Many things I was not able to reconcile; for here existence and nonexistence were, at one and the same time, not life, and yet still less lifelessness. But I felt in heart like one who hears a new song utterly unlike any other he has ever heard, a song of which he is able to catch but a few words, yet the music of which penetrates his heart, telling him everything. And what music! Notes of such crystal purity that all other sounds when compared with it must seem to the listener like empty noise, strains bringing greetings from so far away, from so far above the spheres, that a new and undreamt-of longing is awakened, of which one felt that it can never be stilled by anything earthly or earth-like, and which, if unsatisfied, will never pass away.
Meanwhile night had come down. The pale light of the moon, as it rose behind the temple, threw shadows from the latter right across the whole width of the forest glade. The form of the speaker was all but undistinguishable. These more than human words appeared to come forth from the sanctuary itself that had swallowed again into its mass of shadow all the thousand wild and tangled, life-simulating forms, and now towered upward in simple but imposing lines, a monument of all terrestrial and celestial life.
My hands folded about my knees, I sat there listening and looking up to the heavens, where great stars glittered over the dark treetops, and the heavenly Gunga lay extended like a river of light. Then I remembered the hour when we both, at that same spot, solemnly raised our hands to it, and mutually swore by its silver floods which feed these lotus lakes, that we would meet here again in the Paradise of the West—in a heaven of pleasure like to that of Krishna, of which the Master had just spoken, as of the place which the faithful strove to reach.
And as I thought of it, my heart grew sad; but I could trace no desire in myself for such a life in Paradise, for a shimmer of something infinitely higher had shone in my eyes.
And without disappointment, without anything of the painful emotion he feels whose dearest hopes are shattered, I caught the words of the Master—
“To be born is to die; all-destroying, oblivion’s breath holds sway;
As in gardens of Earth, flowers in Paradise fade, and pass away.”
XXXVII
The Blossoms of Paradise Wither
“Yes, my friend,” added Vasitthi, “I heard those words, which appear so destructive of all hope to you, without disappointment, as I now without pain, and indeed even with joy, perceive how, round about us here, the truth of these words is established in what we see taking place.”
During Vasitthi’s narration, the process of decay had gone on, slowly but ceaselessly, and there could no longer be the least doubt but that all these beings and their surroundings sickened to their fall and complete dissolution.
The lotus flowers had already shed more than half their crown-petals, and the waters sparkled but sparingly forth from between these gay-coloured little vessels which were set trembling every other instant as a fresh one fell. On their flower-thrones, divested of all adornment now, sat the once-happy inhabitants of the Paradise of the West, in positions more or less indicative of utter breakdown. The head of one hung down upon his breast, that of another sideways on his shoulder, and a shiver as of fever ran through them every time that an icy blast shook the already thinned tops in the groves, causing blossoms and leaves to rain to earth. Woefully subdued, and more and more frequently interwoven with painful discords, sounded the music of the heavenly genii; and with it were blent deep sighs and anxious groans. All that had been so luminous—the faces and robes of the blest and of the genii, no less than the clouds and flowers—all gradually lost brightness, and a blue twilight haze appeared to weave its threads about the distances. The fresh fragrance of the flowers too, that had formerly been as a vitalizing breath to everything, had gradually become a soporific odour, at once distressing to the respiratory organs, and stupefying to the senses.
Kamanita indicated the things about him with a tired movement of the hand.
“How can one possibly feel pleasure in such a sight, Vasitthi?”
“For this reason, my friend, it is possible to feel pleasure in such a sight, that if all this were lasting and did not pass away, there would be nothing higher. But now there is something higher; for this does pass, and beyond there is that which knows neither decay nor genesis. Just that it is that the Master calls ‘joy in the transient’; and for that reason he says: ‘If thou hast discerned the dissolution of all created things, then thou dost know the uncreated.’ ”
At these confident words, Kamanita’s features grew animated, as a flower that is withering for want of water revives beneath the falling rain.
“Blessings on thee, Vasitthi! For my salvation wast thou given me. Yes, I feel it. We have erred but in this one particular—our longings did not aim high enough. We desired for ourselves this life in a paradise of flowers. And flowers must, assuredly, in accordance with their nature, wither. Everlasting, however, are the stars; according to eternal laws they keep their courses. And look there, Vasitthi; while all else shows the pale traces of decay, that little river—a tributary of the heavenly Gunga—flows into our lake, its water just as starlike in its purity and just as plentiful as ever, and all because it comes from the world of stars. One who should succeed in entering into existence again among the gods of the stars, would be raised above the sphere of mortality.”
“Why should we not be able to succeed in that?” asked Vasitthi. “For I have certainly heard of monks who fixed heart and mind upon
