Original Text
A servant of a certain Imperial Censor was idly standing in the marketplace one day when a man in splendid attire approached and struck up a conversation. After chatting for a while, the stranger inquired about the servant's master's name and official rank, and the servant told him everything. The man introduced himself, saying, "My surname is Wang, and I am a eunuch in the service of a certain princess." As they grew more familiar, Wang remarked, "The path of officialdom is fraught with peril; high-ranking ministers all attach themselves to the households of imperial relatives. May I ask which noble house your master relies upon?" The servant replied, "None." Wang said, "This is what is meant by sparing a trifling sum and courting a great calamity." The servant asked, "To whom might one entrust oneself?" Wang answered, "Our princess treats others with courtesy and is able to offer protection. A certain Vice Minister gained promotion through my introduction to her. If you are willing to part with a thousand gold pieces as a gift of introduction, it would not be difficult to secure an audience with the princess." The servant was delighted and asked where Wang resided. Wang pointed to a gate and said, "Have you lived in this lane all this time and still not know?" The servant returned home and reported this to the Censor, who was overjoyed. He prepared a lavish feast and sent the servant to invite Wang, who came with pleasure. During the banquet, Wang spoke in great detail of the princess's temperament and daily affairs, adding, "Were it not for the bond of being neighbors in the same lane, not even a hundred taels of silver would induce me to render this service." The Censor was even more grateful and impressed. As they parted, they made an agreement, and Wang said, "You need only prepare the gifts; I will find an opportunity to speak on your behalf, and I will send word to you soon."
After several days, Wang finally arrived, riding a tall and handsome horse, and said to the Censor, "Hasten to prepare your luggage and follow me. The Princess has a multitude of affairs; those seeking an audience come one after another, from dawn till dusk, without cease. Now there is a brief respite, so we must go quickly. If we delay this time, it will be unknown when we may see her again." The Censor, laden with a great quantity of gold and silver, followed Wang. They wound their way for over ten li before reaching the Princess's mansion, where they dismounted and waited. Wang entered first with the gifts, and after a long while, came out and shouted loudly, "The Princess summons the Censor of such-and-such surname." Then several voices relayed the call in succession. The Censor, bending low, entered with reverence, and saw a beautiful woman seated in the high hall, her countenance like that of a celestial maiden, her garments and ornaments dazzling to the eye. Attendants on both sides, all clad in embroidered silks, stood in orderly rows. The Censor knelt and performed the kowtow. The Princess issued a decree, bidding the Censor to sit beneath the eaves, and presented him with fragrant tea in a golden bowl. After speaking a few words of encouragement, the Censor respectfully withdrew. From within the hall, there were also bestowed satin boots and a sable cap as gifts from the Princess.
After the imperial censor returned home, he was extremely grateful to the man named Wang, so he took his visiting card to call on him, but the gate was shut and no one answered. The censor assumed that Wang had not yet returned from the princess's residence. He went three times over three days, but never saw him. He sent someone to inquire at the princess's residence, only to find the gate tightly locked. Asking the neighbors, they all said, "There has never been any princess here. A few days ago, some people rented this house and stayed for a while, but they left three days ago." The messenger returned and reported this, and the master and his servant could only hang their heads in dejection.
A certain vice-general, carrying a large sum of money, arrived in the capital, hoping to be promoted to a full general, but he was distressed by having no connections. One day, a man in a fur robe and riding a tall horse came to visit him, introducing himself, saying, "My brother-in-law is a personal bodyguard of the Emperor." After tea, he dismissed the vice-general's attendants and said to him, "At present, there is a vacancy for a general in a certain post. If you do not begrudge a heavy outlay, I can instruct my brother-in-law to speak on your behalf before the Emperor, and this post will be yours; even the most powerful cannot wrest it away." The vice-general suspected he was not speaking the truth, but the man said, "Do not waver in this matter. I only wish to extract a few small coins from my brother-in-law; I will take not a penny from you. Let us agree on a sum, draw up a written pledge as proof, and after you have been summoned by the Emperor, then deliver the money. If it fails, your money remains; who can snatch it from your bosom?" The vice-general was delighted and agreed. The next day, the man returned and brought the vice-general to meet his brother-in-law, who said his surname was Tian, and his household was as splendid as that of a prince or marquis. When the vice-general paid his respects, Tian was extremely arrogant and did not return the greeting. The man, holding the document, said to the vice-general, "Just now I discussed it with my brother-in-law; it cannot be done for less than ten thousand taels of silver. Please sign and seal the pledge." The vice-general complied. Tian said, "Men's hearts are unfathomable; I fear he may go back on his word afterwards." The man laughed and said, "Brother, your suspicions are too many. Since we can give him this office, can we not take it away? Moreover, among the ministers and generals at court, there are those who would gladly pay money to obtain this post but cannot get it. This general's future is bright; he should not, by rights, be so lacking in conscience." The vice-general also swore he would keep his word, and then returned. The man saw him out, saying, "I will give you news within three days."
After two days, as the sun was setting in the west, several men came shouting into the deputy general's lodging, saying, "The emperor is awaiting your audience!" The deputy general was greatly startled and hurriedly rushed to court, stumbling as he ran. He saw the emperor seated in the hall, surrounded by guards standing in rows. After the deputy general had performed his kowtow, the emperor ordered him to be seated and earnestly encouraged him. Turning to those around him, the emperor said, "I have heard that this general is exceptionally brave, and now that I see him, he truly has the bearing of a general!" Then he continued, "There is a strategically important place; I now entrust it to your defense. Do not disappoint my trust in you, and the day of your enfeoffment as a marquis will not be far off." The deputy general thanked the emperor and withdrew. The man in the fur robe who had ridden the tall horse the previous day immediately accompanied him back to the inn, and according to the document, gave him ten thousand taels of silver, then departed. The deputy general rested easy, awaiting the court's appointment, daily boasting of this to his relatives and friends. After a few days, upon inquiry, he learned that the general's post originally promised to him had already been filled by another. Enraged, the deputy general stormed to the Ministry of War to demand an explanation, saying, "I have received the emperor's appointment; why has this office been given to someone else?" The Minister of War was astonished. Hearing the deputy general recount the emperor's favor, it sounded like raving nonsense. The minister flew into a rage and immediately had the deputy general arrested and handed over to the Court of Judicial Review for interrogation. Only then did he confess the name of the man who had introduced him to the court, but no such person existed in the imperial administration. In the end, the deputy general spent another ten thousand taels of silver and was dismissed from his post and released. How strange! Though a military man may be foolish, could the imperial palace be counterfeit? Perhaps there was some sorcery at work here, as the saying goes, "A great thief needs no swords or bows."
Li Sheng of Jiaxiang County was skilled in playing the zither. One day, happening to go to the eastern outskirts of the county town, he saw laborers digging up earth and unearthed an ancient zither, which he purchased for a very low price. Wiping away the dust from the instrument, its body emitted a strange and brilliant luster; when he fitted strings and played it, the sound was exceptionally clear and fierce. Li Sheng was overjoyed, treasuring it as if he had found a precious gem. He placed the zither in a brocade bag and stored it in a secret chamber, not even allowing his closest relatives or friends to see it.
The county magistrate's assistant, Mr. Cheng, newly appointed to his post, came bearing a visiting card to call upon Scholar Li. Li, who seldom associated with others, returned the visit since Cheng had first sought him out. A few days later, Cheng invited Li to a banquet at his home, and only after repeated entreaties did Li consent to go. Cheng was a man of refined and elegant bearing, with a free and unrestrained manner of discourse, and Li took great delight in him. The following day, Li sent an invitation in return, and the two spent their time in lively conversation and joyful conviviality, their bond growing ever closer. From then on, on moonlit nights and among the blooming flowers of spring, they were never apart. After more than a year, Li chanced to see an embroidered pouch containing a zither placed upon a table in the magistrate's official residence, and he opened it to examine it. Cheng asked, "Are you also skilled in the art of the zither?" Li replied, "This is my greatest passion in life." Cheng exclaimed in surprise, "We have been friends for no short time—how is it that you have never let me hear your marvelous skill?" He then stirred up the incense burner, lit some aloeswood, and begged Li to play a tune. Li solemnly complied with Cheng's request. Cheng said, "Truly a master! I too would offer my humble skill, but pray do not mock me as a lesser practitioner before a greater one." He then played the piece "The Wind-Riding Melody," whose notes were clear and soaring, bearing a transcendent, otherworldly elegance. Li admired Cheng all the more and earnestly begged to become his pupil.
From then on, the two became close friends through their shared love of the zither, and their bond deepened with each passing day. After more than a year, Cheng had imparted all his zither skills to Li. Yet whenever Cheng visited Li's home, Li would bring out an ordinary zither for him to play, never revealing the ancient instrument he had hidden away. One night, after they had both drunk a little too much wine, Cheng said, "I have recently learned a new melody. Would you care to hear it?" He then played "The Lament of the Xiang Consorts," a tune so mournful and profound that it seemed to weep and wail. Li praised it lavishly. Cheng sighed, "It is a pity there is no fine zither; with a good instrument, the tones would be even more exquisite." Li, delighted, replied, "I have a zither in my collection that is unlike any ordinary one. Today, having met a true connoisseur, how dare I keep it hidden forever?" So he opened a chest and brought out a zither wrapped in a cloth. Cheng brushed the dust from it with his sleeve, placed it on the table, and played "The Lament of the Xiang Consorts" once more. The notes were now perfectly balanced between strength and gentleness, so exquisite and divine that Li could not stop tapping the rhythm. Cheng said, "My humble skill is unworthy of this fine zither. If my wife were to play it, perhaps one or two notes might be worth hearing." Li exclaimed in surprise, "Does your lady also excel at the zither?" Cheng smiled and replied, "The melody I just played was taught to me by her." Li said, "What a pity that your lady is confined to her inner chambers, and I, a humble scholar, cannot hear her play." Cheng said, "Between such close friends as we are, there is no need to be bound by such formalities. Tomorrow, please bring the zither to my home, and she will play for you from behind a screen." Li was overjoyed at this.
The next day, Li Sheng carried his zither to the Cheng residence, where the family had already prepared wine and dishes for a joyous feast. After a short while, Cheng brought the zither inside and promptly returned to his seat. Then, faintly visible behind the bamboo curtain, a woman in resplendent attire appeared, and soon a delicate fragrance wafted out from beyond the screen. Moments later, the soft strains of the zither arose, and Li Sheng, unable to identify the melody, felt his heart stirred and his very bones enchanted, as if his soul were set adrift. When the music ceased, Li stole a glance through the curtain and beheld a peerless beauty of some twenty years. Cheng pressed large cups of wine upon Li Sheng, and the lady behind the curtain changed her tune to play "The Rhapsody of Idle Sentiments," leaving Li even more entranced in both form and spirit. Overcome by excessive drink, he grew deeply intoxicated, rose to take his leave, and asked Cheng for the return of his zither. Cheng said, "You are too drunk; I fear you might stumble and damage it. Come again tomorrow, and let my wife display all her exquisite skills." Thus Li Sheng departed.
The next day, Li went again to the Cheng residence, but the mansion was silent and empty, with only an old servant guarding the gate. When asked, the servant said, 'They left with their household at the fifth watch, and I know not why, only that they said the journey would take about three days.' Three days later, Li returned, but by dusk there was still no word. The petty officials and clerks in the yamen grew suspicious and reported the matter to the magistrate, who ordered the locks broken and the doors opened. Inside, the rooms were utterly bare, with only tables, chairs, and beds remaining. The matter was reported to higher authorities, but no one could fathom it. Li lost his appetite and sleep over the loss of his ancient zither, and traveled thousands of li to Cheng's hometown to seek him out. Cheng was a man of Hubei, who three years earlier had purchased an official post and become the assistant magistrate of Jiaxiang County. Li searched for him by name in his hometown, but there was no such person in Hubei. Some said, 'There was a Daoist named Cheng, skilled in zither playing, and it was also rumored he knew the art of alchemy. Three years ago, he suddenly vanished and was never seen again.' Li suspected this was the same man. Upon careful inquiry into the Daoist's age and appearance, they matched Cheng's exactly. Only then did Li realize that the Daoist had bought the official post solely for the sake of that ancient zither. For over a year, they had been friends without ever discussing music; gradually, he produced his own zither, then displayed his skill, and finally lured Li with a beautiful woman. After three years of effort, he obtained the zither and departed. The Daoist's obsession with the ancient zither was even greater than Li's. The world's deceptions are manifold, but a trickster like this Daoist is still a man of refined taste among swindlers.
Commentary
This chapter consists of three tales. The first two recount stories from the officialdom, base and vulgar, where the deceived officials, driven by their eagerness to curry favor and climb the social ladder, fell into traps. One was duped by a counterfeit princess, the other by a false emperor; though simple and absurd, their minds were so fixated on glory and wealth that their victimization was entirely self-inflicted. The final tale involves a deception over a zither, yet it belongs to the refined affairs of literati, impossible for an uninitiated person to pull off. The story is also written with elegance and charm, fully capturing both sentiment and reason.
In the ancient Chinese tales of cunning schemes, the first type is endlessly recorded in the annals of officialdom and commerce, with numerous examples persisting to this day; their circulation aims mostly to expose the ugliness of society. The second type, though rare, includes stories such as Xiao Yi tricking the Orchid Pavilion or a false scholar deceiving Zheng Banqiao out of his calligraphy and paintings, which are widely relished by the world—not for exposure, but for appreciating the ingenuity and amusement of the schemes themselves.