The holy Buddha, Sakhya Muni, on dispatching his apostles to proclaim
his religion throughout the peninsula of India, failed not to provide
them with salutary precepts for their guidance. He exhorted them to
meekness, to compassion, to abstemiousness, to zeal in the promulgation
of his doctrine, and added an injunction never before or since
prescribed by the founder of any religion—namely, on no account to
perform any miracle.
It is further related, that whereas the apostles experienced
considerable difficulty in complying with the other instructions of
their master, and sometimes actually failed therein, the prohibition to
work miracles was never once transgressed by any of them, save only the
pious Ananda, the history of whose first year’s apostolate is recorded
as follows.
Ananda repaired to the kingdom of Magadha, and instructed the
inhabitants diligently in the law of Buddha. His doctrine being
acceptable, and his speech persuasive, the people hearkened to him
willingly, and began to forsake the Brahmins whom they had previously
revered as spiritual guides. Perceiving this, Ananda became elated in
spirit, and one day he exclaimed:
“How blessed is the apostle who propagates truth by the efficacy of
reason and virtuous example, combined with eloquence, rather than error
by imposture and devil-mongering, like those miserable Brahmins!”
As he uttered this vainglorious speech, the mountain of his merits was
diminished by sixteen yojanas, and virtue and efficacy departed from
him, insomuch that when he next addressed the multitude they first
mocked, then hooted, and finally pelted him.
When matters had reached this pass, Ananda lifted his eyes and
discerned a number of Brahmins of the lower sort, busy about a boy who
lay in a fit upon the ground. They had long been applying exorcisms and
other approved methods with scant success, when the most sagacious
among them suggested:
“Let us render the body of this patient an uncomfortable residence for
the demon; peradventure he will then cease to abide therein.”
They were accordingly engaged in branding the sufferer with hot irons,
filling his nostrils with smoke, and otherwise to the best of their
ability disquieting the intrusive devil. Ananda’s first thought was,
“The lad is in a fit;” the second, “It were a pious deed to deliver him
from his tormentors;” the third, “By good management this may extricate
me from my present uncomfortable predicament, and redound to the glory
of the most holy Buddha.”
Yielding to this temptation, he strode forward, chased away the
Brahmins with an air of authority, and, uplifting his countenance to
heaven, recited the appellations of seven devils. No effect ensuing, he
repeated seven more, and so continued until, the fit having passed off
in the course of nature, the patient’s paroxysms ceased, he opened his
eyes, and Ananda restored him to his relatives. But the people cried
loudly, “A miracle! a miracle!” and when Ananda resumed his
instructions, they gave heed to him, and numbers embraced the religion
of Buddha. Whereupon Ananda exulted, and applauded himself for his
dexterity and presence of mind, and said to himself:
“Surely the end sanctifies the means,”
As he propounded this heresy, the eminence of his merits was reduced to
the dimensions of a mole-hill, and he ceased to be of account in the
eyes of any of the saints, save only of Buddha, whose compassion is
inexhaustible.
The fame of his achievement, nevertheless, was bruited about the whole
country, and soon reached the ears of the king, who sent for him, and
inquired if he had actually expelled the demon.
Ananda replied in the affirmative.
“I am indeed rejoiced,” returned the king, “as thou now wilt without
doubt proceed to heal _my_ son, who has lain in a trance for
twenty-nine days.”
“Alas! dread sovereign,” modestly returned Ananda, “how should the
merits which barely suffice to effect the cure of a miserable Pariah
avail to restore the offspring of an Elephant among Kings?”
“By what process are these merits acquired?” demanded the monarch.
“By the exercise of penance,” responded Ananda, “in virtue of which the
austere devotee quells the winds, allays the waters, expostulates
convincingly with tigers, carries the moon in his sleeve, and otherwise
performs all acts and deeds appropriate to the character of a
peripatetic thaumaturgist.”
“This being so,” answered the king, “thy inability to heal my son
manifestly arises from defect of merit, and defect of merit from defect
of penance. I will therefore consign thee to the charge of my Brahmins,
that they may aid thee to fill up the measure of that which is
lacking.”
Ananda vainly strove to explain that the austerities to which he had
referred were entirely of a spiritual and contemplative character. The
Brahmins, enchanted to get a heretic into their clutches, immediately
seized upon him, and conveyed him to one of their temples. They
stripped him, and perceived with astonishment that not one single weal
or scar was visible anywhere on his person. “Horror!” they exclaimed;
“here is a man who expects to go to heaven in a whole skin!” To obviate
this breach of etiquette, they laid him upon his face, and flagellated
him until the obnoxious soundness of cuticle was entirely removed. They
then departed, promising to return next day and operate in a
corresponding manner upon the anterior part of his person, after which,
they jeeringly assured him, his merits would be in no respect less than
those of the saintly Bhagiratha, or of the regal Viswamitra himself.
Ananda lay half dead upon the floor of the temple, when the sanctuary
was illuminated by the apparition of a resplendent Glendoveer, who thus
addressed him:
“Well, backsliding disciple, art thou yet convinced of thy folly?”
Ananda relished neither the imputation on his orthodoxy nor that on his
wisdom. He replied, notwithstanding, with all meekness:
“Heaven forbid that I should repine at any variety of martyrdom that
tends to the propagation of my master’s faith.”
“Wilt thou then first be healed, and moreover become the instrument of
converting the entire realm of Magadha?”
“How shall this be accomplished?” demanded Ananda.
“By perseverance in the path of deceit and disobedience,” returned the
Glendoveer.
Ananda winced, but maintained silence in the expectation of more
explicit directions.
“Know,” pursued the spirit, “that the king’s son will revive from his
trance at the expiration of the thirtieth day, which takes place at
noon to-morrow. Thou hast but to proceed at the fitting period to the
couch whereon he is deposited, and, placing thy hand upon his heart, to
command him to rise forthwith. His recovery will be ascribed to thy
supernatural powers, and the establishment of Buddha’s religion will
result. Before this it will be needful that I should perform an actual
cure upon thy back, which is within the compass of my capacity. I only
request thee to take notice, that thou wilt on this occasion be
transgressing the precepts of thy master with thine eyes open. It is
also meet to apprise thee that thy temporary extrication from thy
present difficulties will only involve thee in others still more
formidable.”
“An incorporeal Glendoveer is no judge of the feelings of a flayed
apostle,” thought Ananda. “Heal me,” he replied, “if thou canst, and
reserve thy admonitions for a more convenient opportunity.”
“So be it,” returned the Glendoveer; and as he extended his hand over
Ananda, the latter’s back was clothed anew with skin, and his previous
smart simultaneously allayed. The Glendoveer vanished at the same
moment, saying, “When thou hast need of me, pronounce but the
incantation, _Gnooh Imdap Inam Mua_, [*] and I will immediately be by
thy side.”
*) The mystic formula of the Buddhists, read backwards.
The anger and amazement of the Brahmins may be conceived when, on
returning equipped with fresh implements of flagellation, they
discovered the salubrious condition of their victim. Their scourges
would probably have undergone conversion into halters, had they not
been accompanied by a royal officer, who took the really triumphant
martyr under his protection, and carried him off to the palace. He was
speedily conducted to the young prince’s couch, whither a vast crowd
attended him. The hour of noon not having yet arrived, Ananda
discreetly protracted the time by a seasonable discourse on the
impossibility of miracles, those only excepted which should be wrought
by the professors of the faith of Buddha. He then descended from his
pulpit, and precisely as the sun attained the zenith laid his hand upon
the bosom of the young prince, who instantly revived, and completed a
sentence touching the game of dice which had been interrupted by his
catalepsy.
The people shouted, the courtiers went into ecstasies, the countenances
of the Brahmins assumed an exceedingly sheepish expression. Even the
king seemed impressed, and craved to be more particularly instructed in
the law of Buddha. In complying with this request, Ananda, who had made
marvellous progress in worldly wisdom during the last twenty-four
hours, deemed it needless to dilate on the cardinal doctrines of his
master, the misery of existence, the need of redemption, the path to
felicity, the prohibition to shed blood. He simply stated that the
priests of Buddha were bound to perpetual poverty, and that under the
new dispensation all ecclesiastical property would accrue to the
temporal authorities.
“By the holy cow!” exclaimed the monarch, “this is something like a
religion!”
The words were scarcely out of the royal lips ere the courtiers
professed themselves converts. The multitude followed their example.
The Brahminical church was promptly disestablished and disendowed, and
more injustice was committed in the name of the new and purified
religion in one day than the old corrupt one had occasioned in a
hundred years.
Ananda had the satisfaction of feeling able to forgive his adversaries,
and of valuing himself accordingly; and to complete his felicity, he
was received in the palace, and entrusted with the education of the
king’s son, which he strove to conduct agreeably to the precepts of
Buddha. This was a task of some delicacy, as it involved interference
with the princely youth’s favourite amusement, which had previously
consisted in torturing small reptiles.
After a short interval Ananda was again summoned to the monarch’s
presence. He found his majesty in the company of two most ferocious
ruffians, one of whom bore a huge axe, and the other an enormous pair
of pincers.
“My chief executioner and my chief tormentor,” said the king.
Ananda expressed his gratification at becoming acquainted with such
exalted functionaries.
“Thou must know, most holy man,” resumed the king, “that need has again
arisen for the exercise of fortitude and self-denial on thy part. A
powerful enemy has invaded my dominions, and has impiously presumed to
discomfit my troops. Well might I feel dismayed, were it not for the
consolations of religion; but my trust is in thee, O spiritual father!
It is urgent that thou shouldst accumulate the largest amount of merit
with the least delay possible. I am unable to invoke the ministrations
of thy old friends the Brahmins to this end, they being, as thou
knowest, in disgrace, but I have summoned these trusty and experienced
counsellors in their room. I find them not wholly in accord. My chief
tormentor, being a man of mild temper and humane disposition, considers
that it might at first suffice to employ gentle measures, such, for
example, as suspending thee head downwards in the smoke of a wood fire,
and filling thy nostrils with red pepper. My chief executioner, taking,
peradventure, a too professional view of the subject, deems it best to
resort at once to crucifixion or impalement. I would gladly know thy
thoughts on the matter.”
Ananda expressed, as well as his terror would suffer him, his entire
disapproval of both the courses recommended by the royal advisers.
“Well,” said the king, with an air of resignation, “if we cannot agree
upon either, it follows that we must try both. We will meet for that
purpose to-morrow morning at the second hour. Go in peace!”
Ananda went, but not in peace. His alarm would have well-nigh deprived
him of his faculties if he had not remembered the promise made him by
his former deliverer. On reaching a secluded spot he pronounced the
mystic formula, and immediately became aware of the presence, not of a
radiant Glendoveer, but of a holy man, whose head was strewn with
ashes, and his body anointed with cow-dung.
“Thy occasion,” said the Fakir, “brooks no delay. Thou must immediately
accompany me, and assume the garb of a Jogi.”
Ananda rebelled excessively in his heart, for he had imbibed from the
mild and sage Buddha a befitting contempt for these grotesque and
cadaverous fanatics. The emergency, however, left him no resource, and
he followed his guide to a charnel house, which the latter had selected
as his domicile. There, with many lamentations over the smoothness of
his hair and the brevity of his nails, the Jogi besprinkled and
besmeared Ananda agreeably to his own pattern, and scored him with
chalk and ochre until the peaceful apostle of the gentlest of creeds
resembled a Bengal tiger. He then hung a chaplet of infants’ skulls
about his neck, placed the skull of a malefactor in one of his hands
and the thigh-bone of a necromancer in the other, and at nightfall
conducted him into the adjacent cemetery, where, seating him on the
ashes of a recent funeral pile, he bade him drum upon the skull with
the thigh-bone, and repeat after himself the incantations which he
began to scream out towards the western part of the firmament. These
charms were apparently possessed of singular efficacy, for scarcely
were they commenced ere a hideous tempest arose, rain descended in
torrents, phosphoric flashes darted across the sky, wolves and hyænas
thronged howling from their dens, and gigantic goblins, arising from
the earth, extended their fleshless arms towards Ananda, and strove to
drag him from his seat. Urged by frantic terror, and the example and
exhortations of his companion, he battered, banged, and vociferated,
until on the very verge of exhaustion; when, as if by enchantment, the
tempest ceased, the spectres disappeared, and joyous shouts and a burst
of music announced the occurrence of something auspicious in the
adjoining city.
“The hostile king is dead,” said the Jogi; “and his army has dispersed.
This will be attributed to thy incantations. They are coming in quest
of thee even now. Farewell until thou again hast need of me.”
The Jogi disappeared, the tramp of a procession became audible, and
soon torches glared feebly through the damp, cheerless dawn. The
monarch descended from his state elephant, and, prostrating himself
before Ananda, exclaimed:
“Inestimable man! why didst thou not disclose that thou wert a Jogi?
Never more shall I feel the least apprehension of any of my enemies, so
long as thou continuest an inmate of this cemetery.”
A family of jackals were unceremoniously dislodged from a disused
sepulchre, which was allotted to Ananda for his future residence. The
king permitted no alteration in his costume, and took care that the
food doled out to him should have no tendency to impair his sanctity,
which speedily gave promise of attaining a very high pitch. His hair
had already become as matted and his nails as long as the Jogi could
have desired, when he received a visit from another royal messenger.
The Rajah, so ran the regal missive, had been suddenly and mysteriously
attacked by a dangerous malady, but confidently anticipated relief from
Ananda’s merits and incantations.
Ananda resumed his thigh-bone and his skull, and ruefully began to
thump the latter with the former, in dismal expectation of the things
that were to come. But the spell seemed to have lost its potency.
Nothing more unearthly than a bat presented itself, and Ananda was
beginning to think that he might as well desist when his reflections
were diverted by the apparition of a tall and grave personage, wearing
a sad-coloured robe, and carrying a long wand, who stood by his side as
suddenly as though just risen from the earth.
“The caldron is ready,” said the stranger.
“What caldron?” demanded Ananda.
“That wherein thou art about to be immersed.”
“I immersed in a caldron! wherefore?”
“Thy spells,” returned his interlocutor, “having hitherto failed to
afford his majesty the slightest relief, and his experience of their
efficacy on a former occasion forbidding him to suppose that they can
be inoperative, he is naturally led to ascribe to their pernicious
influence that aggravation of pain of which he has for some time past
unfortunately been sensible. I have confirmed him in this conjecture,
esteeming it for the interest of science that his anger should fall
upon an impudent impostor like thee rather than on a discreet and
learned physician like myself. He has consequently directed the
principal caldron to be kept boiling all night, intending to immerse
thee therein at daybreak, unless he should in the meantime derive some
benefit from thy conjurations.”
“Heavens!” exclaimed Ananda, “whither shall I fly?”
“Nowhere beyond this cemetery,” returned the physician, “inasmuch as it
is entirely surrounded by the royal forces.”
“Wherein, then,” demanded the agonized apostle, “doth the path of
safety lie?”
“In this phial,” answered the physician. “It contains a subtle poison.
Demand to be led before the king. Affirm that thou hast received a
sovereign medicine from the hands of benignant spirits. He will drink
it and perish, and thou wilt be richly rewarded by his successor.”
“Ayaunt, tempter!” cried Ananda, hurling the phial indignantly away. “I
defy thee! and will have recourse to my old deliverer—_Gnooh Imdap Inam
Mua!”_
But the charm appeared to fail of its effect. No figure was visible to
his gaze, save that of the physician, who seemed to regard him with an
expression of pity as he gathered up his robes and melted rather than
glided into the encompassing darkness.
Ananda remained, contending with himself. Countless times was he on the
point of calling after the physician and imploring him to return with a
potion of like properties to the one rejected, but something seemed
always to rise in his throat and impede his utterance, until, worn out
by agitation, he fell asleep and dreamed this dream.
He thought he stood at the vast and gloomy entrance of Patala. [*] The
lugubrious spot wore a holiday appearance; everything seemed to denote
a diabolical gala. Swarms of demons of all shapes and sizes beset the
portal, contemplating what appeared to be preparations for an
illumination. Strings of coloured lamps were in course of disposition
in wreaths and festoons by legions of frolicsome imps, chattering,
laughing, and swinging by their tails like so many monkeys. The
operation was directed from below by superior fiends of great apparent
gravity and respectability. These bore wands of office, tipped with
yellow flames, wherewith they singed the tails of the imps when such
discipline appeared to them to be requisite. Ananda could not refrain
from asking the reason of these festive preparations.
*) The Hindoo Pandemonium.
“They are in honour,” responded the demon interrogated, “of the pious
Ananda, one of the apostles of the Lord Buddha, whose advent is hourly
expected among us with much eagerness and satisfaction.”
The horrified Ananda with much difficulty mustered resolution to
inquire on what account the apostle in question was necessitated to
take up his abode in the infernal regions.
“On account of poisoning,” returned the fiend laconically.
Ananda was about to seek further explanations, when his attention was
arrested by a violent altercation between two of the supervising
demons.
“Kammuragha, evidently,” croaked one.
“Damburanana, of course,” snarled the other.
“May I,” inquired Ananda of the fiend he had before addressed, “presume
to ask the signification of Kammuragha and Damburanana?”
“They are two hells,” replied the demon. “In Kammuragha the occupant is
plunged into melted pitch and fed with melted lead. In Damburanana he
is plunged into melted lead and fed with melted pitch. My colleagues
are debating which is the more appropriate to the demerits of our guest
Ananda.”
Ere Ananda had had time to digest this announcement a youthful imp
descended from above with agility, and, making a profound reverence,
presented himself before the disputants.
“Venerable demons,” interposed he, “might my insignificance venture to
suggest that we cannot well testify too much honour for our visitor
Ananda, seeing that he is the only apostle of Buddha with whose company
we are likely ever to be indulged? Wherefore I would propose that
neither Kammuragha nor Damburanana be assigned for his residence, but
that the amenities of all the two hundred and forty-four thousand hells
be combined in a new one, constructed especially for his reception.”
The imp having thus spoken, the senior demons were amazed at his
precocity, and performed a _pradakshina_, exclaiming, “Truly thou art a
highly superior young devil!” They then departed to prepare the new
infernal chamber, agreeably to his recipe.
Ananda awoke, shuddering with terror.
“Why,” he exclaimed, “why was I ever an apostle? O Buddha! Buddha! how
hard are the paths of saintliness! How prone to error are the
well-meaning! How huge is the absurdity of spiritual pride!”
“Thou hast discovered that, my son?” said a gentle voice in his
vicinity.
He turned and beheld the divine Buddha, radiant with a mild and
benignant light. A cloud seemed rolled away from his vision, and he
recognised in his master the Glendoveer, the Jogi, and the Physician.
“O holy teacher!” exclaimed he in extreme perturbation, “whither shall
I turn? My sin forbids me to approach thee.”
“Not on account of thy sin art thou forbidden, my son,” returned
Buddha, “but on account of the ridiculous and unsavoury plight to which
thy knavery and disobedience have reduced thee. I have now appeared to
remind thee that this day all my apostles meet on Mount Vindhya to
render an account of their mission, and to inquire whether I am to
deliver thine in thy stead, or whether thou art minded to proclaim it
thyself.”
“I will render it with my own lips,” resolutely exclaimed Ananda. “It
is meet that I should bear the humiliation of acknowledging my folly.”
“Thou hast said well, my son,” replied Buddha, “and in return I will
permit thee to discard the attire, if such it may be termed, of a Jogi,
and to appear in our assembly wearing the yellow robe as beseems my
disciple. Nay, I will even infringe my own rule on thy behalf, and
perform a not inconsiderable miracle by immediately transporting thee
to the summit of Vindhya, where the faithful are already beginning to
assemble. Thou wouldst otherwise incur much risk of being torn to
pieces by the multitude, who, as the shouts now approaching may
instruct thee, are beginning to extirpate my religion at the
instigation of the new king, thy hopeful pupil. The old king is dead,
poisoned by the Brahmins.”
“O master! master!” exclaimed Ananda, weeping bitterly, “and is all the
work undone, and all by my fault and folly?”
“That which is built on fraud and imposture can by no means endure,”
returned Buddha, “be it the very truth of Heaven. Be comforted; thou
shalt proclaim my doctrine to better purpose in other lands. Thou hast
this time but a sorry account to render of thy stewardship; yet thou
mayest truly declare that thou hast obeyed my precept in the letter, if
not in the spirit, since none can assert that thou hast ever wrought
any miracle.”