At Ch'ang-ch'ing there lived a Buddhist priest of exceptional virtue
and purity of conduct, who, though over eighty years of age, was
still hale and hearty. One day he fell down and could not move; and
when the other priests rushed to help him up, they found he was
already gone. The old priest was himself unconscious of death, and
his soul flew away to the borders of the province of Honan. Now it
chanced that the scion of an old family residing in Honan, had gone
out that very day with some ten or a dozen followers to hunt the hare
with falcons; but his horse having run away with him he fell off and
was killed. Just at that moment the soul of the priest came by and
entered into the body, which thereupon gradually recovered
consciousness. The servants crowded round to ask him how he felt,
when opening his eyes wide, he cried out, "How did I get here?"
They assisted him to rise, and led him into the house, where all his
ladies came to see him and inquire how he did. In great amazement he
said, "I am a Buddhist priest. How came I hither?" His
servants thought he was wandering, and tried to recall him by pulling
his ears. As for himself, he could make nothing of it, and closing
his eyes refrained from saying anything further. For food, he would
only eat rice, refusing all wine and meat; and avoided the society of
his wives. After some days he felt inclined for a stroll, at which
all his family were delighted; but no sooner had he got outside and
stopped for a little rest than he was besieged by servants begging
him to take their accounts as usual. However, he pleaded illness and
want of strength, and no more was said. He then took occasion to ask
if they knew the district of Ch'ang-ch'ing, and on being answered in
the affirmative expressed his intention of going thither for a trip,
as he felt dull and had nothing particular to do, bidding them at the
same time look after his affairs at home. They tried to dissuade him
from this on the ground of his having but recently risen from a sick
bed ; but he paid no heed to their remonstrances, and on the very
next day set out. Arriving in the Ch'ang-ch'ing district, he found
everything unchanged; and without being put to the necessity of
asking the road, made his way straight to the monastery. His former
disciples received him with every token of respect as an honoured
visitor and in reply to his question as to where the old priest was,
they informed him that their worthy teacher had been dead for some
time. On asking to be shewn his grave, they led him to a spot where
there was a solitary mound some three feet high, over which the grass
was not yet green. Not one of them knew his motives for visiting this
place; and by-and-by he ordered his horse, saying to the disciples,
"Your master was a virtuous priest. Carefully preserve whatever
relics of him you may have, and keep them from injury." They all
promised to do this, and he then set off on his way home. When he
arrived there, he fell into a listless state and took no interest in
his family affairs. So much so, that after a few months he ran away
and went straight to his former home at the monastery, telling the
disciples that he was their old master. This they refused to believe,
and laughed among themselves at his pretensions; but he told them the
whole story, and recalled many incidents of his previous life among
them, until at last they were convinced. He then occupied his old bed
and went through the same daily routine as before, paying no
attention to the repeated entreaties of his family, who came with
carriages and horses to beg him to return.
About
a year subsequently, his wife sent one of the servants with splendid
presents of gold and silk, all of which he refused with the exception
of a single linen robe. And whenever any of his old friends passed
this monastery, they always went to pay him their respects, rinding
him quiet, dignified, and pure. He was then barely thirty, though he
had been a priest for more than eighty years.
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