Full of this assurance, I saw the Buddha depart, early next morning, with many disciples—among these naturally Ananda also, who waited upon the Master and was always about him. He had, in his gentle way, invariably treated me with such special friendliness that I felt I should miss him and his cheering glance greatly, even more than I should the wise Sariputta, who helped me over many a knotty point of doctrine by his keen analysis of all my difficulties and his clear explanations. Now I was left to my own resources.
As soon as I had returned from my alms-gathering, and had eaten my meal, I sought out a stately tree which stood in the midst of a little forest meadow—the true original of that “mighty tree far removed from all clamour” of which it is said that human beings may sit under it and think.
That I now did, beginning earnestly upon my sentence. When, towards evening, I returned to the common hall I brought with me, as the result of my day’s work, a feeling of dissatisfaction with myself, and a dim foreboding of what this sentence might really come to mean. But when, on the following evening, at the close of my period of contemplation, I returned to my cell, I already knew exactly what the Master had in mind when he gave me the motto.
I had certainly believed I was on the straight path to perfect peace, and that I had left my love with all its passionate emotions far behind me. That incomparable master of the human heart, however, had, beyond question, seen that my love was not by any means overcome—that, on the contrary, overawed by the mighty influence of the new life, it had but withdrawn to the innermost recesses of my heart, there to bide its time. And his desire, in directing my attention to it, was that I should induce it to come forth from its lurking-place and so overcome it. And it certainly did come forth, and with such power that I found myself at once in the midst of severe, indeed of distracting, conflicts of soul, and became aware that mine would be no easy victory.
The astonishing information that my loved one had not been killed, and in all probability yet breathed the air of this earth with me, was, it is true, now more than half a year old. But when, owing to the apparition on the terrace, that knowledge rose so suddenly within me, it was at once, as it seemed, inundated by the stormy waves of feeling it had itself stirred up, and all but went down in its own vortex. Passionate hate, longings for revenge, and malignant broodings succeeded one another in a veritable devil’s dance—then came the conversion of Angulimala, the overwhelming impression made upon me by the Buddha, the new life, and the dawn of another and utterly unsuspected world whose elements were born of the destruction of all the elements of the old. Now, however, the first impetuous onrush of the new feeling was over, the great Master of this secret magic had disappeared from my ken, and I sat there alone, my gaze directed on love—on my love. Again that marvellous revelation rose clearly before me, and a boundless longing for the distant loved one, who yet sojourned among the living, laid hold upon me.
But was he really, then, among the living still? And did he love me still?
The fearful anxiety and uncertainty of such questions stimulated my longing yet further, and with the subduing of my love, with the loyal acceptance of my motto, I could make no progress. I thought ever of love, and never reached suffering and the origin of suffering.
These ever more hopeless soul struggles of mine did not remain hidden from the other sisters, and I heard, of course, how they spoke of me—
“Vasitthi, formerly the wife of the Minister, whom even the stern Sariputta ofttimes praised for her quick and sure apprehension of even the difficult points of the doctrine, is now unable to master her sentence, and it is so simple.”
That discouraged me yet more, shame and despair laid hold upon me, and at last I felt I could bear this state of things no longer.
XLII
The Sick Nun
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 lovesick
