Yingning, the Laughing Girl

W ang Zifu of Luodian lost his father young. He was a brilliant boy, took his first degree at fourteen, and his widowed mother loved him so much she rarely let him roam the countryside. At the Lantern Festival a cousin coaxed him out to see the sights, but the cousin was called home almost at once, and Wang found himself alone in a river of sightseeing women. One of them came past with a maid, twirling a sprig of plum blossom — a face without equal in the world. Wang stared and could not look away. The girl went on a few paces, then turned to her maid and said, loud enough to carry, that the young fellow's eyes blazed like a thief's. She let the flower fall in the road and walked off, laughing. Wang picked it up. He went home with his soul somewhere behind him. Wang Zifu was a man of Luodian in Ju. Orphaned of his father early, exceedingly clever, he entered the district school at fourteen. His mother loved him most, and ordinarily would not let him wander into the country. At the Lantern Festival his mother's brother's son, Wu, invited him out to look at the sights. They had just reached the edge of the village when Wu was called home by a servant. Wang saw the touring women thick as clouds, and on a whim wandered on alone. There was a girl with a maid, holding a sprig of plum blossom, her face of an age without rival. He fixed his eyes and did not move them, and forgot all restraint. The girl went past a few paces, looked back at the maid, and laughed: 'That young fellow's eyes blaze, blaze — like a thief's.' She let the flower drop on the ground and went off talking and laughing. Wang picked up the flower, crestfallen, his soul and spirit lost.

He hid the blossom under his pillow and lay down, head bowed, and would not speak or eat. His mother fretted and called in prayers and exorcisms, which only made it worse; his flesh shrank from his bones. A doctor came, examined him, and dosed him with something to break a sweat, but Wang stayed dazed and far away. His mother asked again and again what was wrong. He said nothing. Then his cousin Wu turned up, and the mother whispered to him to find out. Wu sat at the bedside, and at the sight of him Wang's tears ran. Little by little Wu drew it all out of him, and Wang begged for a plan. He hid the flower under his pillow and lay down, head hanging, and would not speak, nor would he eat. His mother worried over him; she had prayers and exorcisms made, and it grew worse. His flesh fell away sharply. A physician examined him and administered a remedy to draw out a sweat, but he stayed muddled, as if lost. His mother stroked him and asked the cause; he was silent and did not answer. Just then Wu came, and the mother charged him to find it out secretly. Wu came to the couch; seeing him, Wang shed tears. Wu sat by the couch and comforted him, and gradually pressed him with questions. Wang told him the whole truth, and asked him besides to devise a plan.

Wu laughed and said it was a foolish wish, but no hard one — a girl on foot in the open country was no great house; if she wasn't promised, the thing was as good as done, and if she was, a heavy enough bribe would settle it. Just get well, he said, and leave the rest to me. At that, despite himself, Wang's face unclenched. Wu went out and asked the mother, then hunted through the lanes for where the girl lived — but the trail ran into nothing, no sign of her anywhere. The mother despaired. Still, from the day Wu had spoken, Wang's face had opened and he was eating again. A few days later Wu came back. Wang asked what he had managed. Wu lied to him: I've found her. Who do you think she is? My own aunt's daughter — your cousin. She's still waiting to be matched. There's the awkwardness of close kin, but tell her the truth and it will all come right. Wu laughed and said: 'Your notion is foolish too — yet this wish, what is hard in it? I'll go look into it for you. Going on foot in the wilds, she is surely no great family. If she is not yet betrothed, the matter is settled; if not, with a heavy enough gift she must consent. Only get well — the doing of it rests with me.' Hearing this, Wang could not help but break into a smile. Wu went out and told the mother, sought out where the girl lived, and made inquiries everywhere — but there was no trace at all. The mother was greatly worried, with no plan to make. Yet since Wu's visit Wang's face had suddenly opened, and he took a little food. Some days later Wu came again. Wang asked what he had arranged. Wu deceived him: 'I have her. Who did I think she was? She turns out to be my aunt's daughter — your cousin. She is still awaiting a betrothal. Though there is the suspicion of marrying within the family, tell her the truth and there is nothing that will not come right.'

“That young fellow's eyes blaze like a thief's, she told her maid — then dropped the flower in the road and walked off laughing, and he was lost.”

Wang's whole face lit up. Where does she live? Southwest, in the hills, Wu said vaguely — thirty li or so from here. Wang charged him over and over to go, and Wu took it boldly on himself and left. From then Wang ate more and steadily mended. He checked the flower under his pillow: withered, but not yet fallen apart. He would stare at it and turn it over as if the girl herself were there. But Wu did not come. Wang sent a note; Wu made excuses and would not come. Wang grew furious and miserable. His mother, afraid he would sicken again, hurriedly raised the question of a match — but at the least mention he only shook his head. He waited and waited on Wu, and no word came. At last he thought: thirty li is no great distance, why hang on another man's breath? He tucked the plum branch in his sleeve and set off alone in a temper, and no one at home knew. Joy filled Wang's brows. He asked in which village she lived. Wu said evasively: 'In the hills to the southwest, some thirty-odd li from here.' Wang charged him again and again, and Wu took the task boldly upon himself and went. From this Wang ate more day by day and came back to health. He looked at the flower under his pillow: withered, but not yet dropping its petals. Gazing in thought, he handled it as if seeing the person. He wondered that Wu did not come, and sent a note to summon him; Wu put him off and would not answer the call. Wang grew angry and sat sunk in unhappiness. His mother, fearing he would fall ill again, hurriedly proposed a marriage and broached it with him, but he always shook his head and would not. He only waited daily on Wu; Wu sent no word. Resentful, Wang turned it over: thirty li is not far — why depend on another's breath? He put the plum in his sleeve, and in a fit of temper went himself, and the household did not know.

He walked alone, no one to ask the way, just south toward the hills. Some thirty li in, the mountains folded together, empty green chilling his skin, not a soul on the road — only a bird-track threading the rocks. Far down in a valley, half-hidden among tangled flowers and trees, lay a little hamlet. He came down into it. The houses were few, all thatch, but kept with a strange neatness. One faced north, fenced in willows, its yard crowded with peach and apricot and stands of bamboo, wild birds chattering inside. He guessed it was someone's garden retreat and did not dare barge in. Across the way was a smooth clean boulder; he sat to rest. Inside the wall a girl's voice called for someone named Xiaorong. He stood listening. A girl crossed the yard from east to west, an apricot blossom in her hand. She bent her head to pin it in her hair, then looked up, saw Wang, and did not pin it after all — and, smiling, holding the flower, she went in. He looked hard: it was the very girl from the festival road. Forlorn, he walked alone with no one to ask the road, only looking toward the southern hills and going on. After about thirty-odd li, jumbled mountains closed in, the empty green bracing on the skin, silent and untraveled — only a bird-path. Gazing far into the valley bottom, among clustered flowers and tangled trees, there dimly lay a small hamlet. He came down the hill into the village. The dwellings were not many, all thatched cottages, yet the look of them was very trim and elegant. One house facing north had silk-willows before its gate; within the wall the peach and apricot were especially thick, set off with tall bamboo, and wild birds chattered among them. Guessing it a garden pavilion, he did not dare go straight in. Looking back, across the gate was a great stone, smooth and clean, so he sat to rest a while. Soon he heard within the wall a girl call out for Xiaorong; the voice was tender and fine. While he stood listening, a girl came from east to west holding a single apricot blossom; she bowed her head to pin it in her own hair, raised her head, saw Wang, and so did not pin it after all — smiling, holding the flower, she went in. Looking closely, it was the very one met on the road at the Lantern Festival.

He waited where he sat, from morning till the sun slid west, hungry and thirsty and not caring, the girl now and then showing half her face at the gate as if puzzled he hadn't gone. Then an old woman came out leaning on a cane, looked at him and asked what young man this was, sitting since dawn. Wang scrambled up and bowed and said he had come looking for a relative. The old woman was deaf and didn't catch it; he said it again, louder. She asked the relative's surname. Wang couldn't answer. The old woman laughed — you don't even know the name, what kin can you be hunting; you're nothing but a book-fool. Better come with me, eat some plain fare, there's a short couch you can lie on, and tomorrow you can go home, learn the surname, and come back to ask. Wang's belly was empty and the food tempted him; and this brought him closer to the lovely girl, so he gladly went in. He waited; from morning to when the sun went down she watched without end, forgetting hunger and thirst. From time to time the girl showed half her face, peeping, as if surprised he did not leave. Suddenly an old woman, leaning on a staff, came out, looked at Wang and said: 'From where, young master? I hear you have been here since the hour of the dragon, until now. What do you mean by it? Are you not hungry?' Wang rose quickly and bowed and answered that he had come to call on a relative. The old woman was deaf and did not hear; he said it again loudly. Then she asked the honored kin's surname. Wang could not answer. The old woman said: 'How strange — that you do not even know the name. What kin can you seek? I see, young master, you are only a book-fool. Better come with me; eat some coarse fare. We have a short couch you may lie on; wait till tomorrow, go home and learn the surname, and come again to inquire.' Wang's belly was empty and he thought of eating, and this also brought him gradually nearer the lovely one, so he gladly followed the old woman in.

Inside, a white-stone path ran between drifts of red petals fallen on the steps. They turned west through a bean arbor and a frame of flowers and sat. As they traced their families it came out plain: the old woman's surname was Qin, and Wang's grandfather on his mother's side had been a Wu — which made her, she realized with a start, his aunt, his mother's elder sister. The girl, she said, was named Yingning, born of a concubine; her own mother had remarried and left her, and the old woman had raised her. She was no fool, but ill-taught — she played, and knew nothing of sorrow. When the food was done she called the girl in. Laughter came giggling through the door before she did, and even pushed inside by the maid she stood with her hand over her mouth, helpless. The old woman glared: there's a guest, what a sight you are. The girl bit back her laugh and stood. Wang bowed to her. Inside the gate a white-stone path was laid, red flowers fallen petal by petal upon the steps. Turning west, she opened another gate onto a bean trellis and flower frame filling the yard, and led the guest into the house. The walls were bright, and outside the window a crab-apple branch reached its blossoms into the room; the cushions, table, and couch were all clean and gleaming. They had just sat when someone peeped dimly from outside the window. The old woman called for Xiaorong to hurry and cook the millet. As they sat they laid out their lineage. The old woman asked whether Wang's grandfather was surnamed Wu; he said yes. Startled, she said: 'Then you are my nephew. Your mother is my younger sister. In these years, our house being poor and without a son, the word between us was cut off, and my nephew has grown up so without our knowing each other.' She said the girl she raised was named Yingning, born of a concubine; the mother had remarried and left her to be reared, and she was not dull, only short on teaching — she played and did not know sorrow. After a while she sent for her. The maid brought food; presently the old woman called for the girl. From outside the door came giggling that would not stop; pushed in by the maid, she still covered her mouth, unable to hold it back. The old woman glared: 'There is a guest here — what a way to carry on.' The girl bit back her laugh and stood. Wang bowed to her.

The old woman said this was cousin Wang, and laughed that two of a family hadn't even met. She asked the girl's age — sixteen, and witless as an infant. When Wang gave his own, seventeen, and was found to be a Horse-year boy, the talk turned to whether either was promised. Neither was, and the old woman noted they were well matched but for the kinship. Wang said nothing, his eyes nailed to Yingning. The maid whispered to her that the thief-bright eyes hadn't changed, and the girl burst out laughing again, told the maid to go see whether the green peach had bloomed, and went out with her sleeve over her mouth in small quick steps — and once past the door she let the laughter run free. The old woman had Wang's bedding laid out and pressed him to stay a few days; there was a little garden behind, she said, for amusement, and books to read. The old woman said: 'This is young Wang, your aunt's son. One family, and yet you have never met — a laughable thing.' Wang asked the girl's age; the old woman did not catch it, and he said it again. The girl laughed again so she could not look up. The old woman said to Wang: 'I told you she lacks teaching — here you see it. Already sixteen, and witless as an infant.' Wang said he was a year her senior; the old woman said: 'My nephew is already seventeen — is he not a Horse, born in the gengwu year?' Wang nodded yes. She asked who his wife was; he answered, none. 'With my nephew's talent and looks, seventeen and still unbetrothed — and Yingning too has no match; they would be very well suited, but for the bar of inner kin.' Wang said nothing, his eyes fixed on Yingning with no leisure for any other glance. The maid whispered to the girl: 'The blazing-thief look has not changed.' The girl laughed loudly again and said to the maid, 'Go see whether the green peach has bloomed,' and rose at once, covering her mouth with her sleeve, and went out in small lotus steps; once outside the door, her laughter broke free. The old woman also rose, called for bedding to be laid for Wang, and said: 'It is not easy for my nephew to come; you should stay three to five days, and I will send you home in good time. If you find it dull, there is a little garden behind for amusement, and books to read.'

Next day he found the garden behind — half an acre of fine grass like spread felt, willow-down sifting the paths, a little three-bay cottage hemmed in flowers. As he picked his way through the blossoms he heard a rustling overhead, looked up, and there was Yingning up in a tree, laughing so hard at the sight of him she nearly toppled out of it. Don't, he called, you'll fall. She came down, laughing and laughing, unable to stop, and near the ground her grip slipped and she dropped — and that ended the laughing. He helped her up and quietly pressed her wrist, and she started laughing again and had to lean on the tree. When she was spent he drew the flower from his sleeve and showed it to her. It's withered, she said, why keep it. To show I love you, he said, and have not forgotten you since the festival — I fell ill, I thought I was turning into something not human, and never hoped to see your face again. A small thing, she said; for kin, what's grudged? When you leave I'll have the old servant cut you a great armful of the garden's flowers. You silly girl, he said. How am I silly. I don't love the flower, he said — I love the one who holds it. Love between kin, she said, why speak of it. Not kin-love, he said, husband-and-wife love. What's the difference, she asked. Sharing a pillow and mat at night, he said. She bowed her head a long while and said she wasn't used to sleeping with strangers. The maid came up before he could answer, and he slipped away in a fright. The next day he came to behind the house, and there was indeed a garden of half an acre, fine grass spread like felt, willow flowers strewing the path, with a three-bay thatched cottage closed in on all sides by flowers and trees. As he stepped through the flowers he heard a rustling overhead; looking up, Yingning was in the tree, and seeing him come she laughed wildly, near to falling. Wang said, 'Don't — you'll fall.' She came down still laughing, unable to stop herself; just as she neared the ground her hand slipped and she fell, and the laughter ceased. He helped her up and secretly pinched her wrist; the laughing began again, and she leaned on the tree unable to walk, until at length it stopped. Wang waited for her laughter to die, then drew out the flower from his sleeve and showed it. She took it and said, 'It is withered — why keep it?' He said, 'This is what cousin dropped at the Lantern Festival, so I kept it.' 'What good is keeping it?' 'To show that I love and do not forget. Since meeting at the festival I have brooded into illness, and reckoned I would become some other kind of thing. I did not look to see your face — I beg your pity.' She said, 'This is a small matter; among close kin, what is there to grudge? When you go I will have the old servant cut a great bundle of the garden flowers and carry them after you.' Wang said, 'Is cousin foolish?' 'How am I foolish?' 'I do not love the flower; I love the one who holds the flower.' 'The affection of kin — why need it be spoken?' 'The love I mean is not the love of relatives, but the love of husband and wife.' 'Is there a difference?' 'At night we share pillow and mat.' The girl bowed her head and thought a long while, then said, 'I am not used to sleeping with strangers.' Before the words were done the maid came stealing up; Wang, alarmed, fled away.

Soon they all gathered at the old woman's, who asked where the girl had been. Talking in the garden, she said. The old woman scolded the meal had been ready an age — what was there to chatter so about. Big brother wants me to sleep with him, the girl said. Wang's whole skin crawled; he shot her a hard stare. She gave a small smile and stopped. The old woman luckily hadn't heard, and went on probing; Wang hurried to cover it with other words, and under his breath blamed the girl. Was that a thing to say just now? That's private. Hide it from others, she said, but how hide it from your own mother? And sleeping together is an everyday thing — why be shy of it. He despaired at how artless she was; there was no way to wake her up. After a little they met at the old woman's place. She asked where the girl had been; the girl answered they had been talking together in the garden. The old woman said, 'The meal has been ready a long time — what so much to drag on about?' The girl said, 'Big brother wants me to sleep with him.' Before she finished, Wang was in great distress and quickly glared at her; the girl smiled faintly and stopped. Luckily the old woman had not heard, and still pressed on with questions; Wang hastily covered it with other words, and in a low voice blamed the girl: 'Was that a thing to say just then?' The girl said, 'This kind of talk — should it be told?' He said, 'It is talk to keep from others.' She said, 'To keep it from outsiders — but can one keep it from one's own mother? And sleeping together is an ordinary thing; why hide it?' He resented her foolishness, and had no art by which to wake her.

While they ate, servants from his own house arrived leading two donkeys to fetch him. His mother, when he hadn't come back, had searched the village in vain, then gone to Wu, who at last recalled his own lie and sent them into the southwest hills, village by village, until they reached this one. Wang stepped out, met them, went back in and told the old woman, and asked to take the girl home with him. The old woman was glad: I've meant this a long time, but my worn body can't travel far. If my nephew takes his cousin to know her aunt, so much the better. She called Yingning, fed the servants, and saw them off, telling the girl her aunt's house was rich enough to keep idle mouths — stay, don't hurry back, learn a little verse and ritual, and let your aunt find you a good match. They set out. From the mountain pass, looking back, they could still just make out the old woman at her door, gazing north. The meal was barely finished when servants of his house came with two donkeys to seek him. For his mother, after waiting long without his return, had begun to suspect, and searched the whole village to no trace; she then went to Wu, who, recalling his earlier words, told them to look along the southwestern hill villages. Passing through several villages they came at last to this one. Wang went out and met them by chance, then went in and told the old woman, and asked to bring the girl home together. The old woman was glad: 'I have meant this not for a day, but my poor body cannot make the long journey. If my nephew can take his cousin to meet her aunt, that is very good.' She called Yingning, who came laughing, and said, 'Big brother wishes to take you along — get ready.' She gave the servants food and drink and then saw them out, saying: 'Your aunt's house has land in plenty and can keep idle folk; once there, do not hurry back. Learn a little of the Odes and the rites, that is a good thing; and let your aunt trouble to choose you a good mate.' The two then set off. Reaching the mountain hollow and looking back, they could still dimly see the old woman leaning at the gate, gazing north.

At home, his mother was startled by the girl's beauty and asked who she was. His cousin, Wang said. But Wu told you a lie, his mother said — I never had a sister, how can I have a niece. She questioned the girl. My father was a Qin, the girl said; my mother died when I was a baby in swaddling, I can't remember her. I did have a sister married to a Qin, the mother said, but she died long ago, how could she still be living. She studied the girl's face feature by feature, and every one matched — yet she's been dead so many years, the mother wondered. While she puzzled, Wu arrived, and the girl ducked into an inner room. Wu heard the story and stood baffled a long while, then said suddenly: is this girl named Yingning? She is, said Wang. A strange business, said Wu, and told how he knew. After the Qin aunt died, the widowed uncle, alone, was haunted by a fox and wasted away and died. The fox had borne a daughter, named Yingning, who was laid in swaddling on the bed — the whole household saw her. Even after the uncle died the fox kept coming, until they got a Heavenly Master's charm and pasted it on the wall, and the fox took the girl and left. Could this be her? They turned it over in doubt — and from the inner room came that helpless giggling: all of it Yingning's laughter. Reaching home, the mother saw the lovely girl and asked in surprise who she was; Wang answered, his cousin. The mother said: 'What Wu told you before is false. I have no elder sister — how can I have a niece?' She questioned the girl, who said: 'I am not my mother's child; my father was surnamed Qin. When he died I was in swaddling and cannot remember.' The mother said: 'I did have one sister married to a Qin — that is certain — but she died long ago; how can she still exist?' So she examined the girl's face and features, and every mark agreed; yet she wondered: 'It is so, and yet she has been dead many years — how can this be?' While she doubted, Wu arrived, and the girl fled into an inner room. Wu, learning the matter, was bewildered a long while, then said suddenly: 'Is this girl named Yingning?' Wang said yes. Wu marveled greatly and asked how he came to know; Wu said: 'After the Qin aunt died, the uncle, widowed, was haunted by a fox; he sickened, wasted, and died. The fox bore a daughter named Yingning, laid swaddled on the bed, and all the household saw her. After the uncle died the fox still came at times; later they sought a Heavenly Master's charm and pasted it on the wall, and the fox then took the girl away. Can this not be she?' Back and forth they doubted; they only heard from the room the giggling — all of it Yingning's laughter.

The mother said the girl was too witless. Wu asked to see her. She came in laughing so hard she wouldn't look up, and only when pushed managed to face the wall a moment and master it, then turned, made one short bow, and bolted out roaring with laughter — and every woman in the house laughed with her. Wu offered to go and verify the strange tale, and went off, on the pretext of being the matchmaker, to the village. The houses were gone; only mountain flowers lay scattered. He thought the grave was somewhere near, but the mounds were sunk under weeds, past telling apart, and he came back astonished. The mother now feared the girl was a ghost, and told her what Wu had said — the girl showed not a flicker of alarm. Told she had no home, she showed not a flicker of grief: only the same diligent foolish laughing. They had her share a younger girl's bed. At dawn she came to pay her respects, and her needlework was exquisite past compare; she only laughed without end, and forbidden it could not be stopped — yet her laughing was lovely, wild and never coarsening her charm, so everyone delighted in her, and neighbor girls and young wives vied to befriend her. The mother chose a lucky day for the wedding, but, still afraid she was a ghostly thing, secretly watched her in the sun — and her form and shadow were entirely as they should be. On the day, dressed in finery to perform the bride's rite, the girl laughed so hard she couldn't bow at all, and they had to give it up. The mother said: 'This girl too is far too artless.' Wu asked to meet her face to face. The mother went into the room; the girl was still laughing richly and would not turn, and only when urged did she come out. She faced the wall a while to master herself, then came out, made one bow, and at once whirled back in and laughed aloud, so that every woman in the house broke into smiles. Wu asked to go and observe the strange thing, and, taking the chance to act as matchmaker, sought his way to the village. There was no dwelling at all, only mountain flowers fallen and scattered. He recalled the burial place as roughly not far off, but the grave mounds were sunk and obliterated, past distinguishing, and he returned amazed and sighing. The mother suspected the girl was a ghost, and went in and told her Wu's words; the girl showed not the least look of fright. They condoled with her on having no home, and she showed not the least grief — only diligent, foolish laughing. The mother had her sleep with a young girl. At first light she came to pay her respects; her needlework was exquisite beyond compare; only she was given to laughing, and forbidden it, still she could not be stopped — yet where she laughed it was charming, wild and yet not spoiling her allure, so that all took pleasure in her, and the neighbor girls and young wives vied to receive her. The mother chose a lucky day to perform the wedding cup, but, fearing she was a ghost-thing, secretly looked at her in full daylight, and her form and shadow had nothing strange. On the day, dressed in finery to perform the bride's rite, the girl laughed so hard she could not bow at all, and so it was abandoned.

Wang feared her artlessness would spill their bedroom secrets, but in that the girl was close-mouthed and would not let slip a word. Whenever the mother was vexed or grieved, one laugh from the girl dissolved it. When the maids made small mistakes and dreaded the rod, they would beg her to go talk it over with the mother, and the offending maid, brought in, was usually let off. She loved flowers to madness, hunted out varieties through all their kin, even pawned a gold hairpin to buy fine stock; in a few months the steps and fences were nothing but flowers. Behind the courtyard stood a banksia-rose trellis, and she was forever climbing the neighbor's western wall to pick blossoms to pin and play with. The mother caught her at it and scolded her, but she never stopped. Wang feared her foolishness would leak the hidden matters of the bedroom, but the girl was very close and would not say a single word. Each time the mother was anxious or angry, one laugh from the girl undid it. When a maidservant made a small fault and dreaded the whip, she would beg to go to the mother and talk it over; the maid, brought before her, often got off. She had a passion for flowers grown to a craze, sought out kinds through all the kindred, even secretly pawning a gold hairpin to buy good stock; within months the steps and hedges were nothing but flowers. Behind the courtyard was a banksia-rose frame, and she would often climb up onto it, plucking blossoms to pin and toy with. The mother, meeting her at it, would scold her, but the girl in the end did not change.

One day the neighbor's son saw her there and was knocked head over heels. She didn't turn away — she laughed. He took it for an invitation, and his heart went wild. She pointed to the foot of the wall, laughed, and climbed down; he read it as the meeting-place and was overjoyed. At dusk he came, and she was there. He went to her, and as he took her there was a pain like a needle, like an awl, driven to the heart; he howled and went down. Looking close, it was no girl but a withered log lying by the wall, and what he had entered was a knothole running with water. His father heard the noise and ran out and questioned him; the son groaned and would not speak. Only when the wife came did he tell the truth. They lit a torch and looked inside the log: there was a great scorpion, big as a small crab. The old man broke the log apart and killed it, carried his son home, and by midnight the boy was dead. One day the neighbor's son saw her, and was utterly overturned with longing. The girl did not avoid him, but laughed. The neighbor's son thought her feeling fixed on him, and his heart grew the wilder. The girl pointed to the foot of the wall, laughed, and climbed down. The neighbor's son took it for a sign of the trysting place, and was greatly delighted. When dusk came he went, and the girl was indeed there. He went up and coupled with her — and it was like a needle, an awl, pricking; the pain went through to his heart. He cried out and fell. Looking closely, it was no girl but a withered log lying by the wall, and what he had entered was a water-dripping hole. The neighbor father heard the cry and rushed over and questioned him; the son groaned and would not speak. Only when the wife came did he tell the truth. They lit a torch and peered inside, and within was a great scorpion, like a small crab. The old man smashed the log and caught and killed it. He bore the son home, and by midnight the son died.

The neighbor sued Wang, denouncing Yingning as a demon. But the magistrate had long admired Wang's talent and knew him for an upright scholar; he judged the neighbor's charge a slander and was about to have the plaintiff flogged — until Wang interceded and begged him off, and the man was released. Afterward the mother said to the girl: such wild folly. To know joy is to lie in wait for grief. The magistrate is a clear-sighted man and we were spared, but a muddled official would have hauled women into open court — and how would my son have shown his face among the neighbors then. The girl drew herself up and vowed never to laugh again. People can't help laughing, the mother said; only it must have its time. But from that day the girl truly never laughed, not even when teased into it — and yet she never wore a sad face either. The neighbor brought suit against Wang, exposing Yingning as a monstrous, uncanny thing. The district magistrate had always esteemed Wang's talent and well knew him for a scholar of steady conduct; he held the neighbor's charge to be false slander, and was about to have the plaintiff flogged. Wang interceded and begged it off, so the man was released and went out. The mother said to the girl: 'Wild and reckless as that. To know joy is to lie hidden for sorrow. The district lord is clear-sighted, and luckily we were not dragged in; but had it been a muddle-headed officer, he would surely have summoned the women to be examined in open court — and with what face could my son then meet the neighborhood?' The girl gravely vowed she would never laugh again. The mother said: 'There is no one who does not laugh, but it must have its proper time.' And from this the girl in the end never laughed again; though one teased her on purpose, she would never laugh — yet all day she never wore a grieving look either.

One evening she shed tears in front of Wang. He wondered at it, and she said, choking, that she had held back before, fearing to alarm him, but seeing now that his mother and he both loved her without suspicion, she would tell the truth. She was the child of a fox. When her mother left, she had given her into the keeping of a ghost-mother, who sheltered her more than ten years until now. She had no brothers; her one reliance was Wang. The ghost-mother lay alone in the mountains, no one to pity her, none to lay her beside her husband in the grave — and the thought of it was a grief past bearing. If Wang would not grudge the trouble and expense, and let the one below settle this sorrow, then perhaps no one who reared a daughter would ever bear to drown or cast her away. Wang promised, but feared the grave was lost in the wild grass. No need to fear that, she said. On the appointed day the couple went with a coffin in a cart, and in the tangle of mist and brush she pointed out the grave — and there indeed was the old woman's body, the skin still whole. She wept over it in bitter grief, and they carried it back and buried it beside the Qin grave. One evening, facing Wang, she let fall tears. He wondered at it; the girl said, choking: 'Before, the days of our being together were few, and to speak of it I feared would startle and dismay you. Now that I see my aunt and you both love me too well, with no other heart, would there be harm in telling you plainly? I am born of a fox. When she left, my mother entrusted me to a ghost-mother, on whom I leaned more than ten years until I came to today. I have no brothers; the one I rely on is you. My old mother lies alone in the mountain fastness, with none to pity her and lay her with her husband below; I am ever sick at heart for it. If you would not grudge the trouble and cost, and let the one underground be freed of this grievance, then those who rear daughters might not bear to drown or cast them off.' Wang agreed, but feared the grave was lost in the wild grass. The girl said there was no need to fear. On the set day the couple went with a coffin in a cart, and amid the wild mist and tangled brush she pointed out the grave's place; and there indeed was the old woman's corpse, the skin and flesh still whole. She caressed it and wept in bitter grief, and they bore it home and buried it together with the Qin grave.

That night Wang dreamed the old woman came to thank him, and waking, he told it. The girl said she had seen her in the night and asked her not to startle her husband. Wang said he was sorry he hadn't kept her there. She's a ghost, the girl said — among the living the male force is strong and prevails; how could she stay long. Wang asked after Xiaorong. She's a fox too, the girl said, and a very cunning one; the fox-mother left her to watch over me, and she would catch food and feed me, so I am grateful to her, and have always kept her in mind. I asked my mother lately, and she says she is married off. After that, every Cold Food festival the couple climbed to the Qin graves and swept them without fail. Within a year the girl bore a son who, even cradled in arms, feared no strangers, and laughed at everyone he saw — very much, they said, with his mother's air. That night Wang dreamed the old woman came to give thanks; waking, he told it. The girl said: 'I saw her in the night, and bade her not to startle you.' Wang regretted he had not kept her. The girl said: 'She is a ghost; the living have much of the male force, which prevails — how could she stay long?' Wang asked about Xiaorong. The girl said: 'She too is a fox, and most cunning. The fox-mother left her to watch over me, and she would often seize food and feed me, so I am grateful to her and have always kept it in heart. Lately I asked my mother, and she says she has been married off.' From then, each year at the Cold Food festival the couple climbed to the Qin graves to sweep them, never failing. A year on the girl bore a son who, while still in arms, did not fear strangers; seeing anyone he would laugh — much, too, with his mother's air.

The chronicler of the strange says: watching her tireless, foolish laughing, she seems a girl with no heart at all — yet that wicked trick at the foot of the wall, whose cunning runs deeper than hers. And in her grieving love for the ghost-mother, turning her laughter to weeping — my Yingning, when was she ever the fool. I have heard there is an herb in the mountains called laughing-matter; smell it and you cannot stop laughing. Plant a stand of it in a room and it would outdo the mimosa that forgets sorrow. As for the flower that understands speech — one only minds its airs. The chronicler of the strange remarks: looking at her diligent, foolish laughing, she seems wholly without heart or mind; yet that wicked prank at the foot of the wall — whose cunning is greater than hers? And as for her grieving love for the ghost-mother, turning laughter into weeping — my Yingning, when was she ever foolish? I have heard that in the mountains there is an herb named 'laughing-matter'; smell it, and one cannot stop laughing. Plant this one kind in a room, and it would surpass the 'mimosa that forgets sorrow' — though it would have no real color of its own. As for the 'flower that understands speech,' one only dislikes its affectation.

嬰寧 The original Chinese · honored as an artifact

王子服,莒之羅店人。早孤,絕慧,十四入泮。母最愛之,尋常不令遊郊野。

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