《歷世真仙體道通鑑》Vol. 48

Comprehensive Mirror of Immortals Through the Ages, juan 47

Chen Tuan

The Master’s surname was Chen, his personal name Tuan, and his courtesy name Tu’nan. He was also known as Master Fuyao. He was from Zhenyuan in Bozhou, the same hometown as Laozi. Another account says he was from Chongkan in Puzhou, but that was probably where he later lived in seclusion.

Chen Tuan could not speak when he was born. When he was four or five, he was playing by the Wo River when an old woman dressed in blue picked him up and nursed him. After that, he was able to speak and showed exceptional intelligence. As he grew older, he could read the classics and histories once and remember them completely. Another account says that, from the time he came of age, he no longer played like a child.

At fifteen, Chen Tuan had studied poetry, ritual, the Book of Documents, mathematics, and books on medicine and techniques of the arts; there was nothing he had not explored deeply. After his parents died, he said, “All I have learned so far is enough only to remember names. I will cast these things aside and go to the pines atop Mount Tai, where I can talk with immortals like An Qisheng and the Yellow Stone Elder about ways to transcend the world and seek the elixir of immortality. How could I be like worldly people, ingratiating myself with convention and sinking into the world, coming and going through the cycle of life and death?”

So he gave away all his family’s property and left with nothing but a stone pot. Tang officials and scholars admired his lofty character. They rushed to see him, hoping for a glimpse of his bearing as eagerly as if they were waiting for an auspicious star or a radiant cloud to appear. Chen Tuan, however, would have nothing to do with them and cut himself off from human affairs. Wearing a rustic cap and coarse clothes, he wandered about singing, and sat or lay wherever he pleased. Every day he strolled through the marketplaces as though no one were around him. Sometimes he climbed to the upper floor of a wine shop; sometimes he stayed at a country inn. He often traveled around the capital.

Later, Emperor Mingzong of the Later Tang heard of Chen Tuan’s reputation and personally issued an edict summoning him. When Chen Tuan met the emperor, he greeted him with only a deep bow. Mingzong treated him with even greater respect, bestowing on him the title “Recluse of Purity and Emptiness” and giving him three palace women. Chen Tuan submitted a memorial of thanks, saying:

“The beauties of Zhao and the refined women of the Han palace are gentle and graceful in their bearing, and were born into respectable families. Once they entered the palace, they enjoyed wealth and honor for a long time. In former days they lived in heaven; now they have fallen among humankind. I dare not take them into my private residence, and have respectfully lodged them in a separate house. My nature is like that of a deer, my whereabouts like floating duckweed and tumbleweed. I drift like clouds borne by the wind and wander like a boat with no mooring. I am sending them back to the palace.”

He also presented a poem for the emperor to read. It said: “Snow for skin, jade for cheeks; many thanks, my lord, for sending them here. The recluse was not born…” The original text ends here.

Because of the allusion to “the dream in Wu Gorge came to nothing; the clouds and rain troubled the terraces below,” he wrote to decline the palace envoy’s invitation and left at once. From then on, he traveled freely among mountains and rivers. He said that he had once met Lord Sun and the recluse who wore deerskin. They told him that Nine-Chamber Cliff on Mount Wudang was a suitable place for a life of seclusion. So he went there and settled down, practicing methods of absorbing Qi and fasting from grain. He lived quietly and in silence, remaining there for more than twenty years.

He wrote the eighty-one chapters of The Chapters on Pointing to the Mystery and fifty poems titled Returning the Elixir in the Inner Chamber. He also composed The Collection from the Fishing Pool, more than ten thousand words long, explaining in detail the mysteries of the Dao and encompassing the principles of utmost truth. One night, as he stood in the courtyard, he saw a golden figure holding a precious sword. The figure told him, “Your Daoist cultivation is complete. You should have a place where you can withdraw and spend your final years.” The Master said that the “place of completion” mentioned by the golden figure probably referred to autumn, when all things contract and return to storage; perhaps he was meant to live in seclusion in the west.

By then, he was over seventy. Before long, he moved to Mount Hua, cleared the thornbushes and weeds on the former site of the Old Cloud Terrace Abbey, and settled there, fulfilling the words about the “place of completion.” At the time, a tiger in the area was killing people. When he arrived, he ordered it to leave, and from then on it harmed no one.

During the Kaiyuan era of Emperor Xuanzong of the Tang, a man named Li Qi lived in seclusion at Huayang. His appearance was like that of a child. He could travel hundreds of miles in an instant and often visited the Master, exchanging poems with him. The Master frequently shut himself in and lay down, sometimes without getting up for several months.

During the Xian’de era of Emperor Shizong of the Later Zhou, someone came to visit. Looking through a crack in the door, he saw an empty room, with only animal tracks and birdsong. A woodcutter at the foot of the mountain saw what appeared to be a corpse covered in dust. He came closer and realized it was the Master. When he touched the Master’s chest, he found it still warm. After a long while, the Master’s breath returned. He sat up and asked, “I was sleeping soundly. Why have you come to disturb me?” Luo Yanwei, the military governor of the prefecture, reported the incident to Emperor Shizong. The emperor summoned the Master to the palace, where he remained for more than a month before he finally rose. The emperor asked him how to make gold and silver. He replied, “Your Majesty rules the realm. You should keep the governance of state affairs in mind. Why concern yourself with these lesser arts?” The account in Zizhi Tongjian gives much the same words.

The emperor did not take offense. He appointed the Master as Grand Master for Remonstrance, but the Master firmly declined. The emperor then bestowed on him the title “Master of the White Clouds,” sent him back to the mountain, and ordered the prefectural and county officials to visit him regularly.

The Master had the ability to serve the world and help the people. He lived through the turmoil of the Five Dynasties and Ten Kingdoms, and whenever he heard of a change of dynasty, he would furrow his brow and sigh. He once wrote in a poem: “For ten years my footsteps have roamed the dusty world; looking back, the green…”

The mountains and forests often enter my dreams. Even amid the splendor of the capital, enjoying every worldly luxury, how could it compare with sleeping peacefully? The grand families behind vermilion gates may be esteemed, but they are no better than … (the original text seems to have a gap here). When troubled, I hear the clash of swords and think of aiding a ruler in danger. When restless, I hear the music of flutes and songs and find it only a noisy disturbance to a drunken man. Taking my old books, I return to the place where I once lived in seclusion. Wildflowers and birdsong are everywhere, and the springtime is the same as ever.

One day, Chen Tuan, a Daoist hermit, rode a donkey to Huayin. When he heard that Emperor Taizu of Song had ascended the throne, he laughed aloud and said, “From now on, the realm will be at peace.” He then withdrew to Mount Hua and never returned to the world. Emperor Taizu summoned him, but he did not go.

In the early years of the Taiping Xingguo era, Chen Tuan finally answered the summons and came to court. Emperor Taizong presented him with a poem: “Once, under the previous dynasty, you emerged from among the white clouds. Later, your traces vanished, and nothing more was heard of you. If you are now willing to heed the court’s summons, I will grant you all three peaks.” As Mr. Chen neared the capital, he submitted a request for a quiet room in which to rest. The court granted him Jianlong Monastery. He shut the door and slept for more than a month before rising.

The emperor issued an order that Chen Tuan be received in the Yan Ying Hall as an honored guest, wearing a Huayang headcloth, the kind worn by Daoist priests, straw sandals, and a sash with hanging ties. He was given a seat, and the emperor spoke with him at length. At the time, the emperor was planning to campaign against Hedong. Chen Tuan urged him to call off the expedition. The army had already set out, and the emperor was displeased, so he ordered Chen Tuan to sleep once more in the imperial garden. After the campaign ended in defeat, more than a hundred days later, Chen Tuan asked to return to the mountains.

In the fourth year of Taiping Xingguo, Chen Tuan came to court again. This time he said, “Hedong can be conquered.” The court later sent out another expedition, which indeed captured Liu Jiyuan and took Bingzhou. The emperor said to his chancellors, Song Qi and the others, “Chen Tuan is a man beyond the world. He has lived on Mount Hua for more than forty years. I estimate that he is over a hundred years old, yet his conversation and insight are remarkably profound.”

The emperor sent an imperial envoy to escort Chen Tuan to the Secretariat. Song Qi and the others asked him in a relaxed manner, “Since you have attained the Dao of clarity and stillness, and Wuwei (non-action), can you pass it on to others?” Chen Tuan replied, “I do not understand the methods of breathing and nourishing life, nor do I know about immortals, alchemy, or turning metals into gold. I have no techniques to pass on. Even if one truly could ascend to the heavens in broad daylight, what benefit would that bring to the instruction of the world? Your Majesty is learned in ancient and modern affairs and deeply understands the principles behind order and disorder. You are truly a virtuous, benevolent, and discerning ruler. This is a good time for ruler and ministers to work together in governing the realm. Nothing matters more than diligently cultivating oneself and bringing good governance to the world.”

Song Qi and the others praised these words and reported them verbatim to the emperor. The emperor’s respect for Chen Tuan grew, and he issued an edict: “Chen Tuan, the hermit of Mount Hua, lives in seclusion among the mountains and does not make his presence known. He devotes himself to cultivating the Dao in a rocky cave, set apart from worldly concerns, and has grasped the profound meaning of the Great Dao. In the days of the Zhou dynasty, the court once sought out hermits and summoned him to the capital, but in the end he followed his lofty aspirations, like a wild goose flying far away, and remained in seclusion. Many years have passed since then. Now he has once again come to court as a man of lofty character; if we do not…”

His reputation brought him renown, and his lofty bearing was honored with the title “Master Xiyi.” The emperor summoned him several times to compose poems in response and asked, “If we wished to govern the realm as Yao and Shun did in ancient times, could we still do so today?”

Master Xiyi replied, “In the time of Yao and Shun, the halls were low and the roofs were thatched with grass; even the trees were left untrimmed. It may seem difficult to match them, but if the realm is governed through purity and stillness, through Wuwei (non-action), then one can become a Yao or Shun even today.” The emperor greatly admired his reply and dismissed the others. In private, Master Xiyi spoke to the emperor about where Heaven’s Mandate was destined to fall.

Emperor Zhangsheng wished to appoint him as a remonstrance official, but he firmly declined and asked to return to the mountains. He offered this poem: “A man of the fields has received our sovereign’s summons; yet my ambition to travel south remains. I, Chen Tuan, have lived in seclusion among the Three Peaks for ten years, an idle man in all the world. The ways of the world have always been cold and thin, but true delight lives within poetry. I ask only to preserve the free nature of a deer: wherever I may be, how could I fail to be called your subject?” Knowing he could not keep him, the emperor held a banquet in a side hall and ordered the chief ministers and officials of the Two Offices to attend and compose farewell poems for him, as a mark of favor. He also bestowed a tortoise, a crane, a saddle horse, and silk, and instructed Wang Zuo, governor of Huayang, to visit him regularly.

At that time, countless people were willing to serve him with staffs in hand and take him as their teacher. Later, the emperor again sent a palace messenger to the mountains with an imperial summons. Master Xiyi said, “I am deeply grateful for the sovereign’s kindness, but I still ask to remain on Mount Hua.” His resolve was unwavering. When the messenger returned to court and reported his words truthfully, the emperor sent another palace messenger with a handwritten edict, tea, medicines, and other gifts. He instructed the local prefect and county magistrate to present gifts according to proper courtesies, and specially sent a comfortable covered carriage to receive him. Such exceptional and generous treatment was rare.

Master Xiyi then submitted a memorial of thanks: “Your Majesty has filled a single sheet with a sincere and gentle decree, written out in careful detail; with profound kindness, you have also bestowed precious medicines. I receive your sacred favor with gratitude in my heart. I am merely an idle man in a peaceful age, a scholar of the Tang house. When the way of Yao and Shun flourished, the court made room for Xu You; when the Han dynasty prospered, it treated the Four Elders with respect. In every age, worthy people have chosen to withdraw from the world.

“Besides, my body is like withered wood, and my mind like dead ashes. I know nothing of the subtleties of benevolence and righteousness, nor of the rules for advancing and withdrawing in ritual. I wear ruined lotus leaves for clothes and bamboo shoot sheaths for a hat; green hair grows on my body, and I have no straw sandals on my feet. If I came to court, I fear I would make your enlightened Majesty laugh. I beg you to revoke your command and allow me to live in seclusion on this mountain. An enlightened age treats worthy men with generosity and does not abandon the precedents of earlier times. A few lines in vermilion ink have troubled the phoenix to carry them here; my quiet heart, meanwhile, has already been held fast by the white clouds. To drink from the old stream and listen my fill to the wind among the pines, to chant and savor the sun and moon…”

The Master was refined and self-possessed, standing apart beyond the clouds and rosy mists. Following his nature, he took pleasure in what he loved, his thoughts flowing freely, with little need for words. His spirit rose above the mundane world, and his body and mind seemed to float above clouds and mist. Though he devoted himself to seeking the foundations of the Great Dao, he could also fully cultivate himself in the realm of the sages. He did not presume to ask for special favor from an enlightened ruler; he only humbly asked that his sincere intentions be understood. With this, he respectfully submits his memorial.

The Master had a broad command of the classics and histories, and was especially versed in the Classic of Changes. He could discern people’s character and distinguish sages from ordinary folk. Before Song Taizu and Song Taizong had risen to prominence, while they were living in obscurity among the people, they associated with Lord Zhao Zhongxian in the city of Chang’an. The Master went with them to a wine shop, where Lord Zhao sat in the seat of honor on the right. The Master said, “You are no more than a small star in the imperial constellation of Ziwei, the Celestial Emperor’s dwelling. How dare you take the seat of honor?” When Zhou Shizong and Song Taizu were traveling together, the Master remarked, “Beyond the city, there are three currents of an emperor’s Qi.”

Zhong Fang initially followed the Master. The Master told him, “One day you will encounter a wise ruler, and your fame will reach the heavens. Fame has been prized throughout the ages, yet it is also something the workings of creation resent. I fear your fame may bring you misfortune.” In time, this prediction came true.

Before Lord Zhang Yong, posthumously honored as Zhongding, entered government service, the Master met him and immediately recognized that he was exceptional. Zhang Yong asked, “Could you give me half of Mount Hua to live on?” The Master felt that Zhang Yong truly could have withdrawn from the world. As they parted, he gave him paper and a brush. Zhang Yong understood the meaning behind the gift and realized it would draw him into worldly affairs. The Master also presented him with a poem:

“Summoning me to Shu was an ordinary matter;

there, amid a clamor of song and dance, I was busy putting out fires.

If I can find a lovely place in the southeast,

I should be grateful that my temples have already turned gray.”

Later, Zhang Yong passed the jinshi examination and became famous throughout the land. When he was about to take up an appointment in Jiannan, he sent the Master a poem:

“My nature is foolish and blunt; I cannot dwell

among mountain forests, springs, and rocks.

With all my heart, I wish to serve as an upright minister

and help the ruler.

Now I ride through the night toward Jiannan;

looking back at Mount Hua’s clouds, I cannot help but feel ashamed.”

When he returned to court, he wrote another poem:

“Most people prize rank and glory.

As I return east, crowds line the road to welcome me.

I imagine the lofty recluse on Mount Hua laughing at me:

my innocence is utterly lost, and all I have gained is an empty name.”

In his later years, Zhang Yong developed sores on his head, and later served as governor of Shengzhou. Every line in the poems the Master gave him came true.

After passing the jinshi examination, Lord Chen Kangsu (Chen Yaozi) went to visit the Master. At the gathering was a Daoist with his hair bound in a topknot, his manner proud and aloof. Chen Yaozi spoke to him several times, but the Daoist only said, “What I had to say at the Southern Hermitage has already been said.” Then he left on his own. Deeply astonished, Chen Yaozi asked who he was. The Master replied, “He is Zhongli Zi”—the immortal Zhongli Quan. Confused, Chen Yaozi wanted to pursue him. The Master laughed and said, “He has already traveled thousands of miles away.”

“What does ‘hermitage’ mean?” the master said. “In time, you’ll understand.”

Later, Lord Kangsu, an official posthumously given the title “Kangsu,” was transporting grain around Fujian. While traveling through the countryside, he heard a farm woman call to her son, “Go to the Southern Hermitage and hurry back with your father.” Greatly surprised, Lord Kangsu asked where the Southern Hermitage was. When he arrived, he found an abandoned Buddhist temple. A stone stele inside bore the inscription: “On such-and-such a day of such-and-such a month in such-and-such a year, the master of the Southern Hermitage passed away. His preserved body is enshrined here.” That was the very year Lord Kangsu was born.

Wang Shize of Qingyuan went with Han Jiansu and Zhao, an Advisory Official, to pay a visit to the master. Shize was then still a servant, so he bowed below the steps. The master said, “To slight another is to slight yourself.” He then invited Shize inside and seated him at the head of the gathering, above all the officials. “One day, you alone will stand at the head of the assembled ministers,” he said. Everyone present took this as a joke. The following year, Shize indeed came first in the examinations, and the others passed in due order as well.

The master could also foresee what others had in mind. A large gourd ladle hung in the fasting room. The Daoist Jia Xiufu wanted it, but said nothing. The master told him, “You have come here for no other reason, I suspect, than to ask for my ladle.” He then told an attendant to take it down and give it to him.

A man named Guo Hang lived in Huayin when he was young, and once spent the night at a Daoist temple. In the middle of the night, the master told him to hurry home. Guo Hang thought the journey was too long and refused to set out, so the master went with him. After they had walked a mile or two, someone suddenly came crying out with the news that Guo Hang’s mother had died. Only then did Guo Hang understand why the master had sent him home. The master gave him medicine and told him to hurry back, saying that she might still be saved. When Guo Hang arrived, his mother had stopped breathing. He poured the medicine into her mouth, and she came back to life.

After Advisory Official Xu Zhongxuan left his post as governor of Chengdu, he sent the master a letter and gifts, asking whether good or ill fortune lay ahead. The master told his disciple Jia Desheng to reply: “Once the Affairs Official has departed, he will not return.” Before long, Zhongxuan indeed died.

Later, the master rarely came among people, though at times he traveled around Huayin. When the county magistrate, Wang Mu, heard that the master had arrived, he hurried to greet him, putting his shoes on the wrong feet. After they had taken their seats, the master said, “I haven’t had wine in a long time. I’d like a little.” Wang Mu replied, “As it happens, I have some fine wine. It seems I knew you were coming.” He then ordered the wine vessels washed and food prepared.

As they drank, Wang Mu asked the master, “You live among the mountain rocks beside the stream. Which room do you usually sleep in? And when you go out, who keeps watch?” The master smiled faintly, took up a brush, and wrote a poem:

“High on Mount Hua is my dwelling;

when I step outside, I ride the morning wind through the air.

My terraces need no golden locks—

when I come, the white clouds seal them for me.”

After reading the poem, Wang Mu apologized to the master in shame. The master said, “Within a year, you will face a great calamity…”

Chen Tuan came intending to rescue his son. His son was dutiful in his official post, incorruptible and cautious, and regarded the common people as his own children; he could not bear to whip or punish others. He was also naturally intelligent and sharp. Therefore, even when disasters and troubles came, the gods protected him.

Chen Tuan took out a pill and said, “You can use this to ward off next year’s calamity.” His son rose, bowed twice, took the medicine, and swallowed it. In the middle of the night, Chen Tuan said he was going to the latrine, did not return for a long time, and then was gone. Later, when his son returned to the capital, his horse suddenly shied, and he fell into the Bian River. Fortunately, a good swimmer rescued him, and he escaped with his life. Chen Tuan also often went to the homes of common people below the mountain, and even today there are people who say they have seen him. Today Chen Tuan’s temple still stands in Xihua.

Formerly, Chen Tuan often associated with Cui Gu at the foot of the mountain. There was a man named Jin Li who wore official robes and often traveled among the mountains and waters. He visited Cui Gu and said, “I hope to rely on your introduction to meet Mr. Chen Tuan.” Cui Gu said, “Wait a little longer. The master is sleeping, and you can see him only after he wakes. As for when he will wake, it might be half a year, or perhaps three or four months; lately he is even less available, and I am afraid it will be more than a month. If you have business, go ahead first and come again another day.” Jin Li then left.

More than a year later, Jin Li traveled Mount Hua again and happened to meet Cui Gu; Chen Tuan arrived shortly afterward. Jin Li respectfully paid his respects to Chen Tuan and asked, “Last time I traveled Mount Hua, I wanted to see you, but it happened that you were fast asleep and had not awakened. Is there a principle in sleep as well? Please instruct me, so that I may understand what I have not yet grasped.”

Chen Tuan gave a laugh, hunched his shoulders, drew in his feet, lifted his face, and sat slumped, saying, “I did not expect you to be so shallow and petty. If you do not yet understand even daily life, sleep, and rest, then to want to escape birth and death and leap out of the cycle of rebirth is even harder. People today eat their fill and pass their days in ease, anxiously worrying only that food and clothing are not plentiful enough; when hungry they eat, when tired they sleep, their snores carry in all directions, and they wake several times in a night. Fame and gain, sounds and sights disturb the mind; wine and meat and pungent foods cloud the will—this is merely the worldly way of sleeping.

“When the perfected person (one who has accomplished cultivation) sleeps, he gathers Jing and Qi, regulates the breath and nourishes Shen, and drinks in the Jade Fluid; the Golden Gate (symbolizing an inner aperture) is tightly shut and cannot be opened, and the Earth Door (also symbolizing an inner aperture) is sealed and cannot be opened. The Azure Dragon guards the Green Palace (symbolizing the eastern direction within the body), and the White Tiger crouches in the West Chamber; true Qi circulates in the Elixir Pool, and Spirit Water (a Neidan term for the bodily fluids) circulates among the five viscera. He summons the spirits of Jia and Ding to keep watch in accordance with the hours and gathers the hundred spirits to guard his chamber. Then my Shen consciousness goes out from the Nine Palaces, freely roams amid the azure and jade, and walks upon emptiness, as if…”

The original text breaks off here.

He walked steadily upward, his feet firmly on the ground, yet with the ease of someone descending. Drifting slowly with a gentle breeze, he floated to and fro with the leisurely clouds. Appearing and vanishing at will, he could reach Mount Kunlun while seated, and wander among the blessed realms and grotto-heavens of the Purple Palace, where immortals were said to dwell. He absorbed the essence of the sun and moon, admired the splendid beauty of clouds, mist, and rosy sunset light, and visited perfected beings to discuss truths beyond the world of ordinary affairs. He met with celestial maidens, traveled through distant lands, watched the blue sea turn into mulberry fields, discoursed on the transformations of Yin-Yang, and gave a long, ringing shout.

When his pleasure was spent and he wished to return, he stepped upon the clear breeze, his body suspended amid the glow of the setting sun. Thus, in sleep he knew no passing of the years and felt no concern over valleys changing their shape. In response to your question, he composed this poem:

“Ordinary people have little they truly value; sleep alone they prize above all. The people of the world regard sleep as rest, thinking that the hun and po souls leave the body and the body lies still. Yet when they wake, they know nothing at all, while their desire to grasp grows ever more active. How laughable are people in the dusty world, unaware that they are living in a dream.”

He then composed another poem:

“The Perfected have no dreams. Even when they dream, they roam through immortal realms. The Realized have no sleep. Even when they sleep, they are as free as floating clouds. The immortal medicine endures within the alchemical furnace; within the gourd lies another world. Know that the human world within sleep and dreams is the most mysterious place of all.”

“A great dream brings great awakening; a small dream brings small awakening. My sleep is true sleep, and my dreams are true dreams, unlike the dreams of ordinary people.”

The Master said, “I will not sleep for long again, so you need not leave. Come visit me another day, and I will show you true sleep.” The Master then departed. Li, like someone just awakened from drunkenness, was dazed and did not realize he had already gone out; he made his way home.

Another day, Li visited the Master again. The Master spoke of the secrets of nurturing life, explaining in full the mysterious methods and revealing the mysteries of the Great Mystery. He said, “One day I shall sleep; you may come then.” Li went as promised, but the Master had already fallen asleep. He saw the Master lying on his back, his breathing scarcely audible and his face glowing with a healthy flush. After bowing before the bed, he left.

On another day, a visitor came and happened upon the Master while he was asleep. Nearby, an immortal was listening closely to the sound of the Master’s breathing, recording what he heard on paper with an ink brush. He did this several times, until the page was covered in ink and the writing could no longer be made out. The visitor was puzzled and asked the reason. The immortal said, “The Master is regulating his breath in the realm of Huaxu, the ideal dreamland of ancient legend. This is the score of chaos.”

In his leisure, the Master enjoyed traveling about. When inspiration came, he would recite poems; whenever he encountered a scene, verses would come to him spontaneously. Once, he inscribed a poem on West Peak:

“Because I love the view from West Peak, all day I gaze upward. Red blossoms cluster among the crags; the green stream winds along in a twisting line. For several nights the mountains have hidden the new moon; along half the river valley, not a trace of sunset can be seen. I send word…”

The “Recluse Who Withdraws from the World” sang:

“This is where the immortals make their country homes. At midnight, a heavenly fragrance drifts into the valley; the west wind blows lotus flowers from the mountain crest. I take delight in the palm print that reaches into the blue sky, yet no one…”

These lines seem to be incomplete, and their meaning is difficult to establish with certainty.

The Venerable Giant Spirit once met the Maiden of Mao, a legendary immortal maiden, and gave her this poem:

“The gathered shoots of medicinal herbs do not fill a bamboo basket, so we climb once more to the rugged summit. Turning back, we point out the road home, then walk together into the emerald clouds and mist.”

He wrote another poem:

“Once I broke off a pine branch and made it into a precious comb; then I wove oak leaves into a robe. Sometimes, when I ask about old affairs of the Qin palace, she smiles, twirls an immortal flower in her fingers, and gazes into the Great Void—the sky, the emptiness.”

Lü Dongbin, a recluse from the Guanzhong region, possessed Daoist arts. Though he might be hundreds of miles away, he could arrive in an instant, and people believed him to be an immortal. He often visited the Venerable, and the two were friends, composing poems in response to one another.

Once, in a spring month, the Venerable was strolling among the stones by the water on Mount Hua when he saw Lord Hu, Red Pine, and Lü Dongbin arrive one after another. The four immortals had not been talking long when the earth deity presented them with a plate of fruit and a vessel of wine. They drank until pleasantly tipsy, and each composed a poem.

The Venerable said:

“The spring day is warm, and half the flowers are in bloom. I wander at ease among stones, once leading a horse adorned with a jade bridle through green moss and blue stone. I sleep in a cave for years beyond counting, then drink a thousand cups of rosy wine alone. When I meet people, I speak no worldly things; I only smile and point out how the white clouds come and go.”

Lord Hu said:

“Within the gourd are towers and terraces, and flowers bloom in profusion through all four seasons. At leisure, I drink jade nectar; when drunk, I sometimes lie upon the green moss. Free and untroubled, I have no dealings with fame or profit; my soul remains unstained by the mortal world. When I meet people, I speak no worldly things; I only smile and point out how the white clouds come and go.”

Red Pine said:

“I have just left my bamboo hut on South Mountain, passing along the way by Mount Tiantai, where I once lived in seclusion. The wine in the cave has only just finished brewing, and half the flowers along the road are in bloom. My bones are no ordinary bones; you, too, have the talent of an immortal. When I meet people, I speak no worldly things; I only smile and point out how the white clouds come and go.”

Lü Dongbin said:

“I have come here carefree and at ease, and I no longer know how many times I have seen the flowers bloom. When troubled, I spend money on wine and drink my fill by the thousand, by the ten thousand cups. I wander for eighty-one days, then, drunk, climb to Lord Mao’s ritual platform, where purification rites are performed. When I meet people, I speak no worldly things; I only smile and point out how the white clouds come and go.”

One day, the Venerable said to Jia Dexing, “A distinguished guest is coming today. Come and tell me at once.” Before long, someone dressed in a coarse cloth jacket and wearing a blue headscarf knocked at the door. Before Jia Dexing had time to announce him, the visitor suddenly left. The Venerable immediately ordered someone to go after him.

After traveling a little more than a li, he met an old man dressed in deerskin and asked him, “Has the person who went ahead just now gone far?” The old man replied, “That was the immortal Li Baibai. When he sets out, he can travel eight hundred li at a time.” As soon as he had spoken, the old man vanished too. Only then did he realize that the old man in deerskin was Master White Deer, Li Ruan, who had attained the Dao at Great Clarity (Taiqing).

The Master said, “I cannot leave my name in the world.” One day in the first year of the Duangong era (988), he told his disciples, “After next year’s Zhongyuan Festival, I will travel to Mount Emei.” The following year, he sent his disciples to carve out a stone chamber in Zhangchao Valley. When it was finished, the Master went to inspect it and said, “Even if the rock were carved to resemble Mount Hua, this valley would still be a fine place. Perhaps this is where I am to return?”

He then drafted a memorial to be presented to the emperor before his death. Its general meaning was: “Your servant’s time is nearly at an end, and it is difficult for me to remain in this sacred dynasty. I have decided to transform and depart this year, on the twenty-second day of the tenth month, beneath Lotus Peak in Zhangchao Valley.” He also drafted a memorial, but no one saw what it contained. He kept Jia Dexing with him and had him take a turtle, a crane, a saddle, a horse, and other items to present at the palace. The emperor read the memorial alone for a long time, then returned the turtle, crane, saddle, and horse to Jia Dexing. He also bestowed on him a purple Daoist robe and the Daoist name “Awakening to the Real,” along with five million coins to build the Hall of the North Pole and fulfill the Master’s final wish.

The Master initially intended to manifest his transformation in this way, and had lamps kept burning through the night in the stone chamber. On the appointed day, he died with his left hand supporting his chin. Seven days later, his face remained unchanged and his limbs were still warm. Clouds of five colors covered the mouth of the valley and did not disperse for a full month. The Master lived to the age of one hundred and eighteen, and appointed Jia Dexing to succeed him at his Daoist temple.

The Master was well versed in the Classic of Changes (Yijing) and once taught the study of images and numbers to Mu Bochang. Mu passed it on to Li Tingzhi, who passed it on to Shao Yong, whose courtesy name was Yaofu. The study of images and numbers was also passed to Zhong Fang, then to Xu Jian of Lujiang, and then to Fan Wei. This branch of learning consequently spread through the south.

Later, an imperial envoy came to Mount Emei. One day, a dignified-looking guest entered to pay his respects, introducing himself as “Dongming Zhuanxiang,” yet repeatedly speaking of Mount Hua during their conversation. Several days later, the envoy finally realized that the visitor had been Master Chen of Mount Hua. He hurriedly sent people to look for him, but no one knew where he had gone.

During the Xiangfu era, after offering sacrifices at Fen and Sui, Emperor Zhenzong returned and once again went to Mount Yuntai to pay his respects before the Master’s portrait. He issued an edict exempting the fields belonging to the Master’s Daoist temple from rent and taxes, summoned the Daoist Jia Dexing, and bestowed purple robes on Wu Zihua and others. He ordered them to build the Hall of the Sacred Ancestor, the Hall of the Star Deity governing Zhenzong’s birth year, and the Hall of the Original Destiny Star, and also had a portrait of the Master painted.

Chen Tuan lived in seclusion at Beibi. During the Yongxi era, he once said to Jia Desheng: “As I was passing behind the Temple of Lord Lao, I saw a divine being dressed in black and wearing a black crown. He said, ‘The Northern Pole Star has opened and is connected with the Sovereign Emperor of Purple Tenuity. You may use the money previously granted to you for buying timber to build the Hall of the Northern Pole.’ He also said, ‘In the past, Princess Jinxian of the Tang dynasty used this place as a Daoist retreat where she sought the true Dao. Now I have encountered the Northern Dipper again, and this Daoist temple will prosper too. You alone can take on this task.’ Later, Emperor Zhenzong indeed came on an imperial visit; thirty years afterward, Jia Desheng took charge of this Daoist temple. Most of Chen Tuan’s foreknowledge of future events was much like this.

The official Daoyi commented: “Chen Tuan’s cultivation of De (Virtue/Power) was exceptionally pure, and he often made sleep his way of meeting the world. A woodcutter touched his chest and said, ‘You are sleeping so soundly—why disturb me?’ When the Empress Dowager of Song summoned him to the palace, he shut his door and slept for more than a month. The title ‘Xiyi’ truly suited his purpose. Yet there must have been another intention behind making sleep his refuge. The Dao De Jing says, ‘Everyone appears bright; I alone seem dim. Everyone is sharp and clear; I alone am muddled and slow.’ Does this not express the meaning of Chen Tuan’s use of sleep as a display?”

Su Chengyin

Su Chengyin, a Daoist priest at Longxing Abbey in Zhenyang, was well versed in the Laozi and Zhuangzi and skilled in the art of nourishing life. In the fifth month, intercalary, of the second year of the Kaibao era, Emperor Taizu stayed in Zhenyang, summoned Su Chengyin, and helped him climb the steps to the hall. Taizu said, “You are over eighty, yet your appearance is still youthful. I imagine you are skilled in nourishing life. Please teach me your methods.”

Su Chengyin replied: “The methods I use to nourish life amount to concentrating the mind and refining the breath. But an emperor’s way of nourishing life is different. Laozi said, ‘When I practice Wuwei (non-action), the people transform of themselves; when I have no desires, the people become upright of themselves.’ Wuwei and freedom from desire settle the spirit and bring harmony to body and mind. The Yellow Emperor and Emperor Yao were able to rule for a long time and enjoy long lives because they attained this principle.” Taizu praised his words and rewarded him generously. (From the Comprehensive Mirror of the Imperial Dynasty)

Liu Ruozhuo

On the guimao day of the tenth month in the winter of the fifth year of the Kaibao era, Emperor Taizu issued an edict ordering the Commissioner for Merit and Virtue and Liu Ruozhuo, the Left Street Daoist Registrar, to assemble the Daoist priests of the capital and assess their learning and practice. Those who failed to meet the standards or were untidy in appearance were dismissed.

Liu Ruozhuo was from Shu and called himself Master Huagai. He was skilled in the practice of ingesting Qi (vital energy) to nourish life. Even in his nineties, his spirit remained undiminished and his step was light. Whenever drought or flooding struck, the emperor would summon him to the palace to establish an altar and pray. His ritual methods were meticulous and rigorous. (From the Comprehensive Mirror of the Imperial Dynasty)

Zhang Bai

Zhang Bai, courtesy name Xubai, called himself Master Baiyun and was from Qinghe. He was quiet and learned.

He was highly learned and talented, and had sat for the civil service examinations in both the civil and military fields, but had not passed the jinshi examination. After his parents died, he wept and said to himself, “The purpose of becoming an official and drawing a stipend was to support my parents. Now that they are gone, why should I still seek fame and rank?” He therefore gave up grain foods and devoted himself to cultivating his original Qi and preserving his spirit. He studied Daoist books deeply, leaving none unread.

During the Kaibao era of Emperor Taizu of Song, he traveled south to Jingzhu, in what is now the Hubei area. At the time, his fellow townsman Han Kezi was serving as deputy prefect and welcomed him warmly. Later, when the court launched a campaign against Jiang-Wu and military and administrative affairs grew hectic, he put aside his Confucian scholar’s robes and became a Daoist. He went to Wuling and took up residence at Longxing Abbey. The prefect, Liu Shilang Chi, and the military supervisor, Zhang Yanfu, both held him in great esteem. He once gave Zhang Yanfu a square bronze mirror, a Daoist implement used to ward off evil, saying, “Keep this; it can drive away evil influences.”

Bai Taizhen deliberately concealed his true abilities, spending his days immersed in wine and free of restraint. Whenever he got drunk in the marketplace, he would point at people and berate them, whether they were friends or strangers. Yet his words often exposed things others kept secret and did not wish revealed, so perceptive people all thought him extraordinary.

Whenever it snowed or the wind blew, if he felt cold, he would break the ice and enter the water, sitting calmly in it until late that day before coming out. Though his clothes were soaked through, steam rose from his body as if from a pot being cooked, and in a moment his clothes were completely dry. Once, people joked with him and asked him to stand upright on his back while several young ruffians pushed and pulled at him together. He barely moved. On another occasion, he lay on his back and held out one foot for three or four people to lift. They strained until their faces flushed, but his foot did not budge.

He often drank on credit at the Cui family’s tavern, and he could drink a great deal. One day, he wanted to settle his bill, but the Cui family’s tavern keeper said, “Whenever you come, honored master, we have twice as many customers as usual, and our profits are considerable.” When the Cui family heard this, they no longer dared charge him a single coin.

One day, he wrote a poem on the tavern wall: “By Wuling Creek, the Cui family’s wine—there is none like it on earth, though it must exist in heaven. A Daoist from the south drinks several measures, then, drunk, lies down at the mouth of a deep cave among the clouds.” After that, even more people came to bask in his reflected glory and use his name as an excuse to drink.

Tang Yunsheng and Wei Yingshi, Daoists from Mount Heng, were also accomplished men of the Way in their time. They admired Bai Taizhen and often kept company with him. Bai Taizhen was quick-witted, his literary inspiration flowing like a spring. In just a few days, he composed three hundred poems titled “Spring Scenery of Wuling,” each beginning with the words “Amid Wuling’s spring scenery.” One read: “Amid Wuling’s spring scenery, twelve taverns rise in tiers. Drunk, I turn my head only when I reach home; I am too lazy to nod to anyone I meet. I pay no heed to right and wrong; fame and profit are suddenly put aside.” He wore a star crown, the cap worn by Daoists, …

Bai lived amid the secular world. Everything he said could be shaped into fine prose, and his words were always plain yet reasonable, unlike the wild talk of an ordinary drunk. One day, he suddenly claimed to be ill and hurriedly said to his host, “I fear I will not rise again. Please, whatever you do, do not cremate my body. I worry that my relatives and friends from the village may come to visit. Just bury me outside the West Gate according to ordinary custom.” Having said this, he died.

Several nights later, his limbs still looked lifelike, and a strange fragrance filled the room. Men and women, young and old, came from across the city to see him for many days in succession. The Cui family bought him a coffin, and Zhang Yanfu, the military inspector, also contributed part of his salary. They buried him as he had asked. Just over a month later, a hole appeared in the grave. Before long, Zhang Yanfu was ordered on a mission to Jianghuai. An old servant encountered Bai on Kaiming Bridge in Weiyang (Yangzhou). Bai asked, “Is Fang Jian still there?” Then he added, “Fang Jian won’t be staying much longer either.” When the servant returned, he recounted Bai’s words to Yanfu in full. Puzzled, Yanfu said, “He has been dead for a long time. How could you have seen him?” He sent people to open the grave and examine it closely. The moment they touched Fang Jian’s body, it crumbled apart.

Yu An, a military messenger from Dingzhou, was also in Yangzhou on official business when he met Bai. Bai was selling medicine with a large gourd at his side. He hurriedly invited Yu An to drink at an inn and spoke with him for several days about his earlier travels in Wuling. When Yu An took his leave, Bai asked him to write a letter of thanks to the Cui family on his behalf. After returning, Yu An delivered the letter to them. The Cui family was greatly shocked by its contents and immediately opened the coffin to look inside. It was empty.

Bai once wrote a commentary on the Scripture of Rising Mystery, Dispelling Calamity, and Protecting Life, with accompanying verses. The opening piece says: “The Most High is, at root, truly empty and formless, yet within this there is spirit. If you can grasp it in your heart, there will be no one above your head.” The final piece says: “The heart is bewildered by ten thousand circumstances, then follows those circumstances and takes them for its own original heart. The Dao is not something deliberately made; only when there is action can it be called ‘apart from the seed.’” He also wrote The Profound-Pointing Treatise and a collection of seven-character songs titled Collected Works from the Elixir Terrace. All these works have been handed down.

The Daoist of Chaos

Before Song Taizu and Song Taizong rose to prominence, they were friends with a Daoist who had no fixed name. He called himself “Chaos,” though some people called him “True Nonbeing.”

After Song Taizu ascended the throne, the two no longer met. Later, while Taizu was performing a purification rite by the western lake to wash away misfortune, the Daoist bowed to him and asked, “Have you been well since we parted?” Taizu received him at once, and they drank and clapped hands together just as they had in the old days. Taizu asked, “How much longer can I live?” The Daoist replied, “If the sky is clear on the night of the twentieth day of the tenth month this year, your life will be extended by one cycle of twelve years. If it is not clear, you should make arrangements quickly.” Taizu kept him in the rear garden. Someone saw the Daoist sleeping at night in a bird’s nest in a tree, but over the next few days he could not be found.

On the appointed day, Taizu ascended the Taiqing Pavilion.

That night, the weather had been judged by observing the clouds and celestial signs, and, as expected, the sky was clear and the stars shone brightly. The emperor had just begun to feel pleased when dark clouds gathered. Heaven and earth suddenly changed color, and snow and hail fell without warning. Leaning on his staff, the emperor descended from the pavilion and hurriedly ordered the palace gates opened, summoning Taizong into the palace. Taizong was the man who later succeeded him as emperor of the Song dynasty.

The emperor invited Taizong into the main sleeping hall, set out wine for them to drink together, and ordered all the palace eunuchs to withdraw. From a distance, beneath the candlelight, Taizong could be seen rising from his seat and stepping back from time to time, his movements showing great unease. When they had finished the wine, the palace water clock marked the third watch. Snow had already accumulated to a depth of several inches. The emperor used his ceremonial axe to stir the snow and, turning to Taizong, said, “Do well. Do well.” He then undressed and went to bed, snoring like thunder. By the fifth watch, the hall was utterly silent, with no sound to be heard: the emperor had died. Taizong received the imperial edict and ascended the throne.

Ding Shaowei

In the fourth month of the third year of Taiping Xingguo, during the reign of Song Taizong (978), on the day Yimao, the court summoned Ding Shaowei, a Daoist from Mount Hua, known by the religious name Zhenyuan. Shaowei excelled at regulating the breath, a Daoist method of breathing said to prolong life, and was reputed to have been as renowned as Chen Tuan. Shaowei, however, was refined and unsullied in his tastes, while Chen Tuan loved wine and lived freely. Though they lived near each other, the two never associated. Shaowei presented the emperor with Golden Elixir, giant sesame, southern lingzhi, dark lingzhi, and other items. After staying in the palace for several months, he received gifts and was sent home. This account appears in the Comprehensive Mirror of the Dynasty.

Chen Huazi

Chen Huazi attained the Dao on Mount Qingcheng. He often cut paper into flowers and sold them in the market, using the proceeds only to buy wine. He was a friend of Chen Tuan, and the two often visited one another. The people of Mount Qingcheng saw him frequently.