But, most remarkable of all, is the fact that Buddha is a canonized saint of the Christian Church. St. John of Damascus in the eighth century wrote a religious romance, of which the narrative is taken from the "Lalita Vistara," the story of Buddha's life. It became very popular in the Middle Ages, and the hero was canonized. He has his festal days in the Roman communion on the 27th November, in the Eastern on 26th August, under the name of Josaphat, a corruption of Bodhisattva.[1]
In all times and in all places men have lived pure and holy lives, and have shown themselves Christians even "before Christ came in the flesh."[2] Buddha, whose teaching approaches nearer than does that of any other founder of a religion to the teaching of Christ, has won. by the attractive beauty of his character, the unconscious homage of Christendom. He has been placed in the golden roll of Christian saints, side by side with St. Francis d'Assisi and other founders of religious orders, with St. Francis Xavier and other missionary heroes, and with Francis de Sales and other saintly men. Worthily does he stand among "the sons of God who were righteous in their lives."[3] "THEY WERE LOVELY AND PLEASANT IN THEIR LIVES, AND IN THEIR DEATH THEY WERE NOT DIVIDED."
Winter was over. It was the month of March. I had been forced to accept a crowd of invitations, and for the first time since I knew Stachovitch several days had passed without my seeing him.
One day, as I was on my way home about eleven o'clock in the evening, I found myself before his door. Seeing a light burning in his room, I went up-stairs and found him busy writing.
"Very glad to see you," said he, coming to meet me. "I have something I want you to do for me."
He asked me to sit down, and took a chair opposite to me. I then perceived that he was greatly agitated.
"What has happened?" said I.
Stachovitch rose, and began walking rapidly up and down the room. Suddenly he stopped before me, and asked me point-blank the question, —
"Am I a coward?"
"Most certainly not," I said. "What do you mean by asking me?"
"I have been insulted — grossly insulted; and it is impossible for me to fight the man who has insulted me."
"Humph! That's a pity. There are people of course who won't fight on principle. With some men it is a matter of conscience — a matter of taste. It cannot be argued about; only ——"
"You mistake," cried Stachovitch eagerly, "I have fought several duels, and I may fight more. But it was Drieux who insulted me -----"
"What matter who it was," said I, "Drieux or another?"
"I cannot fight him."
"Why not?"
"I can't. I ought not." He spoke with great excitement.
"My dear fellow," said I, rising, "I am at your service with all my heart, on one condition however. It is that you will be pleased not to talk in riddles, and that you will tell me clearly what has taken place."
"Drieux insulted me."
"That's the third time you have said so."
"I ought to ask satisfaction."
"That is what we must see about presently, when you have been so good as to tell me all the particulars. Drieux is a man of honor. He will not refuse you any satisfaction that you have a right to demand."
"But I cannot fight him,"
Here I began to lose patience.
"I'll come back to-morrow morning," I said. "I hope you will then be calm enough to explain yourself. Good evening."
"No, stay. Pray stay. Don't leave me. Help me."
"Well, then, I will remain. Calm yourself. Give me a light. Thank you. Do me the favor to light your own cigarette. Very well. Are you ready? Now tell me why you cannot fight Drieux."
He looked at me fixedly. His eyes, which were unnaturally wide open, had an indescribable expression of horror.
"Because I do not choose to be his murderer," he replied slowly at last, pausing on the syllables of every word.
"You are more and more mysterious."
"Because it is quite certain I shall kill him if I fight him."
