The short story had no place in Chinese literature until early in the Christian era. Although the short story first emerged with Chuang Tze's Happy Excursion three centuries before the birth of Christ, no one took the form seriously and it sank into oblivion for the following 500 years. The period of Six Dynasties (222-589 A.D.) was not famous for its short stories but had a sizable yield, including Yu Pao's Collections of Fairly Tales, Jen Fang's Things Grotesque and Wang Chia's Stories Picked Up at Random.
Confucius had not written of the extraordinary or fictional. So it was understandable that with Confucianism dominating Han times, the short story found no place. In his History of Han, Pan Ku had uncomplimentary comments on fiction and wrote: "Short stories are nothing but gossip."
The T'ang and Sung dynasties were golden days of prose writing. Han Yu (768-824) rejected the ornate style that had flourished since the Six Dynasties, returning to a simple and straightforward writing that had a slightly archaic touch. Ou-yang Hsiu (1007-1072), an historian and philosopher, said writers should be free to express themselves in any form they wished. Short stories came to the fore. Examples are Tuan Cheng-shih's Swordsmen's Tales, Tu Kiang-ting's A Man With Curly Whiskers, Wang Tu's Tales of An Ancient Mirror and Shen Chi-chi's Recollections of Dreams.
However, historical influence was strong in short stories of T'ang and Sung. Instead of relating episodic experiences and strange happenings in the manner of Edgar Allen Poe or William Somerset Maugham, these stories try to abbreviate the whole life span of the main character - so much so that they are often called biographies.
Short stories in the modern sense came into being in Ming times with Chai Tso's Snuffing of A Candle and reached maturity in P'u Sung-ling's Liao Chai Chih I (Strange Stories from A Chinese Studio), Wu Chih-tzu's Ju Lin Wai Shih (An Unofficial History of the Literati) and Chih Yun's Notes from A Cottage Called Sharp Eye. Of the three, P'u Sung-ling's Liao Chai is the most popular.
P'u Sung-ling (1640-1715) was not popular in his own time. The trouble was not an early death (he lived to be 75) nor that he was too far ahead of his times. He wasn't recognized because he refused to permit his manuscripts to be published.
P'u, a native of Liuchuan, Shantung, was not opposed to success. Like other literati of his time, he had his heart set on passing the civil service examinations and attaining high position. P'u was no mediocrity; yet his lucky star forsook him whenever he went to the examination room.
With the road to government service blocked, P'u turned to the writing of short stories - mostly tales of magic and the supernatural - to alleviate the pain of disappointment.
He wrote much and fast. He said: "There are so many stories in my mind that if I do not write them down and write them down quickly, there will be no time left."
Not all his stories came from his imagination. He himself listed friends as his main source of material. He said: "... I am animated by the spirit of Su Tung-p'o, who loved to hear men speak of the supernatural. I get people to commit what they tell me to writing and subsequently dress it up in the form of a story. Over a period of time my friends have supplied me with quantities of material that have grown into a vast pile."
P'u's son wrote this account of his father's collection of story material:
"If the weather was fine, he would get up early. With a big kettle of tea in one hand and a sack of tobacco in the other, he would go to the marketplace and invite everyone he met to sit down and chat. He would offer them tea and tobacco as encouragement. Whenever he heard something interesting, he would jot down a few notes. At the end of the day, he would come home in either high or low spirits depending on his gleanings. My mother was illiterate and I was always the first to read his manuscripts. My father didn't like that, though. He thought stories were no good for young men. Often he locked them up and sometimes forgot where."
Wang Yu-yang, a scholar and one of the privileged few to read P'u in manuscript, said the stories were for men of all ages - that the moral lessons would straighten out the young and the strange happenings would recall the experiences of the old. P'u's Liao Chai is not included in the often-quoted counsel not to read Water Margin (a story of bandits) when young, Annals of the Three Kingdoms (a story of plotters and schemers) when old, that women should stay away from the pornographic Golden Lotus and men from The Dream of the Red Chamber (an intricate, heart-wrenching love story).
P'u's short stories first were published in book form by his grandson in the middle of the 18th century. Nearly a century later the wealthy T'ang Ming-lun, a salt commissioner at the time, printed a de luxe edition at his own expense. There were 16 small octavo volumes of about 160 pages each and 517 stories.
The themes of his stories are intended to "glorify virtue and censure vice". Whether a reader of P'u's stories will become a better man is one thing, but a careful reader can certainly become a better writer. The terseness of his style is compared with that of Francis Bacon.
Unfortunately, not every Chinese can fully appreciate P'u's style. The problem is not unlike that which Geoffrey Chaucer and William Shakespeare pose for modern English readers. When P'u's stories are modernized, the original archaic charm is lost.
Translations lose much of the charm, too, but give some idea of P'u's storytelling. These two are in the Herbert A. Giles' translation.
Planting A Pear Tree
A countryman was one day selling his pears in the market. They were unusually sweet and fine flavored, and the price he asked was high. A Taoist priest in rags and tatters stopped at the barrow and begged one of them. The countryman told him to go away and began to curse and swear.
The priest said, "You have several hundred pears on your barrow; I ask for a single one, the loss of which, Sir, you would not feel. Why then get angry?" The onlookers told the countryman to give him an inferior pear and let him go, but this man obstinately refused to do. Thereupon the beadle of the place, finding the commotion too great, purchased a pear and handed it to the priest.
The latter received it with a bow and turning to the crowd said, "We who have left our homes and given up all that is dear to us are at a loss to understand selfish niggardly conduct in others. Now I have some exquisite pears which I shall do myself the honor to put before you."
Here somebody asked, "Since you have pears yourself, why don't you eat those?"
"Because," replied the priest, "I wanted one of these pips to grow them from." So saying, he munched at the pear; and when he had finished, took a pip in his hand, unstrapped a pick from his back, and proceeded to make a hole in the ground, several inches deep, wherein he deposited the pip, filling in the earth as before. He then asked the bystanders for a little hot water to water it with, and one among them who loved a joke fetched him some boiling water from a neighboring shop.
The priest poured this over the place where he had made the hole, and every eye was fixed upon him when sprouts were seen shooting up, and gradually branches sparsely covered with leaves; then flowers, and last of all fine, large, sweet-smelling pears hanging in great profusion. These the priest picked and handed round to the assembled crowd until all were gone, when he took his pick and halted away for a long time at the tree, finally cutting it down. This he shouldered, leaves and all, and sauntered quietly away.
Now, from the very beginning, our friend the countryman had been amongst the crowd, straining his neck to see what was going on, and forgetting all about his business. At the departure of the priest, he turned around and discovered that everyone of his pears was gone. He then knew that those the old fellow had been giving away so freely were really his own pears. Looking more closely at the barrow, he also found that one of the handles was missing, evidently having been newly cut off.
Boiling with rage, he set out in pursuit of the priest, and just as he turned the corner he saw the lost barrow-handle lying under the wall - being, in fact, the very pear tree that the priest had cut down. But there were no traces of the priest - much to the amusement of the crowd in the marketplace.
The Painted Wall
A Kiangsi gentleman named Meng Lung-tan was lodging at the capital with a Mr. Chu, when one day chance led them to a certain monastery within which they found no spacious halls or meditation chambers, but only an old priest in dishabille. On observing the visitors, he arranged his dress and went forward to meet them, leading them round and showing whatever there was to be seen.
In the chapel they saw an image of Chih Kung, and the walls on either side were beautifully painted with life-like representations of men and animals. On the east side were pictured a number of fairies, among whom was a young girl whose maiden tresses were not yet confined by the matron's knot. She was picking flowers and gently smiling, while her cherry lips seemed about to move, and the moisture of her eyes to overflow.
Mr. Chu gazed at her for a long time without taking his eyes away, until at last he became unconscious of anything but the thoughts that were engrossing him. Then, suddenly, he felt himself floating in the air, as if riding on a cloud, and found himself passing through the wall, where halls and pavilions stretched away one after another, unlike the abodes of mortals.
Here an old priest was preaching the Law of Buddha, surrounded by a large crowd of listeners. Mr. Chu mingled with the throng, and after a few moments perceived a gentle tug at his sleeve. Turning round, he saw the young girl above-mentioned, who walked away laughing. Mr. Chu at once followed her, and passing a winding balustrade, arrived at a small apartment beyond which he dared not venture. But the young lady, looking back, waved her hand as though beckoning him to come on. He accordingly entered and found nobody else within. Then they fell on their knees and worshipped heaven and earth together, and rose up as man and wife, after which the bride went away, bidding Mr. Chu keep quiet until she came back.
This went on for a couple of days, when the young lady's companions began to smell a rat and discovered Mr. Chu's hiding place. Thereupon they all laughed and said, "My dear, you are now a married woman, and should leave off that maidenly coiffure." So they gave her the proper hairpins and head ornaments, and bade her go bind her hair, at which she blushed very much but said nothing. Then one of them cried out, "My sisters, let us be off. Two's company, more's none." At this they all giggled again and went away.
Mr. Chu found his wife very much improved by the alteration in the style of her hair. The high topknot and the coronet of pendants were very becoming to her. But suddenly they heard a sound like the tramping of heavy-soled boots, accompanied by the clanking of chains and the noise of angry discussion. The bride jumped up in a fright, and she and Mr. Chu peeped out.
They saw a man clad in golden armor, with a face as black as jet, carrying in his hands chains and whips, and surrounded by all the girls. He asked, "Are you all here?" "All," they replied. "If," said he, "any mortal is here concealed amongst you, denounce him at once, and lay not up sorrow for yourselves." Here they all answered as before that there was no one. The man then made a movement as if he would search the place, upon which the bride was dreadfully alarmed, and her face turned the color of ashes.
In her terror she said to Mr. Chu, "Hide yourself under the bed," and opening a small lattice in the wall, disappeared herself. Mr. Chu in his concealment hardly dared to draw his breath; and in a little while he heard the boots tramp into the room and out again, the sound of the voices getting gradually fainter and fainter in the distance. This reassured him, but he still heard the voices of people going backwards and forwards outside; and having been a long time in a cramped position, his ears began to sing as if there was a locust in them, then his eyes to burn like fire. It was almost unbearable; however, he remained quietly awaiting the return of the young lady without giving a thought to the why and wherefore of his present position.
Meanwhile, Meng Lung-tan had noticed the sudden disappearance of his friend, and thinking something was wrong, asked the priest where he was. "He has gone to hear the preaching of the Law," replied the priest. "Where?" said Mr. Meng. "Oh, not very far," was the answer. Then with his finger the old priest tapped the wall and called out, "Friend Chu! What makes you stay away so long?" At this, the likeness of Mr. Chu was figured upon the wall, with his ear inclined in the attitude of one listening. The priest added, "Your friend here has been waiting for you some time," and immediately Mr. Chu descended from the wall, standing transfixed like a block of wood, with staring eyeballs and trembling legs. Mr. Meng was much terrified and asked him quietly what was the matter. Now the matter was that while concealed under the bed he had heard a noise resembling thunder and had rushed out to see what it was.
Now they all noticed that the young lady on the wall with the maiden's tresses had changed the style of her coiffure to that of a married woman. Mr. Chu was greatly astonished at this and asked the old priest the reason.
He replied, "Visions have their origin in those who see them. What explanation can I give?" This answer was very unsatisfactory to Mr. Chu; neither did his friend, who was rather frightened, know what to make of it all; so they descended the temple steps and went away.
How to shoot an arrow into a rock - Just make sure the stone is a tiger
精誠所至，金石為開 Ching-ch'eng suo-chih, chin-shih wei-k'ai (If you work with total sincerity, even a gold stone can be cracked).
Western equivalent - Where there's a will, there's a way.
During the reign of the Emperor Wen (179-157 B.C.) in the Han dynasty, there was a general named Li Kuang. Born in a military family of Kansu, Northwest China, Li Kuang studied the martial arts from boyhood. He excelled in horsemanship and archery and was nicknamed the "Flying General".
In 166 B.C. when the Hsiung Nu nomads (known in the West as the Huns) invaded Kansu in great force, General Li expelled them with only a small army. This was the first victory for the Han in 10 years of their sporadic conflict with the Hsiung Nu. Li Kuang was rewarded with appointment as aide-de-camp to the emperor.
One day while Li Kuang was accompanying the emperor on an inspection tour of the northwestern frontier, a tiger came crashing into the camp and headed straight for the emperor. General Li killed it with one swift arrow.
The emperor said to Li Kuang: "You certainly deserve to be called the 'Flying General'. We regret that you were born at the wrong time. If you had been born earlier and had helped Kao Tsu (the emperor's father and founder of the Han dynasty) build the empire, you would have been a lord. As an aide, you don't have much opportunity to make use of your martial skills. Is there some other position you would prefer?"
"I am grateful to Your Majesty for your kind concern," replied the general. "However, I do not want high position. I think I can serve you best by commanding the garrison troops in this region where we are constantly under attack from the Hsiung Nu."
Li Kuang's wish was granted. Several years later, as he was inspecting defense works along the frontline, he saw a tiger crouching in the distance. The general shot the tiger and ordered his men to fetch the carcass. When they reached the spot, they found no tiger, only a big stone. The arrow had penetrated the rock deeply.