Meng Longtan, a man of Jiangxi, and a certain Scholar Zhu, a provincial graduate, were both staying in the capital as guests. One day the two happened to wander into a temple. Its Buddha hall and monks’ quarters were none too spacious, and only an old monk was lodging there for the time being. Seeing visitors come in, the old monk straightened his robes and went to welcome them, then led them about to view every part of the temple. In the middle of the Buddha hall stood an image of the high monk Baozhi, and on the walls on either side were painted exquisite, miraculous murals, every figure in them alive as life itself. On the eastern wall was painted a company of flower-scattering celestial maidens; among them stood one young girl with her hair loose, a blossom in her hand and a smile on her lips. Her cherry mouth seemed on the point of parting to speak, and her eyes, brimming with feeling, seemed to ripple and overflow like flowing waves.

Scholar Zhu gazed at the maiden for a long while, and before he knew it his soul was drifting; in a trance he sank into a reverie of idle fancy. Suddenly his body rose up light as air, as though riding on clouds and mist, and he had floated up onto the wall. There were tier upon tier of halls and pavilions — no world of men. An old monk was expounding the scriptures from a high seat, and many monks in robes had gathered around to listen. Scholar Zhu stood among them too. After a moment he felt someone secretly tugging at his hem. He turned his head: it was the very maiden with the loose hair. She gave him a soft smile, turned, and went away. Scholar Zhu followed at her heels. Past a winding corridor he saw her enter a small chamber, and he hung back, not daring to go further. But the maiden looked back, lifted the flower in her hand, and beckoned to him from afar, and Scholar Zhu hurried after her into the little room. It was quiet and empty; he went forward and embraced her, and she offered little resistance, so the two loved as husband and wife. When it was over, the maiden shut the door and went out, charging him first not to cough or make a sound. At night she came again. And so it went for two days.

Then her companions found out. Together they hunted Scholar Zhu down and teased the maiden: “The child in your belly is already this big — do you still mean to wear your hair loose and play the maid?” They fetched hairpins and earrings and urged her to dress her hair in a married woman’s bun. The maiden was too ashamed to utter a word. One of the companions said, “Sisters, we shouldn’t linger here — we’ll only make them cross.” And with a burst of laughter they all left. Scholar Zhu looked at the maiden again: her hair was piled in a high cloud-like bun, a drooping phoenix pin fastened in it, and she was lovelier and more bewitching than when she had worn it loose. Seeing that no one was about, he slowly drew close to her again, and a fragrance of orchid and musk seemed to steal right into his heart. Just as the two clung to each other in the height of bliss, they suddenly heard the sharp, imperious tramp of boots and the clank of chains, followed by a hubbub of voices. Startled, the maiden sat up on the bed, and she and Scholar Zhu peered out together in secret. There stood an envoy in golden armor, his face pitch-black, a chain in one hand and a great hammer in the other, the celestial maidens ranged around him. The envoy demanded: “Are all present?” The maidens answered: “All are here.” He said: “If any of you is harboring a mortal from the world below, report it at once — do not bring trouble on yourselves.” The maidens answered as one: “No one is.” The envoy turned and swept his gaze about like a vulture, as if to search the place. The maiden was terrified, her face gone the color of dead ashes, and in frantic haste she whispered to Scholar Zhu: “Quick — hide under the bed!” She pushed open a little door in the wall and fled. Scholar Zhu lay flat beneath the bed, not daring to draw a full breath. After a while he heard the boots come into the room, then go out again. Before long the clamor outside gradually receded, and his heart grew a little easier — but voices kept passing and repassing beyond the door. Cramped and ill at ease, he stayed hidden a long time, until his ears rang with cicadas and stars swam before his eyes; it was more than flesh could bear. Yet all he could do was wait quietly for the maiden’s return — he had even forgotten where it was that he had come from.

Meanwhile, in the great hall, Meng Longtan turned his head and in the blink of an eye Scholar Zhu was gone. Alarmed and puzzled, he asked the old monk. The old monk smiled: “He has gone to hear the sermon.” “Where?” asked Meng Longtan. “Not far,” said the old monk. After a moment he flicked the wall with his fingertip and called out loudly: “Benefactor Zhu, why wander so long and not come back?” And there on the mural appeared the likeness of Scholar Zhu, standing quite still, his head inclined as if listening. The old monk called again: “Your companion has been waiting for you a long while.” At that, Scholar Zhu drifted down from the wall, disconsolate and dumbfounded, standing there with his limbs gone weak. Meng Longtan, greatly startled, questioned him little by little, and learned that Scholar Zhu had been crouching under the bed when suddenly he heard a crash like thunder, so he had come out of the room to look — and in that instant found himself back in the world of men. They all went together to look at the flower-holding maiden on the mural: her hair was now piled high in a bun — she was no longer the maiden with the loose hair. Astonished, Scholar Zhu bowed to the old monk and begged him to explain the cause of it all. The old monk smiled: “Illusions are born of the heart — how should this old monk know?” Scholar Zhu’s breast was heavy with it, and search as he might he could not unravel it. Meng Longtan, listening, marveled in secret, shaken and uneasy. The two then rose, took their leave, and came down the steps step by step, out of the temple.

The Historian of the Strange says: All illusions spring from the human heart itself — surely that is the talk of a man who has attained the Way. Let a man harbor a lustful thought, and a lustful scene is born of it; let him harbor an irreverent thought, and a scene of terror is born of it. The Bodhisattva, wishing to enlighten the ignorant, lets them pass through illusion after illusion — and every one of those illusions grows out of their own hearts. The master is merciful at heart and exhorts them with all the pains of kindness; yet alas, the ignorant hear his words and still fail to awaken utterly and go away to cultivate themselves in the mountains and the forests.

(The End)