Giauna the Beautiful

There was once a young man descended from Confucius. A friend of his father’s, who held an official post in the South, offered him a position as his secretary. But when the young man arrived in the town where he was to work, he found that his father’s friend had already died. He was in an awkward spot, for he had no money to travel home, so he was glad to take shelter in the Monastery of Puto, where he copied holy books for the abbot.

About a hundred paces west of the monastery stood an empty house. One day after a heavy snowfall, young Kung happened to pass its door and saw a well-dressed, pleasant-looking youth standing there, who bowed to him and invited him to come closer. Kung was a scholar and appreciated good manners. Finding that he and the youth had a great deal in common, he took a liking to him and followed him inside. The house was spotlessly clean. Silk curtains hung in the doorways, and paintings by fine old masters decorated the walls. On a table lay a book called Tales of the Coral Ring.

Coral Ring was the name of a cave. Once a very learned monk lived at Puto, and an old man led him into that cave, where he saw many volumes on bookstands. “These are the histories of all the dynasties,” the old man said. In a second room were the histories of all the peoples on earth. A third room was guarded by two dogs. “Here are kept the secret records of the immortals, describing the arts by which they won eternal life,” the old man explained. “The two dogs are two dragons.” The monk leafed through the books and found that they were all ancient works he had never seen before. He would gladly have stayed in the cave, but the old man said, “That will not do,” and a boy led him out. This was the cave described in the book on the table.

The youth asked Kung his name and family, and Kung told him his whole story. The youth felt very sorry for him and advised him to open a school. Kung sighed. “No one around here knows me, and I have nobody to recommend me.”

“If you don’t think me too unworthy and dull,” said the youth, “I would like to be your pupil myself.”

Kung was delighted. “I would not dare to call myself your teacher,” he said, “but we might devote ourselves to study together.” Then he asked why the house had stood empty for so long. “The owner has gone to the country,” the youth answered. “We come from Shensi and have rented it for a short while. We moved in only a few days ago.”

They talked and joked merrily, and the youth asked Kung to stay the night and told a little servant boy to light a pan of charcoal. Then he hurried into the back room and soon came out saying, “My father is here.” As Kung rose, an old man with a long white beard and white eyebrows came in and greeted him. “You have kindly agreed to teach my son,” he said, “and I am grateful. But you must be strict with him and not treat him as a friend.”

He had silk clothes, a fur cap, and fur-lined shoes and socks brought in and asked Kung to change into them. Then wine and food were served. The cushions and table covers were made of fabrics Kung had never seen, with a shimmer so bright it dazzled the eye. After a few cups of wine the old man withdrew, and the youth showed Kung his essays. They were all written in the style of the old masters, not in the newfangled eight-section form. When Kung asked about this, the youth smiled. “I don’t care at all about passing the state examinations.”

Then he said to the boy, “Go and see if the old gentleman has fallen asleep. If he has, you may quietly bring in little Hiang-Nu.” The boy went off, and the youth took a lute out of an embroidered case. Presently a serving maid came in, dressed in red and astonishingly beautiful. The youth asked her to sing “The Lament of the Beloved,” and her melting voice stirred the heart. The third watch of the night had passed before they went to bed.

The next morning everyone rose early and lessons began. The youth was remarkably gifted; whatever he saw once stayed fixed in his memory, so he made astonishing progress in a few months. They followed the old custom of writing an essay every five days and celebrating each with a small banquet, and Hiang-Nu was sent for at every one.

One evening Kung could not take his eyes off Hiang-Nu. The youth guessed what he was thinking. “You are not married yet,” he said. “Day and night I keep wondering how to find you a charming wife. Hiang-Nu is my father’s maid, so I cannot give her to you.”

“Thank you for your kind thought,” said Kung. “But unless the girl you have in mind is as beautiful as Hiang-Nu, I would rather go without.”

The youth laughed. “You really are inexperienced if you think Hiang-Nu is beautiful. Your wish will be easy to grant.”

Half a year went by in this way, and the dreary rainy season had just begun when a swelling the size of a peach appeared on Kung’s chest. Overnight it grew as big as a teacup, and he lay groaning on his bed, unable to eat or sleep. The youth nursed him day and night, and even the old gentleman came to ask how he was.

“Only my little sister Giauna can cure this illness,” said the youth. “Please send to Grandmother and have her brought here.” The old gentleman agreed and sent his boy off. The next day the boy came back saying that Giauna would come with her aunt and her cousin A-Sung.

Before long the youth led his sister into the room. She was no more than thirteen or fourteen, enchantingly lovely and as slender as a willow. The moment the sick man saw her, he forgot his pain and his spirits rose. “This is my best friend, whom I love like a brother,” the youth told her. “Please, little sister, cure him of his illness.”

The girl blushed in confusion and went to the bedside. As she felt his pulse, it seemed to him that she brought the scent of an orchard with her. “No wonder he fell ill,” she said with a smile. “His heart beats much too wildly. The illness is serious but not beyond curing. The bad blood has already gathered, so we must cut to heal it.”

She took the gold bracelet from her arm and laid it over the sore place, pressing gently until the swelling rose a full inch above it and the ring enclosed the whole lump. Then she drew a penknife with a blade as thin as paper from her silk sash. Holding the bracelet with one hand, she ran the knife lightly around the base of the ring with the other. Dark blood gushed out over the mattress and bed. But young Kung was so enchanted by beautiful Giauna that he felt no pain at all; his only fear was that it would all be over too soon and she would leave. In a moment the diseased flesh was cut away. Giauna sent for fresh water and washed the wound. Then she took a little red pill from her mouth and laid it on the wound. When she turned around in a circle, it seemed to Kung that she drew all the inflammation out of him in steam and flame. She turned a second time, and he felt the wound itch and tingle; and when she turned a third time, he was completely healed.

The girl put the pill back in her mouth. “Now all is well,” she said, and hurried into the inner room. Kung leaped up to thank her.

His illness was cured, but his thoughts kept dwelling on Giauna’s lovely face. He neglected his books and sat lost in daydreams. His friend noticed and said, “Today at last I have found a charming wife for you.” When Kung asked who she was, he said, “My aunt’s daughter, A-Sung. She is seventeen and anything but plain.”

“I’m sure she isn’t as beautiful as Giauna,” Kung thought, and he hummed a song to himself:

Who once has seen the sea close by,
All rivers shallow streams declares;
Who o’er Wu’s hill the clouds watched fly,
Says nothing with that view compares.

The youth smiled. “My little sister Giauna is still very young,” he said, “and she is my father’s only daughter; he would not want her to marry someone from far away. But my cousin A-Sung is not plain either. If you don’t believe me, wait until they go walking in the garden, and you can look at them without their knowing.”

Kung stationed himself at the open window, and sure enough, Giauna came along leading another girl by the hand, so beautiful that there was no one to compare with her. She and Giauna looked like sisters, told apart only by a small difference in age. Kung was overjoyed and begged his friend to arrange the marriage, which the youth promised to do. The next day he came to Kung with congratulations: everything was settled. A separate courtyard was made ready for the young couple, and the wedding was held. Kung felt as if he had married a fairy, and the two grew very fond of each other.

One day Kung’s friend came to him in great agitation. “The owner of this house is coming back, and my father wants to return to Shensi. The time has come for us to part, and I am very sad.” Kung wanted to go with them, but his friend advised him to go home to his own family. When Kung mentioned the difficulties, the youth said, “Don’t worry about that. I will take you there.”

After a while the father came in with A-Sung and gave Kung a hundred ounces of gold. Then the youth took Kung and his wife by the hand and told them to close their eyes. As soon as they did, they were swept through the air like a storm wind; all Kung could tell was that a gale was roaring in his ears. After some time the youth cried, “We’re here!” Kung opened his eyes and saw his old home, and then he knew that his friend was not human.

Happily they knocked at the door. His mother opened it and was delighted to see that he had brought home such a charming wife. Kung turned to his friend, but the youth had already vanished.

A-Sung served her mother-in-law devotedly, and her beauty and goodness were praised far and wide. Soon afterward Kung won his doctorate and was appointed inspector of prisons in Shensi. He took his wife with him, but his mother stayed at home, for Shensi was too far for her to travel. And heaven gave A-Sung and Kung a little son.

But Kung got into a quarrel with a travelling censor, who complained about him, and he was dismissed from his post. One day, as he was idling outside the city, he saw a handsome young man riding a black mule, and looking closer he recognized his old friend. They fell into each other’s arms, laughing and crying, and the youth led him to a village where, in a thick, shady grove, stood a house whose upper stories rose to the sky; anyone could see that people of rank lived there. Kung asked about Giauna and was told she had married. He stayed the night and then went to fetch his wife.

Meanwhile Giauna arrived. She took A-Sung’s little son in her arms and said, “Cousin, here is a little stranger in our family!” Kung greeted her and thanked her again for curing him. She smiled. “You have become an important man since then, and the wound healed long ago. Haven’t you forgotten the pain yet?” Then Giauna’s husband came, and everyone got acquainted, and after that they parted.

One day the youth came to Kung looking very sad. “A great disaster threatens us today,” he said. “I don’t know if you would be willing to save us.” Kung did not know what it was, but he gladly promised to help. Then the youth called the whole family together, and they all bowed down in the outer courtyard. “I will tell you the truth just as it is,” he said. “We are foxes. Today we are in danger from the thunder. If you will help us, there is hope that we may survive. If not, take your child and go, so that you are not caught up in our danger.” But Kung swore that he would share their life or death.

The youth asked him to stand in the doorway with a sword in his hand. “When the thunder begins to roll,” he said, “you must stand there and not move.”

Suddenly dark clouds rose and the sky grew as gloomy as nightfall. Kung looked around, but the buildings had all vanished; behind him he saw only a high mound with a large cave in it, its inside lost in darkness. In the middle of his fear a thunderbolt crashed down. Rain poured in torrents, and a storm wind tore up the tallest trees. Everything flickered before his eyes and the noise deafened him, but he gripped his sword and stood as firm as a rock. Suddenly, amid black smoke and flashes of lightning, he saw a monster with a pointed beak and long claws carrying off a human body. Looking closer, he recognized Giauna by her clothes. He leaped at the monster and struck at it with his sword, and at once Giauna dropped to the ground. A tremendous thunderclap shook the earth, and Kung fell dead.

Then the storm cleared and the blue sky appeared. Giauna came to her senses, and when she saw Kung lying dead beside her, she sobbed, “He died for my sake! Why should I go on living?” A-Sung came out too, and together they carried him into the cave. Giauna had A-Sung hold his head while her brother opened his mouth. She herself took hold of his chin and brought out her little red pill. She pressed it to his lips with her own and breathed into his lungs. Then breath rattled back into his throat, and in a short time he was himself again.

So the whole family was together and unharmed. They were slowly getting over their fright and feeling quite happy when a small boy suddenly brought word that Giauna’s husband and his entire family had been killed by the thunder. Giauna broke down in tears, and the others tried to comfort her.

At last Kung said, “It is not good to stay too long among the graves of the dead. Won’t you come home with me?” So they packed their things and went with him. He gave his friend and his family a deserted garden to live in, which he carefully walled off. The bolt on its gate was drawn only when Kung and A-Sung came to visit, and then Giauna and her brother would play chess, drink tea, and chat with them like members of one family.

But Kung’s little son had a rather pointed face that looked like a fox’s, and when he walked down the street, people would turn and say, “There goes the fox-child!”

Where this story comes from

“Giauna the Beautiful” is among the literary fairy tales that end Richard Wilhelm’s The Chinese Fairy Book, which came out in English in 1921 in Frederick H. Martens’s translation (Frederick A. Stokes, New York). Its hero is described as a descendant of Confucius.

Wilhelm’s notes explain two details. The “eight-section form” was the strictly divided essay style required in the Chinese government examinations until the great educational reform, and the “danger of thunder” refers to the belief that foxes must escape mortal danger from thunder three times.

Read the original: The full text of Giauna the Beautiful, on Project Gutenberg

For older readers: painful surgery described in detail, an adult scholar’s attraction to an adolescent girl, death in a supernatural storm and bereavement. The pill and resurrection are fantasy, and the dangerous storm vigil is not practical safety advice.

Reading the story closely

Kung first notices Giauna through her appearance, but the plot gives her a more consequential role: she cures him, is rescued by him, and then restores his life. His original attraction does not result in marriage to her; A-Sung becomes his wife, and Giauna remains part of their wider family. Compare the early descriptions of beauty with the later actions of healing and protection. The characters’ practical care supplies evidence that appearance alone cannot.

The final refuge is protective but not complete social acceptance. Kung walls off a garden for the survivors, while strangers still label his son a “fox-child.” Set that public label beside the family’s private chess, tea and conversation. Also count who returns from the storm and who does not: Giauna’s husband and his household die. The happy reunion cannot honestly be read as a guarantee that loyal friends will always be saved.

Questions to ask

• What clues in the story hint that Kung’s friend and his family are not ordinary people?
• How does Giauna cure Kung, and how does she save him a second time?
• Why do you think Kung was willing to risk his life for the fox family?

Related stories

• Fox-Fire — another Wilhelm tale about a magical fox
• The Frog Princess — another literary tale of a man joined to a family of spirits
• Rose of Evening — another love story from the book’s literary tales