My lack of strength did not admit of our undertaking long daily journeys, and made it necessary sometimes to take a day for rest, so that only after a pilgrimage of a month did we arrive in Vesali, where, as we knew, the Master had made a considerable stay, but whence he had been gone about six weeks.
A short time before we had learned, in a village in which lived pious followers of the doctrine, that Sariputta and Moggallana had entered into Nirvana. The thought that these two great disciples—the chiefs of the doctrine, as we named them—no longer dwelt on earth, moved me deeply. Of course we all knew well that these great ones, as even the Buddha himself, were merely human beings just as we, but the idea that they could leave us had never arisen in our minds. Sariputta, who had so often in his deliberate way solved difficult questions of doctrine for me, had passed away. He was the disciple in appearance most like the Master, and he stood, as did the Master, in his eightieth year. Was it possible that even the Buddha himself could be approaching the end of his life on earth?
Perhaps the uneasiness which was caused by this fear fanned some smouldering remnant of my past fever again into a blaze. Be that as it may, I arrived in Vesali sick and exhausted. In the town there lived a rich woman, a follower of the Buddha, who made it her special care to minister in every possible way to the needs of the monks and nuns passing through. When she learned that a sick nun had arrived, she at once sought me out, brought Medini and myself to her house, and tended me there with great solicitude.
Moved by her kindness, I soon gave expression to the fear that was troubling me, and asked whether she thought it possible that the Master, who was of the same age as Sariputta, would also soon leave us?
At that, the pious soul burst into a flood of tears, and, in a voice broken by sobs, exclaimed—
"Ah! Then you don't know yet? Here, in Vesali—about two months ago—the Master himself foretold that he would enter Nirvana in about three months. And just to think! If only Ananda had possessed understanding enough, and had spoken at the right moment, it would never have taken place, and the Buddha would have lived on to the end of this world-period!"
I asked what the good Ananda had to do with it, and in what way he had deserved such blame.
"In this way," answered the woman. "One day the Master rested with Ananda outside of the town, in the neighbourhood of the Capala temple. In the course of the conversation, the Master told Ananda that whosoever had developed the spiritual powers within him to perfection could, if he so desired, remain alive through a whole world-period. Oh, that simpleton Ananda, that he didn't at once, even with this plain hint, say, 'O that the Master would deign to remain alive throughout a world-period, to the salvation of many'! His spirit must have been possessed by Mara, the Evil One, seeing that he only preferred his request when it was too late."
"But how could it be too late," I asked, "seeing that the Master is yet alive?"
"Of that I will tell thee. Know then, that fifty years ago, when the Master had in Uruvela attained to his Buddha knowledge and, after seven years of strife, was enjoying the possession of sacred calm of spirit, he tarried under the Nyagrodha tree of the goat-herd, and there Mara, the Evil One, drew near to him, very much disturbed an account of the danger that threatened his kingdom in the person of the Buddha. In the hope of hindering the spread of the doctrine, he said: 'Hail to thee! The time has come for the Master to enter into Nirvana.' But the Buddha answered: 'Not before I have declared the doctrine to mankind shall I enter, thou Evil One, into Nirvina; not before I have enlisted disciples able to defend the doctrine from attack and to proclaim it further. I shall only then, thou Evil One, enter into Nirvana when the Kingdom of Truth stands on firm foundations.'
"But after the Master had here, at the sanctuary of Capala, spoken as I have told thee to Ananda, and he, without comprehending the hint, had gone away, Mara, the Evil One, approached the Master and said to him: 'Hail to thee! The time has at length come for the Master to enter into Nirvana. All that the Master formerly spoke of under the Nyagrodha tree of the goat-herd at Uruvela, as necessary to his entering Nirvana, is now fulfilled. The Kingdom of Truth rests on sure foundations. I trust that the Master will now enter into Nirvana.' Then the Buddha answered Mara, the Evil One, thus: 'Fear not, thou Evil One! The Nirvana of the Perfect One will soon take place; after three months have passed the Perfect One will enter into Nirvana.' At these words the earth trembled, as thou wilt thyself, probably, have noticed."
As a matter of fact, we had felt a slight earthquake in Kosambi about a month before I left the sacred grove, and this I now told her.
"Dost thou see," exclaimed the woman excitedly, "it has been felt—everywhere. The whole earth shook and the drums of the gods emitted groans as the Perfect One waived his claim to longer life. Ah! if that simpleminded Ananda had but understood in time the hint so plainly given him! For when, wakened by the earthquake from his self-absorption, he came back to the Master and begged that he would consent to remain alive for the rest of this world-period, the Master had of course already given his word to Mara, and had renounced his claim to longer life."
From these speeches of the pious but somewhat superstitious woman, I gathered that the Master had, during his stay in Vesali, felt symptoms of approaching death, and had, in all likelihood, told the disciples that he would shortly die.
So I could no longer bear to remain patiently under her hospitable roof. I must reach the Buddha before he should leave us. That had always been our one great comfort, that we were able to turn to him, the inexhaustible source of truth. He alone could solve all the doubts of my troubled soul; only he, out of all the world, was able to restore to me the peace which I had once tasted, as I sat at his feet, in front of the old temple of Krishna, in the Sinsapa wood at Kosambi.
So, when ten days had passed, and my strength made travelling to some extent possible, we started. My good hostess, whose conscience troubled her at allowing me to go farther in my weak condition, I comforted with the promise that I would lay a greeting from her at the feet of the Master. We now continued our journey in a northwesterly direction, in the Master's, which we found the more recent the farther we were able, aided by the information gathered from place to place, to advance.
In Ambagana he had been just eight days earlier; the Sala grove of Bhoganagara he had left to betake himself to Pava, three days before we arrived there.
Early one afternoon, and very tired, we reached the latter place.
The first house that attracted our attention belonged to a coppersmith, as could be seen from the great variety of metal wares ranged along the wall. But no blow of a hammer resounded from it; the inmates seemed to be keeping holiday, and at the well in the courtyard dishes and platters were being washed by the servants as though a marriage had just taken place.
Suddenly a little man in festive garb came forward and begged courteously to be allowed to fill our alms-bowls.
"If you had come a few hours earlier," he added, "then I should have had two additional welcome and honoured guests, for your Master, the Buddha, with his monks, dined with me to-day."
"So the Master is still here in Pava, then?"
"Not any longer, most honoured sister," answered the coppersmith. "Immediately after the meal the Master was taken with a violent illness and severe pains, which brought him near to fainting, so that we were all greatly frightened. But the Master rallied from the attack and started for Kusinara about an hour ago."
I should have preferred to go at once, for what the smith said about this attack caused me to anticipate the worst. But it was an imperative necessity to strengthen ourselves not only with food, but by a short interval of rest.
The road from Pava to Kusinara it was not possible to miss. It soon led us away from the cultivated fields, through tiger-grass and undergrowth ever deeper into the jungle. We waded through a little river and refreshed ourselves somewhat by bathing. After a few minutes' pause we started on again. Evening was approaching, and it was with difficulty that I managed to drag myself farther.
Medini tried to persuade me to spend the night on a little bit of rising ground under a tree. There was no such great hurry.
"This Kusinara is, I expect, not much more than a village, and seems to be quite buried in the jungle. How canst thou imagine that the Master will die here? He will assuredly pass away some time in the Jetavana Park at Sravasti, or in either one of his groves at Rajagriha; but the life of the Master will certainly not go out in this desert. Who has ever heard of Kusinara?"
"It may be that people will hear of Kusinara from this day forward," I said, and went on.
But my strength was soon so terribly exhausted that I was forced to bring myself to climb the nearest treeless height in the hope of being able to see from it the neighbourhood of Kusinara. Otherwise we should be obliged to spend the night up there where we were less exposed to the attacks of beasts of prey and snakes, and would also be to a certain extent immune from fever-producing vapours.
Arrived at the summit, we looked in vain for some sign of human dwellings. In seemingly endless succession the slopes of the jungle rose before us, like a carpet that is gradually being drawn upward. Soon, however, tall trees emerged from the low undergrowth, the thick leafy masses of a virgin forest rose dome-like one above another, and in a dark glade foamed an unruly brook, the same stream in whose silently flowing waters we had a short time before bathed.
The whole day through, the air had been sultry and the sky overcast. Here, however, we were met by a fresh breeze, and the landscape grew ever clearer as though one veil after another were being lifted before our eyes.
Huge walls of rock towered skyward above the woods, and higher yet like a roof above them were piled green mountain-tops—forest-clad peaks, they must have been, though they looked like so many mossy cushions—and ever higher, till they seemed to disappear in Heaven itself.
One solitary far-stretching cloud of soft red hue—one, and only one—floated above.
Even as we gazed at it this cloud began to glow strangely. It recalled the past when I had seen my father take a piece of purified gold out of the furnace with the pincers and, after cooling, lay it on a background of light-blue silk, for so did this luminous air-picture now shine forth in sharply defined surfaces of burnished gold; while, in between, vaporous strips of bright green deepened and shot downward in fan-shaped patches until, becoming gradually paler, they plunged into the colourless stratum of air beneath, as though desirous of reaching the verdure-clad mountain-tops that lay below. Ever redder grew the golden surfaces, ever greener the shadows.
That was no cloud.
"The Himavat," whispered Medini, overawed and deeply moved, as her hand tremblingly sought my arm.
Yes, there he rose before us, the mountain of mountains, the place of eternal snows, the abode of the gods, the resting-place of the holy ones! The Himavat—even in childhood this name had filled me with feelings of deep fear and reverence, with a mysterious prescience of the Sublime One! How often had I heard in legends and tales the sentence—"And he betook himself to the Himavat and lived the life of an ascetic there!" Thousands upon thousands had climbed these heights—seekers after salvation—in order amid the loneliness of the mountains to reach eternal happiness by means of their penance—each with his own special delusion; and now He was approaching—the One Being, among them all, free from delusion—He whose footsteps we were following.
As I stood there, lost in thought, the luminous picture was suddenly extinguished, as though heaven had absorbed it into itself.
I felt myself, however, so wonderfully animated and strengthened by the sight that I no longer thought of rest.
"Even if the Master," I said to Medini, "were to precede us to yonder summit in order to pass from that lofty station to the highest of the regions above, I would yet follow and reach him."
And, full of courage, I walked on. We had not, however, been half an hour on the way when suddenly the undergrowth ceased, and cultivated land lay before us. It was already quite dark and the full moon rose large and glowing above the wood which lay opposite when we at last reached Kusinara.
It was really not much more than a village of the Mallas with walls and houses of stamped clay and wicker-work. My first impression was that a devastating sickness must have depopulated the little township. At the doors of the houses sat several old and sick people who wailed loudly.
We asked them what had happened.
"Ah!" they exclaimed, wringing their hands. "Soon, all too soon, the Master dies. This very hour, the light of the world will be extinguished. The Mallas have gone to the Sala grove to see and worship the Sacred One. For, shortly before sunset, Ananda came into out town and betook himself to the market where the Mallas were debating a public matter, and said: 'This very day, before the hour of midnight, O Mallas, the Master will enter Nirvana. See that ye do not later have to reproach yourselves, saying: "In our town, a Buddha died, and we did not take advantage of the opportunity to visit the Perfect One in his last hours."' Upon which all of the Mallas with their wives and children went out moaning and lamenting to the Sala grove. We, however, are too old and weak; we are obliged to remain behind here, and cannot worship the Master in his last hours."
We immediately had the way from the town to the Sala grove pointed out to us, but, finding it already filled with crowds of returning Mallas, we preferred to hurry across the fields, towards a corner-of the little wood.
As we reached it we saw a monk leaning against the trunk of a tree and weeping. Deeply affected, I stopped, and at that instant he raised his face towards heaven. The full moonlight fell upon the pain-filled lineaments, and I recognised Ananda.
"Then I have arrived too late—ah me!" I said to myself, and I felt my strength leaving me.
Just then, however, I heard a rustling in the bush, and saw a gigantic monk step forward and lay his hand upon Ananda's shoulder.
"Brother Ananda, the Master calls for thee."
So I was really, then, to see the Buddha in his last moments, after all! At once my strength returned and rendered me capable of following.
That instant Angulimala observed and recognised us. Reading his troubled glance aright, I said—
"Have no fear, brother, that we shall disturb the last moments of the Perfect One by loud weeping and female cries. We have taken no rest by the way from Vesali, here, in order that we might see the Master once again. Do not refuse us admission to him; we will be strong."
On which he signed to us to follow them.
We did not have far to go.
In a little glade of the forest, there were perhaps two hundred monks collected, who stood around in a semicircle. In their midst rose two Sala trees—one splendid mass of white blossoms—and, beneath them, on a bed of yellow cloaks spread out between the two trunks, rested the Perfect One, his head supported on his right arm. And the blossoms rained softly down upon him.
Behind him, I saw in spirit the pinnacles of the Himavat rise, clad in their eternal snows and now veiled in the darkness of night, and I seemed to catch again the dreamlike glimpse I had just enjoyed, and to which I owed it that I now stood here, in the presence of the Perfect One. And the unearthly glow which had come to me with such a greeting across the distances flashed towards me again, in spiritual glorification, from His face. He also, the Master, appeared, even as though those floating cloudlike peaks, not to belong to this earth at all; and yet he had, like them, climbed up from the same earth-level, which bears us all, to those immeasurable spiritual heights whence he was about to disappear from the sight of gods and men.
He spoke first of all to Ananda, who now stood before him.
"I know well, Ananda, that thou wert weeping in lonely grief, and that thy thought was: 'I am not yet free from sin; I have not yet reached the goal, and my Master is about to enter into Nirvana—he who pitied me.' But put such thoughts from thee, Ananda—neither complain, nor lament. Have I not told thee already, Ananda?—from all that one holds dear, one must part. How were it possible, Ananda, that it should be otherwise, that that which comes into existence should not pass out of it—that what is joined together should not be sundered—what is composed not be decomposed? But thou, Ananda, hast long honoured the Perfect One, in love and in kindness, with thy whole heart, gladly and without guile. Thou hast done well. Strive earnestly, and thou wilt soon be free from carnal desires, from selfishness, and from delusion."
As if to show that he was no longer allowing grief to overcome him, Ananda, commanding his voice by sheer force of will, now asked what the disciples were to do with the Master's mortal remains.
"Let that in no way trouble thee," answered the Buddha. "There are wise and pious disciples among the nobles, among the Brahmans, among the citizen heads of families—they will pay the last honours to the mortal remains of the Perfect One. But thou hast more important things to do. Think of the immortal, not of the mortal; speed forward, look not back."
And as he let his glance wander around the circle and looked at each one individually, he added—
"It may be, my disciples, that your thought is: 'The Word has lost its Master; we have no longer a Master.' But this ye are not to think. The doctrine, my disciples, which I have taught you, that will be your Master, when I am gone. Therefore, cling to no external support. Hold fast to the doctrine as a support! Be your own light, your own support."
Me also he noticed then—full of pity did the look of the All-Pitiful One rest on me, and I felt that my pilgrimage had not been in vain.
After a short time he spoke again—
"It might perhaps be, my disciples, that in some one of you a doubt should arise with regard to the Master or with regard to the doctrine. Ask freely, disciples, in order that ye may not have to reproach yourselves later, that ye may not say: 'The Master was with us, face to face, and we did not ask him.'"
Thus he spoke, and gave to every one the opportunity of speaking, but all remained silent.
How, indeed, could a doubt have remained in the presence of the parting Master? Lying there, with the gentle light of the moon flowing over him—as though heavenly genii were preparing his last bath; rained upon by the falling blossoms—as though earth were bewailing her loss; in the midst of the deeply moved band of disciples, himself unmoved, quiet, cheerful; who did not feel that this Perfectly Holy One had for ever cast off all imperfections, had overcome all evil? What is called "the visible Nirvana," that we saw before us, in the luminous features of the departing Buddha.
Ananda, stirred to the very depths of his soul, folded his hands and said—
"How wonderful, of a truth, O Master, is this. Verily, I believe, in this whole assembly, there is not even one in whom a doubt lives."
And the Sublime One answered him—
"Out of the fulness of thine own faith hast thou spoken, Ananda. But I know that there is not a doubt in any one. Even he, who was most backward, has been enlightened, and will finally reach the goal."
As he uttered this promise, it assuredly seemed to each one of us as though a powerful hand were opening the Gateway of Eternity to him.
Once again the lips parted that had given to the world the highest—the final—truth.
"Hear then, O disciples! verily, I say unto you, fleeting is all form. Labour and rest not."
These were the Master's last words.