I stood to-day—he began—a few hours after sunrise at the edge of the forest, gazing out at the towers of Kosambi, my mind full of vengeance on Satagira and revolving the question as to whether thou wouldst bring me the desired information, when, on the road which leads from the eastern gate to the forest, I became aware of a solitary traveller, garbed in a yellow cloak, who paced vigorously forward. On both sides of the road, herdsmen and peasants were busied with their daily toil. And I observed how those who were nearest the road shouted something to the lonely traveller, while those who were farther off also paused in the middle of their work, looked after him, and pointed with their fingers. The men who were near enough appeared, the farther he advanced, to warn him the more eagerly, yes, even to seek to stop him, while some ran after him, seized his cloak, and then with hurried and horror-stricken gestures pointed to the wood. I almost believed I could hear them calling to him, "No farther! Don't go into the forest! There the fearful robber Angulimala has his lair."
But the traveller came onward, undisturbed, in the direction of the wood. And now I saw from his cloak and his closely shaven head that he was an ascetic, one of those who belong to the Order of the Son of the Sakyas, an old man of commanding stature.
And I thought to myself, "Passing strange, truly! On this road ten men, ay, even thirty, and fifty, have already set out in companies and well armed, and they have one and all fallen into my power; and that ascetic there comes on alone, like any conqueror."
And it nettled me that he so openly set my power at defiance. I made up my mind to kill him, and the rather as I thought to myself that he might possibly be sent into the forest as a spy, by Satagira. For these ascetics—so I thought—are all hypocritical and venal, and are ready to be used in all kinds of ways, building upon the superstition of the people and the safety they enjoy as its outcome—for so I had been taught by my learned friend Vajaçravas to regard them.
Instantly making up my mind, I seized my spear, hung my bow and quiver over my shoulder, made for the road, and, step for step, followed the ascetic, who had now entered the forest.
Finally, when I had reached a favourable spot where no trees separated us, I took down my bow from my shoulder, and shot an arrow so that it must of necessity pierce the left side of his back and pass through his heart; but it flew away over the head of the ascetic.
"By some mistake, a very bad arrow must have got among the others," I said to myself, took the quiver in my hand, and chose out a beautifully feathered and faultless one, which I so aimed that it must necessarily transfix the neck of the ascetic. But the arrow struck into the trunk of a tree to his left. The next flew past him to the right, and the same thing happened with all my arrows till my quiver was empty.
"Inconceivable! Most extraordinary!" I thought to myself. "Have I not often amused myself by placing a prisoner with his back against a fence and shooting my arrows at him in such a way that, after he had stepped aside, the whole outline of his body was indicated exactly by the arrows sticking in the fence—and that, at a greater distance? Am I not accustomed with my arrow to bring down from the sky the eagle in full flight? Whatever is the matter with my hand to-day?"
Meanwhile the ascetic had gained a considerable start, and I began to run after him in order to kill him with my spear. But when I had come to within a distance of about fifty paces from him I didn't gain another step, although I ran with all my might and although the ascetic seemed but to be pacing quite leisurely onward.
Then I said to myself, "Of a truth, this is the most wonderful thing of all. Have I not overtaken frightened elephants and fleeing deer? And now I cannot, running with all my might, overtake this ascetic, going forward at his leisure. What is the matter with my feet to-day?"
And I stopped and called to him—
"Stand still, ascetic! Stand still!"
But he paced quietly on and called back—
"I am standing still, Angulimala! Stand thou also still!"'
Whereat I was again much astonished, and thought: "Plainly this ascetic has, by some Rite of Truth, baffled my archery; by some Rite of Truth, my running. How can he then utter a manifest untruth and assert that he is standing still while he is, as a matter of fact, walking, and demand that I should stand still, although he sees perfectly well that I am already standing as still as this tree. So might the flying goose say to the oak: 'I am standing still, oak! Stand thou also still!' Of a surety, there must be something behind all this. It might probably be of more value to understand the secret meaning of these ascetic words than to kill an ascetic."
And I called to him—
"Walking, thou dost imagine thyself to be standing still, ascetic, and me, who stand still, thou dost erroneously believe to be walking. Explain this to me, ascetic. How art thou standing still? How am I not standing still?"
And he answered me—
"I, who do evil to no created being, am at rest, wander no more; but thou, who dost rage against all created beings, must wander ceaselessly from one place of suffering to another."
I answered again—
"That we wander ever, I have of course heard. But that about standing still, about wandering no more, I do not understand. Wilt thou, Reverend Sir, fully explain to me what thou hast just summed up in these few words? See, I have put my spear from me, and solemnly swear to grant thee peace."
"For the second time, Angulimala," he said, "thou hast sworn falsely."
"For the second time?"
"The first time it happened was at that false Rite of Truth."
That he should know of that secret matter was not the smallest of these marvels to me; but, without pausing over that, I made haste to defend my crafty deed.
"My words, Reverend Sir, were on that occasion certainly somewhat ambiguous, but, literally, I swore nothing false, only the sense was misleading. That, however, which I swear to thee is true literally and in fact."
"Not so," he answered, "for thou canst grant me no peace. It were well for thee if thou didst suffer thyself to receive peace from me."
As he thus spoke, he turned round, and motioned to me with a friendly gesture to approach.
"Willingly, Reverend Sir," I humbly said.
"Listen, then, and pay good attention."
He sat down in the shadow of a large tree, and bade me seat myself at his feet. And he began to teach me of good and evil deeds and of their consequences, all the while explaining everything fully as when one speaks to a child. For I was, of course, quite uneducated, whereas the pupils of ascetics are, as a rule, Brahman youths who even know the Veda. I, however, had never listened to speech so fraught with deep thought since I sat in the forest by night at the feet of Vajaçravas, of whom I have already spoken to thee, and whose name thou hast, I imagine, heard from others also.
But when this ascetic now revealed to me that no arbitrary heavenly power, but our own hearts alone, with the thoughts and deeds emanating from these, cause us to be born now here, now there, at one time on earth, at another in heaven, and then again in hell—I could not help thinking of that Vajaçravas and of the way in which he had proved to us by reasons of common sense, and by reference to the sacred writings, that there could be no hell-punishments, and that all the passages in the sacred writings having reference to such had been interpolated by weak and cowardly souls in order that by such threats they might terrify the strong and courageous, and protect themselves from the violence of the latter. "Friend Vajaçravas was never," I thought, "able to convince me quite. I wonder whether this ascetic will be able to do so. Here stands, as a matter of fact, opinion against opinion, scholar against scholar. For even if this ascetic should be one of the great disciples of the Son of the Sakyas, yet Vajaçravas was also highly thought of by his own followers, and now, after his death, is even worshipped by the common people as a saint. Who, then, is to decide as to which of these two is in the right?"
"Thou art no longer attending to what I say, Angulimala," said the ascetic; "thou art thinking of that Vajaçravas and his erroneous doctrines."
Much astonished, I acknowledged the truth of what he said.
"So thou, Reverend Sir, didst also know my friend Vajaçravas?"
"People showed me his grave outside of the gate, and I saw foolish travellers offering up prayers there under the delusion that he was a saint."
"So he is no saint, then?"
"Well, if he seems one to thee, let us visit him and see how it fares now with his saintship."
The ascetic said this as though it were a matter of going from one house to another. Thoroughly taken aback, I stared at him.
"Visit him? Vajaçravas? How were that possible?"
"Give me thy hand," he said. "I shall cast myself into that state of self-absorption by the aid of which the path that leads to the gods and that which leads to the demons become visible to a steadfast heart. Then we shall follow in his track, and what I see, that shalt thou also see."
I gave him my hand. For some time he sat there perfectly still, his eyes cast down, the pupils directed inward, and I was conscious of nothing. Suddenly, however, I felt, as probably a swimmer may feel, when the demon who dwells in the waters seizes his arm and draws him down, so that the blue heavens and the trees on the bank disappear, and the waves meet over his head, and darkness that grows ever deeper closes round him on every side.
From time to time, however, tongues of flame flared up around me, and a mighty noise thundered in my ears.
Finally, I found myself in what seemed to be a vast cave, where it was quite dark save for the fitful illumination furnished by the fleeting gleam of countless lightning flashes. When I had grown somewhat accustomed to the darkness, I discovered that these flashes were the reflections of iron spear-heads, which darted hither and thither as though lances were being wielded by invisible arms—it might be in a battle of ghosts. I heard screams also—not fierce and courageous, however, as those of combatants drunk with the joy of battle, but screams of pain and groans of wounded, whom, however, I did not see. For these terrifying sounds came from the background, where the quivering of the lance-heads formed one trembling and whirling mist. The foreground was empty.
In this empty space there now appeared three figures, vomited, as it were, from the black mouth of a den which opened upon it from the right. The man in the middle was Vajaçravas; his naked body trembled from head to foot as though he froze terribly or was shaken by fever. His companions had both of them human bodies which were supported upon birds' legs armed with powerful claws, and were surmounted, in the one case, by a fish's head, in the other, by a dog's. In his hands, each bore a long spear. The figure with the fish's head spoke first—
"This, Reverend Sir, is the Hell of Spears, where thou, according to the sentence of the Judge of Hell, hast to endure punishment for ten thousand years in being ceaselessly pierced by these quivering spears. Afterwards thou shalt be born again somewhere, according to thy further deserts."
Then he with the dog's head spoke—
"As often, Reverend Sir, as two spears cross in thy heart, know that a thousand years of thy hellish torture have passed."
Scarcely had he said this when both of the infernal watchmen swung their lances and transfixed Vajaçravas. As if at a given signal, all the spears round about also flashed towards him, their points entering from every side. So ravens hurl themselves upon an abandoned carcase, and bury their beaks in its flesh.
Overcome by the horror of the sight, and by the pitiful screams that Vajaçravas uttered in his agony, my senses forsook me.
When I came to myself again, I lay in the wood, under the huge tree, prostrate at the feet of the Master.
"Hast thou seen, Angulimala?"
"I have seen, O Master."
And I did not dare even to add, "Deliver me"; for how could I seek to be delivered?
"If thou then, after the dissolution of thy body, in consequence of thy deeds, dost come to the road that leads down to the underworld, and the Judge of the Shades passes the same judgment upon thee, and the guards of hell lead thee into the Hell of Spears to the same punishment, will it be more than thou dost deserve?"
"No, Master, it will not be more than I deserve."
"But a course of life, of which thou thyself dost confess that it justly leads to these unspeakable tortures—is this truly, Angulimala, a course of life that is worth pursuing?"
"No, O Master, this course of life will I give up; I will forswear all my devilish practices for one word of thy truth."
"Once, long ages ago, Angulimala, the Judge of the Shades pondered deeply, and this was the outcome: 'Verily, he who has committed offences in the world is punished with such manifold punishments! Oh, that I might become human, and that a Perfect One, a Fully Enlightened Buddha might appear in the world, and that I might be able to be with him, with that Perfect One, and that he, the Perfect One, might expound the truth to me, and that I understood it!'
"Now that which that judge wished so ardently for himself, that has been given to thee, Angulimala. Thou hast become man. But even as, Angulimala, in this land of India, few smiling groves, splendid forests, fair heights, and charming lotus ponds are to be found, and in comparison with these, raging rivers, untrodden forests, desolate rocky mountains, and barren deserts are by far more numerous:
"Even so also, but few created beings attain to humanity, in comparison with the far more numerous beings who in other kingdoms than that of man come into existence:
"Even so also, but few generations are on the earth at the same time as a Buddha, in comparison with the far greater number in whose time no Buddha has arisen:
"Even so also, but few individuals of those few generations are so fortunate as to see the Perfect One, in comparison with that far greater number who do not see him.
"But thou, Angulimala, hast become man; and that at a time when a Perfect Buddha has appeared in the world; and thou hast seen him, and art able to be with him, with the Perfect One."
When I heard these words, I folded my hands and exclaimed—
"Hail, O Holy One! So thou art thyself the Fully Enlightened Buddha! So thou, the noblest of beings, hast had pity on the worst! And wilt thou then, O Perfect One, suffer me to abide with thee?"
"I will," answered the Master. "And so hear this also:
"Even so are there among the few who see the Master but few who hear his doctrine, and, of these, but few who comprehend it. Thou, however, wilt hear the doctrine and wilt comprehend it. Come, disciple!"
The Perfect One had entered the wood like an elephant hunter who rides upon his tame elephant. He left the wood again, as the elephant hunter leaves the wood, followed by a wild elephant which his skill has tamed.
Thus, then, I am now come to thee Vasitthi, not the robber Angulimala, but the disciple Angulimala. See, I have cast from me the spear and bludgeon, rod and scourge, have forsworn killing and torturing, and before me all created things have peace.