Part 2

Then he went to the room that overlooked the hydrangea bushes and the sparrows and again he sat on his mat. Again he imagined that he was Siddhartha. But now he imagined that for years he had wandered on foot, begging for his food and seeking wisdom. At last he sat in a forest under a Bo Tree and the devils came and tempted him with sights terrible and sights beautiful. Just before dawn it seemed to him that a great wisdom came to him and he understood why people suffer and also how they can in other lives escape their sufferings. With this knowledge he became the Enlightened One, the Buddha.

Now the artist felt a great peace come over him, and a love for all the world that flowed out even to the smallest grains of sand on the furthest beaches. As he had felt for his wife and little son in his imaginings, he now felt for everything that lived and moved, and even for the trees and mosses, the rocks and stones and the waves, which some day he believed would in their turn be men and suffer and be happy as men are.

When the housekeeper and Good Fortune came with his food he thought his first disciples had come to him, and he taught them of the Way they should follow. He felt himself growing old in teaching and carrying happiness through the land. When he was eighty, he knew he was near death, and he saw the skies open and all the Hindu gods of the heavens, and of the trees and the mountains came to bid him farewell, and his disciples, and the animals of the earth.

"But where is the cat?" thought the artist to himself, for even in his vision he remembered that in none of the paintings he had ever seen of the death of Buddha, was a cat represented among the other animals.

"Ah, the cat refused homage to Buddha," he remembered, "and so by her own independent act, only the cat has the doors of Paradise closed in her face."

Thinking of little Good Fortune, the artist felt a sense of sadness before he submerged himself again into the great pool of the peace of Buddha. But, poor man, he was tired to death. He had tried to live a whole marvelous life in three days in his mind. Yet now at least he understood that the Buddha he painted must have the look of one who has been gently brought up and unquestioningly obeyed (that he learned from the first day): and he must have the look of one who has suffered greatly and sacrificed himself (that he learned from the second day); and he must have the look of one who has found peace and given it to others (that he learned on the last day).

So, knowing at last how the Buddha must look, the artist fell asleep and slept for twenty-four hours as though he were dead, while the housekeeper held her breath and the little cat walked on the tips of her white paws. At the end of twenty-four hours, the artist awoke, and calling hastily for brushes, ink, spring water, and a great roll of silk, he drew at one end the figure of the great Buddha reclining upon a couch, his face full of peace. The artist worked as though he saw the whole scene before his eyes. It had taken him three days to know how the Buddha should look, but it took him less than three hours to paint him to the last fold of his garments, while the housekeeper and Good Fortune looked on with the greatest respect and admiration.

* * * * *

_The Third Song of the Housekeeper_

Hush, Broom! be silent as a spider at your tasks. Pot! boil softly, a poor old woman asks. Birds, sing softly! Winds, go slowly! Noises of the street, Halt in awe and be ashamed to near my master's feet! Holy thoughts are in his mind, heavenly desire, While I boil his chestnuts, on my little fire.

* * * * *

In the following days the artist painted the various gods of the earth and sky and the disciples who came to say farewell to the Buddha. Sometimes the painting came easy, sometimes it came hard; sometimes the artist was pleased with what he had done, sometimes he was disgusted. He would have grown very thin if the old woman hadn't coaxed him early and late, now with a little bowl of soup, now with a hot dumpling. Good Fortune went softly about the house, quivering with excitement. She, too, had plenty to eat these days. Her coat shone like silk. Her little whiskers glistened. Whenever the housekeeper's back was turned she darted in to watch the artist and his mysterious paints and brushes.

"It worries me, sir," said the old housekeeper when she found the cat tucked behind the artist's sleeve for the twentieth time that day. "She doesn't seem like a cat. She doesn't try to play with the brushes, that I could understand. At night all the things come back to me that you said when I brought her home in the bamboo basket. If she should turn out bad and hurt your picture, I should not wish to live."

The artist shook his head. A new idea had come to him and he was too busy to talk.

"Good Fortune will do no harm," he murmured before he forgot about them all, the old woman, the little cat, and even his own hand that held the brushes.

"I hope so, indeed," said the housekeeper anxiously. She picked up Good Fortune, who now wore a flowered bib on a scarlet silk cord about her neck, and looked like a cat of importance. It was at least half an hour before Good Fortune was able to get out of the kitchen. She found her master still lost in contemplation, and sat behind him like a light spot in his shadow. The artist, having finished gods and men, was about to draw the animals who had come to bid farewell to the Buddha before he died. He was considering which animal ought to come first--perhaps the great white elephant which is the largest of beasts, and a symbol of the Buddha; perhaps the horse that served him; or the lion, since his followers sometimes called him the lion of his race. Then the artist thought of how the Buddha loved humble things and he remembered a story.

Once the Buddha was sitting in contemplation under a tree screened by its leaves from the fierce sunshine. As he sat, hour after hour, the shadow of the tree moved gradually from him and left him with the sunlight like fire beating down on his shaved head. The Buddha, who was considering great matters, never noticed, but the snails saw and were anxious lest harm should come to the master. They crawled from their cool shadows, and assembled in a damp crown upon his head, and guarded him with their own bodies until the sun sank and withdrew its rays.

The artist thought: "The snail was the first creature to sacrifice himself for the Buddha. It is fitting he should be shown first in the painting."

So, after thinking about the snails he had seen on walks, their round shell houses, and their little horns, their bodies like some pale-colored wet leaf, and their shy, well-meaning lives--he dipped a brush in spring water, touched it with ink, and drew a snail.

Good Fortune came out of the artist's shadow to look at it. Her whiskers bristled and she put up one paw as though to pat it, and then looked at the artist.

"I am only playing, master," she seemed to say, "but that is a very snail-like snail."

* * * * *

Next the artist sat on his mat and considered the elephant. He thought of his great size and strength and of his wisdom. He had never seen an elephant himself, but he had seen pictures of them painted long ago by Chinese artists, and now he thought of a large white animal, very majestic, with small kind eyes, and long ears lined with pink. He remembered that the elephant was very sacred, having been a symbol of royalty in India. He thought of how Buddha's mother had dreamed of an elephant before her baby was born.

Then he thought of stranger things. For before Buddha came to earth as Prince Siddhartha, he came, his followers believe, in all sorts of forms, always practicing mercy and teaching those around him. The artist thought of one tale of how the Buddha had been born as a great elephant living on a range of mountains overlooking a desert. A lake starred with lotuses furnished his drink, and trees bent over him with their branches heavy with fruit. But one day from his high meadows he saw in the desert a large group of men. They moved slowly. Often one fell and the others stopped to lift him once more to his feet. A faint sound of wailing and despair reached his ears. The great elephant was filled with pity. He went out into the burning sands of the desert to meet them.

To the travelers he must have seemed one more terrible apparition, but he spoke to them kindly in a human voice. They told him they were fugitives driven out by a king to die in the wilderness. Already many had fallen who would not rise again.

The elephant looked at them. They were weak. Without food and water they could never cross the mountains to the fertile safe lands that lay beyond. He could direct them to his lake but they were not strong enough to gather fruit in quantities. They must have sustaining food immediately.

"Have courage," he said to them, "in that direction you will find a lake of the clearest water (alas! his own dear drowsy lake) and a little beyond there is a cliff at the foot of which you will find the body of an elephant who has recently fallen. Eat his flesh and you will have strength to reach the land beyond the mountains."

Then he saluted them and returned across the burning sands. Long before their feeble march had brought them to the lake and the cliff he had thrown himself into the abyss and had fallen, shining like a great moon sinking among clouds, and the spirits of the trees had thrown their flowers upon his body.

So the artist thought for a long time about the elephant's sagacity and dignity and kindness. Then he dipped a brush into spring water, touched it with ink and drew an elephant.

No sooner was the elephant drawn than Good Fortune came out of the artist's shadow and gazed round-eyed at the great creature standing upon the white silk. Then she looked at the artist. "I do not know what this being may be, master," she seemed to say, "but surely I am filled with awe from my whiskers to my tail."

Then again the artist sat on his mat and thought. This time he thought about horses. Although he had never ridden, he had often watched horses and admired their noble bearing, their shining eyes, and curved necks. He liked the way they carried their tails like banners, and even in battle stepped carefully so as not to injure any one who had fallen. He thought of Siddhartha's own horse Kanthaka, white as snow, with a harness studded with jewels. He thought of how gentle and wild he was, how he had raced the horses of the other princes and beaten them when the prince had won the princess Yosadhara. Then he imagined Kanthaka returning without his master to the palace, his beautiful head hanging low, and Siddhartha's apparel bound to his saddle.

Then the artist remembered the story of how once the spirit of Buddha himself had been born in the form of a horse, small, but of such fiery spirit that he became the war steed of the King of Benares. Seven kings came to conquer his master and camped about his city. Then the chief knight of the besieged army was given the king's war horse to ride and, attacking each camp suddenly, managed to bring back as prisoners, one by one, six kings. In capturing the sixth king the horse was badly wounded. So the knight unloosened its mail to arm another horse for the seventh and last battle.

But the war horse found a voice.

"Our work will be undone," he cried. "Another horse cannot surprise the camp. Set me, sir, upon my feet, arm me once more. I will finish what I have begun!"

Weak with loss of blood, he charged the seventh camp like a falcon striking down its prey, and the seventh king was captured. The King of Benares came rejoicing to meet them at the royal gate.

"Great king," said the war horse, "pardon your prisoners!" And then, before the servants could take off his armor, he fell dead in the moment of victory at his master's feet.

So after long considering the courage and nobility of horses, the artist dipped a brush in spring water, touched it with ink, and drew a horse.

* * * * *

No sooner was the horse drawn than Good Fortune came out of the artist's shadow and regarded the picture for a long time. She looked at the artist with admiration.

"If a fly should light upon your horse, master," she seemed to say, "surely it would stamp and toss its head."

* * * * *

_The Fourth Song of the Housekeeper_

My master sits. All day he thinks. He scarcely sees The tea he drinks.

He does not know That I am I. He does not see Our cat pass by.

And yet our love Has its share, too, In all the things His two hands do.

The food I cook In humbleness Helps him a little Toward success.

* * * * *

The next day the artist again closed himself alone in the room overlooking the hydrangea bushes. Sitting on his mat, he decided that above the white horse's head a swan should be flying. He thought of the beauty of swans and the great beating of their wings, and of how they follow their kings on mighty flights along the roads of the air. He thought of how lightly they float in water like white lotuses.

Then he remembered a story from the boyhood of Prince Siddhartha who was one day to become the Buddha. He was walking in the pleasure garden which his father had given him, watching swans fly over his head toward the Himalayas. Suddenly he heard the hiss of an arrow, and something swifter and more cruel than any bird drove past him through the air, and brought a wounded swan down at his feet. The young prince ran to the great bird and drew out the arrow. He tried the point against his own arm to find what this pain felt like which the bird had suffered. Then, as he was binding up the wound, attendants came to claim the spoil of a prince who was his cousin.

Siddhartha answered quietly: "My cousin attempted only to destroy the swan, I claim it since I have attempted to save it. Let the councilors of the king decide between us."

So the quarrel of the princes was brought before the royal council and the swan was given to the boy who was to be the Buddha.

So having reflected upon the dreamlike beauty of swans, the artist dipped his brush in spring water, touched it with ink, and drew a swan.

* * * * *

No sooner was the swan drawn than Good Fortune came out of the artist's shadow and looked at it well and long. Then she turned politely to the artist.

"There is wind under those wings, sir," she seemed to say. But there was just a hint in her manner to suggest that she thought his time might be better employed than in drawing birds.

* * * * *

The artist took food, and wandered for a few minutes in his little garden to refresh himself with the touch of the sun and the sound of the wind. He returned to his study by the hydrangeas and was about to think once more, when the housekeeper appeared at the door and bowed deeply.

"My master will weary himself into a fever," she said, politely but obstinately. "You have seen Buddha and gods and horses, and that elephant curiosity, and snails and swans and--goodness only knows what else, all in a few days! It is more than flesh can bear! Your honored forehead looks like a scrubbing board and your eyes like candles. Now our neighbor has just sent his servant to invite you to take tea with him and I have said that you would be there directly."

Having spoken so firmly she stood leaning forward with her hands on her knees, the picture of meekness.

"You may argue with a stone Jizo by the roadside, but you waste your breath if you argue with a woman!" cried the artist. He took a silver piece out of the priest's purse and gave it to her.

"Go, buy yourself some fine new material for a dress," he said. "It is a long time since you had anything pretty."

"A thousand thanks to your honor!" cried the housekeeper, much pleased, "and I will shut up Good Fortune in the bamboo basket while we are out of the house. You would think the picture was sugar painted on cream to watch her. I am afraid to leave her alone with it."

So it was not until the next morning that the artist was allowed to meditate in peace on the nature of buffalo. He thought how ugly they are, and how their horns curve like heavy moons on their foreheads. He thought how strong they are, and yet how willing to labor all day for their masters. He thought how fierce they are when attacked even by tigers, yet the village children ride on their backs as safe as birds on a twig.

The spirit of Buddha himself had not been too proud to be born in the body of a buffalo. There were many stories of those days but the one that the artist remembered best told of how the holy buffalo had belonged to a poor man. One day he spoke to his master in a human voice, and said, "Lo, master, you are poor. I would willingly do something to help you. Go to the villagers and tell them that you have an animal here who can pull a hundred carts loaded with stones. They will bet that this is impossible and you will win a fortune."

But when the villagers had fastened the carts together and loaded them with heavy stones, and the great beast was harnessed to the first cart, the owner behaved after the manner of common drivers, brandishing his goad and cursing his animal to show off before the others. The buffalo would not move so much as an inch.

His owner, who had been poor before, was a good deal poorer after that. But one evening the buffalo said to him again:

"Why did you threaten me? Why did you curse me? Go to the villagers and bet again, twice as much this time. But treat me well."

Again the heavy carts were yoked together, again the villagers gathered, snickering behind their hands. But this time the poor man bathed his buffalo, and fed it sweet grain, and put a garland of flowers about its neck. When the creature was fastened to the first of the hundred carts, his master stroked him and cried:

"Forward, my beauty! On! on! my treasure!" and the buffalo strained forward and pulled and stretched his muscles until they nearly cracked, and slowly, surely, the hundred carts moved forward.

Now when the artist had considered the honesty and self-respect of the buffalo, he dipped a brush in spring water, touched it with ink and drew a buffalo.

* * * * *

No sooner was the buffalo drawn than Good Fortune came out of the artist's shadow and regarded it with the air of one who is trying to hide a certain dissatisfaction. Then she looked at the artist.

"Truly a buffalo!" she seemed to say, but something about the creature, perhaps its few hairs, must have tickled her sense of humor, for all at once she giggled. Quickly she lifted one little white paw, and broke into a series of polite sneezes.

* * * * *

It may be that the artist was a little annoyed with Good Fortune, for, hardly knowing it himself, he had come to count on her praise. Yet it may have been pure chance which made him reflect next on dogs.

He thought of them as puppies, balls of down playing in the snow, with round black eyes and moist black muzzles. He thought of them as grown up, following their masters with lean strides or guarding lonely farms. He almost felt their warm tongues licking his hand, or saw them prance and roll to catch his eye.

"How faithful!" he thought, and tried to remember some tale of the spirit of Buddha in the form of a dog. But either he had forgotten it, or there was no such story. So he called to the housekeeper.

The old woman came in and bowed deeply to her master.

"Do sit down," said the artist, "and tell me any story about dogs that may happen to come into your head."

The old woman brought out a handkerchief and wiped her forehead. Then she sat down and bowed.

"In my village, sir," she began, "people say there once stood a ruined temple. After the priests left it, goblins and demons lived there. Every year they demanded a sacrifice of a maiden from the town, or they swore they would destroy every one. So on a certain day each year a girl was put into a basket and taken into the enclosure of the temple. She was never seen again. But at last the lot fell to a little girl who owned a dog named Shippeitaro. All the village put on white for mourning. All day the sound of weeping was heard in the street. But before evening a stranger came into the town. He was a wandering soldier. The night before he had slept in a ruined temple."

"The temple of the goblins?" asked the artist.

"Yes, master," said the old woman, "it was the same temple. The soldier had been wakened in the night by a great racket. A voice over his head was saying, 'But never let Shippeitaro know--Shippeitaro would ruin everything.'

"When the soldier told his story, Shippeitaro became greatly excited. He ran to the basket, wagging his tail, and clawed at its side.

"'Let him be taken to the temple in place of his mistress,' said the soldier, and Shippeitaro leaped of his own free will into the basket and was carried through the gathering darkness to the temple courtyard. Then the bearers hurried away, but the soldier hid himself and waited.

"At midnight he heard the most terrible yowlings approaching. They were enough to freeze the blood cold in one's veins. He peered out and saw a troupe of goblins prying off the lid of the basket. But instead of a frightened girl, out jumped Shippeitaro and sprang at the leader's throat. The other goblins fled and they have never been seen or heard of since.

"So the good dog Shippeitaro saved not only his mistress but all the village."

The artist thanked the old woman for her story. Good Fortune, who had found a mat to sit on, had been listening as attentively as her master.

"What form had these goblins?" asked the artist.

"Cats," answered the housekeeper, almost in a whisper, hoping that Good Fortune would not hear. But Good Fortune did hear. With a sad look at the old woman she rose and walked out of the room.

The artist, after reflecting upon the fidelity of dogs, dipped a brush in spring water, touched it with ink, and drew a dog.

Good Fortune did not come back all day to look at it.

* * * * *

_The Fifth Song of the Housekeeper_

Dear pussy, you are white as milk, Your mouth's a blossom, your coat's silk-- What most distinguished family tree Produced so great a rarity?

Dear pussy, you are soft and sweet; You are too holy to touch meat-- What most distinguished family tree Produced so great a rarity?

Dear pussy, you must never think I thought you kin to cats like ink-- For goblin beasts could never be Produced by such a family tree! By such a lovely family tree!

* * * * *

The next day when the artist seated himself upon his mat there was no Good Fortune sitting quiet near by but discreetly out of the way. For a few minutes he could not help thinking of his little three-colored cat, but soon he was able to turn his mind to deer. He must paint the animals who came to bid farewell to the Buddha, and he knew the cat was not among them.

At first his thought was sad, but little by little he imagined a forest about him, dappled with light and shade, and he himself was a deer, setting small hoofs like ebony among the leaves, making no sound, listening with head raised high under its fairy branching of horns. A herd of deer followed him, the young males and the does and the fawns. He led them to secret pastures. His wide nostrils scented the wind for danger at each water hole before the others came to drink. If an enemy appeared, he guarded the flight of the herd. His sides were set with spots like jewels; his horns were more beautiful than temple candlesticks; his eyes were shy and wild.