I do not know how long it was before I opened my lips; but for a very long time, I believe, I sat there without uttering a word, and let everything Angulimala had said rise, point by point, before me, and the more I reflected, the more did my wonder grow. For although I had heard many legends of olden times of miracles wrought by the gods, and particularly of the wonderful deeds of Krishna when he sojourned on this earth, yet they all appeared, one with another, trivial when I compared them with what had befallen Angulimala in the forest this day.
And I asked myself now whether that great man who had in a few hours transformed the most brutal of robbers into the gentle being who had just spoken to me—that Perfect One who had so easily and surely tamed the most savage object to be found in the whole realm of nature—whether he was not also able to quiet my troubled and passion-tossed heart, and to banish, by the light of his words, the night-cloud which grief had caused to settle down on it. Or was this mayhap yet more difficult—indeed a problem the solution of which went beyond the powers of even the holiest ascetic?
Almost did I fear that the latter might be the case, but yet I asked where that great ascetic whom he called his Master was to be found, and whether I should be able to visit him.
"It is right that thou shouldst ask that question at the very first," answered Angulimala, "and really what shouldst thou ask save this? Just for that very reason have I come to thee. We who purposed being associates in evil, let us now be associates in good. The Perfect One abides at present in the Sinsapa wood of which thou thyself didst make mention. Betake thyself thither to-morrow, but not till evening. For then the monks have finished their silent meditation, and assembled before the old Krishna temple, and the Master speaks to them there and to any others who are present. For at that hour many men and women go thither from the town in order to see the Blest One and to listen to his luminous teachings; and with each evening the press grows greater. Often these meetings last till late into the night. Of all that, I had already exact information, because, in the sinfulness of my heart, I had forged the monstrous plan of shortly falling upon the assembly with my followers. The gifts of foodstuffs and cloths brought by many of the visitors as presents to the Order already form a booty which, if not rich, is yet by no means to be despised. But specially it was my intention to capture several citizens of distinction, and to force heavy ransoms from them; and I cherished, at the same time, the hope that I should by such a daring deed, done at the very gates of the town, at last entice Satagira without the walls. For, when I formed the plan, his impending journey was still unknown to me. Do not neglect then, noble lady, to go to-morrow towards sundown to the old Krishna temple; it will long be a source of salvation to thee. I want to get back there now as quickly as possible. It is not certain, of course, whether I shall be in time to hear anything. Still, on such beautiful moonlit nights, the monks stay long together, deep in religious conversation, and willingly permit others to listen."
He bent himself low before me, and quickly went away.
The next forenoon I sent to Medini, who was, with her husband Somadatta, just as ready to bear me company to the Krishna grove as she had been in those days of the past, when the matter in hand was the bringing about of a meeting between two lovers. As a matter of fact, she had already begged her husband once to take her out there some evening, for she didn't readily let anything escape her of which people talked. But Somadatta had been afraid of the house Brahman, and so she was more than delighted to have the excuse, as over against that tyrant, of a summons from the wife of the Minister.
We drove at once to the markets, where Somadatta, who was attending to his vocations there, helped us in seeking out such stuffs as were suitable for the clothing of the monks and nuns. I also purchased a large quantity of medicines. Arrived at home again, we plundered the storerooms. Vessels full of the finest ghee, boxes of honey and sugar, jars with preserves of every kind, were set aside for our pious object. My own cupboards had to furnish the choicest of all they contained of perfumed water, sandal-powder, and camphor; and then we went to the garden, whose wealth of flowers we did not spare.
When the longed-for hour came, all these things had been loaded on a wagon to which the mules were already harnessed. We ourselves took our seats under the awning of another wagon, and, drawn by the two silver-white, full-blooded, Sindh horses which every morning ate three-year-old rice from my hand, drove out at the city gate.
The sun was already nearing the cupolas and towers of the town behind us, and its rays gilded the dust which, along the whole way, was stirred up by the multitude that, like ourselves—the most of them, however, on foot—had come out to see and hear the Buddha.
We soon reached the entrance to the forest. Here we had the wagons stopped, and pursued our way on foot, followed by servants who bore the votive offerings we had brought with us.
Since that night when we had taken leave of one another here, I had not been in this wood. And when I now, in the same company, entered its cool shade, I was overcome by so piercing a breath of memory—an odour that seemed to have been stored up for me here till its concentrated sweetness had, with the lapse of years, become poison—that I remained standing like one stupefied.
It seemed to me as if my love, awakened to its full strength, had placed itself in my way, charging me with desertion and with treachery. For I had not come there, as I knew, to give it fresh nourishment by inhaling the odour of memory, but to seek peace for my disappointed and tortured heart. And could not that, with justice, be called forgetting love, wilfully renouncing it? Was not that the violation of my word, and cowardly treachery?
In such fearful uncertainty did I stand there, undecided whether to go on or to turn back—to the great disappointment of Medini, who danced with impatience when others overtook us.
The look of the interior of the forest, however, softly illumined by the golden rays off the late afternoon sun; the gentle admonitory rustle and whisper of the leaves; the people who at once on entering grew silent and looked around expectantly and almost timidly; here and there at the foot, of some great tree, an ascetic, wrapped in the folds of his yellow cloak, his legs crossed beneath him, and lost in meditation; at intervals, one and another of these rising, and without even a look round, moving quietly away in the direction of the common though as yet invisible goal—all this wore an air of quiet elevation, and seemed to bear witness that here events were taking place of so unusual, indeed, of so sacred a character, that no power on earth might dare place itself in opposition to them, ay, that love itself, if it should raise a hostile voice, would lose its every divine right.
So I moved resolutely forward, and the words addressed to Angulimala by the Master concerning the many generations of men who live and pass away without a Buddha's being in the world, and of the very few even among the contemporaries of a Buddha to whom it is given to hear and to see him—these words sounded in my ears like the ringing of a temple bell, and I felt myself like a favoured once who goes to meet an experience which coming generations will envy her.
When we reached the glade in which the temple ruin stands, a great many people were already assembled, laymen as well as monks. They stood broken up into groups, most of them in the vicinity of the ruin, which rose just opposite to us. Near to the spot where we entered the forest meadow, I noticed a fairly large group of monks, among whom it was impossible to help noticing one who was a very giant, for he towered a full head above the tallest of those who stood beside him.
Then, while we were looking about us to discover whither we could most fitly turn our steps, there came out of the forest, between us and those monks, an old ascetic. His tall figure had such a kingly bearing, and such a cheerful peace radiated from his noble features, that at once the thought came to me, "I wonder whether this ascetic is not the Sakya son whom men call the Buddha."
In his hand he bore a few Sinsapa leaves, and, turning to the monks of whom I have made mention, he said—
"What think ye, O ye disciples, which are the more numerous, these Sinsapa leaves which I hold in my hand, or the other leaves yonder in the Sinsapa wood?"
And the monks answered—
"The leaves, Lord, which thou dost hold in thy hand are few, and far more numerous are those yonder in the Sinsapa wood."
"So also," said he, who, as I now knew, was the Buddha, "so also, O ye disciples, is that which I have discerned and not declared to you far greater than that which I have declared. And why, O ye disciples, have I not declared all things to you? Because it would in no wise profit you, because it would not minister to the holiness of your walk, would not lead to your turning away from earthly things, not to the destruction of all lust, not to the change which is the end of all change, not to peace, not to Nirvana."
"So that foolish old man was right after all!" exclaimed Kamanita.
"What old man?" asked Vasitthi.
"That ascetic with whom, as I related to thee, I spent the night, the last of my earthly life, in the suburb of Rajagriha, in the hall of the potter. He would insist on expounding the doctrine of the Master to me, and, as I readily perceived, did not especially succeed. But he manifestly quoted many genuine sayings, and among these, even to the very words, what thou hast just told me—he even gave the name of the place correctly, and moved me deeply as he did so. But had I imagined that thou hadst been present, then I should have been yet more deeply affected."
"He was very probably among those who were there," said Vasitthi; "in any case, he seems to have given thee an accurate report. And the Master further added—
"And what, ye disciples, have I declared to you? I have, declared to you what Suffering is, what the Origin of Suffering is, what the End of all Suffering is, what the Path that leads to the End of all Suffering is—all this have I declared to you. Therefore, ye disciples, what I have revealed, that leave revealed; and what I have left unrevealed, that leave unrevealed."
As he uttered these words, he opened his hand, and let the leaves fall. And when one of these, describing gyrations in the air, fluttered down near to me, I took courage, stepped quickly forward, and caught it before it had touched the earth, in that way receiving it, as it were, from the Master's hand. This priceless memorial I concealed in my bosom, a symbol of the short but all-sufficing message communicated to us by the Perfect One from his measureless wealth of knowledge, a symbol from which I was not to be parted till death.
This movement of mine drew the attention of the Master to me. The gigantic monk to whom I have alluded now bowed before him and made a whispered communication, upon which the Master again looked at me and then made a sign to the monk.
The latter now came towards us.
"Approach, noble lady," said the monk,—and I knew at once from the voice that it was Angulimala's,—"the Master will himself receive thy gifts."
We all went forward to within a few paces of the Master and bowed low, greeting him reverently, with hands folded and held before our foreheads. But I was unable to utter a word.
"Rich are thy gifts, noble lady," said the Master, "and my disciples have few needs. Heirs of truth are they, not heirs of penury. But the Buddhas of past ages also favoured this practice, and gladly accepted the offerings of pious followers, in order that opportunity might be given to these to exercise the virtue of alms-giving.
"For, if created beings knew the fruits of giving as I know them, then, if they had but a handful of rice left, they would not eat of it without giving a portion to one yet poorer than themselves, and the selfish thoughts which darken their spirits would disappear from these. Be thine offering, then, gratefully accepted by the Order of the Buddha—a pure offering. For I call that a pure offering by which the giver is purified and the receiver also. And how does that take place? It takes place, Vasitthi, when the giver is pure in life, noble in heart, and the receiver is pure in life, noble in heart; and when that is the case the giver of the offering is purified and the receiver also. That is, Vasitthi, the purity of the supremely pure offering—of such a one as thou hast brought."
Thereafter, the Master turned to Angulimala—
"Go, my friend, and have these presents placed with the other supplies. But first show our noble guests to seats in front of the temple steps, for from them I shall expound the doctrine to those who are present to-day."
Angulimala bade the servants wait, and called upon us to follow him. First, however, we had all our flowers and also several beautiful carpets handed out to us. Then, conducted by our stalwart guide, we passed through the rapidly growing crowd, who respectfully made way for us, to the temple.
Here we spread the carpets upon the steps and twined garlands of flowers round about the old weather-worn and crumbling pillars. Then Medini and I picked a whole basketful of roses and strewed the petals upon the carpet at the top of the steps for the Master to stand upon.
Meanwhile the assembled people had grouped themselves in a wide semicircle, the lay-hearers to the left, the monks and nuns to the right, of the temple—the front ranks sitting on the grass. We also now took our places on an overturned pillar, only a few paces from the steps.
There were probably about five hundred people there, yet an all but absolute silence reigned in the whole circle, and no sound was to be heard save the fitful rustling and low whispering of the forest leaves.