Prevod

Lu Chong was a native of Fanyang. Thirty li west of his home stood the tomb of Assistant Magistrate Cui. When Chong was twenty, on the day before the winter solstice, he went hunting west of his house. He saw a river deer, raised his bow, and shot it. The deer fell, then rose again. Chong chased after it, going farther than he realized, until suddenly, about a li north of the road, he saw a lofty gate and tiled buildings, enclosed on all sides like an official residence. The deer had vanished. An attendant inside the gate announced the visitor and bade him come forward. “Whose residence is this?” Chong asked. “The Assistant Magistrate’s,” came the reply. “My clothes are shabby,” said Chong. “How can I present myself to him?” At once a man appeared carrying a bundle of new clothes. “His Lordship sends these for you, young master,” he said. Chong put them on and went in to meet the Assistant Magistrate, giving his name in greeting. After several rounds of wine and roast meat, Cui said to him, “Your honored father has not disdained my humble household. I recently received a letter from him asking for my young daughter’s hand on your behalf. That is why I have had you brought here.” He showed Chong the letter. Though Chong had been young when his father died, he already knew his father’s handwriting. He began to sob and offered no further objection. Cui then sent word to the inner quarters: “Young Master Lu has arrived. Have the young lady dress for the wedding.” He told Chong, “You may go to the eastern gallery.” At dusk, word came from within: “The young lady has finished dressing.” By the time Chong reached the eastern gallery, she had stepped down from her carriage and was standing at the head of the mat. They then bowed together. Chong remained there for three days, with meals provided throughout. At the end of the three days, Cui said, “You may go home now. My daughter shows signs of pregnancy. If she bears a son, I shall send him back to you; have no doubts on that score. If she bears a daughter, I shall keep her here and raise her.” He ordered the servants outside to prepare a carriage to see the guest home. Chong took his leave. Cui accompanied him as far as the middle gate, clasping his hand and shedding tears. Outside, Chong saw a calf-drawn carriage with a driver in blue, and beside the gate lay the clothes he had worn before, together with his bow and arrows. Soon a messenger brought a man carrying another bundle of clothes and conveyed this message: “Our bond as kinsmen has only just begun, and already we must part, to my great sorrow. I send you another suit of clothes, with bedding to match.” Chong climbed into the carriage. It sped away like lightning and brought him home in a moment. His family greeted him with mingled grief and joy and pressed him with questions. When he learned that Cui was dead and that he had entered the man’s tomb, he was filled with dismay and regret. Four years after their parting, on the third day of the third month, Chong was taking his ease beside the water when he suddenly saw two calf-drawn carriages, now sinking, now floating. Presently they approached the shore, and everyone seated with him could see them. Chong went over and opened the rear door of one carriage. Inside were Cui’s daughter and a boy of three. Delighted, Chong reached for her hand, but she raised hers and pointed toward the carriage behind. “His Lordship is here to see you,” she said. Chong then saw the Assistant Magistrate and went over to pay his respects. The young woman placed the child in Chong’s arms. She also gave him a gold bowl and a poem: “Radiant as the sacred fungus, / How lovely was my shining form! / My beauty blossomed in its season, / Its rare splendor a sign of the divine. / Yet before the bud could fully flower, / Frost struck it down in summer’s height. / My glory sank forever into darkness; / No path remained for me among the living. / Who could have foreseen the turning of yin and yang, / Or that a worthy man would come to me? / Our meeting brief, our parting swift— / Such was the decree of spirits and gods. / What can I give the one I hold dear? / This golden bowl may help you rear our son. / Here our love must come to an end; / Grief rends my heart and tears my very soul.” Chong took the child, the bowl, and the poem. Suddenly both carriages vanished. When he brought the boy back to his companions, they all thought him a ghost or demon and spat at him from a distance. His form remained unchanged. They asked him, “Who is your father?” The boy went straight into Chong’s arms. At first everyone had regarded him with horror and aversion, but after passing the poem around and reading it, they sighed deeply at the mysterious passage between life and death. Later, Chong rode into the market to sell the bowl. He set the price high, not wishing to sell it quickly, in the hope that someone would recognize it. Before long an old maidservant did recognize it and went home to tell her mistress, “In the market I saw a man sitting in a carriage, selling the bowl that was buried in young Lady Cui’s coffin.” Her mistress was the young woman’s own maternal aunt. She sent her son to look, and he found everything just as the maid had described. He climbed into Chong’s carriage, introduced himself, and said, “My aunt married the Assistant Magistrate and bore him a daughter, who died before she could marry. Our family grieved for her and placed a gold bowl in her coffin. Can you tell me how you came by it?” Chong told him what had happened, and the young man too choked with grief. He took the bowl home and reported to his mother, who at once sent him to Chong’s house to bring the child for her to see. All the relatives gathered. The boy had the features of the Cui family, yet also resembled Chong. Both the child and the bowl bore out his account. The aunt said, “My great-nephew was born toward the end of the third month. His father spoke of spring and its gentle warmth, and wished that he might flourish and grow strong.” So the boy was given the courtesy name Wenxiu, “Warmth and Blessing.” Wenxiu had indeed been born of a marriage with the dead, and the signs of his future distinction had appeared early. He grew into a man of outstanding ability and served successively as commandery governor, holding offices of two thousand bushels. His descendants followed one another in high office. In the present day, his descendant Zhi, whose courtesy name is Zigan, is renowned throughout the realm.