At this time one of the brothers came over to us once a week, and expounded the doctrine.
After some time Angulimala's turn came, and then I did not go into the common hall, but remained lying in my cell, and begged a neighbouring sister to say to Angulimala—
"Sister Vasitthi, O Reverend One, lies sick in her cell, and cannot appear in the assembly. Wilt thou, after the address, go to sister Vasitthi's cell and expound the doctrine to her, the sick one, also?"
And after the address the good Angulimala came to my cell, greeted me deferentially, and sat down by my bed.
"Thou dost see here, brother," I said then, "what no one of us would desire to see—a love-sick nun—and of this my sickness thou thyself art the guilty cause, seeing that thou didst rob me of the object of my love. True, thou hast since brought me to this great physician who heals all life's ills, but even his marvellous powers cannot now influence me further. In his great wisdom he has doubtless recognised this, and has given me a remedy by means of which to bring the fever to a crisis, and so to get rid of the insidious germs of disease at present in my blood. As a result, then, thou dost at this moment see me with a fever of longing raging within. And I wish to remind thee of a promise thou didst once give me—on that night, I mean, on which thou didst seek to lead me into crime, the execution of which was only frustrated by the interposition of the Master. At that time thou didst promise to go to Ujjeni and bring me certain news of Kamanita, whether he still lived, and how he was. What the robber once promised, that I now demand from the monk. For my desire to know whether Kamanita lives, and how he lives, is such an overmastering one that, until it is gratified, there is room in my soul for no other thought, no other feeling, and it is consequently impossible for me to take even the smallest further step on this our way to salvation. For this reason it becomes thy duty to do this for me, and to quiet my feelings by bringing me some certain information."
After I had thus spoken, Angulimala rose, and said—
"Even as thou dost require from me, Sister Vasitthi," bowed low, and strode out at the door.
Thence he went straight to his cell to get his alms-bowl, and in that same hour left the Sinsapa wood. People generally believed that he had gone on a pilgrimage, following the Master. I alone knew the goal of his journey.
This step once taken, I felt myself grow somewhat calmer, although haunted by a doubt as to whether I should not have given him some greeting or messages to my beloved. But it seemed to me unfitting and profane to use a monk in such a way, as a go-between in love-matters, while, on the other hand, he could perfectly well go to a distant city and give an account of what he had seen there. It would also be something quite other—I said to myself, with secret hope—if he, without being commissioned to do so, and acting on his own judgment, should decide to speak to my loved one of me.
"I will myself go to Ujjeni and bring him here safe and sound"—these words resounded ever in my inmost heart. Would the monk be likely, then, to redeem the promise of the robber? Why not, if he himself should be convinced that it was necessary for both of us to see and to speak to one another?
And with that came a new thought from whch streamed an unexpected ray of hope that at first dazzled and bewildered me. If my beloved should return, what was then to hinder my resigning from the Order and becoming his wife?
When this question arose in my mind, burning blushes covered my face, which I involuntarily hid in my hands, from fear that some one might just at that moment be observing me. To what hateful misinterpretation would such a course of action not be exposed? Would it not look as though I had regarded the Order of the Buddha simply as a bridge over which to pass from a loveless marriage to a love one? My action would certainly be so construed by many. But, when all was said and done, what could the judgment of others matter to me? And how much better to be a pious lay sister who stood loyally by the Order, than a sister of the Order whose heart lingered without. Yes, even if Angulimala only brought me the information that my Kamanita was still alive, and I could gather from the account of their meeting that my loved one was ever true to me in his faithful heart, then I would be able myself to make a pilgrimage to Ujjeni. And I pictured to myself how I should one morning, as a wandering ascetic, stand at the door of thy house, how thou wouldst with thine own hands fill my alms-bowl, and in doing so wouldst recognise me—and then all the indescribable joy of having found one another again.
To be sure, it was a long journey to Ujjeni, and it was not seemly for a nun to travel alone. But I did not need to seek long for a companion. Just at this time Somadatta came to a sad end. His passion for the fatal dice had gradually enslaved him, and after gambling away all his substance he drowned himself in the Gunga. Medini, deeply distressed by her loss, now entered the Order. It was perhaps not so much the religious life itself, in all its strict severity, and with its lofty aims, that drew her irresistibly to this sacred grove, as the need she felt to be always in my neighbourhood; for her childlike heart clung with touching fidelity to me. And so I did not doubt that when I revealed my purpose to her, she would go with me to Ujjeni—yes, if need be, to the end of the world. Even already her company in many ways helped to rouse me; while I, on the other hand, by comforting words, softened her genuine grief for the loss of her husband.
As the time approached when Angulimala's return might be expected, I went every afternoon to the southwest edge of the wood, and sat, down under a beautiful tree on some rising ground whence I could follow with my eye to a great distance the road he would be obliged to take. I imagined he would reach the goal of his journey towards evening.
I kept watch there for some days in vain, but was quite prepared to be obliged to wait for a whole month. On the eighth day, however, when the sun was already so low that I had to shade my eyes with my hand, I became aware of a form in the distance approaching the wood. I presently saw the gleam of a yellow cloak, and as the figure passed a woodcutter going homeward, it was easy to see that it belonged to a man of unusual stature. It was indeed Angulimala—alone. My Kamanita he had not "brought with him safe and sound"; but what did that matter? If he could only give me the assurance that my loved one was alive, then I would myself find the way to him.
My heart beat violently when Angulimala stood before me and greeted me with courteous bearing.
"Kamanita lives in his native town in great opulence," he said; "I have myself seen and spoken to him."
And he related to me how he had one morning arrived at thy house, which was a veritable palace; how thy wives had grossly abused him; and how thou didst then thyself come out and drive thy wicked wives into the house, speaking to him friendly and apologetic words.
After he had related everything exactly—just as thou dost know it—he bowed before me, threw his cloak again about his shoulders, and turned round, as though he intended to proceed in that direction, instead of going into the wood. Much astonished, I asked whether he were not going to the hall of the monks.
"I have now faithfully carried out thy charge, and there is no longer anything to prevent my taking my way to the east, in the tracks of the Master, towards Benares and Rajagriha, where I shall find him."
Even as he spoke, this powerful man started off with his long strides, along the edge of the wood, without granting himself the smallest rest.
I gazed after him long, and saw how the setting sun threw his shadow far in front to the crest of the hill on the horizon—yes, to all appearance even farther, as though his longing, in its vehemence, outran him, while I remained behind, like one paralysed, without a goal for longing to which I could send forth even one precious hope.
My heart was dead, my dream dispelled. The hard ascetic saying, "A slut's corner is domestic life," echoed again and again through my desolate heart. On that splendid Terrace of the Sorrowless, under the open, star-filled, and moonlit heaven, my love had its home. How could I, fool, ever have thought to send it begging to that sluttish domesticity in Ujjeni, in order that quarrelsome women might asperse it with their invective.
I crawled back to my cell with difficulty, to stretch myself on a sick-bed. This sudden annihilation of my feverishly excited hopes was too much for powers of resistance already weakened by months of inner strife. With matchless self-sacrifice, Medini nursed me day and night. But as soon as my spirit, buoyed up by her tender care, was able to raise itself above the pain and inflammation of the fever, the plans I had formed for my journey developed in another direction. Not to the place where I had sent Angulimala, but to the place whither he now, of his own initiative, journeyed, did I want to make my pilgrimage. I would follow in the footsteps of the Master till I overtook him. Was I not done with my sentence? Had I not learned in the deepest sense that, when loves comes, suffering also comes? And so I might, I thought, seek the Buddha, and gain new life from the power of the Holy One in order to be able to press farther forward to the highest goal.
I confided my intention to the good Medini, who at once adopted the unexpected suggestion with wild enthusiasm, and painted, in her childish fantasy, how splendid it would be to roam through exquisite regions, free as the birds of the air when the migratory season calls them to other and far-distant skies.
Of course, for the first thing, we were obliged to wait patiently till I had regained sufficient strength. And just as that was, to some extent, accomplished, the rainy season, which had begun, imposed a yet longer trial of our patience.
In his last address the Master had spoken thus: "Just as when in the last month of the rainy season, in harvest, the sun, after dispersing and banishing the water-laden clouds, goes up into the sky, and by his radiance frightens all the mists away from the atmosphere, and blazes and shines, so also, ye disciples, does this mode of life, which brings present as well as future good, shine forth, and, by its radiance, frighten away the gossip of common penitents and priests, and blazes and shines."
And when Nature had made this picture a reality round about us, we left the Krishna grove at the gates of Kosambi, and, turning our steps eastward, hurried towards that sun of all holy living.