Chen Zhelu of Yangzhou was a great joker. While I was on the staff of Commissioner Quan of the salt administration, Chen came daily to talk and jest. One day he said to me:
“In our district there is the Great King of Hanggou, the God of Wealth. On New Year’s Day, carrying the year’s celestial tribute up to the Hall of the High Firmament, he was stopped on the road by the God of Poverty, who demanded a loan of thirty thousand taels. ‘The tribute has its fixed quota,’ said the King. ‘How could I lend it to you?’ The God of Poverty insisted, and in the end the King took a small ingot from his robe and gave it to him. The God of Poverty was furious and went to complain to the Cultured Patriarch — the qilin-spirit of the sequel to the Journey to the West.
The Patriarch was sitting in the literary arena, crossing the brush-formation. Hearing the God of Poverty’s case he was enraged, and led the champions of the pen in a brush-formation to surround the King. The King drew his sword and fought, but wherever the brush-points reached, his men were scattered. In terror the King went to the constellation of the Star of Literature to beg help from the Emperor Wenchang.
The Emperor came out to see him. ‘We have never met,’ he said. ‘What brings you here?’ The King told him the cause. ‘You bullied others with your wealth and deserved this,’ said the Emperor. ‘But for a pen-point to hold the world in terror is no blessing to my teaching either.’ He ordered his Red-Robed attendant to summon the Star of Literature.
The Star came: a white, delicate face, as gentle as a maiden. The Emperor set out the whole matter and told him to settle it. ‘My face is not enough to frighten anyone,’ said the Star. ‘What can be done?’ The Emperor thought a long while. The Red-Robed attendant stepped forward: ‘Beg the Emperor to lend him a false face. Change the skin and anything can be done.’ The Emperor smiled and agreed, and gave him a golden measure besides, telling him to go with the King.
When they arrived, the Cultured Patriarch was wielding his brush like a rafter, boasting that he could sweep away an army of a thousand. The Star hurled the golden measure, and the brush’s strength could not hold; the Patriarch threw down his pen and fled. The Star recovered the pen and found the ingot the God of Poverty had borrowed, and returned with the King in triumph. The Emperor gave him pen and ingot both, and appointed him to hold the golden measure for all generations.
Which is why to this day the Star of Literature is painted blue-faced and hideous, a brush in his right hand, an ingot in his left, with a golden measure standing beside him.”
