Original Text
There was a scholar named Dong, a native of Xuzhou, who was fond of swordsmanship and often thought himself quite remarkable. Once, while traveling, he happened upon a stranger riding a donkey alongside him. Engaging in conversation, Dong found the man's speech bold and spirited. Asking his name, the stranger replied, "I am from Liaoyang, and my surname is Tong." When asked where he was headed, Tong answered, "I have been away from home for twenty years and have just returned from overseas." Dong said, "You have roamed the four seas and must have met many people—have you ever encountered any extraordinary individuals?" Tong asked, "What do you mean by extraordinary?" Dong then confessed his love for swordsmanship and lamented that he had never found a master to teach him. Tong said, "Extraordinary people are everywhere, but one must be a loyal minister and a filial son before such arts can be imparted." Dong immediately declared himself to be both loyal and filial, drew his sword, strummed it while singing, and cut down a roadside sapling to show off its sharpness. Tong stroked his beard and smiled, then asked to see the sword. Dong handed it over. Tong examined it briefly and said, "This is made of armor iron, tainted by sweat and grime—a very inferior piece. Though I know little of swordsmanship, I do have a sword that serves well." From beneath his robe, he drew a short blade about a foot long and used it to cut Dong's sword, which yielded like a melon or gourd, slicing smoothly as if paring a horse's hoof. Startled, Dong begged to examine the blade, handling it for a long time before returning it. He invited Tong to his home and pressed him to stay for two nights. When Dong sought instruction in swordsmanship, Tong claimed ignorance. Dong then launched into a lengthy discourse, leaning on his knee and speaking with great fervor, while Tong merely listened respectfully.
The night had grown deep when suddenly he heard a clamor of voices in the neighboring courtyard, which was where Scholar Dong's father resided, filling Dong with shock and suspicion. Pressing close to the wall to listen, he heard an angry voice shout: "Call your son out at once to receive punishment, and we will spare you!" Shortly after, it seemed that beatings were added, with groans continuously sounding, and from the voice it truly was his father. Dong seized a weapon to go over, but the guest Tong stopped him, saying: "If you go like this, you will likely not survive; you should think of a perfect plan." Dong anxiously asked for advice, and Tong said: "The bandits have named you specifically to come out; they will not be satisfied until they have captured you. You have no other close kin; you should go to your wife and entrust her with your final affairs, while I will open the gate and guard against them on your behalf." Dong agreed and went in to tell his wife, who clutched his robe and wept. Dong's courage instantly vanished, and the two of them went upstairs to search for bows and arrows to defend against the bandits' attack. In their fluster they could not find them, when they heard Tong laughing from the eaves of the building, saying: "Fortunately, the bandits have gone." When they lit a lamp to look, Tong was already gone. Dong hesitantly came out and saw his father returning from a feast at a neighbor's house, carrying a lantern, with only some thatch and ashes in the courtyard. Only then did he realize that Tong was no ordinary man.
The Chronicler of the Strange remarks: Loyalty and filial piety are the very blood and spirit of humanity. Since ancient times, those ministers who could not die for their sovereign, did they not initially have moments when they grasped their blades and advanced with fervent resolve? In truth, it was all due to a single errant thought that led them astray! In the past, during the Ming dynasty, Xie Jin and Fang Xiaoru swore to die for their ruler, yet Xie Jin later broke his vow—how can we know that after their oath, when he returned home, he was not swayed by the weeping of his wife? In our county, there was a certain constable who often failed to return home for several days, and his wife thus committed adultery with a local rogue. One day, when he came back, he happened to see a young man emerging from her room, and growing deeply suspicious, he pressed his wife harshly for the truth. She refused to confess. Then, finding a keepsake left by the youth at the bedside, she was left speechless and could only kneel and beg for mercy. The constable, enraged, threw a rope at her and forced her to hang herself. She begged to be allowed to dress and adorn herself before dying, and he agreed. She then entered the chamber to groom herself, while he sat drinking and waiting, scolding and urging her on. Soon, she emerged in fine attire, and with tears streaming, bowed and said, "Do you truly have the heart to make me die?" He snorted in fury. She turned back into the room and was about to tie the noose when he hurled his cup and cried out, "Ha! Stop! A green headscarf after all cannot crush a man to death." And so they resumed their life as husband and wife as before. This is akin to the case of the great scholar Xie Jin—a jest indeed.
Original Text
In the county there was a constable who often did not return home for several days, and his wife committed adultery with a local rogue. One day, the constable came home and happened to see the young man slipping out of the room; he grew deeply suspicious and pressed his wife with harsh questions, but she denied everything. Later, he found an item the young man had left behind at the bedside, and his wife, overcome with shame and unable to speak, knelt long and begged for his forgiveness. The constable, in a fury, threw her a rope and forced her to hang herself. His wife begged to be allowed to dress and adorn herself before dying, and he agreed. She then went into the room to arrange her hair, while the constable sat outside drinking wine and waiting, cursing her incessantly. After a while, the wife emerged in fine clothes, and with tears in her eyes, bowed to him and said, "Can you truly bear to see me die?" The constable, with an imposing air, berated her and ordered her to go to her death. She returned to the room and was just about to knot the rope when the constable threw down his cup and shouted, "Ah, come back! A green hat may not crush a man to death." Thus, the husband and wife made peace as before. This is a figure of the same sort as Xie Jin, and one cannot help but laugh.
Commentary
The story illustrates the vast distance between ideals and practice; establishing correct concepts is not difficult, but practicing them is. The generous and self-assured scholar Dong, had he not undergone the test of Tong Ke, would have continued to consider himself a qualified loyal minister and filial son, yet before the harsh reality, his pettiness and mediocrity were exposed. The author thus concludes: "Loyalty and filial piety are the very blood and nature of man. From ancient times, those ministers and sons who could not die for their sovereign or father—was it not that at first they had no moment of raising their weapons and charging forth boldly? In the end, it was all a single turn of thought that led them astray!" This tale was likely inspired by the loss of moral integrity among many scholar-officials during the dynastic transition at the end of the Ming dynasty.
Emphasizing the importance of a single turn of thought was a consistent view of Pu Songling. In his preface to "Wang Rushui's Collection of Heartfelt Inquiries," he said: "Thus Master Zhu regarded sincerity as the threshold between man and ghost, for in that place known only to oneself and unknown to others, the moment this heart stirs, virtue makes one a man, while lack of virtue makes one a ghost. The distinction between being a man or a ghost is as narrow as a hair's breadth—should this not chill one to the bone?"