Strange Stories from a Chinese Studio (Volumes 1 and 2). Songling Pu

was rapidly restored to health. Wang drew the flower from underneath his pillow, and found that, though dried up, the leaves had not fallen away. He often sat playing with this flower and thinking of the young lady; but by-and-by, as Wu did not reappear, he wrote a letter and asked him to come. Wu pleaded other engagements, being unwilling to go; at which Wang got in a rage and quite lost his good spirits; so that his mother, fearing a relapse, proposed to him a speedy betrothal in another quarter. Wang shook his head at this, and sat day after day waiting for Wu, until his patience was thoroughly exhausted. He then reflected that ten miles was no great distance, and that there was no particular reason for asking anybody’s aid; so, concealing the flower in his sleeve, he went off in a huff by himself without letting it be known. Having no opportunity of asking the way, he made straight for the hills; and after about ten miles walking found himself right in the midst of them, enjoying their exquisite verdure, but meeting no one, and with nothing better than mountain paths to guide him. Away down in the valley below, almost buried under a densely luxuriant growth of trees and flowers, he espied a small hamlet, and began to descend the hill and make his way thither. He found very few houses, and all built of rushes, but otherwise pleasant enough to look at. Before the door of one, which stood at the northern end of the village, were a number of graceful willow trees, and inside the wall plenty of peach and apricot trees, with tufts of bamboo between them, and birds chirping on the branches. As it was a private house he did not venture to go in, but sat down to rest himself on a huge smooth stone opposite the front door. By-and-by he heard a girl’s voice from within calling out Hsiao-jung; and, noticing that it was a sweet-toned voice, set himself to listen, when a young lady passed with a bunch of apricot-flowers in her hand, and occupied in putting hair-pins into her downcast head. As soon as she raised her face she saw Wang, and stopped putting in hair-pins; then, smothering a laugh, picked a few flowers and ran in. Wang perceived to his intense delight that she was none other than his heroine of the Feast of Lanterns; but recollecting that he had no right to follow her in, was on the point of calling after her as his cousin. There was no one, however, in the street, and he was afraid lest he might have made a mistake; neither was there anybody at the door of whom he could make inquiries. So he remained there in a very restless state till the sun was well down in the west, and his hopes were almost at an end, forgetting all about food and drink. He then saw the young lady peep through the door, apparently very much astonished to find him still there; and in a few minutes out came an old woman leaning on a stick, who said to him, “Whence do you come, Sir? I hear you have been here ever since morning. What is it you want? Aren’t you hungry?” Wang got up, and making a bow, replied that he was in search of some relatives of his; but the old woman was deaf and didn’t catch what he said, so he had to shout it out again at the top of his voice. She asked him what their names were, but he was unable to tell her; at which she laughed and said, “It is a funny thing to look for people when you don’t know their names. I am afraid you are an unpractical gentleman. You had better come in and have something to eat; we’ll give you a bed and you can go back to-morrow and find out the names of the people you are in quest of.” Now Wang was just beginning to get hungry, and, besides, this would bring him nearer to the young lady; so he readily accepted and followed the old woman in. They walked along a paved path banked on both sides with hibiscus, the leaves of which were scattered about on the ground; and passing through another door, entered a court-yard full of trained creepers and other flowers. The old woman showed Wang into a small room with beautifully white walls and a branch of a crab-apple tree coming through the window, the furniture being also nice and clean. They had hardly sat down when it was clear that some one was taking a peep through the window; whereupon the old woman cried out, “Hsiao-jung! make haste and get dinner,” and a maid from outside immediately answered “Yes, ma’am.” Meanwhile, Wang had been explaining who he was; and then the old lady said, “Was your maternal grandfather named Wu?” “He was,” replied Wang. “Well, I never!” cried the old woman, “he was my uncle, and your mother and I are cousins. But in consequence of our poverty, and having no sons, we have kept quite to ourselves, and you have grown to be a man without my knowing you.” “I came here,” said Wang, “about my cousin, but in the hurry I forgot your name.” “My name is Ch‘in,” replied the old lady; “I have no son: only a girl, the child of a concubine, who, after my husband’s death, married again[110] and left her daughter with me. She’s a clever girl, but has had very little education; full of fun and ignorant of the sorrows of life. I’ll send for her by-and-by to make your acquaintance.” The maid then brought in the dinner—a large dish full of choice morsels of fowl—and the old woman pressed him to eat. When they had finished, and the things were taken away, the old woman said, “Call Miss Ning,” and the maid went off to do so. After some time there was a giggling at the door, and the old woman cried out, “Ying-ning! your cousin is here.” There was then a great tittering as the maid pushed her in, stopping her mouth all the time to try and keep from laughing. “Don’t you know better than to behave like that?” asked the old woman, “and before a stranger, too.” So Ying-ning controlled her feelings, and Wang made her a bow, the old woman saying, “Mr. Wang is your cousin: you have never seen him before. Isn’t that funny?” Wang asked how old his cousin was, but the old woman didn’t hear him, and he had to say it again, which sent Ying-ning off into another fit of laughter. “I told you,” observed the old woman, “she hadn’t much education; now you see it. She is sixteen years old, and as foolish as a baby.” “One year younger than I am,” remarked Wang. “Oh, you’re seventeen are you? Then you were born in the year ——, under the sign of the horse.”[111] Wang nodded assent, and then the old woman asked who his wife was, to which Wang replied that he had none. “What! a clever, handsome young fellow of seventeen not yet engaged?[112] Ying-ning is not engaged either: you two would make a nice pair if it wasn’t for the relationship.” Wang said nothing, but looked hard at his cousin; and just then the maid whispered to her, “It is the fellow with the wicked eyes! He’s at his old game.” Ying-ning laughed, and proposed to the maid that they should go and see if the peaches were in blossom or not; and off they went together, the former with her sleeve stuffed into her mouth until she got outside, where she burst into a hearty fit of laughing. The old woman gave orders for a bed to be got ready for Wang, saying to him, “It’s not often we meet: you must spend a few days with us now you are here, and then we’ll send you home. If you are at all dull, there’s a garden behind where you can amuse yourself, and books for you to read.” So next day Wang strolled into the garden, which was of moderate size, with a well-kept lawn and plenty of trees and flowers. There was also an arbour consisting of three posts with a thatched roof, quite shut in on all sides by the luxurious vegetation. Pushing his way among the flowers, Wang heard a noise from one of the trees, and looking up saw Ying-ning, who at once burst out laughing and nearly fell down. “Don’t! don’t!” cried Wang, “you’ll fall!” Then Ying-ning came down, giggling all the time, until, when she was near the ground, she missed her hold, and tumbled down with a run. This stopped her merriment, and Wang picked her up, gently squeezing her hand as he did so. Ying-ning began laughing again, and was obliged to lean against a tree for support, it being some time before she was able to stop. Wang waited till she had finished, and then drew the flower out of his sleeve and handed it to her. “It’s dead,” said she; “why do you keep it?” “You dropped it, cousin, at the Feast of Lanterns,” replied Wang, “and so I kept it.” She then asked him what was his object in keeping it, to which he answered, “To show my love, and that I have not forgotten you. Since that day when we met, I have been very ill from thinking so much of you, and am quite changed from what I was. But now that it is my unexpected good fortune to meet you, I pray you have pity on me.” “You needn’t make such a fuss about a trifle,” replied she, “and with your own relatives, too. I’ll give orders to supply you with a whole basketful of flowers when you go away.” Wang told her she did not understand, and when she asked what it was she didn’t understand, he said, “I didn’t care for the flower itself; it was the person who picked the flower.” “Of course,” answered she, “everybody cares for their relations; you needn’t have told me that.” “I wasn’t talking about ordinary relations,” said Wang, “but about husbands and wives.” “What’s the difference?” asked Ying-ning. “Why,” replied Wang, “husband and wife are always together.” “Just what I shouldn’t like,” cried she, “to be always with anybody.”[113] At this juncture up came the maid, and Wang slipped quietly away. By-and-by