Old Mr. Feng of Guangping had a son, styled Xiangru, and both father and son were licentiates. The old man, near sixty, was of an upright and unbending temper, and the family had long been poor. In the course of a few years his wife and his daughter-in-law died one after the other, and he was left to do all the work of the house himself. One night, as Xiangru sat in the moonlight, he suddenly saw a girl of the eastern neighbor peeping over the wall at him. Looking, he found her beautiful; drawing near, she smiled at him; when he beckoned, she neither came nor went. When he pressed her hard, she crossed over by a ladder, and they slept together. Asked her name, she said, "I am Hongyu, the neighbor's daughter." Xiangru loved her greatly and vowed to be with her forever; she agreed. Every night she came, and so for some half a year. One night the old man rose and heard a girl's soft laugh, and, peeping, saw her. He was angry and called out his son, crying, "What is this that you have done, you beast! In such poverty you do not work hard, but learn to be a libertine? If men know of it, they will say you have lost your virtue; if they do not, it will shorten your life!" Xiangru knelt and confessed, weeping, and said he was sorry. The old man rebuked the girl too. "A girl who does not keep the rules of her chamber," he said, "first dishonors herself and then dishonors others. If the matter comes out, it will be more than the shame of my poor house!" He went back to his room in a rage. The girl said, weeping, "Your father's reproach is enough to put me to shame! Our love is at an end!" "While my father lives," said Xiangru, "I cannot dispose of myself. If you care for me, you should bear this and still be mine." But the girl's words were final, and Xiangru burst into tears. "We had no go-between's word," she said, "and no parents' command; we climbed the wall and crept through the crack—how could such a union last to white hairs? There is a good match here, if you would seek it." He said he was poor. "Meet me tomorrow night," she said, "and I will contrive it for you." The next night the girl came and gave him forty ounces of silver. "Sixty li from here," she said, "is a girl of the Wei family in Wu Village, eighteen years old; her price is high, and so she is still unsold. If you tempt them with a good sum, they are sure to agree." With that she went away.
Xiangru took the chance to tell his father, meaning to go and see her, but he kept back the gift of gold. The old man, thinking he had no money, would not let him go. Xiangru said gently, "Let me but try; if it fails, that will be the end." The old man nodded, and Xiangru, borrowing a servant and a horse, went to the Wei house. Wei was a mere farmer, and Xiangru, calling him out, fell into talk with him. Wei, knowing Xiangru to be of a great family, and seeing his fine bearing, was willing in his heart, but feared he would be sparing of money. Xiangru, reading his hesitation, emptied his purse onto the table. Wei was pleased, and, getting a neighbor to act as go-between, wrote the betrothal on red paper. Xiangru went in and bowed to the old woman. The house was small, and the girl hid behind her mother. He caught a glimpse of her. Though plainly dressed, she was full of radiance, and he was secretly delighted. Wei lent a house to entertain the bridegroom, and said, "The young gentleman need not fetch the bride. When a little dress is made ready, we will send her over with the trousseau." Xiangru fixed a day and came home, telling his father falsely that the Weis, loving a pure family, asked no money. The old man was glad. On the appointed day the Wei girl was indeed sent over. She was diligent and frugal, with a womanly disposition, and the couple lived in the greatest harmony. Two years later she bore a son, named Fuer. At the Qingming festival, as she carried the child to the graves, they met Mr. Song, a gentleman of the district. Song had been a censor, but had been dismissed for taking bribes, and, living in retirement, tyrannized over all about him. That day he too was returning from the graves, and, struck by the girl's beauty, asked the villagers who she was, and learned she was Xiangru's wife. Thinking the Fengs poor, he hoped by a rich bribe to shake their resolve, and sent one of his men to sound them. Xiangru, on hearing of it, flushed with anger; but, reflecting that he was no match for the man's power, he hid his anger in a smile and told his father. The old man flew into a rage, ran out, and, pointing to heaven and earth before Song's men, heaped a thousand curses upon them. The men ran away like rats. Song was angry too, and sent several of his people into the Feng house, who beat the father and son with a great uproar. The girl, hearing it, dropped her child on the bed and ran out with disheveled hair, crying for help. They seized her and carried her off in a rush. Father and son lay groaning on the ground, wounded, while the child cried in its room. The neighbors, pitying them, helped them to a bed. After a day Xiangru could rise with a stick; but his father, in his fury, would not eat, and, vomiting blood, soon died. Xiangru wept bitterly and, taking the child, brought suit, going up even to the governors; but he could get no justice. When he heard that his wife had died rather than submit, his grief was the greater. Wrongs filled his breast, and he could see no way to right them. He thought of waylaying and killing Song, but feared his many guards, and there was the child to think of. Day and night he grieved, and his eyes would not close. Suddenly a man came to his house to offer condolences—a man with curling whiskers and a broad chin, whom he had never seen. Xiangru invited him to sit and asked his name and country. "You have the blood of a murdered father and the wrong of a ravished wife," said the stranger abruptly, "and do you forget to avenge them?" Xiangru suspected he was a spy sent by Song, and answered evasively. The stranger was angry; his eyes seemed to start from his head. "I took you for a man," he said, and rose to go, "but now I know you are not worth talking to!" Xiangru, seeing he was a man of mark, fell on his knees and caught him by the sleeve. "I feared indeed that you were sent to trick me by the Songs," he said. "Now let me open my heart: I have long been tasting gall and lying on brushwood. But I pity this babe in swaddling clothes, and fear to cut off my line. You are a man of honor; will you not be my Cheng Bo, to whom my son may be entrusted?" "That is a woman's work," said the stranger, "and not for me. What you would have another do for you, do yourself; and what you would do yourself, let me do for you." Xiangru knocked his head on the ground with a crash; but the stranger went out without looking back. Xiangru, running after him, asked his name. "If it fails," said the man, "I will not take the blame; if it succeeds, I will not take the thanks." And he was gone. Xiangru, fearing harm, took the child and fled. That night, when the Song household was all asleep, someone scaled the high wall and killed the censor and his two sons, with a daughter-in-law and a maid. The Song family lodged a complaint with the officials, who were much alarmed. Song, fixing the crime on Xiangru, had officers sent to seize him; but he had fled none knew whither, which made the charge seem the truer. Song's servants, with the officers, searched everywhere; and at night, coming to the southern hills, they heard a child crying, and, tracing it, found Xiangru and bound him. The child cried all the louder, and they snatched it from him and threw it away; Xiangru's wrong and grief nearly broke his heart. Brought before the magistrate, he was asked, "Why did you kill these people?" "It is a great wrong," said Xiangru. "They died by night; I went out by day, and was carrying a crying child—how could I climb walls to kill men?" "If you did not kill them," said the magistrate, "why did you flee?" Xiangru, at a loss, could make no answer, and was thrown into prison. "I die without regret," he wept, "but what has the orphan done?" "You have killed many men's children," said the magistrate; "what have you to complain of in the death of your own?" Xiangru, deprived of his degree and racked with torture, would confess nothing. That night, as the magistrate lay in bed, he heard something strike his bed with a rumbling sound; in terror he cried out. The whole household started up and, gathering, lit a candle—there was a short knife, sharp as frost, stuck in the wood of the bed more than an inch deep, so firm it could not be drawn. At the sight of it the magistrate's soul left him. He searched about with weapons but found no trace of anyone. His heart misgave him; and since the Songs were dead, and there was nothing to fear from them, he reported the matter to his superiors and made excuse for Xiangru, and let him go.
When Xiangru came home there was not a peck of rice in the house, and he stood alone against the four bare walls. Happily the neighbors, in pity, brought him food and drink, and he scraped along as best he could. When he thought his great revenge was done he would smile with joy; when he thought of the cruel ruin that had come so near to destroying his whole house, his tears would fall fast; and when he thought of his half-lifetime of grinding poverty and of the line cut off, he would weep aloud in some lonely place, unable to restrain himself. So it went for half a year, till the search for him grew slack. Then he begged the magistrate to order the bones of his wife to be restored to him; and when he had buried her he was near dying of grief, and turned and tossed on his empty bed, seeing no way to live. Suddenly someone knocked at his door; he listened, and heard a voice without, murmuring to a child. He rose hastily and peered out—it seemed to be a woman. No sooner had he opened the door than she asked, "Your great wrong is avenged; I hope you are well!" Her voice was familiar, but in his haste he could not recall it. When the candle was lit, it was Hongyu. She had a little boy with her, laughing at her side. Xiangru, not stopping to ask questions, clasped her in his arms and wept; she too was sorrowful. Then she pushed the child toward him. "Have you forgotten your father?" she said. The child clung to her dress, staring at Xiangru with bright eyes. Looking closely, he saw it was Fuer. Greatly startled, he asked, weeping, "Where did the child come from?" "To tell you the truth," she said, "when I said I was the neighbor's girl, that was a lie; I am in truth a fox. It chanced that, traveling by night, I saw the child crying in a valley, and carried it to the land of Qin to rear. When I heard that your troubles were over, I brought it here to join you." Xiangru, wiping away his tears, bowed in thanks; the child, in her arms, clung to her as to its mother, and no longer knew its father. Before daybreak the girl rose hastily; asked why, she said, "I must be going." Xiangru, kneeling naked by the bed, could not lift his head for weeping. "I was only joking," she laughed. "Now that the household is to be set up afresh, it will not do to be other than early to rise and late to bed." So she cut down the weeds and swept the paths, working like a man. Xiangru fretted that they were poor and could not support themselves. "Only draw the curtain and read," said the girl; "do not ask whether the crop be full or scant, and you will not starve." So she brought out gold, bought looms, rented several score of acres, and hired laborers to till them. She carried the hoe to clear the ground and patched the roof with creepers, making this her daily work. The villagers, hearing of her worth, were glad to help her. In some half a year the place was humming with life, like the house of a well-to-do man. "Out of the ashes," said Xiangru, "you have built all this up with your bare hands. But there is one thing not yet settled—what of it?" Asked what, she said, "The examination is near, and my degree and cap have not yet been restored." "I sent four ounces of gold to the Director of Studies before," she laughed, "and your name is already restored to the register. Had I waited for you to speak, it would have been too late." Xiangru marveled at her the more. That year he took the provincial degree. He was then thirty-six, with good fields joining each other and a spacious summer-house. The girl was slim and graceful, as if she would float away with the wind, yet she worked harder than any peasant woman. Though she toiled in the bitter cold, her hands were as smooth as lard. She said she was twenty-eight, but to look at her one would have taken her for twenty.
The Historian of the Strange remarks: "The son was worthy and the father virtuous, and so their recompense was a chivalrous one. And it was not only the man that was chivalrous—the fox was chivalrous too. It was a strange meeting! Yet the officials were blind, and the man's hair stood on end; the knife quivered as it struck into the wood—why did he not grudge to move it half a foot to the bed itself? Did Su Zimei read it, he would drain his cup and cry, 'Alas, that the blow missed its mark!'"