Chen Baoyao, intendant of Qingzhou, was a man of Fujian. Sitting alone one night, he saw a woman raise the curtain and come in. He did not know her, but she was of surpassing beauty, in long sleeves and palace dress. She smiled. "To sit alone on a clear night," she said, "is it not lonely?" Alarmed, he asked who she was. "My home is not far," she said; "it is near, in the western neighborhood." Chen thought she was a ghost, but his heart was drawn to her. He caught her by the sleeve and drew her to a seat, and she spoke with grace and elegance, to his great delight. When he embraced her she did not resist much, but asked, "Is there no one else?" Chen shut the door hastily. "There is no one," he said, and urged her to undress; she was very shy, and he was assiduous in his attentions. "I am twenty years old," she said, "and still a virgin; you will treat me too roughly." When their dalliance was done, the bed was wet with her virgin blood. Then, whispering at his side, she said her name was Lin Siniang. When Chen pressed her for her story, she said, "A whole life of chastity you have already wantonly destroyed. If you truly love me, only seek to be with me forever—why all this questioning?" Before long the cock crowed, and she rose and went away.
From then on she came every night without fail, and would drink with him behind closed doors. When they spoke of music she could always analyze the notes of the scale, and Chen concluded she was skilled in composing songs. "It is what I learned in my girlhood," she said. Chen begged her to sing him a fine air. "It is long since I touched music," she said; "I have half forgotten the measure, and fear a connoisseur would laugh." But when he pressed her again, she bowed her head, beating time, and sang the airs of Yi and Liang; her voice was sad and tender. When she had done she wept, and Chen too was moved to sorrow, and, taking her in his arms, comforted her. "Do not sing songs of a fallen kingdom," he said, "that make one heavy-hearted." "The voice is to express the heart," she said; "one who is sad cannot be made glad, just as one who is glad cannot be made sad." The two were more devoted than lute and zither. As time went on, the family eavesdropped on them, and none who heard her sing could keep from tears.
When his wife caught a glimpse of her beauty, she was sure there was no such loveliness on earth, and that she must be either ghost or fox; fearing some evil enchantment, she urged her husband to break with her. Chen would not listen, but pressed her the harder for the truth. The woman said, sadly, "I was a palace lady of the Heng household, and died in the troubles seventeen years ago. Because of your noble character I gave myself to you in love; but truly I mean you no harm. If you doubt and fear me, I will take my leave now." "I am not troubled by that," said Chen, "but since we are so intimate, I ought to know the truth." So he asked about the palace, and she told it all, vividly and delightfully. But when she came to the decline and fall of the house, she choked and could not speak. She slept little, and every night would rise and recite the Sutra of Zhunti and the Diamond Sutra. Chen asked, "Can one in the underworld repent by oneself?" "It is all one," she said. "I grieve that I am doomed to sink forever, and would win rebirth." She also would discuss poetry with Chen, picking out faults, and when she came to a fine line she would chant it in a sweet, drawn-out voice, so full of charm that one forgot fatigue. Chen asked whether she was skilled in verse. "In my lifetime I sometimes wrote it," she said, and when he begged for a poem, she laughed. "The words of a girl," she said, "are not for the great to hear." Three years passed. One night she came to take a sad farewell. Asked why, she answered, "The King of the Nether World, since I was innocent in life and have not forgotten my sutras and spells in death, will have me reborn in a princely house. Our parting is this very night; never shall we meet again." As she spoke she was sorrowful, and Chen wept too. So wine was set out and they drank together, and the woman sang boldly in a sad, tender strain, each word turning a hundred ways, and at every melancholy passage she sobbed. Many times she stopped and began again, till the song was done, and the wine would not go down. Then she rose and, lingering, would have gone; but Chen held her and made her sit a little longer. When the cock crew she said, "I may stay no longer. But as you have always blamed me for not showing my skill, and this is our last parting, I will dash off a poem for you." She called for a brush and wrote one, saying, "My heart is sad and my mind in disorder; I cannot polish it, and the lines and cadences are amiss. Be careful not to show it to any one." She went out with her sleeve over her face, and Chen saw her to the gate, where she vanished without a trace. He mourned long. Looking at the poem, he found the writing beautiful and treasured it up. The poem ran:
"Seventeen years shut in the deep palace,
Who asks the dark blue heaven for the land of our fathers?
Idly I watch the hall-tree sealed by the tall wood,
Weeping as I gaze on the monarch turned a cuckoo.
The waves of the sea lie beneath the setting sun;
The drums and flutes of Han are stilled, the beacon-fires quenched.
A ruddy face, weak as I am, cannot work harm;
A gentle heart, sad as mine, turns only to meditation.
Daily I chant the bodhi verses by the hundred;
Idly I turn the palm-leaf sutras, two or three pages.
In the pear-garden I sing loud, my song in place of weeping;
Pray you, even listening alone, shed your tears."
There are repetitions and gaps in the poem, which I suspect contain errors.