay clear and bright, half across the bed. Toward dawn the monastery bell rang and Hongniang urged her away; Yingying wept softly and was carried off, and all night not a single word was spoken. Zhang rose at first light doubting himself — had it been a dream? But the traces of her paint were on his arm, her scent was in his clothes, and the wet gleam of her tears still lay on the mat. Several nights afterward, Zhang was sleeping alone by the balcony when someone suddenly roused him. Startled, he rose to find Hongniang, who had come bearing a quilt and carrying a pillow. She touched Zhang and said, "She comes! She comes! Why are you sleeping?" She laid pillow beside pillow and quilt upon quilt, and left. Zhang rubbed his eyes and sat upright a long while, still doubting it a dream, yet composed himself respectfully and waited. Presently Hongniang came bearing Yingying in her arms; and when she arrived she was all tender shyness and melting softness, without strength to move her limbs — no longer the grave and proper girl of before. That night was the eighteenth; the slanting moon glittered, its faint light half across the bed. Zhang felt himself borne aloft, half doubting she was some immortal being and not one come from the mortal world. After a time the temple bell sounded, dawn was near, and Hongniang urged her to go. Yingying wept softly, all delicate turns, and Hongniang again bore her away; all night not one word had been spoken. Zhang rose at the first light and doubted himself: "Was it a dream?" But by daylight he saw her paint upon his arm, her scent in his clothes, and the shining wet of her tears still bright upon the mat.

Then ten-odd days of nothing, not a word. Zhang was setting down a poem of thirty couplets, which he called Encountering the Immortal, when Hongniang happened by, and he sent it in to Yingying. After that she let him near her again: out in secret at dawn, in by secret at dusk, together in that same western chamber for close to a month. When Zhang asked what her mother now felt, she only said, "There is nothing I can do about it now" — and he began to think of making it a marriage. After this, for some ten more days, there was no word at all. Zhang was composing a poem, "Encountering the Immortal," in thirty rhymes, not yet finished, when Hongniang happened to come; he gave it to her to convey to Yingying. From then on Yingying received him again: hiding himself he went out at dawn, hiding himself he came in at dusk, and together they dwelt in what had been called the western chamber for nearly a month. Zhang often asked after Zheng's feeling in the matter; Yingying would say, "There is nothing I can do." And so he wished to bring it to completion.

Before long Zhang had to go to Chang'an, and told her of it first, gently. She raised no objection — but the grief in her face was hard to watch. Two nights before he left she would not see him again, and he went west. Months later he came back to Pu, and they were together for months more. Yingying was quick with the brush, but though he begged again and again to see her writing, she never showed it him; when he baited her with his own poems, she barely glanced at them. Whatever she was best at, she buried; whatever she felt, she hid. One night, alone, she played the qin — a grieving, broken tune; Zhang listened in secret, and when he asked her to play again she never would. It only bewitched him the more. Before long Zhang was about to go to Chang'an, and first told her his feeling. Yingying made not a word of difficulty, yet the sorrow and resentment in her face were moving. For the two nights before his going he could not see her again, and Zhang went off to the west. Some months later he traveled again to Pu, and met with Yingying for several more months. Yingying was very skilled with brush and letters and good at composition; he sought again and again to see her work, but in the end she would not show it. Often Zhang provoked her with his own writing, and she scarcely looked at it. In general, what set her above others was that her art was brought to its utmost while her manner seemed to know nothing of it; her speech was quick and clever, yet she answered little. Her tender feeling ran deep and hidden, and she seemed always not to recognize it; her looks of joy or anger rarely showed. Once, alone at night, she played the qin, a sorrowful strain, plaintive and grieving; Zhang secretly listened, and when he asked her to play, she would not touch it again. By this he was bewitched the more.

Soon the examination season called Zhang west once more. On the last night he said nothing of his own feelings, only sighed at her side. She already knew, quietly, that this was the end. Her face composed, her voice gentle, she said: "To seduce a woman and then abandon her — that is how these things go, and I do not presume to resent it. If you began this and you also end it, that is your kindness; and then the vow made unto death will have found its close. Why grieve so over this journey? But since it pains you, and I have nothing to comfort you with — you always said I play the qin well; before, I was too shy. Now that you are going, I will do as you wished." She called for the qin and began the prelude to Rainbow Skirts, Feathered Robes; a few notes in, the sound broke into anguish, no longer any tune at all. The others in the room choked back tears; she stopped short, threw down the instrument, and wept without pause, then hurried back to her mother's rooms and did not come again. In the morning Zhang left. Soon, the season of the literary examinations arriving, Zhang was again to go west. On the evening of his departure he no longer spoke of his own feeling, but sighed mournfully at Yingying's side. Yingying, secretly knowing they were to part, with respectful bearing and gentle voice said slowly to Zhang: "To first disorder a woman and in the end abandon her — that is only fitting, and I do not dare to resent it. If it must be that you disordered me and you also make an end of me, that is your kindness; and then the oath sworn unto death will have its close. Why need you grieve so deeply over this journey? Yet since you are unhappy, I have no way to soothe you. You have always said I play the qin well; before, I was too ashamed to. Now that you are going, I will fulfill your wish." She then bade them ready the qin, and played the prelude of Rainbow Skirts and Feathered Robes; but within a few notes the mournful sound turned to grieving confusion, until one could no longer tell it was that tune. All around sobbed, and Yingying too abruptly stopped, threw down the qin, tears streaming without end, hurried back to Zheng's quarters, and did not return. Next morning Zhang set off.

The next year Zhang failed at the examinations and stayed on in the capital. He wrote to Yingying to ease her mind, and her reply — I set down some of it here. The next year, unsuccessful in the examination contest, Zhang remained in the capital, and so sent a letter to Yingying to set her mind at ease. Yingying's sealed reply is roughly recorded here.

"I have read your letter, and its tenderness is too much for me; a girl's heart, torn between joy and grief. You sent me too a box of flower ornaments and five inches of lip-rouge, to make my hair shine and my mouth bright. It is a rare kindness — but for whom would I make myself lovely now? Seeing these things, I only grieve the more. I have learned you are pressing your studies in the capital, and the way of advancement lies in such quiet application; my one regret is that a woman of some far, mean corner is cast off forever. Such is fate — what more is there to say? Since last autumn I have gone about dazed, as if I had lost something; in company I force a word and a laugh, but alone in the still night I never fail to weep. I gave myself to you and thought it was forever. How could I know that, having found you, I could not hold you — that I would carry to the end the shame of having offered myself, never again to serve you openly with comb and cloth? To the grave I will regret it; what is there to say but to swallow my sighs? If, out of kindness, you would stoop to this hidden small thing, then even the day I die will be as a year of life. But if, as a man of the world, you sacrifice the small for the great, and count our first union a shameful thing and a binding promise a thing made to be broken — then when my bones dissolve and my body is gone, my true heart will not fade; borne on the wind, laid down with the dew, it will still cling to the dust you walk. In life and in death, I have said all I can; I weep over the paper and cannot get it into words. Take care of yourself, a thousand times — a thousand times, take care." She sent with it a jade ring from her childhood — jade for its firmness that does not change, the ring for its round that has no end — and a skein of tangled silk, and a patterned bamboo tea-grinder marked, she wrote, with the stains of her tears. "My heart is near and my body far; there is no knowing when we will meet. A secret longing, and a thousand miles between — may our spirits join across them. Take care, a thousand times." It said: "Having read the letter you sent to ask after me, your care and love run too deep; a girl's feeling, grief and joy mingled together. You have also favored me with a box of flower ornaments and five inches of lip-rouge, to adorn my hair and gloss my lips. Though I receive this rare kindness, for whom now would I make myself fair? Beholding the things, my longing grows; they only heap up grief and sighing. I have learned you are pursuing your studies in the capital; the way of advancement surely lies in such ease and application. My only bitterness is that a mean and lowly person is cast away forever. Such is fate — what more is there to say? Since last autumn I have been continually dazed, as if I had lost something; amid noise and crowd I force myself to talk and laugh, but alone in the quiet night I never fail to shed tears — even in dreams and sleep I often sob with grief. The thoughts of parting-sorrow twine and cling; for a moment it seems as before, but the secret meeting is not yet done when my startled soul is already cut off. Though half the coverlet still seems warm, the one I think of is far indeed. Only yesterday we took our leave, and suddenly the old year is past. Chang'an is a place of pleasures, where every occasion snags at the feeling; how fortunate that you have not forgotten this dim and hidden one, that your care has not wearied. My poor, thin devotion has no way to repay it. As for the oath from first to last, that indeed does not waver. Formerly, being cousins by marriage, we sometimes shared the same feast; enticed by a servant, we came at last to private union; a girl's heart could not hold itself firm. You had the gentleman's overture of the qin; I had no maiden's refusal of the shuttle. When it came to serving at your pillow and mat, the bond was full and the intent deep, and my foolish, base heart thought it a lifelong reliance. How could I foresee that, having met you, I could not fix your love — that there would be the shame of having offered myself, and no more the clear right to serve you with towel and comb? To the end of my days a lasting regret; nursing my sighs, what shall I say? If a benevolent man would, out of kindness, stoop to fulfill this hidden trifle, then though the day of death, it would be as a year of life. But if a man of the world slights feeling, casting off the small for the great, holding a prior union to be a shameful act and a binding vow a thing that may be broken — then though my bones turn to dust and my form dissolve, my cinnabar sincerity will not perish; borne on the wind, committed to the dew, it will still be entrusted to the pure dust. My sincerity in life and in death is wholly said in this; facing the paper I sob, and my feeling cannot be uttered. A thousand times take care — take care, a thousand times! This one jade ring is a thing I played with as an infant; I send it to be worn at your girdle. Jade is taken for its firmness that does not alter, the ring for its ceaselessness from first to last. With it a skein of tangled silk, and one patterned bamboo tea-grinder. These several things are not worth treasuring; my meaning is that you be true as jade, and my own poor resolve unbroken as the ring; the tear-stains upon the bamboo, the tangled grief bound in the silk. By these things I convey my feeling, that we may be dear forever. My heart is near and my body far; there is no time appointed for our meeting; and where the hidden longing gathers, across a thousand li may our spirits join. A thousand times take care. The spring wind is often harsh; force yourself to eat well. Guard your words and keep yourself, and do not think too deeply of this poor one."

Zhang showed the letter to the friends he trusted, and so, in time, the story got about. Those who heard it were all struck by the strangeness of it — but Zhang's mind was made up: it was over. Yuan Zhen, who was close to him, asked him why. Zhang said: "As a rule, when Heaven grants a creature this much beauty, if she does not wreck herself, she will wreck the man. Had this Cui girl met with wealth and rank and ridden the pride of favor, there is no telling what she would have become — a cloud, a rain, a dragon, a monster; I could not know into what she might change. The last kings of Shang and of Zhou held states of a million households, and their power was vast; yet a single woman broke each of them, scattered their armies, and left their bodies for the whole world to mock to this day. My own virtue is not enough to master such a bewitchment. That is why I mastered my feeling instead." And everyone sitting there sighed at the depth of it. Zhang showed her letter to those he knew, and so many of his contemporaries came to hear of it. His friend Yang Juyuan, who loved to write, thereupon composed a quatrain, the "Poem of Miss Cui." Yuan Zhen of Henan likewise continued Zhang's "Encountering the Immortal" poem in thirty rhymes. Those among Zhang's friends who heard the affair were all struck with wonder; yet Zhang's resolve was firmly ended. Zhen, being especially close to Zhang, asked him for his reasons. Zhang said: "In general, those whom Heaven endows with extraordinary beauty — if they do not bring calamity upon themselves, they bring it upon others. Had this daughter of Cui met with wealth and honor and ridden upon favor and charm, if she did not become cloud and rain, she would become serpent and dragon — I could not know into what she would transform. Of old, King Zhou of Yin and King You of Zhou held states of a million chariots, and their power was very great; yet a single woman ruined them, scattered their hosts, and their persons were butchered, so that to this day they are mocked by all under Heaven. My virtue is not enough to overcome such a baleful creature; therefore I curbed my feeling." At this, all who sat there sighed deeply.

A year and more later, Yingying had given herself to another man, and Zhang too had married. Passing near where she now lived, he asked her husband to let him see her, as a cousin. The husband spoke to her, but she would not come out. Zhang's hurt showed plainly in his face; she knew of it, and privately wrote a poem: "Since I wasted thin, my bloom gone dim, / I turn and turn, too spent to leave the bed. / It is not that I am ashamed before others — / worn out for you, I am ashamed before you." She did not see him. A few days on, as he was leaving, she sent another, to break it off for good: "What is the use of talk, now we are cast away? / Back then, at least, we held each other dear. / So take the love you once had for me / and spend its tenderness on the one before your eyes." After that he never heard of her again. More than a year later, Yingying had already given herself to another, and Zhang too had taken a wife. Passing by where she lived, he asked her husband to tell her, seeking to be received as an elder cousin. The husband told her, but Yingying in the end would not come out. Zhang's resentful longing showed in his face; Yingying, knowing it, secretly composed a poem: "Since I grew thin, my beauty faded, / a thousand turns, too listless to rise from bed. / Not that I am too shy before others to get up — / wasted for my lord, yet ashamed before my lord." In the end she did not see him. Some days later, as Zhang was about to leave, she composed one more poem to break off for good: "Cast aside now, what is there to say? / Yet in that time we were dear to each other. / Take, then, the feeling of the old days / and cherish with it the one before your eyes." From this they knew nothing of each other ever again.

The people of that day mostly praised Zhang as a man who was good at mending his faults. I have often, among friends, come round to this matter — that one who knows better should not do such a thing, and one who does it should not be deceived about what it is. In the ninth month of a Zhenyuan year, my friend Li Gongchui, lodging at my house in the Jing'an ward, fell to talking of it, and, struck by the strangeness, made the Song of Yingying to hand it down. Cui's childhood name was Yingying, and it was for her that Gongchui titled his song. The men of that time mostly credited Zhang as one good at mending his faults. I have often, in gatherings of friends, come to touch on this matter — meaning that the one who knows should not do it, and the one who does it should not be deluded. In the ninth month of a Zhenyuan year, my colleague Li Gongchui lodged at my dwelling in the Jing'an ward, and our talk came to this. Gongchui was greatly struck, and so composed the "Song of Yingying" to transmit it. Cui's childhood name was Yingying, and it was from this that Gongchui titled his piece.

鶯鶯 The original Chinese · honored as an artifact

唐貞元中，有張生者，性溫茂，美風容，內秉堅孤，非禮不可入。

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