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
