Original Text
Monk Jin was a native of Zhucheng in Shandong. His father was a scoundrel who sold him for a few hundred coppers to the Wulian Mountain Temple. As a child, Jin was mischievous and dull-witted, unable to recite sutras or chant Buddha's name, only tending pigs or running errands in the market, much like a hired servant. Later, his master died, leaving behind a small sum of money, which Jin took and left the temple to engage in trade. He was adept at deceit and speculation, possessing the shrewdest of minds. Within a few years, he amassed great wealth, buying houses and land in Shuipoli, gathering many disciples, with over a hundred people dining daily, and thousands of acres of fertile fields surrounding the area. He built dozens of residences within the village, all occupied by monks, with no common folk, except for a few destitute and unemployed families who rented houses and farmed the land with their wives and children. Each gate led to interconnected courtyards filled with such tenants. Jin's own dwelling stood at the center, with a front hall adorned with carved beams and painted rafters, resplendent in gold and jade, dazzling to the eye; the tables and screens within shone so brightly they could reflect one's image. Behind lay the bedchamber, with embroidered curtains and canopies exuding fragrant scents, a large sandalwood bed inlaid with tortoiseshell and mother-of-pearl carved into flowers, birds, and figures, covered with brocade quilts over a foot thick, and walls nearly covered with paintings of beauties and landscapes by famous artists. At a single call, dozens of men outside would respond with voices like thunder. Those in small caps and leather boots stood in orderly ranks, respectfully attending, speaking in hushed tones and listening with tilted ears. If a guest arrived unexpectedly, within moments a dozen feasts could be laid out, with various delicacies steaming and appearing in rapid succession. Yet he dared not openly keep singing girls; instead, he had a dozen handsome youths, all clever and endearing, with black gauze wrapped around their heads, singing amorous songs that were pleasing to both ear and eye. When Jin went out, he was surrounded by dozens of mounted attendants, the clashing of their bows and arrows ringing as they rode. These servants all called him "Master," while the county folk addressed him as "Grandfather" or "Uncle," never as "Teacher" or "Reverend," nor by his monastic name. His disciples, when venturing out, were slightly less imposing than Jin himself, yet still followed by a retinue, much like noble scions.
Brother Jin further expanded his network far and wide, forging connections even across a thousand miles, and by these means he controlled the local officials. If anyone happened to offend him, they would be filled with dread. Yet Jin himself was coarse and illiterate, lacking any trace of refinement from head to toe. In his entire life, he never recited a single sutra or chanted a single spell, never set foot in a temple, and kept no Buddhist instruments like golden cymbals or leather drums in his home. His disciples had never even seen or heard of such things. As for those who rented his houses, the women adorned themselves as elegantly as ladies of the capital, and the cosmetics they used—rouge and powder—were all supplied by Jin without stint. Thus, in the village, there were over a hundred peasants who did not till the land. Sometimes, among his tenant farmers, a villain would kill a monk and bury the head beneath a bed; Jin would not press the matter too severely, merely driving the culprit away. Such was the custom they had long followed. Jin also purchased a child of another surname, secretly raising him as his own son. He hired a tutor to teach him the eight-legged essay. The boy was clever and skilled in composition, so Jin had him take the imperial examinations, where he passed and entered the county school. Soon, following the usual practice, he purchased the rank of a student of the Imperial Academy. Before long, he sat for the provincial examination and attained the degree of a provincial graduate. From then on, Jin was called "Venerable Jin," and his fame grew even greater. Those who had formerly addressed him as "Master" now called him "Grand Master," and those who had once treated him as an equal now bowed to him with the reverence of sons and grandsons.
Soon after, Patriarch Jin and the monk passed away. Juren Jin, clad in mourning garments and kneeling before the spirit tablet, proclaimed himself an orphan; the mourning staffs of his disciples filled the bedchamber; behind the funeral curtain, only the Juren's wife wept softly. The wives of scholar-officials, all in full ceremonial attire, came to offer condolences, their carriages and sedan chairs clogging the roads. On the day of the funeral, towering mourning sheds stood one after another, and soul-summoning banners obscured the sunlight. The paper funerary offerings, horses and attendants, were adorned with gold and silk; there were dozens of carriage and horse processions, a thousand paper horses, and a hundred paper figures, all lifelike. The giant effigies of Fang Bi and Fang Xiang, leading the way, had paper shells, black hats, and golden armor, hollow inside with a wooden frame, into which living men crawled to carry them. The paper figures were fitted with moving mechanisms, so that even their beards and eyebrows twitched, and their eyes flickered as if about to cry out. The onlookers marveled; some children, seeing them from afar, fled in terror. The tomb was also built magnificently, like a palace, with towers, halls, and corridors connected, covering dozens of acres, with a thousand gates and ten thousand doors; one who entered would lose their way and find it hard to exit. The sacrificial offerings were numerous and hard to name. The mourners crowded shoulder to shoulder, from high officials, who bowed low and entered, kowtowing as if at court, down to petty clerks in the yamen, who crawled on the ground, kowtowing as they advanced, not daring to trouble Master Jin or his uncles. At that time, the entire city came to gaze; men and women, sweating profusely, thronged the roads, some leading wives and carrying children, others calling out to brothers and sisters, their voices a clamorous din. Added to this, drums and music shook the heavens, various theatrical performances clashed with gongs and drums, drowning out all speech. The spectators, from the shoulders down, were invisible; only a sea of bobbing heads could be seen. A pregnant woman, seized with labor pains, was surrounded by her companions, who formed a circle with their skirts to shield her; they waited, and soon heard the infant's cry, with no time to ask if it was a boy or girl; they tore a piece of skirt to wrap the child and held it in their arms, some supporting the mother, others pulling her, as they hobbled home. Truly a wondrous sight! After the burial, the assets left by Monk Jin were divided into two shares: his son received one, and the disciples the other. Juren Jin took his half and lived south of the residence, while to the north, east, and west, all were monks, who addressed each other as brothers, still sharing joys and sorrows, looking after one another.
The Chronicler of the Strange remarks: This is a school unto itself, neither the Southern nor the Northern Sect of Chan Buddhism has this lineage, nor did the Sixth Patriarch bestow upon them his robe and bowl; truly, it can be said to have opened a unique dharma gate. I have heard that one who has realized the emptiness of the Five Aggregates and remains unstained by the Six Dusts is called a "monk"; one who preaches the dharma with words and sits in meditation on the platform is called a "monkish semblance"; one who treads the land of Chu with the sky of Wu above, wandering far and wide, is called a "monkish wanderer"; one who makes a din with gongs and drums, with pipes and flutes blaring, is called a "monkish clamor"; one who is as shameless as a dog or a fly, thick-skinned and brazen, indulging in eating, drinking, and debauchery, is called a "monkish obstruction." As for Monk Jin, is he a "monk," a "semblance," a "wanderer," a "clamor," or perhaps an "obstruction" from the hells?
Commentary
This piece can be read alongside "Jin Shicheng" in the second volume. In "Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio," Daoist priests often possess magical arts and strange powers, while Buddhist monks are frequently greedy and lawless, which may be related to Pu Songling's own experiences and observations. In this story, the Monk Jin "never in his life recited a single sutra or chanted a single spell, never set foot in a temple, and never kept bells or drums in his home; such items his disciples had never seen nor even heard of," yet he lived a life of extravagant luxury and debauchery, embodying the archetype of a local underworld tyrant. According to Wang Yuyang's "Fengan Yuhua," the postscript by Bao Tingbo in the Qingketing edition of "Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio," and the "Chronicles of Mount Wulian," Monk Jin was a real person, "whose clothing and carriage were once lavish and whose influence was formidable, truly as described by Liaozhai." Moreover, "it was said that this account by Liuquan did not fully capture the truth, and after publication, some intended to write a separate brief record to correct it." In truth, although this piece resembles a biography, as a literary work, it need not adhere strictly to every fact, for there is a distinction between literary truth and historical truth.