The Taoist

**[County Court Record]** The continued testimony of Scholar Wang (fourth record). Examining officer: the assistant prefect's office. Clerk: Zhao. One statement by a neighbor and one inspection record are appended. Your Honor asks of that day's business in the market—I will tell it. It was the eighteenth of the ninth month. I had gone out of the city on an errand, and on the way back I passed along West Street. The street was crowded; I walked with my head down, and of a sudden someone barred my way. I looked up, and saw a Taoist standing before me.

That Taoist, fifty years of age or thereabouts, wore a robe of washed-out white, carried a cloth satchel on his back, and held a horsetail whisk in his hand. He barred my way, looked me over from head to foot, and looked a good while before he spoke:

"This young gentleman." I stopped: "What business has the master?" The Taoist did not answer, but looked at me again, and a long while. West Street was full of passers-by; some stopped to look. The Taoist asked, of a sudden: "What has the gentleman met with?" I did not understand: "Met with?" "I ask you—" the Taoist's voice was not loud, word by word, "of late, have you met any person out of the ordinary?"

My heart knocked once. Your Honor, what passed through my mind at that moment was the one in the study. But I did not say it; I answered: "I stay at home every day. I have met with nothing." The Taoist looked at me; his gaze was deep, as if he would see through me. After a moment he shook his head, and said one thing: "Evil aura winds about your body; how can you say you have met with nothing?" West Street was still for a breath. I stood there, my face burning. Your Honor, I was startled and angry at once—startled because his words struck at the very place in my heart that I feared most; angry because he barred a man in the open street and said evil aura was on him, with the whole street listening. I cursed him:

"You priest, hold your nonsense! What evil aura is on me? Are you not taking me for a soft face, to squeeze a few coppers of incense money?"

The Taoist was not angered. He only looked at me, shook his head, and sighed once:

"I do not squeeze anyone." When he had said it, he swung his whisk, turned, and made to go. After two steps he stopped again, turned his head, and said a thing. That thing, I remember to this day, clear and plain:

"Evil aura on your body; within three days, calamity will come. If you will not see it—go home, and look again at the one who shares your pillow."

I was startled: "Look at what?"

The Taoist said: "See whether she has ever looked in a mirror." I stood on West Street, watching the Taoist go. He did not walk fast; the crowd made way, and he passed through them, going west. The satchel on his back swung, once, once. I stood where I was, thinking over his words, and the more I thought, the more absurd it seemed.

Look in a mirror? She never looked in a mirror. In all the days since I took her in, I never saw her look at one—the mirror in the study had been covered with cloth all along. And yet, spoken by a stranger Taoist, those words pricked at my heart, lightly. I turned, and went home. In my mind were the Taoist's words, and the one at home—could she truly be? She locked herself in all day, and behind the door a rustling; she carried the smell of paper and ink; she never looked in a mirror… I walked the whole way, thinking.

**[Neighborhood Testimony]** Wang Po of West Street (who sells gruel for a living) testifies: Your Honor asks of that Taoist—this old woman saw him. The Taoist stopped Master Wang on West Street, spoke a few words; Master Wang flared up and cursed the priest. The priest was not angered, said something, and went.

Your Honor asks what the Taoist looked like—this old woman remembers: a white robe, a cloth satchel, a whisk; about fifty; a strange face, not of West Street. When he went, he went toward the west end. This old woman heard it said he went in the direction of Qingyan Abbey—the abbey is outside the west gate; from West Street, three li further on, you are there. This old woman thinks he was a priest of the abbey, come down the mountain to beg.

This old woman heard one thing more. When the priest went, Master Wang took two steps after him and called: "Stop! Say it plainly—" The priest did not turn; he only swung his whisk. This old woman heard the priest say one thing: "You know it in your heart."

Master Wang stopped, and did not follow. **[Inspection Record]** Clerk's note: on the eighteenth of the ninth month, West Street: no brawl, no quarrel; the market was in its ordinary order. As to the Taoist's origin, no household register is found; from the neighbors' word that he "went in the direction of Qingyan Abbey," he is suspected to be a priest of that abbey. Qingyan Abbey lies west of the county; three or four priests live in the abbey, all shut up in quiet cultivation, with nothing to do with the market. Recorded for inquiry.—Inspection of the assistant prefect's office

I went home. At the gate I stood behind the screen wall, and did not go in at once. I listened; from the study there was no sound—still. I went around the screen, through the gallery, and looked toward the study. The door was locked.

I stood in the gallery, thinking over the Taoist's words. A mirror… she never looked in a mirror. The mirror in the study, covered with cloth, had been covered many days. It came to me suddenly—why did she cover that mirror? The first time I saw the cloth over it was in the first days after she came in. I had asked her; she said: "The mirror is cold; I fear it will bring out a sickness." I had thought her finicky then, and later forgot.

Now I remembered—those words were wrong.

The mirror is cold; I fear it will bring out a sickness—she feared the mirror. A person fearing a mirror—what does she fear? That she will see herself in it? Or that she will not see herself?

I stood in the gallery, and stood a long while. Then I went toward the study. At the door I hesitated, then pushed it open. The door was not locked—she had come back. She sat at the window, her back to the door, needle and thread in her hands, embroidering something. She heard the door, turned her head, looked at me, and smiled:

"The master is back?"

She smiled quite ordinarily, sweetly, as always. The light from the window fell on her face; she bent her head to her needlework, one stitch, one stitch, sewing steadily. I stood at the door looking at her, and felt my heart settle a little—here she was, a whole person, sitting at the window sewing. Whatever evil aura, whatever mirror—all the Taoist's nonsense.

I went to her side, and looked at what she sewed. It was a handkerchief, with a branch of plum blossom embroidered on it. I asked: "Who is it for?" She did not raise her head: "For the master. Autumn is here; it is for wiping the hands." I stood by her, looking at that branch of plum. Her stitches were fine, even. The window light fell on the back of her hand, white. The hand that held the needle was very steady—a stitch down, a stitch up, not a breath of hesitation. I looked at her hand, and thought of her drawing water—just as steady. Whatever she did, she did steadily, as if she had practiced for many years.

It came to me then: a person who can embroider, draw water, and smile and say "the master is back"—how could she be an evil thing? The Taoist had taken me for a soft face, and wanted money. I put the Taoist out of my mind. **[Clerk's Comment]** In this testimony, the last passage—"she sat at the window sewing, and my heart settled a little"—is another man from the former record (Vol. I · 8: "I fear her"). The examining officer notes: Wang's fear comes at the moment he "thinks it clear"; Wang's ease comes at the moment he "sees her." Fear and ease alike have no proof; both are a single thought. Again: Wang testifies "she embroidered a handkerchief for him," but the inspection found no such handkerchief—whether it exists rests on Wang's word alone. Recorded for inquiry.

**[Clerk's Comment, appended]** The Taoist of Qingyan Abbey: in this county he has never been known to cheat. He barred Wang on West Street and said "within three days, calamity will come"—words that touch on the supernatural, yet he asked for no goods, left no name, went and came back, and coming back said only "you know it in your heart"—this is not the manner of one seeking money. The Taoist's three words "look in a mirror" coincide with the covered mirror in Wang's study; Wang hides the matter, and did not tell the examining officer all of it. Recorded for inquiry.