Farther yet, and a pair of golden eagles were building their eyrie high up in savage mountain fastnesses, hanging over the blue abysses of the Himalayas, and circling round its snowy pinnacles.
As two dolphins they ploughed the boundless expanse of old ocean’s salty flood.
Yes, once they even grew as two palms on an island in the midst of the seas, their roots intertwined in the cool sand of the shore, and their tops rustling together in the cool sea-breeze.
Thus did they two, companions in so many wanderings, linger in the shade of the Coral Tree, and, day by day, enjoy the sweets of memory exhaled by its fragrant blossoms.
For, even as a royal couple, in pursuit of amusement and knowledge, have many things related to them by the court storyteller—now the life-story of a king, again a simple village tale—at one time, an heroic poem; at another, a legend of ancient days or, it may be, a fable of some animal, or a fairy tale—and all the while know that, however often it pleases them to listen, there is no fear that this prince of storytellers will ever be at a loss for matter, because the treasury of his legendary knowledge and his own inventive ability are both inexhaustible—so these two were able to say to themselves: “However often and however long we may linger here, ay, even if it were for an eternity, there is no danger that these blossoms will ever be unable to wake further memories; for the farther we go down into the abysses of time, the farther does time recede from us.”
And they marvelled much.
“We are as old as the world,” said Vasitthi.
XXX
“To Be Born Is to Die”
“Assuredly we are as old as the world,” said Kamanita. “But up to this time we have wandered on, never resting, and death when he has come has always projected us into a new life. Now, however, we have reached a place where there is no more passing away, where eternal joy is our lot.”
At the time when he spoke thus, they were just returning from the Coral Tree to their pond. He was about to let himself down on his lotus flower when it suddenly struck him that its red colour seemed to have lost something of its freshness and gloss. Yes, as he now remained floating over it in the air and looked attentively down, he saw with dismay that the petals of the corona had become brown at the edges, as if they were burnt, and that their tips were losing vitality and curling up.
Vasitthi’s white lotus did not look any better; she also had remained floating over hers, evidently arrested by the same phenomenon.
He turned his eyes upon his blue neighbour whose lotus showed just the same change, and Kamanita noticed that neither did his face beam as joyously as on that day when he, Kamanita, first greeted him; his features were not so animated as formerly, his bearing not so open. Yes, even in his countenance, Kamanita read the same dismay that had moved himself and Vasitthi.
And it was the same, as a matter of fact, everywhere he looked. A change had come over both flowers and figures.
Again he directed a searching glance upon his own lotus. One of the petals in the corona seemed to become alive—slowly it bent itself forward and fell loose upon the surface of the water.
But it did not fall alone.
At the same instant a crown petal was loosened from every lotus flower—the whole expanse of water glittered and trembled, and, as it rose and fell, gently rocked the dainty, coloured fleet on its bosom. Through the groves on the bank went a breath of frost; and a shower of blossoms, like sparkling jewels, fell to the ground.
A sigh was wrung from every breast, and a low but cutting disharmony traversed the music of the heavenly genii.
“Vasitthi, my love!” exclaimed Kamanita, seizing her hand in deep agitation, “dost thou see? Dost thou hear? What is this? What can it mean?”
Vasitthi, however, looked at him, calmly smiling.
“This was in His mind, when He said—
“ ‘To be born is to die; all-destroying, oblivion’s breath holds sway;
As in gardens of Earth, flowers of Paradise fade, and pass away.’ ”
“Who is the author of that frightful, hope-destroying utterance?”
“Who but He, the Perfect One, the proved in life and in knowledge; who, out of pity for men, makes clear the doctrine, for the enlightenment of all of us, and the comfort of each one; who reveals to us the world with its beings—noble and degraded—its troops of gods, men, and demons; the Guide who shows the way out of this world of change; the Master, the Perfect One, the Buddha.”
“The Buddha is believed to have said that? Oh no, Vasitthi, that I do not credit. How often are the words of such great teachers misunderstood and inaccurately repeated, as I myself best know! For once, at Rajagriha, I spent the night in the entrance-hall of a potter, in the company of a foolish ascetic, who would insist on expounding the doctrine of the Buddha to me. What he advanced, however, was poor stuff, a self-fabricated and stupid doctrine, although I could, it is true, perceive that genuine sayings of the Master lay at the root of it—spoilt, however, in the attempt to correct them, and misinterpreted, by that contrary fellow. I am sure that wiseacres have also, here, reported this saying falsely to thee.”
“Not so, my friend. For I have it from the lips of the Master himself.”
“What, beloved? Thou hast thyself seen the Master, face to face?”
“I certainly have. I have sat at his feet.”
“Oh, happy Vasitthi! For happy—that I can see—art thou now, in the memory of it. Ah, I also would be as happy and as confident as thou, had not, at the last moment, my evil fate—the fruit of wicked deeds of the past, grown ripe at
