There was in Huaiyang a licentiate surnamed Ye, whose given name is lost. In essays and odes he was unrivalled in his day, yet his fortunes were unkind and he was stranded at the examination. When Ding Chenghe of the eastern passes came as magistrate of the county and saw his writings, he marvelled at them, summoned him, and was delighted in conversation with him. He gave him a lamp and fire in the office and from time to time sent money and grain to relieve his family. When the qualifying examination came round, Commissioner Ding praised him to the examiner and he took first place. Ding's hopes were high; after the examination he asked for the essay and read it, beating time with applause. But fate is a tyrant to men, and "literature is hated by fortune"; when the list was posted, he had failed again. Downcast, Ye went home, ashamed before his benefactor, wasted to skin and bone, staring like a wooden image. When Ding heard of it, he summoned and comforted him; Ye wept without end. Ding pitied him, and they agreed that when Ding's term was up and he went to the capital, he would take Ye north with him. Ye was deeply grateful. Taking leave, he went home and shut himself up. Before long he fell ill. Ding sent enquiries without cease, but a hundred packets of medicine availed nothing.
It chanced that Ding, having offended his superior, was dismissed and about to relinquish his post. He wrote to Ye, in substance: "I am to return east shortly; the reason I delay is that I wait for you. If you come in the morning, I depart in the evening." The letter was brought to Ye's sickbed. Ye, holding the letter and weeping, sent word back by the messenger: "My illness is severe and will not mend at once; pray set out first." The messenger returned and reported. Ding could not bear to go, and waited slowly.
A few days later the gatekeeper announced that Ye had come. Ding was overjoyed and, going out to meet him, asked how he was. Ye said, "By reason of my worthless illness I have kept you, master, waiting long, with ten thousand anxious thoughts. Now I am happily able to follow in your footsteps." So Ding packed his gear against the dawn. When they reached home, he bade his son study under Ye, and they were together day and night. The son, named Zai-chang, was then sixteen and could not yet write an essay; but he was extremely clever, and whatever piece he read two or three times he never forgot. After a year he could write essays at a stroke. Aided by his father's influence, he entered the county school. Ye transcribed all the examination essays he had composed in his life and set them for him to study; the seven topics of the examination, none missing, and the youth came in as the second of the list. One day Ding said to Ye, "With the surplus of your learning you have made a name for my boy. But what of the great bell that is cast away forever!" Ye said, "That is a matter of fate! By another's good fortune I have made my essays known, so that the world may know that half a life of failure was not due to my sword. That is enough. Besides, a scholar who has one appreciative friend may die without regret; why must one fling away the white linen gown before he is called lucky?" Ding, since Ye had been long from home, feared he might miss the year's examination and urged him to return. Ye was sombre and unwilling; Ding could not bear to force him, and bade his son buy for him a rank at the capital. The son then passed the metropolitan examination and was appointed a secretary of a board; he brought Ye with him to the capital and shared his days and nights. After a year Ye entered the northern examination and at last obtained his degree. When the son was sent to supervise the southern river works, he said to Ye, "This journey will take us not far from your old home. Sir, having soared to the clouds, it will be a joy to return in glory." Ye too was pleased. Choosing an auspicious day, they set out, and when they reached the borders of Huaiyang, the son sent horse and servants to carry Ye home.
Seeing the desolate gate, Ye was grieved at heart. Hovering, he went into the courtyard, where his wife came out with a winnowing-basket; seeing him, she flung down the basket and fled in terror. Ye said mournfully, "Now I am honored! We have not met for three or four years—how is it you do not know me at once?" His wife called from afar, "You died long ago—how can you speak of honor? The reason your coffin has lain so long unburied is that we are poor and the child young. Now our eldest son is grown, and we are about to choose a burial place. Do not play strange tricks to frighten the living." Hearing this, Ye was stricken and sad. He went hesitantly into the room and saw the coffin standing there; he fell to the ground and vanished. His wife, looking in terror, saw his cap, gown, and shoes lying like a cast-off slough. She burst into bitter weeping, clasping the clothes. Their son, returning from school, saw the carriage horses at the gate and, learning whence they came, ran in alarm to tell his mother. She, brushing away tears, told him all. They questioned the attendants closely and learned the whole story. When the attendants returned, the young gentleman, hearing it, wept till his tears fell on his breast. He ordered his carriage and went to wail at Ye's house; he took from his purse the cost of a funeral and buried Ye with the rites of a provincial graduate. He made rich gifts to Ye's son and engaged a tutor to teach him. He spoke to the examiner, and the next year the boy passed the district examination.
The Historian of the Strange says: "That a soul, following its appreciative friend, should forget death! Those who hear doubt it, but I firmly believe it. The faithful maid of one heart parted even from the soul on her pillow; the good friend a thousand li away still knows the road of dreams. How much more when the silk thread and fly-trace spit out a scholar's heart, and the flowing water and high mountain communicate with our very lives! Alas! Encounters are hard to foretell, and fortunes do not coincide. One's movements are lonely, and one gazes at his shadow with endless grief; one's proud bones are gaunt, and one scratches his head in self-love. One sighs at the sourness of his face, and comes to be mocked by ghosts. Long dwelling in failure, even the hairs of one's beard are contemptible; once fallen behind the successful list, every phrase of one's essays is a flaw. Of the great weepers of ancient and modern times, Bian He alone was of your kind; of those who overturn the transcendent herd, who is the Bole? One holds a card in one's bosom until its letters fade in three years; one looks about and finds no home in all the four seas. A man in this world has only to shut his eyes and walk on, and let the Creator raise or lower him as he will. Of those in the world who, erect and stately, have sunk to ruin like Ye, there are many; yet where is one like Ling Wei to come again, that we might follow him in life and death? Ah!"