letting the blood seep away, in the monastery Chuanqi was studying the teachings of peace and quiet, Chuanqi the monk who had once been a prince called Zhu Da.
The old empire was destroyed, but the mountains of Fengxin were still the same. The trees and rivers had not changed, and the cawing of the crows sounded no different from before.
In 1653 Chuanqi was admitted to the small circle of pupils of Abbot Hongmin. Four years later he completed his master’s examination. Now he was qualified to pass on the tenets of Buddhist wisdom to the younger scholars.
His former life as a prince seemed ever more unreal, as if it had been a lengthy preparation for the path he had now chosen.
‘Teach yourself how not to get involved,’ the abbot said. ‘Do not act; rather acquaint yourself with the feeling of wanting to act, but not doing so. Only act when what you are able to do corresponds with what you wish to do.’
The abbot smiled and added, ‘We were all princes once.’
Sometimes Chuanqi would stroll down into town, driven by curiosity to see what had changed. He wandered through the streets, gesticulating wildly and creating quite a sensation with his sobbing fits and outbursts of screaming. In the local taverns he drank wine until he fell down senseless.
People thought he was a madman.
Nobody knew, or even suspected, that inside Chuanqi the monk was the Prince of Yiyang from the last generation of the Ming dynasty.
The silence in the temple comforted him. He learnt to forget and he felt a powerful sense of calm permeate his whole being.
The pavilion afforded an expansive view across the plain to a distant chain of hills. One day – it was winter and had been snowing – he stood with the master by the balustrade on the terrace, enjoying the fantastic view.
‘Chuanqi,’ the abbot said, ‘you see the faintly curved line of the distant horizon in the snow? Practise absorbing this line inside you. Become one with things and flow away with them. This is the basic rule for preserving life.’
In spring, when the snow had melted, Chuanqi appeared before the master and said, ‘That line you talked about: I’ve absorbed it.’
Without moving, Abbot Hongmin gave him a long stare. Then he said, ‘Chuanqi, it is now time to discard your novice’s name. Today I will give you a new one. From now on you will be called Xuege – snow aside. You are now a master of the inner world and ready for the teachings of the outer world.’
10 Abbot Hongmin knew of Xuege’s desire to become a painter, but until then he had strictly forbidden him to touch a paintbrush. On that day in spring 1658, in the fourteenth year of the Qing dynasty, he believed the moment had come to begin the painting lessons.
The master gave Xuege a brush which was as long as his legs and as thick as a young tree trunk. He instructed his pupil to stretch out his arms and hold the brush by its loop so that the tips of the bristles just touched the floor.
In the tea room the master had made a large square with rolls of rice paper. The abbot pointed to a wooden tub in the corner and said, ‘Dip the brush into the bucket and wipe off the ink a few times on the rim. Then go back to your place without delay.’
When the brush was saturated with black ink it was considerably heavier. Xuege had trouble lifting it high enough to wipe it on the edge of the tub. He returned to his place, held the brush with outstretched arms as the master had instructed and watched a black dot appear on the paper, which began expanding rapidly as the ink flowed out.
The master stood behind him, breathing words into Xuege’s ear: ‘Pace out a circle, painting it as you move. Keep going in a circle until the trace of your brush has faded.’
His muscles tensed, Xuege held the brush vertically over the sheet so that the tips of the bristles were just touching the paper, and moved forwards, step by step. After the first circle Hongmin noticed that Xuege’s lips were pressed
The old empire was destroyed, but the mountains of Fengxin were still the same. The trees and rivers had not changed, and the cawing of the crows sounded no different from before.
In 1653 Chuanqi was admitted to the small circle of pupils of Abbot Hongmin. Four years later he completed his master’s examination. Now he was qualified to pass on the tenets of Buddhist wisdom to the younger scholars.
His former life as a prince seemed ever more unreal, as if it had been a lengthy preparation for the path he had now chosen.
‘Teach yourself how not to get involved,’ the abbot said. ‘Do not act; rather acquaint yourself with the feeling of wanting to act, but not doing so. Only act when what you are able to do corresponds with what you wish to do.’
The abbot smiled and added, ‘We were all princes once.’
Sometimes Chuanqi would stroll down into town, driven by curiosity to see what had changed. He wandered through the streets, gesticulating wildly and creating quite a sensation with his sobbing fits and outbursts of screaming. In the local taverns he drank wine until he fell down senseless.
People thought he was a madman.
Nobody knew, or even suspected, that inside Chuanqi the monk was the Prince of Yiyang from the last generation of the Ming dynasty.
The silence in the temple comforted him. He learnt to forget and he felt a powerful sense of calm permeate his whole being.
The pavilion afforded an expansive view across the plain to a distant chain of hills. One day – it was winter and had been snowing – he stood with the master by the balustrade on the terrace, enjoying the fantastic view.
‘Chuanqi,’ the abbot said, ‘you see the faintly curved line of the distant horizon in the snow? Practise absorbing this line inside you. Become one with things and flow away with them. This is the basic rule for preserving life.’
In spring, when the snow had melted, Chuanqi appeared before the master and said, ‘That line you talked about: I’ve absorbed it.’
Without moving, Abbot Hongmin gave him a long stare. Then he said, ‘Chuanqi, it is now time to discard your novice’s name. Today I will give you a new one. From now on you will be called Xuege – snow aside. You are now a master of the inner world and ready for the teachings of the outer world.’
10 Abbot Hongmin knew of Xuege’s desire to become a painter, but until then he had strictly forbidden him to touch a paintbrush. On that day in spring 1658, in the fourteenth year of the Qing dynasty, he believed the moment had come to begin the painting lessons.
The master gave Xuege a brush which was as long as his legs and as thick as a young tree trunk. He instructed his pupil to stretch out his arms and hold the brush by its loop so that the tips of the bristles just touched the floor.
In the tea room the master had made a large square with rolls of rice paper. The abbot pointed to a wooden tub in the corner and said, ‘Dip the brush into the bucket and wipe off the ink a few times on the rim. Then go back to your place without delay.’
When the brush was saturated with black ink it was considerably heavier. Xuege had trouble lifting it high enough to wipe it on the edge of the tub. He returned to his place, held the brush with outstretched arms as the master had instructed and watched a black dot appear on the paper, which began expanding rapidly as the ink flowed out.
The master stood behind him, breathing words into Xuege’s ear: ‘Pace out a circle, painting it as you move. Keep going in a circle until the trace of your brush has faded.’
His muscles tensed, Xuege held the brush vertically over the sheet so that the tips of the bristles were just touching the paper, and moved forwards, step by step. After the first circle Hongmin noticed that Xuege’s lips were pressed
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