續高僧傳 7.13

7.13

釋洪偃。俗姓謝氏。會稽山陰人。祖茂恭和凝慎不交世俗。父藏博綜經史善屬文藻。梁衡陽王聞而器之。引為僚友。偃風神頴秀弱齡悟道。晝讀經論夜諷詩書。良辰華景未嘗廢學。自爾幼而聰敏。州里稱焉。及長遊聽京邑遍聞數論。後值龍光寺綽法師。便委心受業。特加賞接。以為絕倫。由是學侶改觀轉相推伏。二三年中便盡幽奧。乃開筵聚眾闡揚成實。舉厝閑雅詞吐抑揚。後學舊齒稽疑了義。橫經荷笈虛往實歸。由此仰膺法輪總持諸部。勇氣無前任其披解。宿望弘量因循舊章。偃屬思雲霄曾無接對。見忤前達不能降情。自是來學有隔。聽者踈焉。遂閉志閑房高尚其道。間以尋緗閱史。廣求多見。秋水春臺清文逈出。壯思雲飛英詞錦爛。又善草隸見稱時俗。纖過芝葉媚極銀鉤。故貌義詩書號為四絕。當時英傑皆推賞之。梁太宗之在東朝。愛其俊秀。欲令還俗引為學士。偃執志不迴故弗能致。會武帝發講重雲。延德肆問。而年非宿老座第甚遠。抗言高論精理入神。帝賞嘆久之。莫不矚目。偃形止自若神守如初。僉服其高亮也。及引進後堂。加優其禮。屬戎羯陵踐兵飢相繼。因避地于縉雲。眷眄泉石。又寇斥山侶。遂越嶺逃難。落泊馳滯曾無安堵。梁長沙王韶鎮郢。聞風敘造俄而渚宮陷覆。上流阻亂。便事東歸。因懷自靜有顧林泉。乃杖策若耶雲門精舍。歷覽山水。美其拪遲。登吳昇平亭賦詩曰。蕭蕭物候晚。肅肅天望清。旅人聊杖策。登高蕩客情。川源多舊迹。墟里或新名。宿煙浮始旦。朝日照初晴。獨遊乏徒侶。徐步寡逢迎。信矣非吾託。賞心何易并。遂汎浪巖峰。有終焉之志。葺修寺宇結眾礪業。逮陳武廓定革命惟新。京輔舊僧累相延請。乃顧山眾曰。吾勤苦積學五十餘年。事故流離未遑敷說。今時來不遂。何謂為法亡身乎。以天嘉之初出都。講于宣武寺。學徒又聚莫不肅焉。雖樂說不疲。而幽心恒結。每因講隙遊鍾山之開善定林。息心宴坐。時又引筆賦詩曰。杖策步前嶺。褰裳出外扉。輕蘿轉蒙密。幽逕復紆威。樹高枝影細。山晝鳥聲希。石苔時滑屣。蟲網乍粘衣。㵎旁紫芝曄。巖上白雲霏。松子排煙去。常生寂不歸。窮谷無還往。攀桂獨依依。會齊使通和舟車相接。崔子武等。擅出境之才。議其瞻對。眾莫能舉。世祖文皇。以偃內外優敏可與杭言。勅令統接賓禮。樞機溫雅容止方稜。敷述皇猷光宣帝德。才詞宏逸辯論旁馳。潤以真文引之慈寄子武等頂受誥命銜佩北蕃。帝嗟賞厚惠更倍恒度。皆推以還公。一無所納。是歲舊疾連發。聽者復疎。止於小室許有諮問。懷不能已情有斐然。乃著成論疏數十卷。剖發精理構思深劇。疾轉沈篤功不剋就。以天嘉五年九月二十一日至于大漸。神氣不昧。命弟子曰。眾生為貪心之所暗也。貪我則惜落一毛。貪他則永無厭足。至於身死之後。使高其墳重其墎。必謂九泉之下還結四隣一何可笑。而皇甫謐楊王孫。微得我意。雖知會歸丘壤。而未知初度之心。今冥目之後。以此脯腊鄙形。布施上飛下走一切眾生。若前身相負仍以相償。如無相對則生我檀善。此之微心亦趣菩提。物莫不共矣。言畢合掌。終於宣武寺焉。春秋六十有一。知與不知咸懷惻愴。即以其月二十二日。尸陀於鍾山開善寺之東崗焉。然偃始離俗迄于遷化。唯學是務。儉節掃衣弗事華廣。每緣情觸興輒敘其致。而文彩灑落罕有嗣者。綴述篇章隨手散失。後人掇聚集之成二十餘卷。值亂零失猶存八軸。陳太建年。學士何儁上之。封于祕閣。

Shi Hongyan's secular surname was Xie; he was a native of Shanyin in Kuaiji. His grandfather Maogong was gentle, poised, cautious, and circumspect, having no dealings with worldly affairs. His father Zang had an extensive command of the classics and histories and was skilled in literary composition. Prince Hengyang of the Liang heard of him, recognized his talent, and brought him in as an associate. Hongyan's demeanor and intellect were extraordinary; at an early age he awakened to the Way. By day he read sūtras and treatises, and by night he recited poetry and historical texts; through fine seasons and bright days he never set his studies aside. From that point on, being intelligent from youth, he was praised throughout his province and village. When grown, he traveled to the capital to hear lectures, becoming thoroughly versed in Abhidharma and scholastic treatises. Later he met the dharmabhāṇaka Chuo of Longguang Monastery and devoted his heart to training under him. [Master Chuo] paid him singular regard and received him warmly, considering him peerless. Due to this, his fellow students saw him in a new light and gave way to him in mutual deference. Within two or three years, he had fathomed all the esoteric subtleties. Thereupon he opened lecture mats, gathered assemblies, and expounded the Tattvasiddhi-śāstra (*Chengshi lun*). His deportment was relaxed and elegant; his delivery rose and fell with rhythmic grace. Junior scholars and senior masters alike came to resolve their doubts on explicit meanings; bearing texts and carrying satchels, they came empty and returned filled. For this reason, reverently upholding the wheel of Dharma, he mastered the various collections; with unmatched courage he analyzed and elucidated them freely. Senior figures of vast repute followed traditional patterns, but Hongyan focused his thoughts on high heavens and had no patience for flattering exchanges. When slighted by senior eminent figures, he refused to humble himself; from then on, students faced barriers, and audiences dwindled. He then shut his aspirations inside a quiet chamber, exalting his path above mundane things, and at leisure intervals browsed fine scrolls and read historical records, broadly seeking vast knowledge. In 'Autumn Waters' and 'Spring Terraces' his clear writing stood out far above the rest; his vigorous thoughts soared like clouds, and his elegant phrasings sparkled like brocade. He was also skilled in cursive and clerical script, being praised by his contemporaries; his delicate strokes surpassed glossy fungi leaves, and their charm exhausted the ultimate skill of silver-hook calligraphy. Thus his appearance, doctrinal skill, poetry, and calligraphy were acclaimed as the 'Four Incomparables'. The outstanding minds of the day all deferred to and admired him. When Emperor Taizong of the Liang was in the Eastern Palace as Crown Prince, he was fond of Hongyan's brilliance and wished him to return to secular life to recruit him as a court scholar; Hongyan remained resolute and would not turn back, so he could not be obtained. It happened that Emperor Wu initiated lectures at the Chongyun Hall, welcoming men of virtue and setting forth inquiries. Although Hongyan was not an elder master and his seat was far down the order, his defiant words and elevated arguments penetrated wondrously into spiritual subtleties. The Emperor praised and admired him for a long time, and all eyes turned upon him. Hongyan's posture remained composed, his spirit guarded as before, and everyone submitted to his exalted brilliance. When he was escorted into the rear hall, he was treated with even greater honor and ritual deference. It coincided with the incursions of the northern barbarians, when war and famine followed one another; hence he fled to Jinyun, cherishing its springs and rocks. Then, as bandits dispersed the mountain companions, he crossed mountain ridges to flee the calamity; unsettled and wandering, he found no resting place. Prince Changsha of the Liang, Xiao Shao, held garrison in Yingzhou, heard of his reputation, and arranged an interview. Soon after, Zhugong fell, and the upper reaches of the river were blocked by turmoil, so he traveled east to return. Cherishing a longing for self-quietude and longing for forests and streams, he took up his staff and went to the Yunmen Hermitage in Ruoye. Touring the mountains and streams, he took delight in his secluded repose. Climbing the Shengping Pavilion in Wu, he composed a poem saying: 'Bleak and chill, the seasonal airs turn late; / Pure and crisp, the sky stretches clear. / A traveler, leaning on his staff for a while, / Climbs the heights to dissipate his wandering mood. / Rivers and springs keep many old traces; / Hamlets and villages bear some new names. / Linger of night mist floats as dawn begins; / The morning sun shines on the first clear sky. / Wandering alone, I lack companions; / Walking slowly, I rarely meet anyone. / Truly, this is no home for my lodging; / How could delight and heart's ease easily unite?' Thereupon he drifted across rocky peaks, possessing the resolve to end his days there. He repaired monastery buildings and gathered a community to polish their practice. When Emperor Wu of the Chen established peace and carried out the mandate's renewal, senior monks of the capital repeatedly extended invitations. He looked back to the mountain community and said: 'For more than fifty years I painstakingly gathered learning. Due to the turmoil of events and exile, I have had no time to preach and expound. If I do not seize this opportunity now, how can I be said to give up my life for the Dharma?' In the beginning of the Tianjia era, he left for the capital and lectured at Xuanwu Monastery. Students gathered again, and all were filled with solemn respect. Although he was tireless in his joyful exposition, a hidden sorrow always bound his heart. Whenever there was a gap between lectures, he visited Kaishan and Dinglin Monasteries on Mount Zhong, stilling his mind in seated meditation. At times he took up his brush and composed a poem, saying: 'Leaning on my staff, I walk the ridge ahead; / Gathering my robe, I step out the outer door. / Light creeping vines grow ever thicker; / The secluded path winds and turns again. / The trees are tall, the branch shadows slender; / Midday in the mountains, bird calls are rare. / Moss on rocks makes my shoes slip at times; / Spider webs brush and cling to my clothes. / By the ravine, purple fungi shine brightly; / Above the crags, white clouds float and drift. / Pine cones drive through the smoke and depart; / The perpetual life stays silent and does not return. / Into the deep valley none come or go; / Clutching cassia branches, I linger alone.' It happened that the Qi sent envoys to restore peace, and carriages and boats arrived continuously. Cui Ziwu and others possessed outstanding diplomatic talent, and when deliberating on who should receive them, the court could find no one to recommend. Emperor Shizu Wen thought that Hongyan's inner and outer knowledge was refined and agile enough to contend with them in debate, so he decreed that he manage the reception rites for the guests. His speech was warm and refined, his posture dignified and upright; he expounded the imperial mandate and glorified the Emperor's virtue. His talent and phrasings were vast and unconstrained, his eloquence branching out effortlessly. Moistened with true scripture and directed by compassionate intent, Ziwu and the others reverently received the royal decree and bore their gratitude back to the northern border. The Emperor marveled, praised him, and rewarded him far beyond ordinary measure. Hongyan turned all the gifts over to the monastic community and accepted nothing for himself. That year, his old ailment recurred repeatedly, and his audiences thinned out again; he resided in a small room, allowing only occasional inquiries. His mind could not rest, and his expressive impulses remained fervent, so he composed several tens of fascicles of commentary on the *Tattvasiddhi-śāstra*. He dissected subtle principles and conceived deeply complex formulations, but as his illness grew grave, he could not bring the work to completion. On the twenty-first day of the ninth month in the fifth year of Tianjia, his condition became terminal. With a lucid mind, he commanded his disciples, saying: 'Sentient beings are blinded by greed. Greed for the self makes one begrudge the loss of a single hair; greed for others makes one insatiably grasping without end. Even after death, they make their mounds high and their crypts double, believing that beneath the Nine Springs they will still form neighborhoods—how utterly laughable! Huangfu Mi and Yang Wangsun slightly understood my mind: though they knew the body ultimately returns to the earth, they still did not grasp the original aspiration. Now, after my eyes close, give this desiccated, base body as an offering to all flying and creeping sentient beings. If in previous lives I owed them, let it repay them; if there was no mutual debt, then let it generate my virtuous generosity. May this subtle intention also proceed toward bodhi, shared with all things without exception.' Having spoken, he joined his palms and passed away at Xuanwu Monastery. His worldly age was sixty-one. Those who knew him and those who did not were all struck with grief. On the twenty-second day of that month, [his body] was exposed in a śītavana on the eastern ridge of Kaishan Monastery on Mount Zhong. From the time Hongyan left secular life until his death, he devoted himself solely to study; he maintained frugal restraint, wore rags, and never engaged in ostentatious extravagance. Whenever his emotions were moved, he would describe the sentiment, yet his literary grace was untrammeled and few could follow him. His drafted pieces scattered and were lost as soon as written. Later generations gathered and compiled them into over twenty fascicles. Having suffered loss during wartime, only eight scrolls survived. During the Taijian era of the Chen, the scholar He Jun presented them to the court, and they were stored away in the Imperial Library.