續高僧傳 7.13

7.13

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.