XXXVII.

ENGAGED TO A NUN.

At I-ling, in Hupei, there lived a young man named Chên Yü, the son of a graduate. He was a good scholar and a handsome fellow, and had made a reputation for himself even before he arrived at manhood. When quite a boy, a physiognomist had predicted that he would marry a Taoist nun; but his parents regarded it only as a joke, and made several attempts to get him a different kind of wife. Their efforts, however, had not hitherto proved successful, the difficulty being to find a suitable match.

Now his maternal grandmother lived at Huang-kang; and on one occasion, when young Chên was paying her a visit, he heard some one say that of the four Yüns at Huang-chou the youngest had no peer. This remark referred to some very nice-looking nuns who lived in a temple[221] a few miles from his grandmother’s house; and accordingly Chên secretly set off to see them, and, knocking at the door, was very cordially received by the four ladies, who were persons of considerable refinement. The youngest was a girl of incomparable beauty, and Chên could not keep his eyes off her, until at last she put her hand up to her face and looked the other way. Her companions now going out of the room to get tea for their visitor, Chên availed himself of the opportunity to ask the young lady’s name; to which she replied that she was called Yün-ch‘i, and that her surname was Ch‘ên. “How extraordinary!” cried Chên; “and mine is P‘an.”[222] This made her blush very much, and she bent her head down and made no answer; by-and-by rising up and going away. The tea then came in, accompanied by some nice fruit, and the nuns began telling him their names. One was Pai Yün-shên, and thirty odd years of age; another was Shêng Yün-mien, just twenty; and the third was Liang Yün-tung, twenty-four or five years old, but the junior in point of religious standing.[223] Yün-ch‘i did not re-appear, and at length Chên grew anxious to see her again, and asked where she was. Miss Pai told him her sister was afraid of strangers, and Chên then got up and took his leave in spite of their efforts to detain him. “If you want to see Yün-ch‘i you had better come again to-morrow,” said Miss Pai; and Chên, who went home thinking of nothing but Yün-ch‘i, did return to the temple on the following day. All the nuns were there except Yün-ch‘i, but he hardly liked to begin by inquiring after her; and then they pressed him to stay and take dinner with them, accepting no excuses, Miss Pai herself setting food and chop-sticks before him, and urging him to eat. When he asked where Yün-ch‘i was, they said she would come directly; but evening gradually drew on and Chên rose to go home. Thereupon they all entreated him to stay, promising that if he did so they would make Yün-ch‘i come in. Chên then agreed to remain; the lamps were lighted, and wine was freely served round, until at last he said he was so tipsy he couldn’t take any more. “Three bumpers more,” cried Miss Pai, “and then we will send for Yün-ch‘i.” So Chên drank off his three cups, whereupon Miss Liang said he must also drink three with her, which he did, turning his wine-cup down on the table[224] and declaring that he would have no more. “The gentleman won’t condescend to drink with us,” said Miss Pai to Miss Liang, “so you had better call in Yün-ch‘i, and tell the fair Eloïsa that her Abelard is awaiting her.” In a few moments Miss Liang came back and told Chên that Yün-ch‘i would not appear; upon which he went off in a huff, without saying a word to either of them, and for several days did not go near the place again. He could not, however, forget Yün-ch‘i, and was always hanging about on the watch, until one afternoon he observed Miss Pai go out, at which he was delighted, for he wasn’t much afraid of Miss Liang, and at once ran up to the temple and knocked at the door. Yün-mien answered his knock, and from her he discovered that Miss Liang had also gone out on business. He then asked for Yün-ch‘i, and Yün-mien led him into another court-yard, where she called out, “Yün-ch‘i! here’s a visitor.” At this the door of the room was immediately slammed, and Yün-mien laughed and told Chên she had locked herself in. Chên was on the point of saying something, when Yün-mien moved away, and a voice was heard from the other side of the window, “They all declare I’m setting my cap at you, Sir; and if you come here again, I cannot answer for my safety. I do not wish to remain a nun, and if I could only meet with a gentleman like you, Mr. P‘an, I would be a handmaid to him all the days of my life.” Chên offered his hand and heart to the young lady on the spot; but she reminded him that her education for the priesthood had not been accomplished without expense, “and if you truly love me,” added she, “bring twenty ounces of silver wherewith to purchase my freedom. I will wait for you three years with the utmost fidelity.” Chên assented to this, and was about to tell her who he really was, when Yün-mien returned and they all went out together, Chên now bidding them farewell and going back to his grandmother’s. After this he always had Yün-ch‘i in his thoughts, and wanted very much to get another interview with her and be near her once again, but at this juncture he heard that his father was dangerously ill, and promptly set off on his way home, travelling day and night. His father died, and his mother who then ruled the household was such a severe person that he dared not tell her what was nearest to his heart. Meanwhile he scraped together all the money he could; and refused all proposals of marriage on the score of being in mourning for his father.[225] His mother, however, insisted on his taking a wife; and he then told her that when he was with his grandmother at Huang-kang, an arrangement had been made that he was to marry a Miss Ch‘ên, to which he himself was quite ready to accede; and that now, although his father’s death had stopped all communications on the subject, he could hardly do better than pay a visit to his grandmother and see how matters stood, promising that if the affair was not actually settled he would obey his mother’s commands. His mother consented to this, and off he started with the money he had saved; but when he reached Huang-kang and went off to the temple, he found the place desolate and no longer what it had been. Entering in, he saw only one old priestess employed in cooking her food; and on making inquiries of her, she told him that the Abbess had died in the previous year, and that the four nuns had gone away in different directions. According to her, Yün-ch‘i was living in the northern quarter of the city, and thither he proceeded forthwith; but after asking for her at all the temples in the neighbourhood, he could get no news of her, and returned sorrowfully home, pretending to his mother that his uncle had said Mr. Ch‘ên had gone away, and that as soon as he came back they would send a servant to let him know.

Some months after these events, Chên’s mother went on a visit to her own home, and mentioned this story in conversation with her old mother, who, to her astonishment, knew nothing at all about it, but suggested that Chên and his uncle must have concocted the thing together. Luckily, however, for Chên his uncle was away at that time, and they had no means of getting at the real truth. Meanwhile, Chên’s mother went away to the Lily Hill to fulfil a vow she had made, and remained all night at an inn at the foot of the hill. That evening the landlord knocked at her door and ushered in a young priestess to share the room. The girl said her name was Yün-ch‘i; and when she heard that Chên’s mother lived at I-ling, she went and sat by her side, and poured out to her a long tale of tribulation, finishing up by saying that she had a cousin named P‘an, at I-ling, and begging Chên’s mother to send some one to tell him where she would be found. “Every day I suffer,” added she, “and each day seems like a year. Tell him to come quickly, or I may be gone.” Chên’s mother inquired what his other name might be, but she said she did not know; to which the old lady replied that it was of no consequence, as, being a graduate, it would be easy to find him out. Early in the morning Chên’s mother bade the girl farewell, the latter again begging her not to forget; and when she reached home she told Chên what had occurred. Chên threw himself on his knees, and told his mother that he was the P‘an to whom the young lady alluded; and after hearing how the engagement had come about, his mother was exceedingly angry, and said, “Undutiful boy! how will you face your relations with a nun for a wife?” Chên hung his head and made no reply; but shortly afterwards when he went up for his examination, he presented himself at the address given by Yün-ch‘i--only, however, to find that the young lady had gone away a fortnight before. He then returned home and fell into a bad state of health, when his grandmother died and his mother set off to assist at her funeral. On her way back she missed the right road and reached the house of some people named Ching, who turned out to be cousins of hers. They invited her in, and there she saw a young girl of about eighteen sitting in the parlour, and as great a beauty as she had ever set eyes on. Now, as she was always thinking of making a good match for her son, and curing him of his settled melancholy, she asked who the young lady might be; and they told her that her name was Wang,--that she was a connection of their own, and that her father and mother being dead, she was staying temporarily with them. Chên’s mother inquired the name of Miss Wang’s betrothed, but they said she was not engaged; and then taking her hand, she entered into conversation, and was very much charmed with her. Passing the night there, Chên’s mother took her cousin into her confidence, and the latter agreed that it would be a capital match; “but,” added she, “this young lady is somewhat ambitious, or she would hardly have remained single so long. We must think about it.” Meanwhile, Chên’s mother and Miss Wang got on so extremely well together that they were already on the terms of mother and daughter; and Miss Wang was invited to accompany her home. This invitation she readily accepted, and next day they went back; Chên’s mother, who wished to see her son free from his present trouble, bidding one of the servants tell him that she had brought home a nice wife for him; Chên did not believe this; but on peeping through the window beheld a young lady much prettier even than Yün-ch‘i herself. He now began to reflect that the three years agreed upon had already expired; that Yün-ch‘i had gone no one knew whither, and had probably by this time found another husband; so he had no difficulty in entertaining the thought of marrying this young lady, and soon regained his health. His mother then caused the young people to meet, and be introduced to one another; saying to Miss Wang, when her son had left the room, “Did you guess why I invited you to come home with me?” “I did,” replied the young lady, “but I don’t think you guessed what was _my_ object in coming. Some years ago I was betrothed to a Mr. P‘an, of I-ling. I have heard nothing of him for a long time. If he has found another wife I will be your daughter-in-law; if not, I will ever regard you as my own mother, and endeavour to repay you for your kindness to me.” “As there is an actual engagement,” replied Chên’s mother, “I will say no more; but when I was at the Lily Hill there was a Taoist nun inquiring after this Mr. P‘an, and now you again, though, as a matter of fact, there is no Mr. P‘an in I-ling at all.” “What!” cried Miss Wang, “are you that lady I met? I am the person who inquired for Mr. P‘an.” “If that is so,” replied Chên’s mother with a smile, “then your Mr. P‘an is not far off.” “Where is he?” said she; and then Chên’s mother bade a maid-servant lead her out to her son and ask him. “Is your name Yün-ch‘i?” said Chên, in great astonishment; and when the young lady asked him how he knew it, he told her the whole story of his pretending to be a Mr. P‘an. But when Yün-ch‘i found out to whom she was talking, she was abashed, and went back and told his mother, who inquired how she came to have two names. “My real name is Wang,” replied the young lady; “but the old Abbess, being very fond of me, made me take her own name.” Chên’s mother was overjoyed at all this, and an auspicious day was immediately fixed for the celebration of their marriage.

FOOTNOTES:

[221] These nunneries, of which there are plenty in China, are well worth visiting, and may be freely entered by both sexes. Sometimes there are as many as a hundred nuns living together in one temple, and to all appearances devoting their lives to religious exercises; report, however, tells many tales of broken vows, and makes sad havoc generally with the reputation of these fair vestals.

[222] In corresponding English, this would be:--The young lady said her name was Eloïsa. “How funny!” cried Chên, “and mine is Abelard.”

[223] That is, she was the last to take the vows.

[224] The usual signal that a person does not wish to take any more wine.

[225] This would carry him well on into the third of the years during which Yün-ch‘i had promised to wait for him.