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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/78393-0.txt b/78393-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9ec3557 --- /dev/null +++ b/78393-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1429 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78393 *** + + + + + THE CAT WHO WENT TO HEAVEN + + By ELIZABETH COATSWORTH + + _Pictures by Lynd Ward_ + + Copyright, 1930, + By THE MACMILLAN COMPANY. + + _All rights reserved--no part of this book may be reproduced + in any form without permission in writing from the publisher._ + + Published August, 1930 + Reprinted January, 1931 + Reprinted May, 1931 + + _Lithographed in the United States of America + by the Artcraft Lithograph & Printing Co._ + + + _By_ ELIZABETH COATSWORTH + + THE CAT AND THE CAPTAIN + TOUTOU IN BONDAGE + THE SUN'S DIARY + THE BOY WITH THE PARROT + THE CAT WHO WENT TO HEAVEN + + + _With other publishers, books of verse_: + + FOX FOOTPRINTS + BEYOND ATLAS + COMPASS ROSE + + + TO + CYRA THOMAS + + +This new book about an artist, his cook, his painting, and his kitten, +is a most unusual piece of story telling. + +Will the kitten, who brought good luck to the house, be admitted into +the painting of the great Buddha? + +She listens and watches as the artist recalls the story of each animal, +then paints it. She hears the cook's songs. Does she go to heaven, in +the procession, with the noble horse and elephant, the beautiful deer +and tiger, the strange monkey and snail? Read and learn how things +happened in Japan long ago. + +Seldom has an artist caught so exactly an author's intention. The story +says: then he painted the swan. The picture looks as if the artist's +brush had just left the canvas. We think that many people of many ages +will enjoy this story picture book. + + + + + _THE CAT WHO WENT TO HEAVEN_ + + +Once upon a time, far away in Japan, a poor young artist sat alone in +his little house, waiting for his dinner. His housekeeper had gone to +market, and he sat sighing to think of all the things he wished she +would bring home. He expected her to hurry in at any minute, bowing and +opening her little basket to show him how wisely she had spent their +few pennies. He heard her steps, and jumped up. He was very hungry! + +But the housekeeper lingered by the door, and the basket stayed shut. + +"Come," he cried, "what is in that basket?" + +The housekeeper trembled, and held the basket tight in two hands. "It +has seemed to me, sir," she said, "that we are very lonely here." Her +wrinkled face looked humble and obstinate. + +"Lonely!" said the artist. "I should think so! How can we have guests +when we have nothing to offer them? It is so long since I have tasted +rice cakes that I forget what they taste like!" And he sighed again, +for he loved rice cakes, and dumplings, and little cakes filled with +sweet bean jelly. He loved tea served in fine china cups, in company +with some friend, sitting on flat cushions, talking perhaps about a +spray of peach blossoms standing like a little princess in an alcove. + +But weeks and weeks had gone by since any one had bought even the +smallest picture. The poor artist was glad enough to have rice and a +coarse fish now and then. If he did not sell another picture soon he +would not even have that. + +His eyes went back to the basket. Perhaps the old woman had managed to +pick up a turnip or two, or even a peach too ripe to haggle long over. + +"Sir," said the housekeeper, seeing the direction of his look, "it has +often seemed to me that I was kept awake by rats." + +At that the artist laughed out loud. + +"Rats?" he repeated. "Rats? My dear old woman, no rats come to such a +poor house as this where not the smallest crumb falls to the mats." + +Then he looked at the housekeeper and a dreadful suspicion filled his +mind. + +"You have brought us home nothing to eat!" he said. + +"True, master," said the old woman sorrowfully. + +"You have brought us home a cat!" said the artist. + +"My master knows everything!" answered the housekeeper, bowing low. + +Then the artist jumped to his feet, and strode up and down the room, +and pulled his hair, and it seemed to him that he would die of hunger +and anger. + +"A cat? A cat?" he cried. "Have you gone mad? Here we are starving and +you must bring home a goblin, a goblin to share the little we have, +and perhaps to suck our blood at night! Yes! it will be fine to wake +up in the dark and feel teeth at our throats and look into eyes as big +as lanterns! But perhaps you are right! Perhaps we are so miserable it +would be a good thing to have us die at once, and be carried over the +ridgepoles in the jaws of a devil!" + +"But master, master, there are many good cats too!" cried the poor old +woman. "Have you forgotten the little boy who drew all the pictures +of cats on the screens of the deserted temple and then went to sleep +in a closet and heard such a racket in the middle of the night? And +in the morning when he awoke again he found the giant rat lying dead, +master--the rat who had come to kill him! Who destroyed the rat, sir, +tell me that? It was his own cats, there they sat on the screen as he +had drawn them, but there was blood on their claws! And he became a +great artist like yourself. Surely, there are many good cats, master." + +Then the old woman began to cry. The artist stopped and looked at her +as the tears fell from her bright little black eyes and ran down the +wrinkles in her cheeks. Why should he be angry? He had gone hungry +before. + +"Well, well," he said, "sometimes it is good fortune to have even a +devil in the household. It keeps other devils away. Now I suppose this +cat of yours will wish to eat. Perhaps it may arrange for us to have +some food in the house. Who knows? We can hardly be worse off than we +are." + +The housekeeper bowed very low in gratitude. + +"There is not a kinder heart in the whole town than my master's," she +said, and prepared to carry out the covered basket into the kitchen. + +But the artist stopped her. Like all artists he was curious. + +"Let us see the creature," he said, pretending he hardly cared whether +he saw it or not. + +So the old woman put down the basket and opened the lid. Nothing +happened for a moment. Then a round pretty white head came slowly above +the bamboo, and two big yellow eyes looked about the room, and a little +white paw appeared on the rim. Suddenly, without moving the basket at +all, a little white cat jumped out on the mats, and stood there as a +person might stand who hardly knew if she were welcome. Now that the +cat was out of the basket, the artist saw that she had yellow and black +spots on her sides, a little tail like a rabbit's, and that she did +everything daintily. + +"Oh, a three-colored cat," said the artist. "Why didn't you say so from +the beginning? They are very lucky, I understand." + +As soon as the little cat heard him speak so kindly, she walked over +to him and bowed down her head as though she were saluting him, while +the old woman clapped her hands for joy. The artist forgot that he was +hungry. He had seen nothing so lovely as their cat for a long time. + +"She will have to have a name," he declared, sitting down again on the +old matting while the cat stood sedately before him. "Let me see: she +is like new snow dotted with gold pieces and lacquer; she is like a +white flower on which butterflies of two kinds have alighted; she is +like----" + +But here he stopped. For a sound like a teakettle crooning on the fire +was filling his little room. + +"How contented!" sighed the artist. "This is better than rice." Then he +said to the housekeeper, "We have been lonely, I see now." + +"May I humbly suggest," said the housekeeper, "that we call this cat +Good Fortune?" + +Somehow the name reminded the artist of all his troubles. + +"Anything will do," he said, getting up and tightening his belt over +his empty stomach, "but do take her to the kitchen now, out of the +way." No sooner were the words out of his mouth than the little cat +rose, and walked away, softly and meekly. + + * * * * * + + _The First Song of the Housekeeper_ + + I'm poor and I'm old + My hair has gone gray, + My robe is all patches, + My sash is not gay. + + The fat God of Luck + Never enters our door, + And few visitors come + To drink tea any more. + + Yet I hold my head high + As I walk through the town. + While I serve such a master + My heart's not bowed down! + + * * * * * + +The next morning the artist found the cat curled up in a ball on his +cushion. + +"Ah! the softest place, I see!" said he. Good Fortune immediately rose, +and moving away, began to wash herself with the greatest thoroughness +and dexterity. When the housekeeper came back from market and cooked +the small meal, Good Fortune did not go near the stove, though her eyes +wandered toward it now and then and her thistle-down whiskers quivered +slightly with hunger. She happened to be present when the old woman +brought in a low table and set it before her master. Next came a bowl +of fish soup--goodness knows how the housekeeper must have wheedled to +get that fish!--but Good Fortune made a point of keeping her eyes in +the other direction. + +"One would say," said the artist, pleased by her behavior, "that she +understood it is not polite to stare at people while they eat. She has +been very properly brought up. From whom did you buy her?" + +"I bought her from a fisherman in the market," said the old woman. "She +is the eldest daughter of his chief cat. You know a junk never puts out +to sea without a cat to frighten away the water devils." + +"Pooh!" said the artist. "A cat doesn't frighten devils. They are kin. +The sea demons spare a ship out of courtesy to the cat, not from fear +of her." + +The old woman did not contradict. She knew her place better than that. +Good Fortune continued to sit with her face to the wall. + +The artist took another sip or two of soup. Then he said to the +housekeeper, "Please be kind enough to bring a bowl for Good Fortune +when you bring my rice. She must be hungry." + +When the bowl came he called her politely. Having been properly +invited, Good Fortune stopped looking at the other side of the room, +and came to sit beside her master. She took care not to eat hurriedly +and soil her white round chin. Although she must have been very hungry, +she would eat only half her rice. It was as though she kept the rest +for the next day, wishing to be no more of a burden than she could help. + +So the days went. Each morning the artist knelt quietly on a mat and +painted beautiful little pictures that no one bought: some of warriors +with two swords; some of lovely ladies doing up their long curtains +of hair; some of the demons of the wind blowing out their cheeks; and +some little laughable ones of rabbits running in the moonlight, or fat +badgers beating on their stomachs like drums. While he worked, the old +woman went to market with a few of their remaining pennies; she spent +the rest of her time in cooking, washing, scrubbing, and darning to +keep their threadbare house and their threadbare clothes together. Good +Fortune, having found that she was unable to help either of them, sat +quietly in the sun, ate as little as she could, and often spent hours +with lowered head before the image of the Buddha on its low shelf. + +"She is praying to the Enlightened One," said the housekeeper in +admiration. + +"She is catching flies," said the artist. "You would believe anything +wonderful of your spotted cat." Perhaps he was a little ashamed to +remember how seldom he prayed now when his heart felt so heavy. + +But one day he was forced to admit that Good Fortune was not like +other cats. He was sitting in his especial room watching sparrows fly +in and out of the hydrangea bushes outside, when he saw Good Fortune +leap from a shadow and catch a bird. In a second the brown wings, the +black-capped head, the legs like briers, the frightened eyes, were +between her paws. The artist would have clapped his hands and tried to +scare her away, but before he had time to make the least move, he saw +Good Fortune hesitate and then slowly, slowly, lift first one white paw +and then another from the sparrow. Unhurt, in a loud whir of wings, the +bird flew away. + +"What mercy!" cried the artist, and the tears came into his eyes. Well +he knew his cat must be hungry and well he knew what hunger felt like. +"I am ashamed when I think that I called such a cat a goblin," he +thought. "Why, she is more virtuous than a priest." + +It was just then, at that very moment, that the old housekeeper +appeared, trying hard to hide her excitement. + +"Master!" she said as soon as she could find words. "Master! the head +priest from the temple himself is here in the next room and wishes to +see you. What, oh what, do you think his honor has come here for?" + +"The priest from the temple wishes to see me?" repeated the artist, +hardly able to believe his ears, for the priest was a very important +person, not one likely to spend his time in visiting poor artists whom +nobody thought much of. When the housekeeper had nodded her head until +it nearly fell off, the artist felt as excited as she did. But he +forced himself to be calm. + +"Run! run!" he exclaimed. "Buy tea and cakes," and he pressed into +the old woman's hands the last thing of value he owned--the vase +which stood in the alcove of his room and always held a branch or +spray of flowers. But even if his room must be bare after this, the +artist did not hesitate: no guest could be turned away without proper +entertainment. He was ashamed to think that he had kept the priest +waiting for even a minute and had not seen him coming and welcomed him +at the door. He hardly felt Good Fortune rub encouragingly against his +ankles as he hurried off. + +In the next room the priest sat lost in meditation. The artist bowed +low before him, drawing in his breath politely, and then waited to be +noticed. It seemed to him a century before the priest lifted his head +and the far-off look went out of his eyes. Then the artist bowed again +and said that his house was honored forever by so holy a presence. + +The priest wasted no time in coming to the point. + +"We desire," said he, "a painting of the death of our lord Buddha for +the temple. There was some discussion as to the artist, so we put +slips of paper, each marked with a name, before the central image in +the great hall, and in the morning all the slips had blown away but +yours. So we knew Buddha's will in the matter. Hearing something of +your circumstances, I have brought a first payment with me so that you +may relieve your mind of worry while at your work. Only a clear pool +has beautiful reflections. If the work is successful as we hope, your +fortune is made, for what the temple approves becomes the fashion in +the town." With that the priest drew a heavy purse from his belt. + +The artist never remembered how he thanked the priest, or served him +the ceremonial tea, or bowed him to his narrow gate. Here at last was +a chance for fame and fortune at his hand. He felt that this might be +all a dream. Why had the Buddha chosen him? He had been too sad to +pray often and the housekeeper too busy--could it be that Buddha would +listen to the prayers of a little spotted cat? He was afraid that he +would wake up and find that the whole thing was an apparition and that +the purse was filled with withered leaves. Perhaps he never would have +come to himself if he had not been roused by a very curious noise. + +It was a double kind of noise. It was not like any noise exactly that +the artist had ever heard. The artist, who was always curious, went +into the kitchen to see what could be making the sound--and there sure +enough were the housekeeper and Good Fortune, and one was crying for +joy and one was purring for joy, and it would have been hard to have +said which was making more noise. At that the artist had to laugh +out loud, but it was not his old sad sort of laugh, this was like a +boy's--and he took them both into his arms. Then there were three +sounds of joy in the poor old kitchen. + + * * * * * + + _The Second Song of the Housekeeper_ + + Now let me laugh and let me cry + With happiness, to know at last + I'll see him famous e'er I die + With all his poverty in the past! + I'll see the sand of the garden walk + Marked with the footsteps of the great, + And noblemen shall stand and talk + At ease about my master's gate! + + * * * * * + +Early the next morning, before the sun was up, the housekeeper rose +and cleaned the house. She swept and scrubbed until the mats looked +like worn silver and the wood shone like pale gold. Then she hurried +to market and purchased a spray of flowers to put in the vase which +she had of course bought back the night before with the first money +from the priest's purse. In the meantime the artist dressed himself +carefully in his holiday clothes, combed his hair until it shone like +lacquer, and then went to pray before the shelf of the Buddha. There +sat Good Fortune already, looking very earnest, but she moved over the +moment she saw her master. Together they sat before the image, the +artist raising his hands and striking them softly from time to time to +call attention to his prayers. Then with a final low bow he went into +the next room and sat crosslegged on his mat. He had never felt more +excited and happy in his life. + +To-day he was to begin his painting of the death of Buddha to be +hung in the village temple and seen perhaps by the children of his +children's children. The honor of it almost overcame him. But he sat +upright and expressionless, looking before him like a samurai knight +receiving the instructions of his master. There was no roll of silk +near him, no cakes of ink with raised patterns of flowers on their +tops, no beautiful brushes, nor jar of fresh spring water. He must +strive to understand the Buddha before he could paint him. + +First he thought of the Buddha as Siddhartha, the young Indian prince. +And the artist imagined that his poor small room was a great chamber +and that there were columns of gilded wood holding up a high ceiling +above him. He imagined that he heard water falling from perfumed +fountains near by. He imagined that young warriors stood grouped around +him, gay and witty boys listening with him to a girl playing on a long +instrument shaped like a peacock with a tail of peacock feathers. He +imagined that his poor hydrangeas were a forest of fruit trees and +palms leading down to pools filled with pink and white lotuses, and +that the sparrows he knew so well were white swans flying across the +sky. + +When the horse of a passing farmer whinnied, he thought he heard war +horses neighing in their stables and the trumpeting of an elephant, +and that soon he would go out to compete with the other princes for +the hand of his bride, drawing the bow no other man could draw, riding +the horse no other man could ride, striking two trees through with his +sword where the others hewed down but one, and so winning his princess, +Yosadhara, amid the applause of all the world. + +Even in that moment of triumph, the artist knew that Siddhartha felt no +shadow of ill will toward his rivals. He was all fire and gentleness. +A smile curved his lips. He held his head high like a stag walking in +a dewy meadow. The artist looked about among his imaginary companions. +All were young, all were beautiful. They had but to ask a boon and +Siddhartha's heart was reaching out to grant it before the words could +be spoken. The swans flew over his gardens and feared no arrow. The +deer stared unafraid from thickets of flowers. + +The artist sat in his poor worn clothes, on his thin cushion and felt +silks against his skin. Heavy earrings weighed down his ears. A rope +of pearls and emeralds swung at his throat. When his old housekeeper +brought in his simple midday meal, he imagined that a train of servants +had entered, carrying golden dishes heaped with the rarest food. When +Good Fortune came in, cautiously putting one paw before the other, he +imagined that a dancing girl had come to entertain him, walking in +golden sandals. + +"Welcome, thrice welcome!" he cried to her. But apparently Good Fortune +had thought the room was empty, for she nearly jumped out of her skin +when she heard him speak, and ran away with her white button of a tail +in the air. + +"How wrong of you to disturb the master!" scolded the housekeeper. But +the artist was not disturbed. He was still Prince Siddhartha and he was +still wondering if all the world could be as happy as those who lived +within the vine-covered walls of the palace the king his father had +given him. + + * * * * * + +The second day began like the first. The housekeeper rose before dawn +and although there was not a smudge of dirt or a speck of dust anywhere +in the house, she washed and swept and rubbed and polished as before. +Then she hurried to the market early to buy a new spray of flowers. The +artist got up early, too, and made himself as worthy as possible of +reflecting upon the Buddha. And once more when he went to pray, there +was Good Fortune, shining like a narcissus, and gold as a narcissus' +heart, and black as a beetle on a narcissus petal, sitting quietly +before the shelf where sat the household image of the Buddha. No sooner +did she see the artist than she jumped to her feet, lowered her head +as though she were bowing, and moved over to make room for him. They +meditated as before, the artist occasionally striking his hands softly, +and the cat sitting very still and proper with her paws side by side. + +Then the artist went into his room beside the hydrangeas. To-day he +reflected upon the renunciation of Siddhartha. Again he was the prince, +but now he ordered his chariot and for the first time drove unannounced +through the city. He saw an old man, and a man sick with fever, and a +dead man. He looked at his bracelets--but gold could do no good to such +as these. He, the prince of the land, was at last helpless to help. + +The head of the artist hung heavy on his breast. He thought he smelled +a garland of flowers but the sweetness sickened him. They brought word +that a son had been born to him, but he only thought how sad life would +be for the child. When the housekeeper came with rice, he sent her away +without tasting it, and when Good Fortune wandered in with big watchful +eyes, he told her that he was in no mood for entertainment. Evening +drew closer but still the artist did not stir. The housekeeper looked +in but went away again. Good Fortune mewed anxiously, but the artist +did not hear her. + +For now the artist imagined that Prince Siddhartha had secretly sent +for his chariot driver and Kanthaka, his white horse. He had gazed long +at his sleeping wife and the little baby she held in her arms. Now he +was in the darkness of his garden; now he rode quietly through the +sleeping city; now he was galloping down the long roads that shone pale +and light in the darkness; and now he was in the forest and had come to +the end of his father's kingdom. Siddhartha has cut off his long hair. +He has taken off his princely garments. He has hung his sword to white +Kanthaka's saddle. Let Channa take them back to the palace. It is not +with them that he can save the world from its suffering. + + * * * * * + +So intensely had the artist lived through the pain of the prince in +his hour of giving up all the beautiful world that he knew, that next +morning he was very, very tired. But when he heard the housekeeper +polishing and rubbing and sweeping and scrubbing again, he too rose and +dressed in his poor best and sat beside Good Fortune praying before the +image of the Buddha. + +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. + +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_ + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78393 *** diff --git a/78393-h/78393-h.htm b/78393-h/78393-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4e429ed --- /dev/null +++ b/78393-h/78393-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,1680 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html lang="en"> +<head> + <meta charset="UTF-8"> + <title> + The Cat Who Went to Heaven | Project Gutenberg + </title> + <link rel="icon" href="images/cover.jpg" type="image/x-cover"> + <style> + +body { + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + + h1,h2,h3 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; +} + +p { + margin-top: .51em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .49em; +} + +hr { + width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: 33.5%; + margin-right: 33.5%; + clear: both; +} + +hr.tb {width: 45%; margin-left: 27.5%; margin-right: 27.5%;} +hr.chap {width: 65%; margin-left: 17.5%; margin-right: 17.5%;} +@media print { hr.chap {display: none; visibility: hidden;} } +hr.full {width: 95%; margin-left: 2.5%; margin-right: 2.5%;} +div.chapter {page-break-before: always;} +h2.nobreak {page-break-before: avoid;} + +x-ebookmaker-drop {display: none;} + +.center {text-align: center;} + +.right {text-align: right;} + +.smcap { font-variant:small-caps; } + +/* Images */ +.figcenter { + margin: auto; + text-align: center; + page-break-inside: avoid; + max-width: 100%; +} + +div.titlepage { + text-align: center; + page-break-before: always; + page-break-after: always; +} + +div.titlepage p { + text-align: center; + text-indent: 0em; + font-weight: bold; + line-height: 1.5; + margin-top: 3em; +} + +/* Poetry */ +.poetry-container {display: flex; justify-content: center;} +.poetry-container {text-align: center;} +.poetry {text-align: left; margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 5%;} +.poetry .stanza {margin: 1em auto;} +.poetry .verse {text-indent: -3em; padding-left: 3em;} +.poetry .indent0 {text-indent: -3em;} +.poetry .indent2 {text-indent: -2em;} + +.ph1 { text-align: center; text-indent: 0em; } +.ph1 { font-size: x-large; margin: .83em auto; } + +.ph2 { text-align: center; text-indent: 0em; } +.ph2 { font-size: medium; margin: .83em auto; } + +.ph3 { text-align: right; text-indent: 0em; } +.ph3 { font-size: medium; margin: .83em auto; } + + </style> +</head> +<body> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78393 ***</div> + +<div class="titlepage"> + +<h1>THE CAT WHO WENT TO HEAVEN</h1> + +<p class="ph1">By ELIZABETH COATSWORTH</p> + +<p><i>Pictures by Lynd Ward</i></p> + +<p>Copyright, 1930,<br> +By THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.</p> + +<p><i>All rights reserved—no part of this book may be reproduced<br> +in any form without permission in writing from the publisher.</i></p> + +<p>Published August, 1930<br> +Reprinted January, 1931<br> +Reprinted May, 1931</p> + +<p><i>Lithographed in the United States of America<br> +by the Artcraft Lithograph & Printing Co.</i></p> + + +<p><i>By</i> ELIZABETH COATSWORTH</p> + +<p>THE CAT AND THE CAPTAIN<br> +TOUTOU IN BONDAGE<br> +THE SUN'S DIARY<br> +THE BOY WITH THE PARROT<br> +THE CAT WHO WENT TO HEAVEN</p> + + +<p><i>With other publishers, books of verse</i>:</p> + +<p>FOX FOOTPRINTS<br> +BEYOND ATLAS<br> +COMPASS ROSE</p> + + +<p>TO<br> +CYRA THOMAS</p> + +</div> + +<hr class="chap"> + +<p>This new book about an artist, his cook, his painting, and his kitten, +is a most unusual piece of story telling.</p> + +<p>Will the kitten, who brought good luck to the house, be admitted into +the painting of the great Buddha?</p> + +<p>She listens and watches as the artist recalls the story of each animal, +then paints it. She hears the cook's songs. Does she go to heaven, in +the procession, with the noble horse and elephant, the beautiful deer +and tiger, the strange monkey and snail? Read and learn how things +happened in Japan long ago.</p> + +<p>Seldom has an artist caught so exactly an author's intention. The story +says: then he painted the swan. The picture looks as if the artist's +brush had just left the canvas. We think that many people of many ages +will enjoy this story picture book.</p> + + +<hr class="chap"> + +<h2><i>THE CAT WHO WENT TO HEAVEN</i></h2> + +<p>Once upon a time, far away in Japan, a poor young artist sat alone in +his little house, waiting for his dinner. His housekeeper had gone to +market, and he sat sighing to think of all the things he wished she +would bring home. He expected her to hurry in at any minute, bowing and +opening her little basket to show him how wisely she had spent their +few pennies. He heard her steps, and jumped up. He was very hungry!</p> + +<p>But the housekeeper lingered by the door, and the basket stayed shut.</p> + +<p>"Come," he cried, "what is in that basket?"</p> + +<p>The housekeeper trembled, and held the basket tight in two hands. "It +has seemed to me, sir," she said, "that we are very lonely here." Her +wrinkled face looked humble and obstinate.</p> + +<p>"Lonely!" said the artist. "I should think so! How can we have guests +when we have nothing to offer them? It is so long since I have tasted +rice cakes that I forget what they taste like!" And he sighed again, +for he loved rice cakes, and dumplings, and little cakes filled with +sweet bean jelly. He loved tea served in fine china cups, in company +with some friend, sitting on flat cushions, talking perhaps about a +spray of peach blossoms standing like a little princess in an alcove.</p> + +<p>But weeks and weeks had gone by since any one had bought even the +smallest picture. The poor artist was glad enough to have rice and a +coarse fish now and then. If he did not sell another picture soon he +would not even have that.</p> + +<p>His eyes went back to the basket. Perhaps the old woman had managed to +pick up a turnip or two, or even a peach too ripe to haggle long over.</p> + +<p>"Sir," said the housekeeper, seeing the direction of his look, "it has +often seemed to me that I was kept awake by rats."</p> + +<p>At that the artist laughed out loud.</p> + +<p>"Rats?" he repeated. "Rats? My dear old woman, no rats come to such a +poor house as this where not the smallest crumb falls to the mats."</p> + +<p>Then he looked at the housekeeper and a dreadful suspicion filled his +mind.</p> + +<p>"You have brought us home nothing to eat!" he said.</p> + +<p>"True, master," said the old woman sorrowfully.</p> + +<p>"You have brought us home a cat!" said the artist.</p> + +<p>"My master knows everything!" answered the housekeeper, bowing low.</p> + +<p>Then the artist jumped to his feet, and strode up and down the room, +and pulled his hair, and it seemed to him that he would die of hunger +and anger.</p> + +<p>"A cat? A cat?" he cried. "Have you gone mad? Here we are starving and +you must bring home a goblin, a goblin to share the little we have, +and perhaps to suck our blood at night! Yes! it will be fine to wake +up in the dark and feel teeth at our throats and look into eyes as big +as lanterns! But perhaps you are right! Perhaps we are so miserable it +would be a good thing to have us die at once, and be carried over the +ridgepoles in the jaws of a devil!"</p> + +<hr class="chap"> + +<div class="figcenter"> + <img src="images/illus1.jpg" alt=""> +</div> + +<hr class="chap"> + +<p>"But master, master, there are many good cats too!" cried the poor old +woman. "Have you forgotten the little boy who drew all the pictures +of cats on the screens of the deserted temple and then went to sleep +in a closet and heard such a racket in the middle of the night? And +in the morning when he awoke again he found the giant rat lying dead, +master—the rat who had come to kill him! Who destroyed the rat, sir, +tell me that? It was his own cats, there they sat on the screen as he +had drawn them, but there was blood on their claws! And he became a +great artist like yourself. Surely, there are many good cats, master."</p> + +<p>Then the old woman began to cry. The artist stopped and looked at her +as the tears fell from her bright little black eyes and ran down the +wrinkles in her cheeks. Why should he be angry? He had gone hungry +before.</p> + +<p>"Well, well," he said, "sometimes it is good fortune to have even a +devil in the household. It keeps other devils away. Now I suppose this +cat of yours will wish to eat. Perhaps it may arrange for us to have +some food in the house. Who knows? We can hardly be worse off than we +are."</p> + +<p>The housekeeper bowed very low in gratitude.</p> + +<p>"There is not a kinder heart in the whole town than my master's," she +said, and prepared to carry out the covered basket into the kitchen.</p> + +<p>But the artist stopped her. Like all artists he was curious.</p> + +<p>"Let us see the creature," he said, pretending he hardly cared whether +he saw it or not.</p> + +<p>So the old woman put down the basket and opened the lid. Nothing +happened for a moment. Then a round pretty white head came slowly above +the bamboo, and two big yellow eyes looked about the room, and a little +white paw appeared on the rim. Suddenly, without moving the basket at +all, a little white cat jumped out on the mats, and stood there as a +person might stand who hardly knew if she were welcome. Now that the +cat was out of the basket, the artist saw that she had yellow and black +spots on her sides, a little tail like a rabbit's, and that she did +everything daintily.</p> + +<p>"Oh, a three-colored cat," said the artist. "Why didn't you say so from +the beginning? They are very lucky, I understand."</p> + +<p>As soon as the little cat heard him speak so kindly, she walked over +to him and bowed down her head as though she were saluting him, while +the old woman clapped her hands for joy. The artist forgot that he was +hungry. He had seen nothing so lovely as their cat for a long time.</p> + +<p>"She will have to have a name," he declared, sitting down again on the +old matting while the cat stood sedately before him. "Let me see: she +is like new snow dotted with gold pieces and lacquer; she is like a +white flower on which butterflies of two kinds have alighted; she is +like——"</p> + +<p>But here he stopped. For a sound like a teakettle crooning on the fire +was filling his little room.</p> + +<p>"How contented!" sighed the artist. "This is better than rice." Then he +said to the housekeeper, "We have been lonely, I see now."</p> + +<p>"May I humbly suggest," said the housekeeper, "that we call this cat +Good Fortune?"</p> + +<p>Somehow the name reminded the artist of all his troubles.</p> + +<p>"Anything will do," he said, getting up and tightening his belt over +his empty stomach, "but do take her to the kitchen now, out of the +way." No sooner were the words out of his mouth than the little cat +rose, and walked away, softly and meekly.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p class="ph2"><i>The First Song of the Housekeeper</i></p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">I'm poor and I'm old</div> + <div class="verse indent0">My hair has gone gray,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">My robe is all patches,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">My sash is not gay.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">The fat God of Luck</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Never enters our door,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And few visitors come</div> + <div class="verse indent0">To drink tea any more.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Yet I hold my head high</div> + <div class="verse indent0">As I walk through the town.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">While I serve such a master</div> + <div class="verse indent0">My heart's not bowed down!</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>The next morning the artist found the cat curled up in a ball on his +cushion.</p> + +<p>"Ah! the softest place, I see!" said he. Good Fortune immediately rose, +and moving away, began to wash herself with the greatest thoroughness +and dexterity. When the housekeeper came back from market and cooked +the small meal, Good Fortune did not go near the stove, though her eyes +wandered toward it now and then and her thistle-down whiskers quivered +slightly with hunger. She happened to be present when the old woman +brought in a low table and set it before her master. Next came a bowl +of fish soup—goodness knows how the housekeeper must have wheedled to +get that fish!—but Good Fortune made a point of keeping her eyes in +the other direction.</p> + +<p>"One would say," said the artist, pleased by her behavior, "that she +understood it is not polite to stare at people while they eat. She has +been very properly brought up. From whom did you buy her?"</p> + +<p>"I bought her from a fisherman in the market," said the old woman. "She +is the eldest daughter of his chief cat. You know a junk never puts out +to sea without a cat to frighten away the water devils."</p> + +<p>"Pooh!" said the artist. "A cat doesn't frighten devils. They are kin. +The sea demons spare a ship out of courtesy to the cat, not from fear +of her."</p> + +<p>The old woman did not contradict. She knew her place better than that. +Good Fortune continued to sit with her face to the wall.</p> + +<p>The artist took another sip or two of soup. Then he said to the +housekeeper, "Please be kind enough to bring a bowl for Good Fortune +when you bring my rice. She must be hungry."</p> + +<p>When the bowl came he called her politely. Having been properly +invited, Good Fortune stopped looking at the other side of the room, +and came to sit beside her master. She took care not to eat hurriedly +and soil her white round chin. Although she must have been very hungry, +she would eat only half her rice. It was as though she kept the rest +for the next day, wishing to be no more of a burden than she could help.</p> + +<p>So the days went. Each morning the artist knelt quietly on a mat and +painted beautiful little pictures that no one bought: some of warriors +with two swords; some of lovely ladies doing up their long curtains +of hair; some of the demons of the wind blowing out their cheeks; and +some little laughable ones of rabbits running in the moonlight, or fat +badgers beating on their stomachs like drums. While he worked, the old +woman went to market with a few of their remaining pennies; she spent +the rest of her time in cooking, washing, scrubbing, and darning to +keep their threadbare house and their threadbare clothes together. Good +Fortune, having found that she was unable to help either of them, sat +quietly in the sun, ate as little as she could, and often spent hours +with lowered head before the image of the Buddha on its low shelf.</p> + +<p>"She is praying to the Enlightened One," said the housekeeper in +admiration.</p> + +<p>"She is catching flies," said the artist. "You would believe anything +wonderful of your spotted cat." Perhaps he was a little ashamed to +remember how seldom he prayed now when his heart felt so heavy.</p> + +<p>But one day he was forced to admit that Good Fortune was not like +other cats. He was sitting in his especial room watching sparrows fly +in and out of the hydrangea bushes outside, when he saw Good Fortune +leap from a shadow and catch a bird. In a second the brown wings, the +black-capped head, the legs like briers, the frightened eyes, were +between her paws. The artist would have clapped his hands and tried to +scare her away, but before he had time to make the least move, he saw +Good Fortune hesitate and then slowly, slowly, lift first one white paw +and then another from the sparrow. Unhurt, in a loud whir of wings, the +bird flew away.</p> + +<p>"What mercy!" cried the artist, and the tears came into his eyes. Well +he knew his cat must be hungry and well he knew what hunger felt like. +"I am ashamed when I think that I called such a cat a goblin," he +thought. "Why, she is more virtuous than a priest."</p> + +<p>It was just then, at that very moment, that the old housekeeper +appeared, trying hard to hide her excitement.</p> + +<p>"Master!" she said as soon as she could find words. "Master! the head +priest from the temple himself is here in the next room and wishes to +see you. What, oh what, do you think his honor has come here for?"</p> + +<p>"The priest from the temple wishes to see me?" repeated the artist, +hardly able to believe his ears, for the priest was a very important +person, not one likely to spend his time in visiting poor artists whom +nobody thought much of. When the housekeeper had nodded her head until +it nearly fell off, the artist felt as excited as she did. But he +forced himself to be calm.</p> + +<p>"Run! run!" he exclaimed. "Buy tea and cakes," and he pressed into +the old woman's hands the last thing of value he owned—the vase +which stood in the alcove of his room and always held a branch or +spray of flowers. But even if his room must be bare after this, the +artist did not hesitate: no guest could be turned away without proper +entertainment. He was ashamed to think that he had kept the priest +waiting for even a minute and had not seen him coming and welcomed him +at the door. He hardly felt Good Fortune rub encouragingly against his +ankles as he hurried off.</p> + +<p>In the next room the priest sat lost in meditation. The artist bowed +low before him, drawing in his breath politely, and then waited to be +noticed. It seemed to him a century before the priest lifted his head +and the far-off look went out of his eyes. Then the artist bowed again +and said that his house was honored forever by so holy a presence.</p> + +<p>The priest wasted no time in coming to the point.</p> + +<p>"We desire," said he, "a painting of the death of our lord Buddha for +the temple. There was some discussion as to the artist, so we put +slips of paper, each marked with a name, before the central image in +the great hall, and in the morning all the slips had blown away but +yours. So we knew Buddha's will in the matter. Hearing something of +your circumstances, I have brought a first payment with me so that you +may relieve your mind of worry while at your work. Only a clear pool +has beautiful reflections. If the work is successful as we hope, your +fortune is made, for what the temple approves becomes the fashion in +the town." With that the priest drew a heavy purse from his belt.</p> + +<p>The artist never remembered how he thanked the priest, or served him +the ceremonial tea, or bowed him to his narrow gate. Here at last was +a chance for fame and fortune at his hand. He felt that this might be +all a dream. Why had the Buddha chosen him? He had been too sad to +pray often and the housekeeper too busy—could it be that Buddha would +listen to the prayers of a little spotted cat? He was afraid that he +would wake up and find that the whole thing was an apparition and that +the purse was filled with withered leaves. Perhaps he never would have +come to himself if he had not been roused by a very curious noise.</p> + +<p>It was a double kind of noise. It was not like any noise exactly that +the artist had ever heard. The artist, who was always curious, went +into the kitchen to see what could be making the sound—and there sure +enough were the housekeeper and Good Fortune, and one was crying for +joy and one was purring for joy, and it would have been hard to have +said which was making more noise. At that the artist had to laugh +out loud, but it was not his old sad sort of laugh, this was like a +boy's—and he took them both into his arms. Then there were three +sounds of joy in the poor old kitchen.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p class="ph2"><i>The Second Song of the Housekeeper</i></p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Now let me laugh and let me cry</div> + <div class="verse indent0">With happiness, to know at last</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I'll see him famous e'er I die</div> + <div class="verse indent0">With all his poverty in the past!</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I'll see the sand of the garden walk</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Marked with the footsteps of the great,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And noblemen shall stand and talk</div> + <div class="verse indent0">At ease about my master's gate!</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Early the next morning, before the sun was up, the housekeeper rose +and cleaned the house. She swept and scrubbed until the mats looked +like worn silver and the wood shone like pale gold. Then she hurried +to market and purchased a spray of flowers to put in the vase which +she had of course bought back the night before with the first money +from the priest's purse. In the meantime the artist dressed himself +carefully in his holiday clothes, combed his hair until it shone like +lacquer, and then went to pray before the shelf of the Buddha. There +sat Good Fortune already, looking very earnest, but she moved over the +moment she saw her master. Together they sat before the image, the +artist raising his hands and striking them softly from time to time to +call attention to his prayers. Then with a final low bow he went into +the next room and sat crosslegged on his mat. He had never felt more +excited and happy in his life.</p> + +<p>To-day he was to begin his painting of the death of Buddha to be +hung in the village temple and seen perhaps by the children of his +children's children. The honor of it almost overcame him. But he sat +upright and expressionless, looking before him like a samurai knight +receiving the instructions of his master. There was no roll of silk +near him, no cakes of ink with raised patterns of flowers on their +tops, no beautiful brushes, nor jar of fresh spring water. He must +strive to understand the Buddha before he could paint him.</p> + +<p>First he thought of the Buddha as Siddhartha, the young Indian prince. +And the artist imagined that his poor small room was a great chamber +and that there were columns of gilded wood holding up a high ceiling +above him. He imagined that he heard water falling from perfumed +fountains near by. He imagined that young warriors stood grouped around +him, gay and witty boys listening with him to a girl playing on a long +instrument shaped like a peacock with a tail of peacock feathers. He +imagined that his poor hydrangeas were a forest of fruit trees and +palms leading down to pools filled with pink and white lotuses, and +that the sparrows he knew so well were white swans flying across the +sky.</p> + +<p>When the horse of a passing farmer whinnied, he thought he heard war +horses neighing in their stables and the trumpeting of an elephant, +and that soon he would go out to compete with the other princes for +the hand of his bride, drawing the bow no other man could draw, riding +the horse no other man could ride, striking two trees through with his +sword where the others hewed down but one, and so winning his princess, +Yosadhara, amid the applause of all the world.</p> + +<p>Even in that moment of triumph, the artist knew that Siddhartha felt no +shadow of ill will toward his rivals. He was all fire and gentleness. +A smile curved his lips. He held his head high like a stag walking in +a dewy meadow. The artist looked about among his imaginary companions. +All were young, all were beautiful. They had but to ask a boon and +Siddhartha's heart was reaching out to grant it before the words could +be spoken. The swans flew over his gardens and feared no arrow. The +deer stared unafraid from thickets of flowers.</p> + +<p>The artist sat in his poor worn clothes, on his thin cushion and felt +silks against his skin. Heavy earrings weighed down his ears. A rope +of pearls and emeralds swung at his throat. When his old housekeeper +brought in his simple midday meal, he imagined that a train of servants +had entered, carrying golden dishes heaped with the rarest food. When +Good Fortune came in, cautiously putting one paw before the other, he +imagined that a dancing girl had come to entertain him, walking in +golden sandals.</p> + +<p>"Welcome, thrice welcome!" he cried to her. But apparently Good Fortune +had thought the room was empty, for she nearly jumped out of her skin +when she heard him speak, and ran away with her white button of a tail +in the air.</p> + +<p>"How wrong of you to disturb the master!" scolded the housekeeper. But +the artist was not disturbed. He was still Prince Siddhartha and he was +still wondering if all the world could be as happy as those who lived +within the vine-covered walls of the palace the king his father had +given him.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>The second day began like the first. The housekeeper rose before dawn +and although there was not a smudge of dirt or a speck of dust anywhere +in the house, she washed and swept and rubbed and polished as before. +Then she hurried to the market early to buy a new spray of flowers. The +artist got up early, too, and made himself as worthy as possible of +reflecting upon the Buddha. And once more when he went to pray, there +was Good Fortune, shining like a narcissus, and gold as a narcissus' +heart, and black as a beetle on a narcissus petal, sitting quietly +before the shelf where sat the household image of the Buddha. No sooner +did she see the artist than she jumped to her feet, lowered her head +as though she were bowing, and moved over to make room for him. They +meditated as before, the artist occasionally striking his hands softly, +and the cat sitting very still and proper with her paws side by side.</p> + +<p>Then the artist went into his room beside the hydrangeas. To-day he +reflected upon the renunciation of Siddhartha. Again he was the prince, +but now he ordered his chariot and for the first time drove unannounced +through the city. He saw an old man, and a man sick with fever, and a +dead man. He looked at his bracelets—but gold could do no good to such +as these. He, the prince of the land, was at last helpless to help.</p> + +<p>The head of the artist hung heavy on his breast. He thought he smelled +a garland of flowers but the sweetness sickened him. They brought word +that a son had been born to him, but he only thought how sad life would +be for the child. When the housekeeper came with rice, he sent her away +without tasting it, and when Good Fortune wandered in with big watchful +eyes, he told her that he was in no mood for entertainment. Evening +drew closer but still the artist did not stir. The housekeeper looked +in but went away again. Good Fortune mewed anxiously, but the artist +did not hear her.</p> + +<p>For now the artist imagined that Prince Siddhartha had secretly sent +for his chariot driver and Kanthaka, his white horse. He had gazed long +at his sleeping wife and the little baby she held in her arms. Now he +was in the darkness of his garden; now he rode quietly through the +sleeping city; now he was galloping down the long roads that shone pale +and light in the darkness; and now he was in the forest and had come to +the end of his father's kingdom. Siddhartha has cut off his long hair. +He has taken off his princely garments. He has hung his sword to white +Kanthaka's saddle. Let Channa take them back to the palace. It is not +with them that he can save the world from its suffering.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>So intensely had the artist lived through the pain of the prince in +his hour of giving up all the beautiful world that he knew, that next +morning he was very, very tired. But when he heard the housekeeper +polishing and rubbing and sweeping and scrubbing again, he too rose and +dressed in his poor best and sat beside Good Fortune praying before the +image of the Buddha.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>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).</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p class="ph2"><i>The Third Song of the Housekeeper</i></p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Hush, Broom! be silent as a spider at your tasks.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Pot! boil softly, a poor old woman asks.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Birds, sing softly! Winds, go slowly! Noises of the street,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Halt in awe and be ashamed to near my master's feet!</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Holy thoughts are in his mind, heavenly desire,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">While I boil his chestnuts, on my little fire.</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>The artist shook his head. A new idea had come to him and he was too +busy to talk.</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<hr class="chap"> + +<div class="figcenter"> + <img src="images/illus2.jpg" alt=""> +</div> + +<hr class="chap"> + +<p>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<p> + +<p>"I am only playing, master," she seemed to say, "but that is a very +snail-like snail."</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<hr class="chap"> + +<div class="figcenter"> + <img src="images/illus3.jpg" alt=""> +</div> + +<hr class="chap"> + + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>But the war horse found a voice.</p> + +<p>"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!"</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"If a fly should light upon your horse, master," she seemed to say, +"surely it would stamp and toss its head."</p> + +<hr class="chap"> + +<div class="figcenter"> + <img src="images/illus4.jpg" alt=""> +</div> + +<hr class="chap"> + + +<p class="ph2"><i>The Fourth Song of the Housekeeper</i></p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">My master sits.</div> + <div class="verse indent2">All day he thinks.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">He scarcely sees</div> + <div class="verse indent2">The tea he drinks.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">He does not know</div> + <div class="verse indent2">That I am I.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">He does not see</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Our cat pass by.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">And yet our love</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Has its share, too,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">In all the things</div> + <div class="verse indent2">His two hands do.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">The food I cook</div> + <div class="verse indent2">In humbleness</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Helps him a little</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Toward success.</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<hr class="chap"> + +<div class="figcenter"> + <img src="images/illus5.jpg" alt=""> +</div> + +<hr class="chap"> + + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>Having spoken so firmly she stood leaning forward with her hands on her +knees, the picture of meekness.</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"Go, buy yourself some fine new material for a dress," he said. "It is +a long time since you had anything pretty."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<hr class="chap"> + +<div class="figcenter"> + <img src="images/illus6.jpg" alt=""> +</div> + +<hr class="chap"> + +<p>His owner, who had been poor before, was a good deal poorer after that. +But one evening the buffalo said to him again:</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>The old woman came in and bowed deeply to her master.</p> + +<p>"Do sit down," said the artist, "and tell me any story about dogs that +may happen to come into your head."</p> + +<p>The old woman brought out a handkerchief and wiped her forehead. Then +she sat down and bowed.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"The temple of the goblins?" asked the artist.</p> + +<p>"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.'</p> + +<p>"When the soldier told his story, Shippeitaro became greatly excited. +He ran to the basket, wagging his tail, and clawed at its side.</p> + +<p>"'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.</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"So the good dog Shippeitaro saved not only his mistress but all the +village."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"What form had these goblins?" asked the artist.</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>The artist, after reflecting upon the fidelity of dogs, dipped a brush +in spring water, touched it with ink, and drew a dog.</p> + +<p>Good Fortune did not come back all day to look at it.</p> + +<hr class="chap"> + +<div class="figcenter"> + <img src="images/illus7.jpg" alt=""> +</div> + +<hr class="chap"> + +<p class="ph2"><i>The Fifth Song of the Housekeeper</i></p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Dear pussy, you are white as milk,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Your mouth's a blossom, your coat's silk—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">What most distinguished family tree</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Produced so great a rarity?</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Dear pussy, you are soft and sweet;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">You are too holy to touch meat—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">What most distinguished family tree</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Produced so great a rarity?</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Dear pussy, you must never think</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I thought you kin to cats like ink—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">For goblin beasts could never be</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Produced by such a family tree!</div> + <div class="verse indent0">By such a lovely family tree!</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>Then the Banyan deer, who was filled with the spirit of Buddha, said to +all the deer:</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"We can make no exceptions," said he sadly.</p> + +<p>But when in despair she went to the Banyan deer, he sent her back +comforted.</p> + +<p>"I will take your place," he said.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Did I not grant you your life?" asked the king, surprised.</p> + +<p>Then the Banyan deer found a human voice to answer.</p> + +<p>"O king!" he said, "the lot had fallen upon a doe with an unborn fawn. +I could not ask another to take her place."</p> + +<p>Then the king, pleased by the deer's generosity, granted their lives +both to him and to the doe.</p> + +<p>Still the Banyan deer was not satisfied, but pled for his people.</p> + +<p>"But the others, O king?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"They too shall live," said the king.</p> + +<p>"There are also the deer outside the palings," went on the Banyan deer.</p> + +<p>"They shall not be troubled," replied the king.</p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + +<p>And the king was so moved by the deer's intended sacrifice that he too +felt tenderly toward the world.</p> + +<p>"They shall have no reason for fear," he answered.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Miaou," she said, sadly turning to the artist. "Is there no room for +me among the other animals, master?" she seemed to ask.</p> + +<hr class="chap"> + +<div class="figcenter"> + <img src="images/illus8.jpg" alt=""> +</div> + +<hr class="chap"> + + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"If I only had meat to eat I should easily be strong enough to find my +way home," he thought.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>So having meditated upon the monkey, the artist dipped a brush in +spring water, touched it with ink, and drew a monkey.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>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.</p> + +<hr class="chap"> + +<div class="figcenter"> + <img src="images/illus9.jpg" alt=""> +</div> + +<hr class="chap"> + +<p class="ph2"><i>The Sixth Song of the Housekeeper</i></p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">She's sure to starve,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">She <i>won't</i> grow fat,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">No dinner tempts</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Our little cat!</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">All day I follow,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">All day I cry,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">"Come pussy, come pussy,"</div> + <div class="verse indent2">As she goes by.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">But she will starve,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">She <i>won't</i> grow fat,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">It's always that painting</div> + <div class="verse indent2">She's looking at.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">All day I grieve</div> + <div class="verse indent2">To hear her cry,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">"Miaou, miaou,"</div> + <div class="verse indent2">As I go by!</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>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."</p> + +<p>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."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<hr class="chap"> + +<div class="figcenter"> + <img src="images/illus10.jpg" alt=""> +</div> + +<hr class="chap"> + + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + +<p>The artist was much distressed.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>He took up his best brush and touched it with ink, and last of all the +animals—<i>drew a cat</i>.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Then he called the housekeeper.</p> + +<p>"Let Good Fortune come in," he said. "Perhaps I have ruined us, but I +can at least make her happy."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<hr class="chap"> + +<div class="figcenter"> + <img src="images/illus11.jpg" alt=""> +</div> + +<hr class="chap"> + +<p class="ph2"><i>The Seventh Song of the Housekeeper</i></p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">I can't believe it—</div> + <div class="verse indent2">(And how I've cried!)</div> + <div class="verse indent0">But out of pure joy</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Good Fortune died.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">At the foot of her grave</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Lie a flower and a shell,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">In the peach tree near by</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Hangs a little bell,</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">A little old bell</div> + <div class="verse indent2">With a sweet cracked voice,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">When a wind passes by</div> + <div class="verse indent2">It sings, "Rejoice!"</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">"Rejoice!" it sings</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Through the gardenside,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">"For out of pure joy</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Good Fortune died!"</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + +<hr class="chap"> + +<div class="figcenter"> + <img src="images/illus12.jpg" alt=""> +</div> + +<hr class="chap"> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"How it shines," he said softly.</p> + +<p>Then his face hardened.</p> + +<p>"But what is that animal whom you have painted last of all?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"It is a cat," said the painter, and his heart felt heavy with despair.</p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, I knew," said the artist.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>All day the housekeeper wept in the kitchen, for in bringing the little +cat home she had, after all, ruined her master.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Come! Come!" they kept crying. "Come, sir! It is a miracle! Oh, the +compassion of Buddha! Oh, the mercy of the Holy One!"</p> + +<p>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!——</p> + +<p>The artist sank down to his knees with a cry:</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p class="ph2"><i>The Eighth Song of the Housekeeper</i></p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">This is too great a mystery</div> + <div class="verse indent2">For me to comprehend:</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The mercy of the Buddha</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Has no end.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">This is too beautiful a thing</div> + <div class="verse indent2">To understand:</div> + <div class="verse indent0">His garments touch the furthest</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Grain of sand.</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + +<hr class="chap"> + + + +<p class="ph2">ELIZABETH COATSWORTH</p> + + +<p>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.</p> + + +<p class="ph2"><span class="smcap">Toutou in Bondage</span></p> + +<p class="ph2">The story of a little dog lost in Morocco.</p> + +<p class="ph2">Illustrated by Thomas Handforth.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p class="ph2"><span class="smcap">The Sun's Diary</span></p> + +<p class="ph2">A book of days for any year.</p> + +<p class="ph2">Illustrated by Frank MacIntosh.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p class="ph2"><span class="smcap">The Boy With the Parrot</span></p> + +<p class="ph2">An adventure story of Guatemala today.</p> + +<p class="ph2">Illustrated by Wilfrid Bronson.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p class="ph2"><span class="smcap">The Cat and the Captain</span></p> + +<p class="ph2">A story of New England. (The Little Library)</p> + + +<p class="ph2"><span class="smcap">The Macmillan Company</span> <i>Publishers New York</i></p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p class="ph2">THE CAT WHO WENT TO HEAVEN</p> + + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>This title is most decidedly a book for grown-ups to enjoy with +children and read aloud to them.</p> + +<p class="ph3"><i>Marcia Dalphin, The Saturday Review of Literature</i></p> + + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p class="ph3"><i>Anne Carroll Moore, The New York Herald-Tribune</i></p> + + +<p>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.</p> + + +<p class="ph3"><i>May Lamberton Becker, The Outlook</i></p> + + +<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78393 ***</div> +</body> +</html> diff --git a/78393-h/images/cover.jpg b/78393-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..0d15b16 --- /dev/null +++ b/78393-h/images/cover.jpg diff --git a/78393-h/images/illus1.jpg b/78393-h/images/illus1.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..2a4aa91 --- /dev/null +++ b/78393-h/images/illus1.jpg diff --git a/78393-h/images/illus10.jpg b/78393-h/images/illus10.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..bb8917a --- /dev/null +++ b/78393-h/images/illus10.jpg diff --git a/78393-h/images/illus11.jpg b/78393-h/images/illus11.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..b3537d5 --- /dev/null +++ b/78393-h/images/illus11.jpg diff --git a/78393-h/images/illus12.jpg b/78393-h/images/illus12.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..962fb5c --- /dev/null +++ b/78393-h/images/illus12.jpg diff --git a/78393-h/images/illus2.jpg b/78393-h/images/illus2.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..f65d34d --- /dev/null +++ b/78393-h/images/illus2.jpg diff --git a/78393-h/images/illus3.jpg b/78393-h/images/illus3.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..c1695f6 --- /dev/null +++ b/78393-h/images/illus3.jpg diff --git a/78393-h/images/illus4.jpg b/78393-h/images/illus4.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..2c80269 --- /dev/null +++ b/78393-h/images/illus4.jpg diff --git a/78393-h/images/illus5.jpg b/78393-h/images/illus5.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..7d2111f --- /dev/null +++ b/78393-h/images/illus5.jpg diff --git a/78393-h/images/illus6.jpg b/78393-h/images/illus6.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..4c6e686 --- /dev/null +++ b/78393-h/images/illus6.jpg diff --git a/78393-h/images/illus7.jpg b/78393-h/images/illus7.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..5f0841c --- /dev/null +++ b/78393-h/images/illus7.jpg diff --git a/78393-h/images/illus8.jpg b/78393-h/images/illus8.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..fcda337 --- /dev/null +++ b/78393-h/images/illus8.jpg diff --git a/78393-h/images/illus9.jpg b/78393-h/images/illus9.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..5b4333d --- /dev/null +++ b/78393-h/images/illus9.jpg diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6c72794 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This book, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..189965f --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for eBook #78393 +(https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/78393) |
