Part 3

Slowly, while the artist wandered through imaginary forests as a deer, he felt growing within him the spirit of the Buddha, and he knew that he was the Banyan deer. Then it seemed to him that he and his herd had been driven into a great enclosure with another herd of deer whose leader was almost as beautiful as he. His heart beat like thunder between his ribs and a darkness came before his eyes, but his fear was for the sake of his herd. Then a king came into the enclosure to look at the deer.

"The leaders are too beautiful to die," he said to his huntsman. "I grant them their lives. But of the others, see that you bring one each day to the palace for my banquets."

Then the Banyan deer, who was filled with the spirit of Buddha, said to all the deer:

"If we are hunted, many deer will be hurt each day. Let us meet this with fortitude and let a lot be drawn. Let the deer to whom it falls die voluntarily for the good of the herd."

Now one day the lot fell to a doe whose fawn had not yet been born. It happened that she belonged to the other herd. She went to the leader and begged that she might live until the fawn was born.

"We can make no exceptions," said he sadly.

But when in despair she went to the Banyan deer, he sent her back comforted.

"I will take your place," he said.

The artist who was living the life of the deer in his mind, felt how his tenderness for the doe and the unborn fawn overcame his terror and led him gladly to the huntsman. But when the man saw that it was the great leader of the deer himself who had come, he sent for the king.

"Did I not grant you your life?" asked the king, surprised.

Then the Banyan deer found a human voice to answer.

"O king!" he said, "the lot had fallen upon a doe with an unborn fawn. I could not ask another to take her place."

Then the king, pleased by the deer's generosity, granted their lives both to him and to the doe.

Still the Banyan deer was not satisfied, but pled for his people.

"But the others, O king?" he asked.

"They too shall live," said the king.

"There are also the deer outside the palings," went on the Banyan deer.

"They shall not be troubled," replied the king.

"O king," continued the deer who had always lived in danger and pitied all creatures in the same case, "what shall other four-footed creatures do?"

And the king was so moved by the deer's intended sacrifice that he too felt tenderly toward the world.

"They shall have no reason for fear," he answered.

Then the deer interceded for the birds and even for the fish, and when their safety was promised, he blessed the king with a great blessing.

The artist, whose heart had seemed torn with timidity and gentle courage while he imagined himself the Banyan deer, quickly caught up a brush, dipped it in spring water, touched it with ink, and drew a deer.

* * * * *

No sooner was the deer drawn than Good Fortune came out unexpectedly from the artist's shadow (she had entered so quietly he had never noticed) and looked long at the picture.

"Miaou," she said, sadly turning to the artist. "Is there no room for me among the other animals, master?" she seemed to ask.

After that the artist drew many creatures. In each of them the spirit of the Buddha had at one time lived, or it had rendered service to him when he was a prince on earth. There were the woodpecker, and the hare who jumped into the frying pan of the beggar, and the lion who saved the young hawks, and the goose who gave his golden feathers to the old woman, and the wise little goat who outwitted the wolves, and many others.

He drew a monkey, too, remembering how when the spirit of Buddha lived in an ape, a man, wandering in the jungle, had fallen into a deep pit. Then the great ape, having heard his groans, found a voice to reassure him. He climbed down into the pit, and fastening a stone to his back, tested his strength to make sure that he could climb out once more carrying the man. At last, having succeeded, the ape was so exhausted that he knew he must sleep or he would die. So he begged the man to watch by him while he slept. But as the man watched, evil thoughts came into his mind.

"If I only had meat to eat I should easily be strong enough to find my way home," he thought.

Forgetting gratitude, he picked up a large stone and struck the monkey on the head. But the blow of his weak arm had little strength. The ape started up and saw that it was the man whom he had saved who had tried to kill him. Surprise and sorrow filled him at such ingratitude. Nevertheless he led the man out of the forest to the edge of the fields and bade him farewell, showing compassion even to his betrayer.

The artist remembered also how the monkeys had brought fruit to the Buddha when he sat in meditation in the forest and coaxed him to eat with their droll ways.

So having meditated upon the monkey, the artist dipped a brush in spring water, touched it with ink, and drew a monkey.

* * * * *

And as the painting of each animal was finished Good Fortune came to look at it, and with each new drawing she seemed sadder and pulled with her little white paw at the sleeve of her master, looking up all the time into his face.

* * * * *

_The Sixth Song of the Housekeeper_

She's sure to starve, She _won't_ grow fat, No dinner tempts Our little cat!

All day I follow, All day I cry, "Come pussy, come pussy," As she goes by.

But she will starve, She _won't_ grow fat, It's always that painting She's looking at.

All day I grieve To hear her cry, "Miaou, miaou," As I go by!

* * * * *

One day the artist sat on his mat and his mind wrestled with a more difficult problem than any before. He knew that the tiger had also come to bid farewell to the Buddha. How could that be? He thought of the fierceness and cruelty of tigers, he imagined them lying in the striped shadows of the jungle with their eyes burning like fires. Then he remembered how fond they were of their own cubs, and how they would face any odds if their cubs were in danger. He thought to himself: "It may be that this is the narrow pathway by which the tiger reaches to Buddha. It may be that there is a fierceness in love, and love in fierceness."

Then he remembered a scene at the wedding of Siddhartha and Yosadhara. The young prince, who was to be the Buddha, had proved his skill and courage above all the other princes. In her golden palanquin sat the princess, her head covered with a veil of black and gold. As her father led the victor to her side, Siddhartha whispered, "By your veil I know that you remember how in another life you were once a tigress and I the tiger who won you in open fight."

Having meditated upon this sinister but beautiful creature, capable of any burning sacrifice, the artist dipped his brush in spring water, touched it with ink, and drew a tiger.

Good Fortune came out from his shadow. When she saw the tiger she trembled all over, from her thistle-down whiskers to her little tail, and she looked at the artist.

"If the tiger can come to bid farewell to Buddha," she seemed to say, "surely the cat, who is little and often so gentle may come, O master? Surely, surely, you will next paint the cat among the animals who were blessed by the Holy One as he died?"

The artist was much distressed.

"Good Fortune," he said, gently taking her into his arms, "I would gladly paint the cat if I could. But all people know that cats, though lovely, are usually proud and self-satisfied. Alone among the animals, the cat refused to accept the teachings of Buddha. She alone, of all creatures, was not blessed by him. It is perhaps in grief that she too often consorts with goblins."

Then Good Fortune laid her little round head against his breast and mewed and mewed like a crying child. He comforted her as well as he could and called for the housekeeper.

"Buy her a fine fish all for herself," he said to the old woman. "And do not let her come here again until the picture is gone. She will break both our hearts."

"Ah, I was afraid she meant to do the painting a harm," said the old woman anxiously. For she felt very responsible for having brought the cat home against her master's will, now that their fortunes hung on this painting for the temple.

"It is not that," said the artist, and he returned to his thoughts. How tired, how worn he looked, and yet how beautiful! His picture was almost finished. He had imagined every life. There lay the great figure of the dying Buddha, royal, weary, compassionate. There assembled gods and men; and there were the animals--the scroll of silk seemed scarcely large enough to hold all those varied lives, all that gathering of devotion about that welling up of love.

But something was excluded. From the kitchen he heard a faint mewing, and the housekeeper's voice urging Good Fortune to eat, in vain. The artist imagined how his little cat felt, so gentle, so sweet, but cursed forever. All the other animals might receive the Buddha's blessing and go to heaven, but the little cat heard the doors of Nirvana closed before her. Tears came to his eyes.

"I cannot be so hard-hearted," he said. "If the priests wish to refuse the picture as inaccurate, let them do so. I can starve."

He took up his best brush and touched it with ink, and last of all the animals--_drew a cat_.

* * * * *

Then he called the housekeeper.

"Let Good Fortune come in," he said. "Perhaps I have ruined us, but I can at least make her happy."

In came Good Fortune, the moment that the door was slid open. She ran to the picture, and looked and looked, as though she could never look enough. Then she gazed at the artist with all her gratitude in her eyes. And then Good Fortune fell dead, too happy to live another minute.

* * * * *

_The Seventh Song of the Housekeeper_

_I can't believe it-- (And how I've cried!) But out of pure joy Good Fortune died.

At the foot of her grave Lie a flower and a shell, In the peach tree near by Hangs a little bell,

A little old bell With a sweet cracked voice, When a wind passes by It sings, "Rejoice!"

"Rejoice!" it sings Through the gardenside, "For out of pure joy Good Fortune died!"

* * * * *

The next morning, hearing that the picture was finished, the priest came to see it. After the first greetings, the artist led him in to look at the painting. The priest gazed long.

"How it shines," he said softly.

Then his face hardened.

"But what is that animal whom you have painted last of all?" he asked.

"It is a cat," said the painter, and his heart felt heavy with despair.

"Do you not know," asked the priest sternly, "that the cat rebelled against our Lord Buddha, and did not receive his blessing and cannot enter heaven?"

"Yes, I knew," said the artist.

"Each person must suffer the consequences of his own acts," said the priest. "The cat must suffer from her obstinacy and you from yours. As one can never erase work once done, I will take the painting and to-morrow officially burn it. Some other artist's picture must hang in our temple."

All day the housekeeper wept in the kitchen, for in bringing the little cat home she had, after all, ruined her master.

All day the artist sat in the room beside the hydrangeas and thought. His painting was gone and with it the part of his life which he had put into it. To-morrow the priests would harshly burn it in the courtyard of the temple. Less than ever would any one come to him now. He was ruined and all his hopes gone. But he did not regret what he had done. For so many days had he lived in the thought of love and the examples of sacrifice, that it did not seem too hard to suffer for Good Fortune's great moment of happiness.

All night he sat open-eyed with his thoughts in the darkness. The old woman dared not interrupt. He saw the pale light enter through the blinds and heard the dawn wind in the hydrangea bushes. An hour later, he heard the noise of people running toward his house. The priests of the temple surrounded him; the head priest pulled at his sleeve.

"Come! Come!" they kept crying. "Come, sir! It is a miracle! Oh, the compassion of Buddha! Oh, the mercy of the Holy One!"

Dazed and breathless, the artist followed them, seeing nothing of the village or the road to the temple. He heard happy voices in his ears, he caught a glimpse of his old housekeeper with her sash askew, and a crowd of open-mouthed neighbors. All together they poured into the temple. There hung his picture with incense and candles burning before it. It was as he had remembered it, but, no!----

The artist sank down to his knees with a cry:

"Oh, the Compassionate One!" For where the last animal had stood was now only white silk that seemed never to have felt the touch of ink; and the great Buddha, the Buddha whom he had painted reclining with hands folded upon his breast, had stretched out an arm in blessing, and under the holy hand knelt the figure of a tiny cat, with pretty white head bowed in happy adoration.

* * * * *

_The Eighth Song of the Housekeeper_

This is too great a mystery For me to comprehend: The mercy of the Buddha Has no end. This is too beautiful a thing To understand: His garments touch the furthest Grain of sand.

* * * * *

ELIZABETH COATSWORTH

As a poet and short story writer, Miss Coatsworth has made a name in the field of adult writing. For young readers, her stories have grown out of her travels all over the world. Each includes her love of strange people, her love of animals, and also, inevitably, some delightful bits of her poetry. In private life, she is Mrs. Henry Beston, of Hingham, Massachusetts.

TOUTOU IN BONDAGE

The story of a little dog lost in Morocco.

Illustrated by Thomas Handforth.

THE SUN'S DIARY

A book of days for any year.

Illustrated by Frank MacIntosh.

THE BOY WITH THE PARROT

An adventure story of Guatemala today.

Illustrated by Wilfrid Bronson.

THE CAT AND THE CAPTAIN

A story of New England. (The Little Library)

THE MACMILLAN COMPANY _Publishers New York_

* * * * *

THE CAT WHO WENT TO HEAVEN

To the discriminating the name of Elizabeth Coatsworth signed to a piece of writing brings always a premonitory thrill of pure delight. They know that they may confidently expect from her delicacy and sureness of touch combined with deep feeling, and an originality and freshness all too seldom found.

This title is most decidedly a book for grown-ups to enjoy with children and read aloud to them.

_Marcia Dalphin, The Saturday Review of Literature_

It is a book that will give perennial joy to girls and boys on the road to the teens, to artists, poets, and "housekeepers," for the eight songs of the housekeeper who serves the painter, marking interludes of time in the progress of the painting, amidst the daily round of cooking, sweeping, and scrubbing, have the value of so many pictures while preserving the rhythm of the story throughout.

It is the gift of Miss Coatsworth's story, as it is of Mr. Ward's noble presentations of the elephant, the horse, the bull, and the deer, to stir the spirit of beauty and tenderness toward all living things.

_Anne Carroll Moore, The New York Herald-Tribune_

There is no fair way to describe this story of a little cat who came to the house of a Japanese artist and brought good fortune, short of telling it; this I have done to people of all ages and sizes and every one has straightway made the book his own. I think if this cat had not gone to heaven in the end, there would have been rioting among the children of America. As for the wash drawings of Lynd Ward, they are the very spirits of the animals that come in one by one, for this is a series of legends worked into a moving plot.

_May Lamberton Becker, The Outlook_