Original Text
In the Lower Qing Palace of Mount Lao, there stood a camellia tree over two zhang tall and several arm spans in girth, and a peony tree more than one zhang high; when they bloomed, their flowers dazzled like brocade. A scholar named Huang from Jiaozhou lodged in the palace to study. One day, through his window, he glimpsed a maiden in white robes flickering among the blossoms. Wondering how such a woman could appear in a Taoist temple, he hurried out, but she had already vanished. Thereafter, he often saw her, so he hid among the bushes to await her. Soon, she came again with a girl in red, and from afar they seemed two peerless beauties. As they drew near, the red-clad one suddenly stepped back, saying, "There is a stranger here!" Huang sprang up, and the two fled in panic, their skirts wafting a bewitching fragrance. He chased them over a low wall but found no trace. Deeply smitten, he inscribed a poem beneath the tree.
Boundless the bitter pangs of longing, as I pour out my feelings before the short window.
Fearing to return to the clutches of Sha Zhali, where could one seek the peerless Wu Shuang?
After finishing his writing, he returned to his study, lost in deep thought, when suddenly the woman in white entered. Huang Sheng joyfully stepped forward to greet her. The woman in white smiled and said, "Just now you were as fierce as a bandit, truly terrifying. Yet I did not know you were a refined scholar, so there is no harm in meeting you." Huang Sheng inquired about her background, and she replied, "My childhood name is Xiangyu, and I was originally a courtesan. Later, a Taoist priest imprisoned me in the mountains, but it was not of my own will." Huang Sheng asked, "What is the name of that Taoist priest? I will avenge this shame for you." Xiangyu said, "There is no need; he does not dare to force me. Through this chance, I can have a long-term secret rendezvous with a romantic gentleman like you, which is a good thing." Huang Sheng asked, "Who is the one in red?" Xiangyu replied, "Her name is Jiangxue, my sworn elder sister." With that, the two grew intimate. When they awoke, the eastern sky was already glowing with dawn. Xiangyu rose hastily and said, "I was too indulgent in pleasure and forgot the day has broken." As she dressed and put on her shoes, she said, "I offer you a poem in return; do not mock it: 'The lovely night too quickly ends, the morning sun now on the window gleams. I wish to be like swallows on the beam, dwelling together in paired streams.'" Huang Sheng grasped her wrist and said, "Your outward beauty and inner virtue make you utterly lovable. But a single day apart feels like a thousand miles. Come whenever you have leisure, and do not wait until nightfall." Xiangyu agreed. From then on, Huang Sheng and Xiangyu were together morning and night. Huang Sheng often asked Xiangyu to invite Jiangxue to join them, but she never came, which grieved him. Xiangyu said, "Sister Jiangxue's nature is especially aloof and unsociable, unlike my own infatuation. I will gradually persuade her; you need not be too anxious."
One day, Xiangyu entered with a mournful expression, saying, "You cannot even keep me, and yet you still hope for Jiangxue? I have come today to bid you farewell." Huang Sheng asked, "Where are you going?" Xiangyu wiped her tears with her sleeve and said, "This is fated, and it is difficult to explain to you clearly. The poem I composed earlier has now come true. 'The beauty has already fallen to Shazhali, and there is no ancient knight-errant to rescue her'—this can be considered written for me." Huang Sheng pressed her for an explanation, but Xiangyu would not speak, only sobbing without end. They did not sleep the entire night, and at dawn she departed. Huang Sheng found this very strange. The next day, a man surnamed Lan from Jimo County came to visit the Xiaqing Temple. Seeing the white peony, he was deeply enamored and dug it up, carrying it away without hesitation. Only then did Huang Sheng realize that Xiangyu was a flower spirit, and he was filled with grief and regret. A few days later, he heard that after Lan had moved the flower home, it withered and languished day by day. Huang Sheng was consumed with hatred, wrote fifty poems mourning the flower, and wept daily before the empty pit.
One day, after Huang Sheng had just returned from paying his respects, he saw Jiangxue wiping tears by the tree pit. He approached slowly, and Jiangxue did not avoid him. Huang then stepped forward and took her sleeve, and the two wept facing each other. After a moment, Huang took Jiangxue's hand and invited her to his chamber, and she followed. Jiangxue sighed and said, "A sister raised together from childhood, suddenly cut off without a word! Hearing of your deep grief only adds to my sorrow. Our tears may reach the Nine Springs, and perhaps she will be moved by our sincerity and revive. But the spirit of the dead has already scattered; how could she suddenly join us in laughter and talk?" Huang said, "It is my ill fate that has harmed my beloved; naturally, I am not blessed enough to enjoy two beauties. In the past, I often asked Xiangyu to convey my heartfelt intentions to you—why did you never come again?" Jiangxue replied, "I always thought that young scholars, nine out of ten, were frivolous and faithless, but I did not know you could be so devoted. Yet my bond with you is one of pure sentiment, not of carnal desire. If you seek intimate dalliance day and night, that is something I cannot grant." With that, she bid him farewell. Huang said, "Xiangyu is gone, leaving me unable to eat or sleep. I only hope you will stay a while longer to soothe my longing heart—why must you be so heartless?" Jiangxue then stayed for the night and left the next morning. For several days afterward, she did not return. On a cold, rainy night, Huang gazed at the dark window, pining bitterly for Xiangyu, tossing and turning on his bed, his tears soaking the pillow and mat. He threw on his clothes, rose, lit the lamp, and composed another poem following the rhyme of the previous one:
In the mountain courtyard, under the dusk rain, I sat by the small window with the curtain drawn.
The longing one cannot be seen, in the midnight hours tears fall in pairs.
After finishing the writing, he recited it aloud to himself. Suddenly, he heard someone outside the window say, "A poem must not go without a response." Huang Sheng recognized it as Jiangxue and opened the door to let her in. After reading his poem, she added a continuation to it.
Where is the companion who walked arm in arm with me? A solitary lamp shines upon the evening window.
A solitary man in the empty mountains, facing his shadow, makes a pair of two.
After reading the letter, Scholar Huang wept, then lamented how rarely they could meet. Jiangxue said, "I cannot be as passionate as Xiangyu, but I can somewhat soothe the loneliness in your heart." Huang wished to be intimate with her, but Jiangxue said, "Why must the joy of our meeting be found in that?" From then on, whenever Huang felt bored, Jiangxue would come. When she came, they would drink wine and compose poetry together, and sometimes she would leave without sleeping, and Huang would let her do as she pleased. He said to her, "Xiangyu is my beloved wife, and Jiangxue is my dear friend." Huang often asked her, "Which tree in the courtyard are you? Please tell me early, for I intend to transplant you to my home, lest you be taken away by some villain like Xiangyu, leaving me with lifelong regret." Jiangxue replied, "I find it hard to leave my native soil, and telling you would be useless. Even a wife cannot be with you for life, let alone a friend!" Huang would not listen to her words; he took her by the arm and went out, and beneath every peony tree he asked, "Is this you?" Jiangxue said nothing, only covered her mouth and laughed at him.
Soon, the time reached the twelfth month, and Scholar Huang returned home for the New Year. By the second month, he suddenly dreamed that Jiangxue came, looking dejected, and said, "I am in great danger! You must hurry back; if you come quickly, you may still see me, but if you delay, it will be too late." Huang woke up greatly alarmed, hastily ordered his servant to saddle the horse, and traveled through the night to the mountains. It turned out that a Taoist priest was planning to build a house, and there was a winter-blooming camellia tree that obstructed the construction; the workmen were just about to cut it down with axes. Huang urgently stopped them. That evening, Jiangxue came to thank him. Huang smiled and said, "In the past, you did not tell me the truth; no wonder you met with such misfortune! Now that I know you, if you do not come in the future, I will burn you with moxa." Jiangxue said, "I knew long ago that you would do this, which is why I dared not tell you before." After sitting for a while, Huang said, "Now, facing you, my good friend, I miss my beloved wife even more. It has been a long time since I wept for Xiangyu; can you weep with me?" The two then went together to Xiangyu's grave, shedding tears and offering sacrifices. They wept until midnight, when Jiangxue stopped her tears and urged Huang not to grieve any further. After another few nights, Huang was sitting alone in loneliness when Jiangxue entered with a smile and said, "I bring you good news: the Flower God, moved by your pure affection, has allowed Xiangyu to be reborn in the palace." Huang asked, "When?" Jiangxue replied, "I do not know, but I estimate it will not be long." At dawn, Jiangxue rose from the bed, and Huang instructed her, "I came here for your sake; do not leave me lonely for too long." Jiangxue agreed with a smile, but again two nights passed without her coming. Huang then went to embrace the camellia tree, shaking and stroking it, calling out repeatedly, but there was no response. He returned to his room, prepared a moxa rope by the lamp, and was about to burn the tree. Jiangxue suddenly rushed in, snatched the moxa rope away, and threw it aside, saying, "You play such a cruel trick, leaving me scarred; I will truly break off relations with you!" Huang smiled and embraced her. Before the two had settled, Xiangyu entered with light steps. As soon as Huang saw her, he could not stop his tears from streaming down, and he quickly rose to take her hand. Xiangyu took Jiangxue's other hand, and they wept together in sorrow, unable to speak. After they sat down, Huang felt that the hand he held of Xiangyu was insubstantial, as if he were holding his own hand, and he asked in astonishment what was the matter. Xiangyu said through tears, "In the past, I was a flower spirit, so I was solid; now I am merely the ghost of a flower, so I am dispersed. Though we meet today, do not take it seriously; regard it only as a meeting in a dream." Jiangxue said, "It is wonderful that my sister has come! I have been tormented to death by your husband." With that, she left.
Xiangyu remained as cheerful and talkative as before, but when the two embraced, Huang felt as if he were leaning against a shadow. Thus he grew despondent, and Xiangyu also deeply resented her own condition, so she said, "If you take powdered Bai Lian grass, mix in a little sulfur, and water me with a cup of this mixture every day, by this time next year I will repay your kindness." With that, she bid farewell and departed. The next day, Huang went to look at the original flower pit and saw that the white peony had sprouted anew. He then tended it daily, building a fence to protect it. When Xiangyu came, she was exceedingly grateful to Huang. Huang intended to transplant her to his own home, but Xiangyu said it would not do, explaining, "My constitution is too weak to endure further harm. Moreover, all things have their proper place for growth; my coming here was never meant to be born in your home, and going against this would shorten my life. As long as you cherish me, our union will come in time." Huang complained that Jiangxue did not visit often. Xiangyu said, "If you must compel her to come, I have a way." She then took a lamp with Huang to the cold-resistant tree, plucked a blade of grass, and used her palm as a measure to gauge the tree's height. From the bottom up, at four feet six inches, she pressed her hand and told Huang to scratch with both hands simultaneously. Soon, Jiangxue emerged from behind the tree, laughing and scolding, "Wicked girl, aiding the tyrant in his evil deeds!" They then linked arms and entered the house. Xiangyu said, "Sister, do not be angry! Please trouble yourself to keep this gentleman company for a while; after a year, I will no longer disturb you." From then on, this became their regular practice.
Scholar Huang observed that the white peony bud grew daily more robust and luxuriant, and by the end of spring it had already reached over two feet in height. After returning home, Huang left silver with the Taoist priest, instructing him to tend the flower carefully morning and night. In April of the following year, Huang came again to the Lower Qing Temple and found that a single flower had grown, still in bud, about to bloom. As he lingered before it, unable to tear himself away, he saw the bud sway as if about to open, and in no time at all it had fully blossomed, the flower as large as a plate, with a tiny beauty seated within the pistil, no more than three or four fingers tall. In the blink of an eye, she floated down gracefully, and behold, it was indeed Xiangyu. She smiled and said, "I have endured wind and rain here waiting for you—why have you come so late?" With that, she entered the room. Jiangxue also arrived and said with a laugh, "Day after day I played the part of another's wife, but today at last I can withdraw and be a friend." Then the three of them chatted and feasted merrily. At midnight, Jiangxue departed. Huang and Xiangyu slept together, their love as sweet as before.
Later, Scholar Huang's wife passed away, and he retreated into the mountains, never to return. By then, the white peony had grown as thick as an arm. Huang often pointed to the peony and said, "After I die, I wish to be buried here, to rest beside you." The two maidens laughed and replied, "Do not forget the words you have spoken." Over a decade later, Huang suddenly fell ill. His son rushed to his side, weeping sorrowfully. Huang smiled and said, "This is the day of my rebirth, not my death—why should there be any grief?" He then said to the Taoist, "In the days to come, if a red sprout bursts forth beneath the peony, with five leaves unfurling at once, that shall be me." With these words, he fell silent. His son carried him home in a cart, and Huang passed away. The following year, a robust sprout indeed emerged beneath the peony, exactly as Huang had foretold, bearing five leaves. The Taoist, marveling at this wonder, tended it with even greater care. After three years, the plant grew several feet tall and as thick as two hands could encircle, yet it never bloomed. When the old Taoist died, his disciple, lacking reverence, cut it down. The white peony then withered and died, and soon after, the winter jasmine tree also perished.
The Chronicler of the Strange remarks: When feelings reach their utmost, even ghosts and spirits can be moved. After the flower withered, it transformed into a ghost to keep company, and after the man died, his soul entrusted itself beside the flower—was this not because of the profound bond they had formed? Once Scholar Huang died, Xiangyu and Jiangxue also perished for love; even if one does not call it steadfastness, it was dying for love. If a person cannot remain chaste, it is only because their feelings are not deep enough. When Confucius finished reading the poem of the Tangdi Flower, he said, "If there is no longing, what distance is there?" Truly, this is so!
Commentary
"Xiangyu" and "Gezhi" from Volume Ten can be considered companion pieces, both depicting romances between humans and peony flower spirits, sharing similar words in the concluding "Historian of the Strange's Commentary": "Gezhi" states, "If one's devotion is single-minded, even ghosts and spirits can be reached," while "Xiangyu" says, "When one's emotions reach their utmost, even ghosts and spirits can be reached." In "Gezhi," Chang Dayong fails to maintain single-minded devotion, leading to a tragic separation; whereas in "Xiangyu," the Jiao Prefecture scholar Huang, along with the peony and holly, achieves the state where "emotions reach their utmost, and ghosts and spirits can be reached," thus "the flower follows as a ghost, and the man entrusts his soul." Man, peony, and holly dwell together eternally, unwavering through life and death. Pu Songling praises this, saying, "Is it not because their bond is deeply rooted in emotion? One departs, and two follow in sacrifice—even if not steadfast, they die for love." This can be seen as a continuation of Tang Xianzu's "Peony Pavilion" tradition of "emotion alone" in classical Chinese fiction. In the summer of 1672, Pu Songling, along with Tang Menglai, Gao Heng, and seven others, visited Mount Lao, seeking marvels and recording oddities, writing many intriguing tales about the mountain, such as "The Taoist of Mount Lao" in Volume One, "Gnawing Stone" in Volume Two, "Young Master Hai" in Volume Three, "Lotus Flower Prince," "Marquis Yangwu," and "Young Master Liu" in Volume Five, and "Ancestor Luo" in Volume Seven. "Xiangyu" is among them. Regarding the legend of a white peony in a Mount Lao temple that manifested marvelously, lived, and then died, Gao Hongtu of the late Ming Dynasty recorded in his "Nine Travels to Mount Lao": "The temple had a white peony, its trunk near the altar, its bark wrinkled as if not of recent times. The Taoist priest embellished the tale, saying that a hundred years ago, a strong man uprooted it and carried it away. After some years, the strong man suddenly died. A man in white robes knocked at the temple gate, saying, 'I have come, I have come.' This was a dream talk. At dawn, they looked at the peony's old pit, and indeed, it had returned to its roots and sprouted stems. The strong man's courtyard, where he had once uprooted and carried it, withered that very year." This can be considered the basic framework of "Xiangyu." Compared to the legend, "Xiangyu" is like turning stone into gold, not only weaving a simple tale into a romantic and sorrowful story but also embodying Pu Songling's praise for genuine emotion.