The Painted Wall

M eng Longtan of Jiangxi and his companion Zhu, a licentiate, were passing through the capital when they wandered into a small Buddhist temple — nothing grand, just tight halls and spare monks' quarters, with one elderly monk who had taken up lodgings there. Seeing visitors arrive, the monk straightened his robes and came out to welcome them, leading them through to look around. In the main hall stood a clay statue of the Divine Monk Zhigong, and on both walls the paintings were exquisite, figures lifelike as breathing. The eastern wall showed celestial maidens scattering flowers. Among them one had her hair loose about her shoulders — she was lifting a blossom and smiling faintly, lips almost parted, eyes on the edge of spilling over. Zhu stood staring until he was lost in it — his spirit unmoored, his mind gone — and then his body lifted, floating as if riding cloud and mist, and he was on the wall. Meng Longtan of Jiangxi and the licentiate Zhu were lodging in the capital and happened to wander into a small monastery. The temple halls and monks' quarters were not very spacious; only one elderly monk had taken up residence there. Seeing guests enter, he straightened his clothing and came out to greet them, leading them around to look. In the main hall was a clay statue of Zhigong, and the paintings on both walls were exquisitely rendered — the figures lifelike. The eastern wall depicted celestial maidens scattering flowers; among them one girl with loose, hanging tresses held a flower and smiled faintly, her cherry lips almost moving, her liquid eyes almost overflowing. Zhu fixed his gaze upon her for a long time. Without noticing, his spirit was swept away and his thoughts seized; in a kind of trance his body lifted, floating as if borne on cloud and mist, and he was already on the wall.

He found himself among layered halls and galleries unlike anything in the human world. An elderly monk preached from a high seat, surrounded by people pressing close. Zhu joined the crowd and stood among them. He saw palaces and towers rising in layers, nothing like the human world. An old monk was expounding the dharma from a high seat, with many people standing around him, some with one shoulder bared in reverence. Zhu mingled with the crowd and stood among them.

After a little while someone seemed to tug his robe from behind. He turned: it was the loose-haired maiden, smiling broadly, already walking away. He followed, past a curved railing and into a small side room, then faltered at the threshold. She glanced back, raised the flower in her hand, and beckoned from a distance. He went in. The room was quiet, no one else there. He seized her — she did not resist much — and they were together. Afterward she closed the door and left, warning him not to cough. She came back at night, and again the next night. On the third day her companions noticed something, searched, and found him. They teased her: 'A little one already in your belly, and still wearing your hair loose playing the virgin?' They produced hairpins and ornaments and bustled her into putting up her hair. She blushed and said nothing. One of the others said: 'Sisters, we shouldn't linger here — those outside won't be pleased.' They laughed and drifted away. After a short while, someone seemed to tug his robe-hem stealthily. He looked back: it was the loose-haired girl, smiling broadly, already walking away. He followed, going past a curved railing into a small room, where he hesitated and dared not proceed further. The girl turned her head, raised the flower in her hand, and beckoned to him from a distance. He went toward her. The room was silent and deserted. He embraced her impetuously; she did not resist very much. They became intimate. Afterward she closed the door and left, instructing Zhu not to cough. At night she returned again. This went on for two days. Her companion maidens noticed, searched together, and found him. They teased the girl: 'The little one in your belly is already quite grown, yet you still wear your hair loose as if you were a virgin?' Together they brought out hairpins and earrings and hurried her into putting up her hair. The girl flushed red and said nothing. One of the girls said: 'Sisters all — we had better not linger; I fear the people outside will be displeased.' They all laughed and left.

“Visions arise from the one who sees them — what could a humble monk explain?”

Zhu looked at her now — her hair coiled high in clouds, phoenix loops drooping low — and found her even more beautiful than before. They were alone. As things grew intimate again, a sudden clatter of heavy boots rang out, sharp and deliberate, and with it the clank of chains, then a rising din of voices. The maiden started up. Together they crept to peer out. A golden-armored envoy stood there, black-faced as lacquered wood, chains in one hand and mallet in the other, the maidens ranged around him. 'All accounted for?' he said. 'All accounted for.' 'If anyone is sheltering a mortal, give him up now — don't bring grief on yourselves.' 'No one.' The envoy turned and surveyed the room with narrowed eyes, as if he meant to search it. The maiden went pale as ash. She shoved Zhu toward the bed. 'Get under — now.' She pulled open a small door in the wall and was gone. Zhu pressed flat under the bed and did not breathe. He heard the boots enter the room, then leave. Slowly the noise fell away. He lay there so long his ears sang with cicadas and fire burst behind his eyes. He waited for the maiden to come back. By now he had entirely forgotten how he had arrived in the first place. Zhu looked at the maiden: her hair was piled high in cloud-like coils, the phoenix loops hanging low — even more ravishingly beautiful than when her tresses had been loose. No one else was around. As they gradually entered into impropriety again, they suddenly heard the clanking clatter of what sounded like heavy boots, loud and sharp, accompanied by the jangling of locks and chains and a mounting clamor of voices. The maiden started up and they both crept to peer out. A golden-armored envoy stood there, his face black as lacquer, grasping chains and a mallet, with all the maidens gathered around him. The envoy said: 'All present?' They answered: 'All present.' The envoy said: 'If any mortal from the lower world is being concealed, report him now; do not bring suffering upon yourselves.' Again all answered: 'None.' The envoy turned back and looked around with startled wariness, as though about to search for someone hidden. The maiden was greatly frightened, her face like dead ashes. In a panic she said to Zhu: 'Hide quickly under the bed!' She opened a small door in the wall and fled. Zhu lay flat and did not dare even breathe. After a while he heard the boots enter the room, then go back out. Before long the commotion gradually receded. Yet outside the door there were still people passing and talking. Zhu crouched there a very long time; his ears buzzed like cicadas and fire burst behind his eyes — the situation was nearly unbearable. He simply listened quietly and waited for the maiden to return. By now he had entirely forgotten how he had come to be there.

Out in the main hall, Meng Longtan had turned around and Zhu was nowhere. He asked the monk. The monk smiled. 'He went to hear the teaching.' 'Where?' 'Not far.' After a time the monk walked to the wall and tapped it with one finger, calling: 'Patron Zhu — you've been wandering long enough.' Zhu's image appeared in the mural, standing with his head tilted, listening. The monk called again: 'Your travel companion has waited too long.' Slowly, Zhu drifted down from the wall. He stood there ash-hearted and wooden, eyes blank, legs soft as noodles. Meng was alarmed. Gradually, haltingly, Zhu explained: he had been lying under the bed, heard a crack like thunder, and came out of the room to look. They turned to the painted figure who had held the flower. Her hair was piled into a neat topknot. The loose tresses were gone. Zhu bowed to the monk and asked what had happened. The monk said, smiling: 'Visions arise from the one who sees them — what could a humble monk explain?' Zhu left with his breath stopped up; Meng left with nothing to hold onto. They walked out down the temple steps together. At this time Meng Longtan was in the main hall. He turned and in an instant Zhu was nowhere to be found. Puzzled, he questioned the monk. The monk smiled and said: 'He has gone to hear the dharma.' Meng asked: 'Where?' The monk said: 'Not far.' After a short while the monk went to the wall, tapped it with his finger, and called out: 'Patron Zhu, why have you tarried so long in your wandering?' Immediately Zhu's likeness appeared in the painting, standing with his ear tilted as if listening. The monk called again: 'Your travel companion has waited a long time.' Then Zhu drifted ghostlike down from the wall. He stood there ashen, motionless as wood, eyes dull, legs weak. Meng was greatly alarmed and gently questioned him. It turned out that Zhu had just been crouching under the bed when he heard the tapping like thunder, and so he came out of the room to look. They both looked at the painted figure holding the flower: her hair was coiled up in a high topknot — the loose tresses were gone. Zhu bowed reverently to the old monk and asked him the reason. The monk smiled and said: 'Visions arise from the one who sees them — what can a monk explain?' Zhu's breath was stopped up and he could not speak; Meng was shaken and at a loss. They immediately rose, descended the steps, and left.

The chronicler of the strange writes: 'Visions arise from the one who sees them' — this is the kind of thing a man of the Way would say. Let a person harbor licentious desire, and a degraded realm rises to meet it; let that degradation deepen into dread, and a realm of terror rises instead. The Bodhisattva transforms the foolish — a thousand illusions crowd up at once — yet all of it is set in motion by the human heart alone. The old monk was certainly compassionate. What a pity that upon hearing those words, not one person instantly woke, loosed their hair, and walked into the mountains. The Chronicler of the Strange says: 'Visions arise from the one who sees them' — these words resemble what a man of the Way would say. If a person harbors licentious desire, an indecent realm arises; if he then harbors an indecent mind, a realm of terror arises. The Bodhisattva transforms the foolish and ignorant — a thousand illusions arise all at once — yet all are set in motion by the human heart itself. The old monk's compassionate intent was genuine; it is a pity that upon hearing his words, no one attained sudden enlightenment, loosened their hair, and went off into the mountains.