Xiaoqian

> *Ning Caichen's night ledger at Lanruo Temple.*

> *Autumn of the year Guihai, Kangxi reign; the thirteenth of the ninth month, recorded at Lanruo Temple north of the city wall, Jinhua Prefecture.*

**【Day】**

Of last night's matter, as before, I told no one.

At dawn I stood under the eaves and looked a while at the east wing. The door was shut; no light showed in the crack. I went to the water vat to draw water; Yan Chixia's door opened, and he came out with a cloth in his hand, wiping his sword. He did not look at me, and I did not look at him. We were like two men each keeping his own rule, neither speaking first.

After breakfast I walked once to the back of the hall. The white poplar was still the same white poplar, and beneath it the mound of earth still stood, the paper ashes and the shards of green porcelain lying about. I squatted and looked at the mound a while. The wind had flattened its top a little, as if someone had smoothed it.

The sun was good. Sparrows fluttered on the roof, and the dew on the eaves had long dried. I squatted by the mound, took up a twig, and turned over the paper ashes. Beneath the ashes the earth was packed tight. I turned over one shard of porcelain—green, glazed on one side only. I set it back as it had lain.

After noon the door of the east wing opened once. Yan Chixia came out and hung a strip of dried meat under the eaves to air. I asked him: "What is that for?" He said: "My mouth gets plain at night." And he went in again.

I sat under the eaves, thinking of last night's matter. The shadow of the night before had been dragged toward the back of the hall—I kept coming back to this. What is behind the hall? I had gone to look: only a stretch of wild grass and a half-collapsed broken house. In the daylight there was nothing at all.

When the sun was past its height, I rose and walked once to the back of the hall. That broken house—I stood at its door and looked in. On the floor lay a thick coat of dust, no footprints, no marks. In the corner a few rotten sticks were piled, as if someone had made a fire there long ago. I stepped back and stood under the eaves of the broken house, looking at the wild grass. The wind passed over the tips of the grass; the blades did not stir.

I stood a while, then turned and walked back. When I reached the eaves I sat down again. The door of the east wing was shut; through the crack a little darkness showed.

The sky darkened. I lit the lamp and read.

I read the Book of Changes, and when I came to the line "treading on frost, the hard ice comes," a wind suddenly rose outside the window. It was not a great wind; it stirred the paper of the window lightly. I set the book down and listened a while. The temple was very still; even the insect sounds were gone.

I took up the book and read again.

I do not know how long passed when the door made a sound.

It was not a knock. It was the door opening by itself—the latch had not moved, and the door opened. I raised my head and looked toward the door.

It was a woman.

She stood at the door with her hair loose, wearing a robe of pale moonlight color, very old, washed to a faded white, the seams of the sleeves gone soft. She stood in the doorway and did not come in.

I set the book down and looked at her.

She was very beautiful. Not beauty of the praising kind—the kind that, when you see it, makes your heart go still first, and then you do not want to look away.

Seeing me looking at her, she lowered her head a little, and her voice was very soft:

"The night is wakeful; I have come to offer myself to you."

I looked at her and said nothing.

She stood there, waited a while; seeing me not speak, she stepped forward two paces, to the lamp. The flame leaped beside her face; her face, in the lamp's shadow, was still white, without blood.

I looked at her, and she looked at me. The flame leaped; she stood in the lamp's shadow like a painting—a face painted with the finest strokes, every line resting where I was meant to look. I looked at her, and my heart was very still inside me, still enough to hear the sound of the wick burning. She stood there waiting for me to speak; she waited a good while; seeing me still silent, she spoke, her voice very soft:

"Does the gentleman not find it lonely in the temple, alone?"

I said: "A reader has his books; he is not lonely."

"What books does the gentleman read?"

"The Book of Changes."

She smiled a little: "Those who read the Book of Changes most fear meeting what cannot be reckoned."

I looked at her and said: "In my whole life I have not yet met anything that could not be reckoned."

She did not answer. She stood there, head lowered, looking at her own fingertips; after a good while she raised her head and said one more thing:

"Does the gentleman know that this temple has someone coming, night after night?"

I said: "I know. These past nights someone knocked at the door, someone tapped at the window, someone dragged things toward the back of the hall."

She listened and did not answer. Her eyelashes stirred, as if she would speak and had swallowed it back.

I said: "Miss, you have come to the wrong door."

She was startled a moment: "I have not."

"Where do you live?" I asked.

She looked at me, and after a while said: "In the temple."

"There are no women in the temple," I said. "In this temple there is only one lodger, myself, and the swordsman in the east wing. There is no third person."

She did not speak; she only looked at me. The flame leaped, and her eyes, black, looking at me, did not move.

I looked at her and said: "If you are of the temple, coming out at night is against propriety. If you are not of the temple—" I paused, and said, "in this temple, for the past several nights, something has been knocking at the door. You come at a good time. Do you know what it is that knocks?"

She stood and did not speak. She lowered her head, and after a while said: "I do not know."

"Then what do you know?" I asked.

She did not speak again. She stood in the lamp's shadow, head bowed, as if thinking of a very old thing. After a good while she said softly, in a voice almost too low to hear:

"I know nothing. I only know: at night, do not open the door."

I looked into her eyes and said, word by word: "I, Ning Caichen, have never in my life known a second woman. I am grateful for your regard. But this temple is not peaceful at night. If you have nothing to do here, please go back."

She stood there, still not moving.

I looked at her and said one thing more: "You fear gossip; I fear reproach. One false step, and honor is lost."

She listened; the little smile on her face slowly faded.

She stood there a while, then stepped back once. And again. She stepped back to the door, held the doorframe, and looked back at me. Moonlight lay on her face; her eyes, in the moonlight, brightened once, and darkened.

"I have seen many men," she said. "No one like you, who saw my face and could still sit so steady."

I did not answer.

She stood at the door and said: "If you are afraid—"

"I am not afraid," I said.

"If you are afraid," she went on, as if she had not heard me, "tomorrow at dusk, go look under the white poplar."

She finished, turned, and went. Moonlight lay on the corridor; her shadow was still not there. She walked very lightly, her feet on the flagstones without sound. I sat by the lamp and watched her walk away, into the dark of the corridor, and vanish.

The door was still open. I rose, went to the door, closed it, and shot the bolt.

The moment the bolt went home, I heard the outside fall still for an instant. Then there came a very faint sound, like someone laughing once, or like nothing at all.

I went back to the lamp, sat down, and took up the book.

The characters on the page, I could not take in a single one. I looked at those two characters—"燕好" (to offer oneself). When she said them just now, her voice trembled, as if the words were not hers, but had been laid on her tongue by someone else.

I blew out the lamp and lay down.

Outside the window paper the moonlight was thin. I looked at the window paper, thinking of what she had said—"tomorrow at dusk, go look under the white poplar." What is under the white poplar? I went in the daylight and looked: only earth, paper ashes, shards of green porcelain, and that mound of earth risen like a new grave.

I thought again of what she had said just now. "I know nothing. I only know: at night, do not open the door." Her voice had been level when she said it, without fear, without anything else—like a sentence spoken many times, until only an empty shell remained.

And the words she had said at the door. "I have seen many men, no one like you, who saw my face and could still sit so steady." I sit steady because my conscience is clear. The men she had seen—what sort of men were they? Those who saw her face—what became of them afterwards?

I opened my eyes and looked at the dark beam overhead. In the beam there was a crack; seen by day it is as fine as a hair; lying at night I could see it was still there, only not clearly.

I closed my eyes.

Tonight I record this.