Original Text
Chen Baoyao, an intendant of Qingzhou, was a native of Fujian. One night, as he sat alone, a woman lifted the curtain and entered. Chen looked at her but did not recognize her, yet he saw that she was exceptionally beautiful, dressed in a long-sleeved palace gown. Smiling, she said, "Sitting alone late at night—are you not lonely?" Startled, Chen asked who she was. The woman replied, "My home is not far from here, just to the west." Chen suspected she might be a ghost, but his heart was drawn to her, so he took her sleeve and invited her to sit. Her conversation was refined and elegant, and Chen was greatly delighted. When he embraced her, she offered little resistance, glancing around and asking, "There is no one else here, is there?" Chen quickly closed the door and said, "No." He urged her to undress, but she was shy, so he helped her remove her garments himself. The woman said, "I am twenty years old and still a virgin—do not be too rough with me, for I cannot bear it." After their intimacy, traces of blood remained on the bed mat. Then, whispering by the pillow, she revealed her name: Lin Siniang. Chen wished to inquire further, but Lin Siniang said, "I have been chaste all my life, and now I have been nearly undone by your frivolity. If you truly care for me, let us only seek eternal companionship—why all this prying?" Soon, the rooster crowed, and Lin Siniang rose and departed. From then on, she came every night without fail. Whenever she arrived, Chen would lock the door, and they would drink wine and converse freely. When the topic turned to music, Lin Siniang could distinguish and analyze every tone, leading Chen to suspect she was skilled in composing songs. She said, "I learned these things in my childhood." Chen begged her to perform a piece. She replied, "I have not practiced for so long that I have forgotten most of the rhythms—I fear I would be laughed at by a connoisseur." After repeated urging, she bowed her head, tapped the rhythm, and sang tunes from Yizhou and Liangzhou, her voice mournful and moving. When she finished, she could not help but weep. Chen, too, felt his heart ache with sorrow, and holding her close, he comforted her, saying, "Do not sing these songs of a fallen kingdom anymore—they only bring melancholy." Lin Siniang said, "Sound expresses emotion; a sorrowful tune cannot bring joy, just as a joyful tune cannot bring sorrow." Their bond grew deeper and more intimate than that of husband and wife.
As time passed, the family members secretly overheard Lin Siniang's songs and could not help but weep with emotion. Lady Chen, having glimpsed Lin Siniang's beauty, suspected that no such enchanting and lovely woman could exist in the mortal world; if not a ghost, she must be a fox spirit. Fearing that this creature would bewitch her husband, she urged him to sever ties with her. Lord Chen ignored his wife's advice and continued his association with Lin Siniang, but he persistently questioned her. Lin Siniang, with a sorrowful countenance, said, "I was a palace maid in the Prince of Heng's residence. I met my death in a calamity, and now seventeen years have passed. Because you are a man of deep feeling and righteousness, I attached myself to you, forming a harmonious union, yet I truly dare not harm you. If you suspect me and fear me, let us part from this moment." Lord Chen replied, "I do not despise you, but such deep affection cannot be without knowing the truth." He then inquired about the affairs of the palace. Lin Siniang recalled and narrated them with great relish, but when she spoke of the decline, she choked with grief and could not continue. Lin Siniang slept little; every night she rose to chant the Zhunti and Diamond Sutras. Lord Chen asked, "Can one repent in the underworld?" Lin Siniang said, "It is the same as in the human world. I think of my life's downfall and degradation, and I wish to save myself, seeking happiness in a future existence." She often discussed poetry with Lord Chen, pointing out flaws in verses and reciting fine lines with a melodious and moving voice. Her words were profound and graceful, her manner elegant and charming, making one forget weariness. Lord Chen asked, "Can you compose poetry?" Lin Siniang smiled and said, "I occasionally wrote a little when alive." When Lord Chen asked for her poems, she laughed and said, "These are but the words of a child; how could they be worthy of a sage's ear?"
After three years, one evening Lin Siniang suddenly came to bid farewell with great sorrow. Chen Gong asked in surprise what had happened, and she said, "Because I committed no sins in life and did not forget to chant sutras after death, the King of Hell has allowed me to be reborn into a royal family. Tonight we must part, never to meet again." Having said this, she wept bitterly, and Chen Gong also shed tears. They then set out wine and dishes, drinking heartily together. Lin Siniang sang generously, her voice mournful and lingering, each word turning a hundred times, and whenever she reached a sorrowful passage, she would choke and stop. She paused and resumed several times before finishing the song, and then could drink no more. Rising, she hesitated to take her leave, but Chen Gong insisted on detaining her, so she sat a while longer. Suddenly a rooster crowed, and Lin Siniang said, "I can stay no longer. You always complained that I would not show my poor skill; now, on the eve of eternal separation, I should hastily compose a poem to leave as a memento." She then took up a brush, pondered a moment, and wrote it all in one breath. She said to Chen Gong, "My heart is sad and my thoughts disordered; I cannot polish it well, and there may be errors in rhyme—do not show it to outsiders." With these words, she covered her face with her sleeve and departed. Chen Gong saw her to the door, and Lin Siniang vanished silently. Chen Gong was lost in melancholy for a long time. Examining the poem, he found the characters well-formed and beautiful, so he treasured it. The poem read thus:
For seventeen years she was locked in stillness within the deep palace, who would ask the azure heavens about her lost homeland?
Leisurely gazing at the temple halls sealed by towering trees, weeping as I watch the sovereign transformed into a cuckoo.
Under the slanting rays of the setting sun, the waves of the sea kingdom roll and toss; while the flutes and drums of the Han dynasty grow still, and the beacons of war are quenched.
A beauty's delicate strength could not become a vengeful spirit; her pure heart, filled with sorrow, could only seek solace in Zen meditation.
Reciting Bodhi verses hundreds of times each day, idly perusing two or three palm-leaf sutra chapters.
Singing loudly in the pear garden, songs replace weeping; if you listen alone, you too will shed silent tears.
In the poem, there are some repetitions and disjointed passages, which are likely errors that occurred during transcription and copying.
Commentary
Lin Siniang, a palace maid of the Heng Prince's mansion, was a legendary woman during the late Ming and early Qing dynasties. Apart from Pu Songling's "Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio," her tales were recorded in works by contemporary or slightly later writers, such as Wang Yuyang's "Chibei Outan," Chen Weisong's "Collection of Women," Lin Yunming's "Record of Lin Siniang," and even Cao Xueqin's "Dream of the Red Chamber." In Cao Xueqin's depiction, Lin Siniang was a heroic woman of "peerless beauty and superior martial skill," who died for her country in battle against rebel bandits. Jia Baoyu's "Elegy for a Heroine," written for her, became widely known due to its inclusion in "Dream of the Red Chamber." However, their accounts of Lin Siniang's death varied: Wang Yuyang said she "died young and was buried in the palace," Chen Weisong claimed she "ascended to immortality midway," and Lin Yunming wrote that after her father was imprisoned, she and her cousin worked tirelessly to rescue him, sharing a room for half a year without impropriety, but her father's suspicions remained upon his release, so she hanged herself to prove her innocence, dying for chastity. Thus, Yu Yue remarked in "Miscellaneous Compilations from the Yu Tower": "The matter of Lin Siniang is indeed based on a real person... the story is quite strange... perhaps the accounts differ due to hearsay."
Lin Siniang from Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio bears the distinct temporal characteristics of the late Ming and early Qing dynasties. She is depicted in long-sleeved courtly robes, elegant in conversation, well-versed in musical scales, skilled in composing melodies, gentle and sentimental, melancholic and profound. Although the tale does not extensively engage with the national politics or social affairs of the time, nor does it openly express nostalgia for the fallen Ming dynasty, the rich imagery it contains profoundly reflects the thoughts and emotions of that specific historical era, evoking a lingering melancholy and stirring a deep, abiding longing for the lost homeland.