In the reign of Emperor Shenzong of Song, the Hanlin academician Su Shi—courtesy name Zizhan, better known by his sobriquet Dongpo Jushi—was a native of Meishan in Meizhou, Sichuan. Among his friends was the Buddhist monk Foyin. Foyin had not been born a monk. His lay name was Xie Duanqing, courtesy Juelao, and he came from Fuliang in Raozhou, Jiangxi. As a young man he studied the Confucian classics and had a wide knowledge of ancient and modern learning; he also read deeply in Buddhist and Daoist texts and had a reputation for broad scholarship. When he came to the capital for the examinations, Su Shi heard of his talent, sought him out for conversation, and came to respect him greatly. They drank together, wrote poetry together, and became inseparable friends.
One year a severe drought struck. The imperial astronomical office submitted a memorial, and Emperor Shenzong approved a grand vegetarian feast at the Great Xiangguo Temple. Famous monks were summoned to preach the scriptures and pray for sweet rain to save the people. Su Shi was ordered to compose the prayer text and to serve as master of ceremonies for the feast. Three days beforehand he was to stay at the temple in ritual purification. Officials from the palace came to inspect the altar, and word spread that the emperor himself would soon arrive. A throne was set up in the abbot's quarters, and everything had to be arranged with the utmost order and dignity. The temple was swept until not a speck of dust remained and decorated as if with ten thousand brocades. The prefect sent guards to surround the grounds and keep idle people out, lest someone accidentally offend the imperial procession.
When Xie Duanqing heard about this while sitting with Su Shi, he asked whether his elder brother might take him into the temple for a glimpse of the emperor's face. Su Shi could have refused him outright, and that would have been the end of it. But he wanted Duanqing's company, so he said there was no difficulty: Duanqing need only dress as an attendant and serve at the altar. When the imperial carriage arrived, he would get a good look. Had Xie Duanqing refused to dress as an attendant, nothing would have happened. But in a moment of youthful curiosity he agreed readily. He borrowed the proper clothes, dressed himself carefully, and followed Su Shi into the temple. Su Shi had already arranged matters with the abbot, so that when the emperor's arrival was announced, Duanqing could take his place among the attendants and perform his duties. In quieter moments he sat with Su Shi in a clean room and talked.
On the day of the feast, the abbot struck the bell at the fifth watch and gathered the monks. Incense smoke curled through the air, lamps and candles shone brilliantly, five-colored banners fluttered, and the eight kinds of instruments rang out clearly. The ceremony was magnificent. Su Shi lit incense, bowed before the Buddha, and retired to a monk's room. Just after the meal, word came that the imperial carriage had arrived. Su Shi, accustomed to daily audiences with the throne, was not flustered; Xie Duanqing flushed hot and his heart pounded. He steadied himself, entered the Mahavira Hall, and mixed with the attendants, whose duties were merely to add incense, trim candles, arrange offerings, and set out lamps. Soon Emperor Shenzong arrived. Su Shi and the monks formed ranks and knelt in welcome, then followed him into the great hall. Palace attendants brought out imperial incense, and the emperor offered it with his own hand. Pure mats were spread, and he performed three bows. The abbot then led him to the abbot's quarters, where he ascended the throne. After everyone had bowed in audience, the emperor praised the beauty of Su Shi's prayer text. Su Shi bowed twice and said he did not deserve such praise. The abbot, having received permission, presented tea—and the one carrying the tea tray was Xie Duanqing.
Earlier, during the ceremony in the great hall, the crowd had pressed so closely that Duanqing could not see the emperor clearly. So he had deliberately taken the role of tea bearer and edged close to the dragon throne. He stole a look at the imperial countenance: truly a dragon-and-phoenix bearing, a face like the sun and sky. With the majesty of heaven so near, his hair stood on end and his bones trembled. He did not dare stare and hastily stepped back. But the emperor's dragon eyes had caught sight of him. Duanqing had a broad face, large ears, fine eyes, thick brows, and a tall, imposing body unlike the other attendants, so the emperor looked at him more sharply. The imperial mouth opened and the jade-like voice asked the abbot: where was this attendant from, and how many years had he been at the temple? The abbot had not asked for such details and could not answer at once. Xie Duanqing, however, had presence of mind. He knocked his head on the ground and replied: This subject is named Xie Duanqing, from Raozhou in Jiangxi, and has recently entered the temple as a monk. It is my good fortune to behold the imperial countenance, and I am overwhelmed with joy. The emperor, pleased by his clear and quick response, asked whether he understood the scriptures. Duanqing replied that he had read books since youth and also knew something of Buddhist texts. The emperor said: Since you understand the Buddhist scriptures, I grant you the dharma name Liaoyuan and the style Foyin, and you shall be ordained as a monk before me.
Xie Duanqing's learning was equal to Su Shi's. He had come to the capital for the examinations hoping to make a name, establish merit, and build a career. How could he be willing to become a monk? But the saying goes that the king's words are words of heaven. To disobey an imperial decree was a crime deserving ten thousand deaths. Now that the jade voice had spoken, how could he say he was only pretending to be an attendant and did not wish to be a monk? In his heart he was more than unhappy, but there was no way out. He could only knock his head on the ground and thank the emperor for his grace. The abbot then led Duanqing back to the main hall to pay respects to the Tathagata, and afterward brought him before the emperor to be shaved and ordained according to the rite. He was granted a purple gauze kasaya. An official from the Ministry of Rites fetched a sheepskin ordination certificate, and the secretariat filled in the dharma name Foyin, his native place, and the date of his ordination by imperial command. Duanqing put on the kasaya, and with purple light seeming to rise around him he looked like a living arhat. Holding the certificate, he again knocked his head and thanked the emperor. Emperor Shenzong said: Since you are now a monk, I appoint you to assist in managing the feast. In days to come, keep the precepts strictly, and you may become abbot of this temple. Do not disgrace the Buddhist order or fail my expectations. With that, the emperor rose and departed. Su Shi and the monks knelt outside the temple gate to send him off, then returned to the feast.
From then on Xie Duanqing's former name was set aside, and he was called only Foyin, or Master Yin. Because he had been ordained by imperial favor, people respected him deeply. In the Song dynasty, ordination was taken very seriously; a single certificate could cost a thousand strings of cash. Duanqing had obtained his without spending a coin. Had he been a real attendant, this would have been a rare stroke of luck and a cause for great joy. But Foyin had been made a monk by accident, not by his own wish. For a time he was miserable and restless. Later he settled at the Great Xiangguo Temple, turned the scriptures, and became deeply versed in Buddhist teaching. His ambitions for fame and office gave way to a quiet, unforced practice. He was said to be the reincarnation of the Zen master Mingwu, so his roots were not ordinary; his shift from Confucian scholar to Buddhist monk was like snow falling into a blazing furnace. Su Shi, by contrast, was a man of the world, and his view was different. He thought: Xie Duanqing came to the capital for the examinations. I took him to the Great Xiangguo Temple and had him pretend to be an attendant so he could see the emperor, and because of that he was shaved and made a monk. Is it not I who dragged him into this? Now he lives in the dry austerity of the monastery, and he must resent me. Though he keeps the rules strictly, perhaps he only maintains the appearance and is not unmoved inside. So Su Shi often probed him lightly in conversation. But Foyin's heart was cold as ice and his mouth firm as iron; he never showed the slightest wavering. Su Shi simply did not believe it.
Later Su Shi offended a powerful minister with his poetry and was repeatedly exiled. In the Yuanyou era of Emperor Zhezong he was recalled and made a Hanlin academician again. By then Foyin had returned from his wanderings and was still staying at the Great Xiangguo Temple, still in vigorous health. When Su Shi saw him, he remembered the ordination of earlier years and urged him: If you are willing to return to lay life and take office, I will recommend you for a clean official post. Foyin would not agree. Su Shi mocked him with a verse:
No poison, no bald head; no bald head, no poison.
The more poison, the more bald; the more bald, the more poison.
Foyin laughed and gave no answer.
One day in early spring, Su Shi was sitting idly at home when a servant announced that the Zen master Foyin was at the gate. Su Shi had him invited in. Foyin entered the hall, and after the greetings Su Shi ordered tea. When tea was finished, Su Shi had the servants sweep a pavilion in the rear garden and invited Foyin to sit there. They took their seats in a small pavilion near the rear hall, and servants set out wine, fruit, and dishes. When all was ready, Su Shi had the servant pour the wine. The two drank together, and after three rounds Su Shi said: A banquet without music is no banquet. I have a young musician in the household; let her sing a few songs to add to the pleasure. He told a servant to send word inside. Before long Foyin suddenly heard a voice singing a lyric. It was truly beautiful: the sound was clear and the melody lovely, as if dust were falling from the painted beams; the words were true and the tune pure, as if a breeze were rising across the mats. It was like a wandering oriole singing in a royal garden, or a colored phoenix answering from Mount Dan. The lyrics were of the highest kind, and the tune was one of clear wind and bright moon.
When the song ended, Foyin said: Wonderful! Even the singing of Han E and the lyrics of Qin Qing could not have held back the clouds or kept the dust on the beams. Su Shi said: Why not leave a fine piece of writing, Master? Foyin asked for paper and brush. Su Shi had the servant bring the four treasures of the study and place them before him. Foyin said nothing aloud, but thought to himself: She sang extremely well, but I do not know what she looks like. He picked up the brush and wrote a lyric to the tune Xijiang Yue:
Layered curtains in a narrow court,
a small pavilion open to the breeze.
Green windows and red doors frame a beauty;
suddenly I hear her song winding through.
If my ears were fated to hear,
why are my eyes denied?
She is a goddess only inches away—
behind an embroidered curtain I cannot see her.
When Foyin had finished, Su Shi laughed aloud and said: What a pity, Master, that your lyric cannot see her. He ordered a servant to roll up the curtain—but only halfway. Foyin looked and saw the lower half of the girl, including a pair of tiny bound feet. He said nothing, but thought: The curtain is half rolled, yet the hook hangs low, and still I cannot see what she looks like. Su Shi said: Since you have seen her, Master, why spare another lyric? Foyin picked up the brush and wrote a lyric to the tune Pinzi Ling:
I see her feet and imagine a waist slender as if carved.
When her song ends it stops the clouds—how could she be held in the palm?
Drunk eyes are better going home,
forcing body and mind to empty themselves.
Again and again I wanted to lift the curtain,
but feared the host would be displeased.
Still not satisfied, Foyin wrote four more lines:
I hear only the clappers and the song,
not the flower-like, jade-like eyes.
If only a wind would rise from the ground
and blow the curtain up to its golden hook.
When Foyin had finished, Su Shi laughed heartily and ordered the embroidered curtain fully rolled up. He called the girl out. She came from within, looked at Foyin, and made a deep salute. She stood properly before the pavilion, composed her dress, and arranged her sleeves. Foyin looked at her: not only did she sing well—she was truly beautiful. Her moth eyebrows were lightly swept, her lotus face lightly powdered. She was delicate and ethereal, like a immortal beyond the world, yet natural and unforced. Her clothes were dyed like shark silk; she held ivory clappers, and the long tips of her fingers showed like bamboo shoots. She walked on golden lotuses, her phoenix shoes small and neat. She was like a goddess by the Luo River or a Chang'e facing the moon. Good, good, good—better than a heavenly maiden; strong, strong, strong—more beautiful than the immortal in the moon.
Su Shi called for wine and told the girl to come closer and pour for Foyin. He said: This girl's childhood name is Qin Niang. She has been in my household since she was small. She understands music, can play the seven-stringed qin, and knows the six arts. Now that you have seen her, Master, why spare a fine piece? Foyin was already eight parts drunk and said he must go. Qin Niang said: Master, sit a little longer and drink a few more cups. Foyin, prompted by what Su Shi had said, picked up the brush and wrote a lyric to the tune Die Lian Hua:
The pretty singer with clappers urges the guest to stay;
she sets her gold hairpin, ten slender fingertips showing.
Her song ends and rises beyond the sky;
the clear sound has already halted the passing clouds.
My ears had the fate to hear;
my eyes had the fate to see her before me.
Ear and eye have had their fate—
but where does another kind of fate lie?
When Foyin finished, Su Shi was delighted. He called Qin Niang to sing this lyric and urge wine, and they drank several more cups. Foyin became very drunk and did not notice the slip in his own words. As the sky darkened, Su Shi had servants help him into the study and arranged for the monk to sleep there. In his heart Su Shi thought: I have long wanted to persuade this monk to return to lay life and take office, but he has never agreed. Tonight he showed desire for Qin Niang. If I can get him to sleep with this girl, then his life as a monk is finished. Then I will have him in a compromising position and can force him to return to lay life. How could he refuse? A good plan, a good plan! He called Qin Niang before him and said: Do you understand the meaning of the monk's lyric? The last two lines say, My ears and eyes have had their fate; but where does another kind of fate lie? This monk is no good man; there is desire for you in his heart. Tonight you will go to the study and keep him company in bed. You must finish the matter and bring me proof. Tomorrow I will reward you with three thousand strings as a dowry, arrange your marriage, and see that you are married to a good man. If you do not finish the matter, tomorrow I will call the housekeeper and have you given twenty strokes with the bamboo, then drive you from the household. Qin Niang was frightened and trembling. She said: I will obey your command. She left the room, walked softly to the study, and entered with a shy face.
Foyin was dead drunk, unconscious, sleeping on a cool bed with the lamp still burning on the wall. Qin Niang had no way to rouse him. She sat beside the monk and tried to shake him with her slender jade-like hands, but it was like a dragonfly shaking a stone pillar or an ant trying to move Mount Tai. The monk snored like thunder; how could he be woken? From the first watch she shook him, waiting only for him to wake, and she kept watch until the fifth watch. Her heart was in a panic, and tears fell. She thought: If I cannot finish the matter tonight, tomorrow I will beg for twenty strokes and be driven from the household. What am I to do? But the monk was too drunk, and the matter could not be finished. As she wiped her tears, a drop fell on Foyin's face.
Foyin started awake and opened his eyes. The lamp was still burning. In its light he saw a beautiful woman sitting beside him. Foyin was greatly startled and asked: Whose daughter are you? Coming here deep in the night—what is the meaning of this? Qin Niang, both frightened and glad, put on a shy face, made a salute, and said: I am Qin Niang, who sang for you today. I heard that there was desire for me in the Master's lyric, so I came secretly at night when no one would know, hoping to share the joy of cloud and rain with the Master. I beg you not to refuse. When Foyin heard this, he was shocked and said: Lady, you are mistaken. Last night I was grateful to the academician for his affection and his wine. Being drunk, I wrote wildly. How could that lyric have any other meaning? Go back quickly. If outsiders see you, there will be suspicion even without proof, and my pure reputation will be ruined in a moment. Qin Niang would not leave. Foyin saw that she lingered and would not go, and said: I see, I see. The academician must have sent you to make trouble for me. I have practiced for years, amusing myself only with poetry and wine. How could I have worldly desires? If you tell me the truth, I have a heart to save you. If you do not, there is no other way. Qin Niang, hearing this, wept and said: It was indeed the academician who sent me. If the Master agrees to the joy of cloud and rain with me, tomorrow I will be rewarded with three thousand strings and married to a good man. If the Master refuses, tomorrow the housekeeper will give me twenty strokes with the bamboo and drive me from the household. I beg the Master to save me. Having said this, she bowed deeply.
Foyin laughed aloud and said: Do not worry. I will save you. He took a sheet of paper from his book bag—there were writing tools ready on the desk—and picked up the brush. He wrote a lyric to the tune Lang Tao Sha:
Last night I met a goddess—
it was fate, too.
Clearly, even in drunkenness, it seemed so.
When I woke it was all a dream,
yet she was beside me.
How can such a thing be spoken of?
How dare I return her affection?
I have not plucked a single string.
Tell Su Shi, the academician:
seal this matter up wherever it is found.
Foyin wrote on, still unsatisfied, and added four lines:
Tell the lovely woman of Mount Wu
not to trouble the King of Chu with dreams.
My Zen heart has already become like willow catkins stuck in mud;
it will not follow the east wind and dance up and down.
Qin Niang took the lyric and went straight back to the hall, where she presented it to Su Shi. Su Shi read it and was delighted. He went himself to the study and saw Foyin sitting cross-legged on a chair. Su Shi said: Good, good! A true Zen monk! He also rewarded Qin Niang with three hundred strings of cash and chose a good man to marry her. From then on Su Shi respected Foyin even more and made him an intimate guest of his inner quarters. Even when his wives and concubines were present, Foyin did not avoid them. Foyin often explained Buddhist truth to Su Shi, and Su Shi gradually came to believe. Later, when Su Shi faced death, he was said to have remained composed, and tradition holds that he had attained the fruits of practice. People still call him Su Po, the Immortal Su, and much of this was due to Foyin's guidance. A poem sums it up:
Su Dongpo could not convert Foyin;
Foyin instead converted Su Dongpo.
Had the power of Buddha not been boundless,
how could the boat of compassion cross the river of love?