Chapter XIX

SO continued our Lord, wandering from place to place, or resting in the season of the rains in the monasteries provided by the supporters of the Brotherhood, and, followed by his own, he taught the Breaking of the Fetters—and the fetters he broke are these:

The delusion of self—namely that the individual ego is real and self-existent. For what can exist outside the Universal Self? And egoism is the very root of death.

Doubt. For who can advance boldly, doubting the way and where he shall set the next step?

Belief in good works and ceremonies. For what good work can open a man’s eyes if his motive is mean, and what value have rites and ceremonies in themselves?

Fleshly lust. By no means did the Lord command a cruel asceticism, for this he had tried to the uttermost and having laid it aside, passed on. No, but a joyous temperance, the child of wisdom and duty, the fosterer of endeavour. And duty in all things, a strength by some to be attained now, by others with patience in later lives.

Ill-will. For this is a cruel fetter, biting to the very bone of the wretch who carries it, and it is forged indeed from the black iron of egoism and belief in the separate ego.

And this being all accomplished the last fetters to be broken are:

The desire for separate and individual life in the world of forms we see about us.

The desire for separate life in the formless world to which we shall attain.

Pride—the very snarer of Divine Beings.

Self-righteousness, the womb-sister of pride.

And last, the most terrible of fetters—

Ignorance—mother of a deadly brood.

And where he went these fetters fell before him, and prison doors were opened and they who had sat in darkness walked in light. And they aspired to perfection for he taught that Perfection was their heritage, if not now, then in some future life where the sown seeds of good expanding should throw out strong arms and glorious blossom.

And they believed, and some set tottering steps in the path, and some advanced with wings rather than feet, but all were seekers and finders.

But he compelled none, nor threatened, for by a man’s true self comes his salvation, and seated among his own he said:

“The Tathagata—He who has thus Attained, does not think that it is he who must lead the Brotherhood or that the Order is dependent upon him.”

Only, steadfastly pointing the way, he rejoiced that men should follow it, casting forth his light like the sun, not compelling men to guide their steps by it.

Nor did he teach resignation to sorrow nor its acceptance as a blessing and discipline. Far from it. For in the clear percipience of the Lord sorrow is ignorance and shameful.

“One thing only, monks, now as always I declare to you—sorrow and the uprooting of sorrow.”

For what man would wander in the mist of sorrow when he may walk glad and straight to the goal in the sunlight of wisdom. And sorrow understood is sorrow ended.

Therefore the Lord taught understanding of sorrow, as the first need and therefore says the wise Nagasena:

“As a boy I was admitted to the Order, and nothing did I know of the goal. But I thought—‘These men taught by the Awakened One will teach me.’ And they taught, and now I know with understanding the foundation and the crown of Renunciation.”

And what the Lord taught he knew: that there is no sorrow for the wise.

And thus when he stayed at Alavi, by the cattle-path in the forest he rested on a couch of leaves, and it so chanced that a man of Alavi as he went through the forest saw the Exalted One sitting absorbed in meditation, and greeting him with respect this man sat down at his side and said:

“Master, does the World-Honoured live happily?”

And the Perfect One answered:

“It is so, young man. Of those who live happily in the world I also am one.”

“Cold, Master, is the winter night, the time of frost is coming: rough is the ground trodden by cattle: thin is the couch of leaves: light the monk’s yellow robe: sharp the cutting winter wind.”

For his heart pitied the aging of the Exalted One. But he replied, again smiling:

“It is so, young man. I live happily. Of those who live happily in the world I also am one.”

And so it was, and with his own also. For his mendicants rejoicing said to one another:

“We who call nothing our own, drenched with happiness, we in this world cast out light like the radiant Gods.”

And their song was—

“Abolished is the round of birth: Completed the ascetic life;
Done what was to do.
This world of form is no more. This we know.”

And sometimes proud and learned Brahmans would come to dispute haughtily with the Perfect One, and they, full of pride and anger, would rage and trip in their discourse thinking to show their much learning rather than to seek the truth. But like the waves of a muddy river lashing rock so were they, and the Lord sat there always, answering duly, teaching duly, clothed in serenity, his skin the colour of bright gold, his eyes bright and calm, for he said:

“That in disputation with anyone whatsoever I could be thrown into any confusion or embarrassment,—there is no possibility of such a thing, and because I know of no such possibility I remain quiet and confident. And even when I am carried here upon a bed shall my intellectual strength remain unabated.”

And his monks said:

“Truly from the Exalted One comes all our wisdom.”

And because he was so near the Blessed One many monks would come to the venerable Ananda and say:

“It is long, brother, since we heard a discourse from the Exalted One. It were very good if we might hear one now.”

“Well, venerable ones, betake yourselves to the hermitage of the Brahman Rammako. Perhaps you will get to hear a discourse from the lips of the Exalted One.” For Ananda was wise in the ways of the Master.

Now after the Perfected One had returned from his begging-round, he turned and said:

“Come, Ananda, let us go to the East Grove, to the terrace of the Mother of Migara, and stay there until the evening.”

So they went, and when he had finished his meditation he turned to the venerable Ananda:

“Come, Ananda, let us to the Old Bath and refresh our limbs.”

So they went. Then the beloved Ananda addressed the Perfected One thus:

“The hermitage of the Brahman Rammako, Master, is not far from here. It is pleasantly situated in peaceful solitude. Good were it if the Master should betake himself there.”

And the Blessed One signified by silence his assent. And there they found many monks in edifying discourse. And he waited till they were done, and cleared his throat and rapped at the knocker, and they opened the door, and the World-Honoured entered in and seated himself and incited and gladdened them all with great and high discourse.

So they got what they needed, for very wise was the beloved Ananda in dealing with the Master.

Amazing indeed were the experiences of those who followed the Lord, and not to be understood of those who have not stood face to face with Truth and Love unveiled and terrible in beauty, and terrible also in the loves they inspire. What can words avail?

And where he went the Awakened One strewed little precepts like flowers, easy for a child to remember yet each an upward spiral on the Way.

“If all knew the fruits of alms-giving as I, monks, know them, most surely they would not eat the last least mouthful without dividing it with another.”

And they answered, “Even so, Lord,” and gave of their food, living in peace amidst the Transient, until even its semblance should pass for ever away. And nothing else than food had they to give, being monks.

And one asked of the learned nun Dhammadhina:

“And how, venerable Lady,—how and what has the Blessed One taught about the arising of the false ego in the beginning of things? How came it to be? What does he teach of this?”

“It is the lust of life that sows repeated being in successive lives.”

“And how is the annihilation of the false ego to be attained, Venerable Lady? How has the Exalted One taught?”

“Even by the complete annihilation, rejection, and driving forth of the lust of life—this is what was taught by the Exalted One.” So answered the nun Dhammadhina. “Even through the breaking of any attachment to the Transient.”

But of how Attachment began to be in the beginning of things the Lord would not answer. The Way out, he taught; the way in concerns not at all the man who is fleeing for his life to peace and safety from attachment to the Transient and its illusion.

And again:

“But what follows after death? What follows after the extinction of illusion?” the seeker asked of the learned nun Dhammadhina. And she replied:

“Abandon the question, brother. I cannot grasp the meaning of the question. If you will, go to the Enlightened One and ask him.”

And he went, and the Lord answered:

“Wise is Dhammadhina and mighty in understanding. My answer is hers.”

For the Unknown cannot be known until the way is built to it. Build then the way, and knowledge will come in time. But, without words, to the few, the very few, this knowledge has come, as has been told.

And when the nun Gotami asked him:

“Will the Exalted One teach me the very quintessence of the Law,” he answered thus:

“Whatever teaching leads to passion and not to peace, to pride and not to humility, to desire of much in place of little, to love of society and not of solitude, to idleness and not to striving, to a mind of unrest and not to a mind at peace—that, O Gotami,—note well!—that is not the way,—that is not the teaching of the Master.”

And as they sat in the calm of the sunset and discoursed, Sariputta the Great said this:

“I desire not life. I desire not death. I wait until my hour shall come like a servant that waits for his wage. I await the coming of the hour, conscious and of thoughtful mind.”

Thus steadfast in the way they continued, not cruelly mortifying the body but in the true asceticism of the heart that cannot be tempted. For the Awakened One said this:

“I teach asceticism inasmuch as I teach the burning away of all evil conditions of the heart. And the true ascetic who thus lives may fitly and rightly eat of the food that is given him in alms, of rice pleasantly prepared and such-like, and it will do him no ill.”

So quietly and in radiance life went on as a summer day which from dewy dawn passes through every gradation of light until the night comes, taking the world in her net of stars and laying all to rest.

And still the Exalted One journeyed and taught, now being very aged, and the seeds of his doctrine were carried as if by far-flying birds into the outer lands which had never felt in this life the tread of his blessed feet nor seen the calm of his face nor the majesty that attended him. And taking root these seeds shot up later into mighty trees of glorious growth.

And still he journeyed to and fro, and the people said to the monks:

“Let not the World-Honoured overweary himself, for in what are we worthy that our well-being should cost the world its Light?”

And they answered:

“All he does is well. This also is well and could not be otherwise.”

But the beloved Ananda saw with fear that the World-Honoured moved more slowly and with more painful effort on each journey he made. And awe and grief possessed Ananda, seeing this, for he had not as yet attained to perfect enlightenment,—and with many cares he compassed the Blessed and followed him wherever he went.