The Fairy Bonze

In a large, busy city in one of the north-western provinces of China there once lived a man named Meng. Everyone knew of him, in the town and far out in the countryside, for he was the richest and boldest of all the merchants in that great trading city.

He had started life as a poor boy. Forty years before, tired of the dull life on his father’s farm and the hardship that bad harvests brought, he had come to the city to make his fortune. All he owned he carried with him: a stout bamboo pole and a strong rope, the tools of a porter. But he was so willing and cheerful in his heavy work that people liked to hire him, and within months he was always busy and slowly saving money to rise above the life of a hired laborer.

Meng had a shrewd, practical mind for spotting a chance in trade, and his warm, happy nature made everyone who dealt with him eager to help him get ahead. Before many years he had built up a very profitable business. In time he opened branches in faraway cities, and the great merchants of the eastern provinces counted him among their most trustworthy partners, ready to give him as much credit as he wished.

Best of all, Meng had a heart of gold that wealth never spoiled. No one who came to him for help left empty-handed. A struggling shopkeeper about to close his shutters would receive a generous loan that set him on his feet again. A widow left with nothing had only to tell her story, and Meng, his eyes wet with pity, would arrange things so that she and her children need never fear starving. He gave a large share of his riches to people born under an unlucky star.

The narrator distinguishes Meng’s generosity from gifts intended to buy influence. He never thought of reward. The joy on the faces of those he helped, their shining eyes and grateful words, were all the payment he wanted.

How far Meng’s fame had spread was shown by something that would deeply affect the fortunes of his only son, Chin, whom he loved with his whole soul. One day a letter arrived from the head of a very aristocratic family in a distant city. The writer had a daughter whom everyone called extraordinarily beautiful, and having heard of Meng’s goodness, he wished to betroth her to Meng’s son and so unite their families.

Meng, who had kept a childlike heart, was delighted that the offer had come freely and not through some scheming go-between, and he was touched by the writer’s seemingly generous spirit. After some letters back and forth, the betrothal was formally drawn up, creating a promise their families were expected to honor.

Just then, when Meng’s fortunes were at their height, a dignified old Buddhist monk, or bonze, came to his door. He was on a pilgrimage to a famous shrine, he said, and was worn out from his long journey, and he asked to stay a few days. Meng was a devout man and often gave lodging to travelling monks, so he welcomed the old priest warmly and gave him one of the best rooms in the house.

The bonze was so courteous, refined, and learned that he won the hearts of the whole household, and Meng begged him to stay longer. Months passed, and still the bonze remained. He was friendly with everyone, but he took most pleasure in Chin’s company and soon had a strong influence over him. The two would roam the hillside while the priest told of the wonders he had seen and the adventures he had had, though his real aim seemed to be to fill the young man’s mind with high and noble ideas.

Every morning they also went to some outbuildings at the far end of the large garden, where they could talk undisturbed. One thing struck Chin as very odd: the bonze had him gather certain curiously shaped tiles and bury them in the earthen floors of these seldom-used buildings. Chin thought it childish and would have objected, but he loved and respected his companion too much to refuse.

At last the bonze announced that duty called him and he must continue his journey; he had stayed much longer than he had meant to. Meng tried to give him a large sum of money for the road, but the bonze firmly refused, saying his needs were few and the temples along his way would supply them.

Meng never guessed that the guest he was so sorry to lose was a fairy in disguise. The rulers of the far-off Western Heaven, deeply moved by Meng’s noble life of helping the poor and forsaken, had sent the bonze to prepare for a disaster that was about to strike the merchant’s home.

A few months after the bonze left, misfortune after misfortune crashed down on the house of Meng. Several firms that owed him huge sums suddenly failed, and he could not pay his own debts. He paid out everything he had, down to the last coin, and was left completely penniless. The blow weighed so heavily on him that he fell gravely ill, and after a few days of terrible suffering he died, leaving his wife and son alone and grieving.

After a while Chin remembered the rich and distinguished man who had been so eager to have him as a son-in-law. Talking it over with his heartbroken mother, he set out on foot for that distant city, hoping that his future father-in-law would be moved by the family’s misfortunes and lend him a hand when even Heaven seemed to have abandoned him.

Exhausted, he arrived around noon at the gates of the great mansion, only to find them shut and barred as if against an enemy. When he called to the porter to open up, he was told that the master had ordered that he was not to be let in under any circumstances.

“Do you know who I am?” Chin asked. “The owner of this house is my father-in-law, and his daughter is promised to me. You should not keep me standing out here when I ought to be welcomed with all the honors due to a son-in-law.”

“I’ve been warned about you specially,” said the surly gatekeeper. “You call yourself a son-in-law, but no such relationship will be recognized in this house. My master has heard that your father’s business collapsed and that he is dead, and he says he wants nothing to do with doubtful characters or bankrupts.”

Chin, who had his father’s fine and generous spirit, was so appalled that he hurried away from the gate, resolved to bear any hardship rather than accept a favor from such a mean-spirited man. As he crossed the road in utter despair, wondering how he would ever get home, a woman in one of the humble cottages by the roadside beckoned him in.

“You look troubled, sir, and worn out from a long journey,” she said. “My children and I are just sitting down to our midday meal, and we would be glad to have you join us. I saw how roughly they treated you at the rich man’s gate. Never mind. Heaven knows how you have been wronged, and in time you will be avenged.” Comforted by her kind words and motherly welcome, Chin set out for home, and after much hardship he reached it. There he found his mother in the deepest poverty, still grieving for her noble husband.

Almost as soon as Chin had been turned away, the rich man’s daughter, Water-Lily, learned how insultingly he had been treated. Heartbroken, she begged her mother to persuade her father to give up his plan of marrying her to a wealthy man of the neighborhood. “My father may choose another husband for me,” she said, “but I will never marry anyone but Chin. All the rites have been performed that bind me to him for life. To cast him off now because disaster has struck his home is to invite the anger of the gods, who will surely punish us for going against their laws.”

Her pleas had no effect. Her father hurried the wedding preparations along, anxious to marry her off before Chin could appear again to claim her. But Water-Lily was just as determined as he was. When she saw that in a few days the red bridal chair would come to carry her to her new husband, she decided on a bold plan.

The next morning, at the first light of dawn, the side gate of the rich man’s house opened quietly, and out slipped a wretched-looking beggar woman who hurried through the gray streets toward the open country. Her rags seemed held together by some invisible force, her hair was tangled in uncombed knots, her face was black with dirt, and a large, filthy patch covered one ear so its shape could not be seen. No one would have looked twice at her. Yet she was the loveliest woman in the region: Water-Lily herself, the famous beauty of the town, disguised to escape the fate her father had planned.

For many weary months she travelled on, enduring great hardships and adventures that, the storyteller says, would fill a thrilling book. Though she had been raised in luxury, she bore the shame and want of a beggar’s life rather than be false to the man she believed Heaven had given her.

One evening, as shadows fell over the bare outer courtyard of Chin’s home, a pitiful beggar woman stood timidly at the front door, gazing wistfully into the room that faced the street. She did not say a word or ask for anything. Soon Chin’s mother came out. Seeing the ragged, silent figure, who looked as if she expected to be scolded and sent away, she was overcome with pity and went to comfort her gently.

To her surprise, the grimy stranger was deeply shaken by her kindness. Big tears rolled down her dirty cheeks, leaving narrow white streaks, and soon she was sobbing and wringing her hands. As Mrs. Meng watched her with deep sympathy, the large patch that hid and disfigured the beggar’s face suddenly fell to the ground. Out looked a pair of the most beautiful black eyes, and Mrs. Meng saw that the girl’s features were perfect, as graceful as those of the famous beauties painted by China’s great artists.

“Tell me who you are,” she cried, laying a tender hand on the girl’s shoulder, “for I will never believe you are a common beggar. You must be the daughter of some great house, disguised to escape some terrible evil. Trust me, and I will do everything one woman can do for another. Come in, dear child, and let us find a way for me to help you. I have never felt my heart drawn to a stranger like this.”

She led the girl into her bedroom, where Water-Lily threw off her beggar’s rags, told her remarkable story, and revealed that she was Mrs. Meng’s daughter-in-law.

Her romantic arrival brought a sudden ray of happiness to the gloomy, troubled house, but there was still the question of how they were to live. They had nothing, and their only hope of meeting even their small expenses was to sell the house. They decided to sell first the unused outbuildings where Chin and the Buddhist priest used to spend part of each day.

To decide on a price, Chin went to see what state the buildings were in. Tall grass had grown up around them, and they looked so neglected that he feared they were worth very little. He went in through an open door half blocked by a creeping vine and looked around with a sinking heart. The air was damp and musty, white mold gleamed on the walls, and cobwebs hung in long streamers from the beams. He threw the windows open to let in the sunshine and became sure that, without costly repairs, no one would ever want to buy the place.

As he stood thinking, a silvery gleam caught his eye from a spot on the earthen floor where some animal had scratched away the surface. Looking closer, he saw it was one of the tiles the bonze had made him bury. When he picked it up, he discovered to his amazement that it had somehow turned into silver! Digging further, he found that every tile hidden under the floor of that old, apparently useless building had changed in the same way.

It took several days to move the treasure to a safe place in the house. By a rough count, Chin found he now owned several million dollars’ worth, and from being one of the poorest men in town he had become a millionaire. The narrator interprets the treasure as the gods’ reward for Meng’s care of others: his surviving household became wealthier than it had been during his lifetime.

Where this tale comes from

“The Fairy Bonze” is the fourth chapter of Chinese Folk-Lore Tales by the Rev. J. Macgowan, a book Macmillan of London published in 1910. A bonze is a Buddhist monk, and Macgowan’s storyteller reveals partway through that this one is a fairy sent by the rulers of the Western Heaven.

Macgowan contrasts charity with status-seeking and closes with a supernatural reward. This adaptation omits his sweeping national claim about wealthy people’s motives; the conduct of these particular households gives readers enough to compare.

Read the original: Chinese Folk-Lore Tales by J Macgowan, at Project Gutenberg

Best for ages 9–12 with discussion: financial ruin, a parent’s death, hunger, coercive marriage plans and a difficult journey in disguise. The silver treasure belongs to fantasy, not a promise that kindness always prevents poverty.

Reading the story closely

Three doorways test hospitality: Meng welcomes the unknown monk, Water-Lily’s father bars Chin after his loss of wealth, and Mrs. Meng comforts an apparent beggar before learning her identity. The roadside woman’s meal also helps Chin without any claim to social rank. These small acts keep people alive before the spectacular treasure appears.

Compare what has changed when the tiles are found and what cannot change. Chin gains resources and a partner who chose him, but Meng has already died. The reward reaches his household rather than restoring his life. Trace the buried tiles from apparently pointless work to neglected buildings to discovered silver; the delay lets the story reveal character under pressure instead of making wealth its only evidence of goodness.

Talk about it

• Why do you think the bonze asked Chin to bury the tiles instead of simply giving the family money?
• How are Water-Lily and her father different in the way they treat Chin after his father’s ruin?
• Mrs. Meng offers comfort before she recognizes the visitor. How does that compare with the reception Chin receives at the rich man’s gate?

Related stories

• The Favorite of Fortune and the Child of Ill Luck — a faithful bride who stands by a poor husband
• The God of the City — another Macgowan tale of heavenly justice
• Sam-Chung and the Water Demon — fairies sent from the Western Heaven to help a good man