Doubt and Belief

**County Court Record — Wang Sheng's further statement (Fifth Record). Interrogator: the Prefecture Office. Scribe: Zhao. Attached: one supplementary deposition of Afu, one deposition of Madam Wang, one investigation record.**

Your honor asks what I did at home these days — I will say.

After the Taoist left, I went back to the study. The first two days, nothing happened at all. She rose early as usual, combed her hair as usual — I watched her secretly: she never used the mirror, only gathered her hair with her fingers, neatly. She ate as usual, whatever I ate she ate too, no fuss. She embroidered as usual, sitting at the window, and a whole afternoon would pass with her needle going.

Watching all this, my heart slowly settled. Your honor, I thought then: such a quiet, orderly person, how could she carry evil qi? The Taoist, I decided, had been out begging alms for a few days, run short of money, and taken me for a scare. I even thought: if I met him on West Street again in a day or two, I would spit at him.

The first day passed like that.

The second day, nothing either.

But your honor, as I sit in court now and look back, that "nothing" of those two days — every item of it, taken close, was a little off. I did not notice it then. The more I think of it now, the colder it grows.

First, she sleeps. I shared the bed with her. The first night I woke once — somewhere near the third watch, I turned over and my arm touched her. She lay there, in the same posture as when she had lain down: on her back, hands folded over the quilt, smooth and even. I muttered to myself, turned over, and slept again. In the morning I asked if she had slept well. She said yes. I asked one more question: "Do you turn over at night?" She laughed: "Who sleeps without turning over?" Your honor — that night, when I touched her, her body was cool, and she had not moved all night. I did not dare ask again.

Second, she embroiders. That plum handkerchief — she has been working on it three days and still has not finished it. I asked: "One branch of plum blossom, why so long?" She said: "Slow work. Autumn is long." I leaned over to look. The branch was ink-black, the flowers red, five petals. I looked for a while, felt something was wrong, could not say what. Half a day later I looked again — she was still at that branch, and the flower had become six petals. I asked: "Why one petal more?" She looked down at it, smiled: "I made a mistake. I'll take it out and redo it." And she did undo that petal. But afterward I turned the handkerchief over and looked — the branch of plum was still six petals.

Third, she leaves nothing uneaten. When I eat, there are always a few grains of rice left in the bottom of the bowl. She once said: "Master wastes." I told her: "You waste too." She said: "I don't." I watched her for several days — truly, she did not leave a single grain, and the dishes the same: whatever was taken, was eaten, clean to the last. I have lived over twenty years and never seen anyone eat so clean. At the time I even joked: "You talk as if you had never been full." She looked up, smiled, and said nothing.

Your honor, I set these out one by one now, and every word is true. But at the time, I pressed them all down — she was a person, a living person, sitting at the window day after day with her embroidery, who smiled and spoke. I could not suspect a person for sleeping still and eating clean.

At that time, I believed her.

Until the third day, the twentieth of the ninth month, at dusk.

That afternoon I was reading in the study, grew tired, and came out for air. I met her just as she was carrying a basin of water to the back garden. I even spoke to her, and she answered with a smile. I watched her go into the study, then went back to the main courtyard to fetch a coat.

Just then, I heard voices at the mouth of the lane.

It was Madam Wang, who sells powder on West Street, gossiping with the neighbor's old woman. I paid no heed at first — then I heard her say: "That young mistress in Master Wang's house — why has she not passed by West Street today? She used to walk through every day or two."

I stopped.

Your honor, I heard those words distinctly. My heart crashed in my chest. She had sat the whole afternoon at the study window, embroidering; I had looked in on her every little while, and she had not gone out. But Madam Wang said she had not passed West Street today — that she was "used to walking through every day or two."

I stood at the foot of the wall, and the coat in my hand fell to the ground without my knowing it.

She passes West Street every day or two? How would I not know it? She lives with me in the study. By day, when I go out, she is in the room; when I stay home, she is in the room too. When did she go out? Every day or two — going where, to do what?

I thought for a while, and the more I thought, the more afraid I grew. I held my heart down, picked up the coat first, then circled to the back garden and stood outside the study, listening. Inside — no sound. Still. I pushed the door open. She sat at the window, needle and thread in her hand, and looked up with a smile:

"Master, why have you come back through the back gate?"

I looked at her, opened my mouth, and said: "Came back to fetch a coat." She said "oh," lowered her head, and went on with the branch of plum.

Your honor, I stood there looking at her lowered profile, and the question rolled around in my chest, over and over, and I could not get it out — did you go out today?

In the end, I did not ask.