宋高僧傳 18.26

18.26

釋慧昭，未詳何許人。其為僧也，性僻而高，恒修禪定，貌頗衰羸，好言人之休戚，而皆必中。與人交言，且不馴狎。閉關自處，左右無侍童。每日乞食，里人有八十餘者云：「昭居此六十餘年，其容貌無異於少時昔日也。」但不知其甲子。元和中有陳廣者，由孝廉調為武陵官，而酷好浮圖氏。一日因詣寺，盡訪諸僧，昭見廣，且悲且喜曰：「陳君何來之晚乎？」廣愕然，自揣平生不識此僧，何言來晚？乃曰：「未甞與師遊，何責遲暮？」昭曰：「此非倉卒可言，當為子一夕靜話，方盡此意。」廣甚驚異，後時詣昭宿，因請其事。昭曰：「我劉氏子，宋孝文帝之玄孫也。曾祖鄱陽王休業、祖士弘，並詳於史氏。先人文學自負，為齊竟陵王子良所知。子良招集賢俊文學之士，而先人預焉。後仕齊梁之間，為會稽令。吾生於梁普通七年夏五月，年三十方仕於陳，至宣帝時為卑官，不為人知，徒與沈彥文為詩酒之交。後長沙王叔堅與始興王叔陵皆多聚賓客，大為聲勢，各恃權寵，有不平心。吾與彥文俱在長沙之門下。及叔陵被誅，吾懼不免，因皆銷聲匿跡於林谷，拾橡栗而食，掬溪㵎而飲，衣一短褐，雖寒暑不易，以待所憂之所定。無何，有一老沙門至吾所居曰：『子骨法甚奇，當無疾耳。』彥文再拜請其藥，曰：『子無劉君之壽，奈何？雖服吾藥，亦無所補。』遂告別，將去，復謂我曰：『塵俗以名利相勝，竟何有哉？唯釋氏可以捨此矣。』恭納其言，自是不知人事，凡十五年。又與彥文俱至建業，時陳氏已亡，宮闕盡毀。臺城牢落，荊榛蔽路，景陽并塞，結綺基頹，文物衣冠，蕩然而盡。故老相遇，相携而泣，且曰：『一人無良，已至於是，隋氏所滅，良可悲乎！』又聞後主及諸王皆入長安，乃率沈挈一囊乞食於路，以至關中。吾長沙王之故客也，恩遇甚厚，聞其遷往瓜州，則徑往就謁。長沙王長於綺紈而早貴盛，雖流放之際，尚不事生業。時方與沈妃酣飲。吾與沈再拜於前，長沙悲慟，久之瀝泣而起，乃謂吾曰：『一日家國淪亡，骨肉播遷，豈非天乎？』吾自此且留晉昌氐羌之塞。數年而長沙殂，又數年彥文亡，吾因剔䰂為僧，遁跡會稽山佛寺，凡二十年，時已百歲矣。雖容體枯瘠，而筋力不衰。尚日行百里。因與一僧同至長安，時唐高祖已有天下，建號武德。至六年，吾自此或居京洛，或遊江左，至於三蜀五嶺，無不住焉，殆今二百九十年矣。雖烈寒酷熱，未甞有微恙。貞元末，於此寺夢一丈夫，衣冠甚盛，熟視乃長沙也。吾迎延坐，話舊傷感，如平生時。而謂吾曰：『後十年，我之六世孫廣當官於此郡，師其念之。』乃問之曰：『王今何為？』曰：『冥官極尊。』既而又泣曰：『師存而我之六世矣，悲夫！』吾夢覺，因紀君之名於經笥中，至去歲凡十年，乃以君之名氏訪於郡人，尚怪君之未至。昨因乞食里中，遇邑吏訪之，果得焉。及君之來，又依然長沙之貌也。然自夢及今十一年矣！故訝君之晚也。」已而悲惋，泣下數行，因出經笥示之。廣再拜，願執屨錫為弟子。昭曰：「君且去，翌日當再來。」廣受教而還，明日至其居，昭已遁去，莫知其適。時元和十一年也。至大和初，廣為巴州掾，於山南道路逢昭，驚喜再拜曰：「願棄官，請從師為物外之遊。」昭亦許之，其夕偕舍于逆旅。至天將曙，廣早起而省昭已去矣。廣茫然若有所喪，神情沮敗，自是盡不知所往也。然則昭自梁普通七年生，于時歲在丙午，下至唐元和十年乙未，凡二百九十年，則與昭言如合符契焉。

Shi Huizhao's origins are unknown. As a monk, he had a solitary and lofty disposition, constantly practiced dhyāna meditation, and appeared rather frail and emaciated. He liked to predict people's fortunes and misfortunes, and was invariably accurate. In conversation with others, he was never overly familiar. He shut his gates and dwelt in seclusion, having no attendant novices at his side. Every day he begged for food. A village elder over eighty years of age said, "Zhao has lived here for more than sixty years, yet his appearance is no different from how it was in his youth in former days." However, no one knew his age. In the Yuanhe era, there was a certain Chen Guang who, having been nominated as a xiaolian, was transferred to become an official in Wuling; he was passionately fond of the Buddhist teaching. One day he visited the monastery and called upon all the monks. When Zhao saw Guang, he was both sorrowful and joyful, saying, "Why has Master Chen come so late?" Guang was astonished. Reflecting on his life, he had never known this monk, so why did he say he was late? He therefore replied, "I have never associated with the master; why do you reproach me for being tardy?" Zhao said, "This cannot be explained in haste. I must have a quiet evening conversation with you before fully conveying this matter." Guang was extremely amazed. Later, he went to stay overnight with Zhao and asked about the matter. Zhao said, "I am a son of the Liu family, a great-great-grandson of Emperor Xiaowen of Song. My great-grandfather, Prince of Poyang Xiuye, and my grandfather, Shihong, are both recorded in detail by the historians. My late father took pride in his literary learning and was recognized by Prince of Jingling Ziliang of the Qi dynasty. When Ziliang summoned and gathered talented and literary scholars, my late father was among them. Later, serving between the Qi and Liang dynasties, he became the magistrate of Kuaiji. I was born in the summer, the fifth month of the seventh year of the Putong era of Liang. At thirty years of age, I first took office under the Chen dynasty. By the time of Emperor Xuan, I held a petty official post and was unknown to others, merely being a drinking and poetry companion of Shen Yanwen. Later, King of Changsha Shujian and King of Shixing Shuling both gathered many guests, creating great influence and momentum. Each relied on imperial favor and harbored discontented ambitions. Yanwen and I were both under Changsha's faction. When Shuling was executed, I feared I would not escape harm. Consequently, we both concealed our traces in the forests and valleys, gathering acorns and chestnuts for food, scooping water from mountain streams to drink, wearing a single coarse tunic without changing it in winter or summer, awaiting the resolution of what caused us anxiety. Before long, an old śramaṇa came to where I stayed and said, 'Your bone structure is very extraordinary; you will surely be free from illness.' Yanwen bowed twice and asked for his medicine, but the monk said, 'You do not have Master Liu's longevity; what can be done? Even if you take my medicine, it will be of no help.' He then took leave. As he was about to depart, he again told me, 'Worldly mortals vie with one another for fame and profit, but what do they truly attain in the end? Only the Buddhist teaching can cast this aside.' I reverently accepted his words. From then on, I paid no heed to human affairs for fifteen years. Then, together with Yanwen, I arrived at Jianye. At that time, the Chen dynasty had already fallen, and the palace buildings were completely destroyed. The palaces of Taicheng were bleak and desolate, thorns and brambles obstructed the roads, the Jingyang Well was blocked up, the foundations of the Jieqi Pavilion had collapsed, and the cultural institutions and robes of state had completely vanished. When former elders met, they held hands and wept, saying, 'A single man lacked goodness, leading to such an outcome! Destroyed by the Sui—how lamentable indeed!' Hearing that the Last Ruler and the various princes had all entered Chang'an, I led Shen along, carrying a single bag and begging for food by the road until we reached the Guanzhong region. I was a former guest of the King of Changsha and had received generous favor from him. Hearing that he had been relocated to Guazhou, I went straight there to see him. The King of Changsha had grown up amid fine silks and achieved high nobility early in life; even in exile, he did not manage a livelihood. At that time, he was drinking heavily with Consort Shen. Shen and I bowed twice before him. Changsha was overcome with grief, wept copiously for a long time, and then stood up, saying to me, 'In a single day my family and state collapsed, and my flesh and blood were dispersed—is this not Heaven's doing?' From then on, I stayed temporarily at the Jinchang pass among the Di and Qiang peoples. A few years later, Changsha died. A few years after that, Yanwen passed away. I thereupon shaved my head and became a monk, escaping to a Buddhist monastery on Mount Kuaiji for twenty years; by then I was already a hundred years old. Although my body was withered and lean, my sinews and strength were not depleted. I could still walk a hundred li a day. Then, together with a monk, I reached Chang'an. At that time, Emperor Gaozu of the Tang already held the realm, having inaugurated the Wude era. In the sixth year, from then on, I lived sometimes in the capitals Chang'an and Luoyang, or traveled east of the Yangzi, and even to the three regions of Shu and the Five Ridges, staying everywhere—for almost two hundred and ninety years until now. Even in fierce cold or intense heat, I have never had the slightest ailment. At the end of the Zhenyuan era, in this monastery, I dreamed of a gentleman with stately robes and cap; looking closely, it was Changsha. I welcomed him to sit, and we sorrowfully spoke of the past just as during his lifetime. He said to me, 'Ten years from now, my sixth-generation descendant Guang will hold office in this commandery. Master, please look after him.' I then asked him, 'What is Your Highness doing now?' He replied, 'I am a netherworld official of the utmost honor.' Then he wept again and said, 'The master remains alive while six generations of mine have passed—how sad!' When I woke from the dream, I recorded your name inside my scripture basket. Until last year, ten years had passed, so I inquired about your name among the people of the commandery, still wondering why you had not arrived. Yesterday, while begging for food in the village, I met a local clerk and inquired of him, and indeed found you. When you arrived, you still looked just like Changsha. However, from the dream until now, eleven years have passed! That is why I was surprised that you came so late." Having spoken, he felt deep sorrow, tears streaming down his face in several tracks, and he brought out the scripture basket to show him. Guang bowed twice and wished to carry his sandals and staff as his disciple. Zhao said, "You may leave for now; come again tomorrow." Guang received his instruction and returned. The next day, when he went to his residence, Zhao had already slipped away, and no one knew where he had gone. This was the eleventh year of the Yuanhe era. In the early Dahe era, when Guang was an assistant official in Bazhou, he met Zhao on the road south of the mountains. Startled and joyful, he bowed twice and said, "I wish to resign my office and follow the master to wander beyond worldly affairs." Zhao consented, and that evening they stayed together at an inn. As dawn approached, Guang rose early to check on Zhao, but he had already left. Guang was at a loss as to what he had lost, his spirits deflated, and from then on no one knew where Zhao went. Thus, from Zhao's birth in the seventh year of the Putong era of Liang, the year bingwu, down to the tenth year of the Yuanhe era of Tang, the year yiwei, a total of two hundred and ninety years elapsed, matching Zhao's words like the fitting of tallies.