Pu Songling’s Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio is famous for its ghost stories, but beneath the supernatural surface lies a sharp eye for social criticism. One tale, “Jiao Ming”, appears at first glance to be a straightforward exorcism story: a high official’s house is haunted by foxes, and a Taoist priest from the Northeast saves the day with his magical arts.
But look closer, and a different story emerges – one that subtly mocks the very power structures of Qing dynasty Beijing.
The Historical Figures: Real Men, Real Power
The story’s protagonist, Dong Mohan (董默庵), was a real historical figure. His full name was Dong Na (董讷, 1639–1701), courtesy name Mohan, a native of Pingyuan County in Shandong. He was a tanhua – the third‑highest rank in the imperial examination – in 1667, and rose to become Governor‑General of Jiangnan and Jiangxi, and later Grand Coordinator of Grain Transport. Historical records praise him as an honest and capable official who “benefited the people”. When he was demoted, the common people of Jiangnan built a shrine in his honour and petitioned the emperor to restore him to office.
The second character, Sun Guangsi (孙光祀, 1614–1698), was also a real person – a high‑ranking official who served as Vice Minister of War and was known for his outspoken integrity. He was more than twenty years older than Dong.
So why would Pu Songling set a ghost story in the homes of two respected officials?
The Foxes: A Mystery Never Explained
The story begins with foxes throwing tiles and bricks at Dong Mohan’s house like hail. The family flees and hides; even moving to Sun Guangsi’s residence doesn’t stop the harassment.
But here’s the puzzle: the story never explains why the foxes are tormenting Dong in the first place.
In Pu Songling’s Liaozhai, supernatural disturbances rarely happen without reason. Ghosts and spirits typically haunt those who have wronged them – they are agents of moral justice. The fact that Dong’s house is haunted without explanation is unusual. And for a writer who consistently championed virtue and condemned vice, this silence is telling. Could Pu have heard something about Dong that didn’t make it into the official histories? Or was he subtly hinting that the “honest official” might not have been so blameless after all?
The Taoist Priest: A Name That Mocks
Then there is the priest himself: Jiao Ming (焦螟).
The name is a clue. In classical Chinese literature, jiaoming (焦冥) refers to a legendary tiny insect that lives on the eyelashes of mosquitoes – so small that even the mosquito doesn’t notice it. The Liezi (Lieh‑tzu) describes it as a creature that “flocks on mosquito eyelashes without touching each other”. The Yanzi Chunqiu mentions the same creature. Later, the Daoist philosopher Ge Hong used jiaoming as a metaphor for something laughably insignificant.
Why would a powerful exorcist be named after a microscopic insect? It can hardly be a compliment. Some scholars have suggested that Pu Songling chose this name deliberately, to imply that the priest’s magical powers were as insignificant as the creature he was named after. And indeed, in the story itself, Jiao Ming’s magic is hardly impressive:
- His first talisman fails completely – the foxes only grow bolder.
- When a maidservant tries to strike the fox, she collapses unconscious.
- The priest admits: “This creature is so unruly that even I cannot subdue it immediately” – hardly the words of a mighty exorcist.
So if not magic, what actually drives the foxes away?
The Real Power: Where You Live
The answer lies in a single, easily overlooked detail: Jiao Ming lived in the Inner City.
In Qing dynasty Beijing, the Inner City (within the old city walls, roughly inside today’s Second Ring Road) was reserved exclusively for Manchu bannermen and the imperial clan. Han Chinese – including high‑ranking officials like Dong Na and Sun Guangsi – were forbidden to live there. This was part of the Qing’s “separate residence” policy, designed to maintain Manchu dominance and prevent assimilation.
The Inner City was the heart of power: home to the emperor, the princes, and the Manchu military elite. To live there was to belong to the ruling class. A Han Chinese official, no matter how high his rank, could only rent a house in the Outer City – often in the crowded “Xuan Nan” area south of Xuanwu Gate.
Jiao Ming, a Taoist priest from “Guanwai” (the Northeast – the Manchus’ ancestral homeland), resided in the Inner City. This meant he had connections – perhaps imperial patronage, perhaps access to the highest echelons of power. His authority did not come from his spells; it came from his address.
When the foxes finally submit, it is not because of any dazzling magic. Jiao Ming simply commands them: “This is the imperial capital – how can you creatures be allowed to live here for long? Leave at once!” And they obey – not because of his talismans, but because he speaks with the voice of the Manchu establishment.
The Deeper Satire
Read this way, “Jiao Ming” becomes a sharp satire:
- A Han Chinese official, however virtuous, is helpless against supernatural forces.
- A priest from the ruling ethnicity, however mediocre his magic, commands authority simply by being from the right place.
- The foxes – perhaps symbols of resistance or disorder – are not defeated by spiritual power, but by the brute force of political privilege.
And the priest’s name – the “microscopic insect” – becomes ironic: his magic may be tiny, but his status is enormous.
Pu Songling, a Han Chinese scholar who spent much of his life as a poor tutor, knew well the inequalities of Qing society. He could not openly criticise the Manchu ruling class – but he could embed his critique in a ghost story, where a priest from the Inner City (a Manchu‑privileged space) triumphs not through virtue or skill, but through the sheer weight of his social position.
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