The Puppet

In the lands south of the river there was a troupe of puppeteers, whose master's name was Zhou. He kept scores of wooden figures, carved by a master's hand, among them a young gentleman's puppet called 'The Third Lad,' so lifelike of brow and eye. Yet whenever the play 'The Parting Pavilion' was performed, strange things befell. At first, each time the troupe staged 'The Parting Pavilion,' at the scene where the Third Lad takes leave of his wife, the strings would slacken of themselves and the figure turn and whirl, covering its face as if to weep—no pipe, no string, yet a sobbing seemed to sound. The players were frightened and hurried to withdraw it. This happened thrice. Master Zhou, suspecting a haunting within the wood, cast the puppet into a ruined temple. The temple monk whispered that long ago a player named the Third Lad, who excelled at this very scene, had fallen sick and died upon the stage. His wife, whenever the play was given, would steal thither to watch, and return only when her tears were spent—unknown to any. At year's end the troupe performed again; the Third Lad was not among them, yet the empty chest at the corner of the platform stirred faintly. They opened it: the puppet lay there as before, its strings tied as ever. That evening, in 'The Parting Pavilion,' at the parting of husband and wife, the figure turned of itself, and faced an empty seat below the stage, as if to speak. Among the audience an old blind woman burst suddenly into tears—and men said this was the Third Lad's wife, fallen to wandering, blind now these twenty years. The Chronicler of the Strange remarks: The wooden puppet has no heart, yet it weeps at parting; men have many hearts, yet cannot bear a single farewell. Truth dwells within the play, and play within the truth. Behold the puppet's tears, and know that feeling cannot be carved away.