Bab Bab 9 · In the Cave of the Children's Ghosts

. In the Cave of the Children's Ghosts

Sec. 1

IT is forbidden to go to Kaka if there be wind enough 'to move three

hairs.'

Now an absolutely windless day is rare on this wild western coast. Over

the Japanese Sea, from Korea, or China, or boreal Siberia, some west or

north-west breeze is nearly always blowing. So that I have had to wait

many long months for a good chance to visit Kaka.

Taking the shortest route, one goes first to Mitsu-ura from Matsue,

either by kuruma or on foot. By kuruma this little journey occupies

nearly two hours and a half, though the distance is scarcely seven

miles, the road being one of the worst in all Izumo. You leave Matsue

to enter at once into a broad plain, level as a lake, all occupied by

rice-fields and walled in by wooded hills. The path, barely wide enough

for a single vehicle, traverses this green desolation, climbs the

heights beyond it, and descends again into another and a larger level of

rice-fields, surrounded also by hills. The path over the second line

of hills is much steeper; then a third rice-plain must be crossed and

a third chain of green altitudes, lofty enough to merit the name of

mountains. Of course one must make the ascent on foot: it is no small

labour for a kurumaya to pull even an empty kuruma up to the top;

and how he manages to do so without breaking the little vehicle is a

mystery, for the path is stony and rough as the bed of a torrent. A

tiresome climb I find it; but the landscape view from the summit is more

than compensation.

Then descending, there remains a fourth and last wide level of

rice-fields to traverse. The absolute flatness of the great plains

between the ranges, and the singular way in which these latter 'fence

off' the country into sections, are matters for surprise even in a land

of surprises like Japan. Beyond the fourth rice-valley there is a fourth

hill-chain, lower and richly wooded, on reaching the base of which the

traveller must finally abandon his kuruma, and proceed over the hills

on foot. Behind them lies the sea. But the very worst bit of the journey

now begins. The path makes an easy winding ascent between bamboo growths

and young pine and other vegetation for a shaded quarter of a mile,

passing before various little shrines and pretty homesteads surrounded

by high-hedged gardens. Then it suddenly breaks into steps, or rather

ruins of steps--partly hewn in the rock, partly built, everywhere

breached and worn which descend, all edgeless, in a manner amazingly

precipitous, to the village of Mitsu-ura. With straw sandals, which

never slip, the country folk can nimbly hurry up or down such a path;

but with foreign footgear one slips at nearly every step; and when you

reach the bottom at last, the wonder of how you managed to get there,

even with the assistance of your faithful kurumaya, keeps you for a

moment quite unconscious of the fact that you are already in Mitsu-ura.

Sec. 2

Mitsu-ura stands with its back to the mountains, at the end of a small

deep bay hemmed in by very high cliffs. There is only one narrow strip

of beach at the foot of the heights; and the village owes its existence

to that fact, for beaches are rare on this part of the coast. Crowded

between the cliffs and the sea, the houses have a painfully compressed

aspect; and somehow the greater number give one the impression of things

created out of wrecks of junks. The little streets, or rather alleys,

are full of boats and skeletons of boats and boat timbers; and

everywhere, suspended from bamboo poles much taller than the houses,

immense bright brown fishing-nets are drying in the sun. The whole curve

of the beach is also lined with boats, lying side by side so that

I wonder how it will be possible to get to the water's edge without

climbing over them. There is no hotel; but I find hospitality in a

fisherman's dwelling, while my kurumaya goes somewhere to hire a boat

for Kaka-ura.

In less than ten minutes there is a crowd of several hundred people

about the house, half-clad adults and perfectly naked boys. They

blockade the building; they obscure the light by filling up the doorways

and climbing into the windows to look at the foreigner. The aged

proprietor of the cottage protests in vain, says harsh things; the crowd

only thickens. Then all the sliding screens are closed. But in the

paper panes there are holes; and at all the lower holes the curious take

regular turns at peeping. At a higher hole I do some peeping myself.

The crowd is not prepossessing: it is squalid, dull-featured, remarkably

ugly. But it is gentle and silent; and there are one or two pretty faces

in it which seem extraordinary by reason of the general homeliness of

the rest.

At last my kurumaya has succeeded in making arrangements for a boat; and

I effect a sortie to the beach, followed by the kurumaya and by all my

besiegers. Boats have been moved to make a passage for us, and we embark

without trouble of any sort. Our crew consists of two scullers--an old

man at the stem, wearing only a rokushaku about his loins, and an old

woman at the bow, fully robed and wearing an immense straw hat shaped

like a mushroom. Both of course stand to their work and it would be

hard to say which is the stronger or more skilful sculler. We passengers

squat Oriental fashion upon a mat in the centre of the boat, where a

hibachi, well stocked with glowing charcoal, invites us to smoke.

Sec. 3

The day is clear blue to the end of the world, with a faint wind from

the east, barely enough to wrinkle the sea, certainly more than enough

to 'move three hairs.' Nevertheless the boatwoman and the boatman do not

seem anxious; and I begin to wonder whether the famous prohibition is

not a myth. So delightful the transparent water looks, that before we

have left the bay I have to yield to its temptation by plunging in and

swimming after the boat. When I climb back on board we are rounding

the promontory on the right; and the little vessel begins to rock. Even

under this thin wind the sea is moving in long swells. And as we

pass into the open, following the westward trend of the land, we find

ourselves gliding over an ink-black depth, in front of one of the very

grimmest coasts I ever saw.

A tremendous line of dark iron-coloured cliffs, towering sheer from

the sea without a beach, and with never a speck of green below their

summits; and here and there along this terrible front, monstrous

beetlings, breaches, fissures, earthquake rendings, and topplings-down.

Enormous fractures show lines of strata pitched up skyward, or plunging

down into the ocean with the long fall of cubic miles of cliff. Before

fantastic gaps, prodigious masses of rock, of all nightmarish shapes,

rise from profundities unfathomed. And though the wind to-day seems

trying to hold its breath, white breakers are reaching far up the

cliffs, and dashing their foam into the faces of the splintered

crags. We are too far to hear the thunder of them; but their ominous

sheet-lightning fully explains to me the story of the three hairs. Along

this goblin coast on a wild day there would be no possible chance for

the strongest swimmer, or the stoutest boat; there is no place for

the foot, no hold for the hand, nothing but the sea raving against a

precipice of iron. Even to-day, under the feeblest breath imaginable,

great swells deluge us with spray as they splash past. And for two long

hours this jagged frowning coast towers by; and, as we toil on, rocks

rise around us like black teeth; and always, far away, the foam-bursts

gleam at the feet of the implacable cliffs. But there are no sounds save

the lapping and plashing of passing swells, and the monotonous creaking

of the sculls upon their pegs of wood.

At last, at last, a bay--a beautiful large bay, with a demilune of soft

green hills about it, overtopped by far blue mountains--and in the very

farthest point of the bay a miniature village, in front of which many

junks are riding at anchor: Kaka-ura.

But we do not go to Kaka-ura yet; the Kukedo are not there. We cross

the broad opening of the bay, journey along another half-mile of ghastly

sea-precipice, and finally make for a lofty promontory of naked Plutonic

rock. We pass by its menacing foot, slip along its side, and lo! at an

angle opens the arched mouth of a wonderful cavern, broad, lofty, and

full of light, with no floor but the sea. Beneath us, as we slip into

it, I can see rocks fully twenty feet down. The water is clear as air.

This is the Shin-Kukedo, called the New Cavern, though assuredly older

than human record by a hundred thousand years.

Sec. 4

A more beautiful sea-cave could scarcely be imagined. The sea,

tunnelling the tall promontory through and through, has also, like a

great architect, ribbed and groined and polished its mighty work. The

arch of the entrance is certainly twenty feet above the deep water, and

fifteen wide; and trillions of wave tongues have licked the vault and

walls into wondrous smoothness. As we proceed, the rock-roof steadily

heightens and the way widens. Then we unexpectedly glide under a heavy

shower of fresh water, dripping from overhead. This spring is called the

o-chozubachi or mitarashi [1] of Shin-Kukedo-San.. From the high vault

at this point it is believed that a great stone will detach itself and

fall upon any evil-hearted person who should attempt to enter the cave.

I safely pass through the ordeal!

Suddenly as we advance the boatwoman takes a stone from the bottom of

the boat, and with it begins to rap heavily on the bow; and the hollow

echoing is reiterated with thundering repercussions through all the

cave. And in another instant we pass into a great burst of light, coming

from the mouth of a magnificent and lofty archway on the left, opening

into the cavern at right angles. This explains the singular illumination

of the long vault, which at first seemed to come from beneath; for while

the opening was still invisible all the water appeared to be suffused

with light. Through this grand arch, between outlying rocks, a strip of

beautiful green undulating coast appears, over miles of azure water. We

glide on toward the third entrance to the Kukedo, opposite to that

by which we came in; and enter the dwelling-place of the Kami and the

Hotoke, for this grotto is sacred both to Shinto and to Buddhist faith.

Here the Kukedo reaches its greatest altitude and breadth. Its vault is

fully forty feet above the water, and its walls thirty feet apart. Far

up on the right, near the roof, is a projecting white rock, and above

the rock an orifice wherefrom a slow stream drips, seeming white as the

rock itself.

This is the legendary Fountain of Jizo, the fountain of milk at which

the souls of dead children drink. Sometimes it flows more swiftly,

sometimes more slowly; but it never ceases by night or day. And mothers

suffering from want of milk come hither to pray that milk may be given

unto them; and their prayer is heard. And mothers having more milk than

their infants need come hither also, and pray to Jizo that so much as

they can give may be taken for the dead children; and their prayer is

heard, and their milk diminishes.

At least thus the peasants of Izumo say.

And the echoing of the swells leaping against the rocks without, the

rushing and rippling of the tide against the walls, the heavy rain of

percolating water, sounds of lapping and gurgling and plashing, and

sounds of mysterious origin coming from no visible where, make it

difficult for us to hear each other speak. The cavern seems full

of voices, as if a host of invisible beings were holding tumultuous

converse.

Below us all the deeply lying rocks are naked to view as if seen through

glass. It seems to me that nothing could be more delightful than to swim

through this cave and let one's self drift with the sea-currents through

all its cool shadows. But as I am on the point of jumping in, all the

other occupants of the boat utter wild cries of protest. It is certain

death! men who jumped in here only six months ago were never heard of

again! this is sacred water, Kami-no-umi! And as if to conjure away

my temptation, the boatwoman again seizes her little stone and raps

fearfully upon the bow. On finding, however, that I am not sufficiently

deterred by these stories of sudden death and disappearance, she

suddenly screams into my ear the magical word, 'SAME!'

Sharks! I have no longer any desire whatever to swim through the

many-sounding halls of Shin-Kukedo-San. I have lived in the tropics!

And we start forthwith for Kyu-Kukedo-San, the Ancient Cavern.

Sec. 5

For the ghastly fancies about the Kami-no-umi, the word 'same' afforded

a satisfactory explanation. But why that long, loud, weird rapping on

the bow with a stone evidently kept on board for no other purpose? There

was an exaggerated earnestness about the action which gave me an uncanny

sensation--something like that which moves a man while walking at night

upon a lonesome road, full of queer shadows, to sing at the top of his

voice. The boatwoman at first declares that the rapping was made only

for the sake of the singular echo. But after some cautious further

questioning, I discover a much more sinister reason for the performance.

Moreover, I learn that all the seamen and seawomen of this coast do the

same thing when passing through perilous places, or places believed to

be haunted by the Ma. What are the Ma?

Goblins!

Sec. 6

From the caves of the Kami we retrace our course for about a quarter of

a mile; then make directly for an immense perpendicular wrinkle in the

long line of black cliffs. Immediately before it a huge dark rock towers

from the sea, whipped by the foam of breaking swells. Rounding it, we

glide behind it into still water and shadow, the shadow of a monstrous

cleft in the precipice of the coast. And suddenly, at an unsuspected

angle, the mouth of another cavern yawns before us; and in another

moment our boat touches its threshold of stone with a little shock that

sends a long sonorous echo, like the sound of a temple drum, booming

through all the abysmal place. A single glance tells me whither we have

come. Far within the dusk I see the face of a Jizo, smiling in pale

stone, and before him, and all about him, a weird congregation of grey

shapes without shape--a host of fantasticalities that strangely suggest

the wreck of a cemetery. From the sea the ribbed floor of the cavern

slopes high through deepening shadows back to the black mouth of

a farther grotto; and all that slope is covered with hundreds and

thousands of forms like shattered haka. But as the eyes grow accustomed

to the gloaming it becomes manifest that these were never haka; they

are only little towers of stone and pebbles deftly piled up by long and

patient labour.

'Shinda kodomo no shigoto,' my kurumaya murmurs with a compassionate

smile; 'all this is the work of the dead children.'

And we disembark. By counsel, I take off my shoes and put on a pair

of zori, or straw sandals provided for me, as the rock is extremely

slippery. The others land barefoot. But how to proceed soon becomes a

puzzle: the countless stone-piles stand so close together that no space

for the foot seems to be left between them.

'Mada michiga arimasu!' the boatwoman announces, leading the way. There

is a path.

Following after her, we squeeze ourselves between the wall of the cavern

on the right and some large rocks, and discover a very, very narrow

passage left open between the stone-towers. But we are warned to be

careful for the sake of the little ghosts: if any of their work be

overturned, they will cry. So we move very cautiously and slowly across

the cave to a space bare of stone-heaps, where the rocky floor is

covered with a thin layer of sand, detritus of a crumbling ledge above

it. And in that sand I see light prints of little feet, children's feet,

tiny naked feet, only three or four inches long--the footprints of the

infant ghosts.

Had we come earlier, the boatwoman says, we should have seen many more.

For 'tis at night, when the soil of the cavern is moist with dews and

drippings from the roof, that They leave Their footprints upon it; but

when the heat of the day comes, and the sand and the rocks dry up, the

prints of the little feet vanish away.

There are only three footprints visible, but these are singularly

distinct. One points toward the wall of the cavern; the others toward

the sea. Here and there, upon ledges or projections of the rock, all

about the cavern, tiny straw sandals--children's zori--are lying:

offerings of pilgrims to the little ones, that their feet may not be

wounded by the stones. But all the ghostly footprints are prints of

naked feet.

Then we advance, picking our way very, very carefully between the

stone-towers, toward the mouth of the inner grotto, and reach the statue

of Jizo before it. A seated Jizo carven in granite, holding in one hand

the mystic jewel by virtue of which all wishes may be fulfilled; in the

other his shakujo, or pilgrim's staff. Before him (strange condescension

of Shinto faith!) a little torii has been erected, and a pair of gohei!

Evidently this gentle divinity has no enemies; at the feet of the lover

of children's ghosts, both creeds unite in tender homage.

I said feet. But this subterranean Jizo has only one foot. The carven

lotus on which he reposes has been fractured and broken: two great

petals are missing; and the right foot, which must have rested upon one

of them, has been knocked off at the ankle. This, I learn upon inquiry,

has been done by the waves. In times of great storm the billows rush

into the cavern like raging Oni, and sweep all the little stone towers

into shingle as they come, and dash the statues against the rocks.

But always during the first still night after the tempest the work is

reconstructed as before!

Hotoke ga shimpai shite: naki-naki tsumi naoshi-masu.' They make

mourning, the hotoke; weeping, they pile up the stones again, they

rebuild their towers of prayer.

All about the black mouth of the inner grotto the bone-coloured rock

bears some resemblance to a vast pair of yawning jaws. Downward from

this sinister portal the cavern-floor slopes into a deeper and darker

aperture. And within it, as one's eyes become accustomed to the gloom, a

still larger vision of stone towers is disclosed; and beyond them, in a

nook of the grotto, three other statues of Jizo smile, each one with

a torii before it. Here I have the misfortune to upset first one

stone-pile and then another, while trying to proceed. My kurumaya,

almost simultaneously, ruins a third. To atone therefore, we must build

six new towers, or double the number of those which we have cast down.

And while we are thus busied, the boatwoman tells of two fishermen who

remained in the cavern through all one night, and heard the humming

of the viewless gathering, and sounds of speech, like the speech of

children murmuring in multitude.

Only at night do the shadowy children come to build their little

stone-heaps at the feet of Jizo; and it is said that every night the

stones are changed. When I ask why they do not work by day, when there

is none to see them, I am answered: 'O-Hi-San [2] might see them; the

dead exceedingly fear the Lady-Sun.'

To the question, 'Why do they come from the sea?' I can get no

satisfactory answer. But doubtless in the quaint imagination of this

people, as also in that of many another, there lingers still the

primitive idea of some communication, mysterious and awful, between the

world of waters and the world of the dead. It is always over the sea,

after the Feast of Souls, that the spirits pass murmuring back to their

dim realm, in those elfish little ships of straw which are launched for

them upon the sixteenth day of the seventh moon. Even when these are

launched upon rivers, or when floating lanterns are set adrift upon

lakes or canals to light the ghosts upon their way, or when a mother

bereaved drops into some running stream one hundred little prints of

Jizo for the sake of her lost darling, the vague idea behind the pious

act is that all waters flow to the sea and the sea itself unto the

'Nether-distant Land.'

Some time, somewhere, this day will come back to me at night, with

its visions and sounds: the dusky cavern, and its grey hosts of stone

climbing back into darkness, and the faint prints of little naked feet,

and the weirdly smiling images, and the broken syllables of the waters

inward-borne, multiplied by husky echoings, blending into one vast

ghostly whispering, like the humming of the Sai-no-Kawara.

And over the black-blue bay we glide to the rocky beach of Kaka-ura.

Sec. 8

As at Mitsu-ura, the water's edge is occupied by a serried line of

fishing-boats, each with its nose to the sea; and behind these are ranks

of others; and it is only just barely possible to squeeze one's way

between them over the beach to the drowsy, pretty, quaint little streets

behind them. Everybody seems to be asleep when we first land: the only

living creature visible is a cat, sitting on the stern of a boat; and

even that cat, according to Japanese beliefs, might not be a real cat,

but an o-bake or a nekomata--in short, a goblin-cat, for it has a long

tail. It is hard work to discover the solitary hotel: there are no

signs; and every house seems a private house, either a fisherman's or

a farmer's. But the little place is worth wandering about in. A kind of

yellow stucco is here employed to cover the exterior of walls; and this

light warm tint under the bright blue day gives to the miniature streets

a more than cheerful aspect.

When we do finally discover the hotel, we have to wait quite a good

while before going in; for nothing is ready; everybody is asleep or

away, though all the screens and sliding-doors are open. Evidently there

are no thieves in Kaka-ura. The hotel is on a little hillock, and is

approached from the main street (the rest are only miniature alleys) by

two little flights of stone steps. Immediately across the way I see a

Zen temple and a Shinto temple, almost side by side.

At last a pretty young woman, naked to the waist, with a bosom like a

Naiad, comes running down the street to the hotel at a surprising speed,

bowing low with a smile as she hurries by us into the house. This little

person is the waiting-maid of the inn, O-Kayo-San--name signifying

'Years of Bliss.' Presently she reappears at the threshold, fully robed

in a nice kimono, and gracefully invites us to enter, which we are only

too glad to do. The room is neat and spacious; Shinto kakemono from

Kitzuki are suspended in the toko and upon the walls; and in one corner

I see a very handsome Zen-but-sudan, or household shrine. (The form of

the shrine, as well as the objects of worship therein, vary according to

the sect of the worshippers.) Suddenly I become aware that it is growing

strangely dark; and looking about me, perceive that all the doors and

windows and other apertures of the inn are densely blocked up by a

silent, smiling crowd which has gathered to look at me. I could not have

believed there were so many people in Kaka-ura.

In a Japanese house, during the hot season, everything is thrown open

to the breeze. All the shoji or sliding paper-screens, which serve for

windows; and all the opaque paper-screens (fusuma) used in other seasons

to separate apartments, are removed. There is nothing left between floor

and roof save the frame or skeleton of the building; the dwelling

is literally unwalled, and may be seen through in any direction. The

landlord, finding the crowd embarrassing, closes up the building in

front. The silent, smiling crowd goes to the rear. The rear is also

closed. Then the crowd masses to right and left of the house; and both

sides have to be closed, which makes it insufferably hot. And the crowd

make gentle protest.

Wherefore our host, being displeased, rebukes the multitude with

argument and reason, yet without lifting his voice. (Never do these

people lift up their voices in anger.) And what he says I strive to

translate, with emphasis, as follows:

'You-as-for! outrageousness doing--what marvellous is? 'Theatre is not!

'Juggler is not! 'Wrestler is not! 'What amusing is? 'Honourable-Guest

this is! 'Now august-to-eat-time-is; to-look-at evil matter is.

Honourable-returning-time-in-to-look-at-as-for-is-good.'

But outside, soft laughing voices continue to plead; pleading, shrewdly

enough, only with the feminine portion of the family: the landlord's

heart is less easily touched. And these, too, have their arguments:

'Oba-San! 'O-Kayo-San! 'Shoji-to-open-condescend!--want to see!

'Though-we-look-at, Thing-that-by-looking-at-is-worn-out-it-is-not! 'So

that not-to-hinder looking-at is good. 'Hasten therefore to open!'

As for myself, I would gladly protest against this sealing-up, for

there is nothing offensive nor even embarrassing in the gaze of these

innocent, gentle people; but as the landlord seems to be personally

annoyed, I do not like to interfere. The crowd, however, does not go

away: it continues to increase, waiting for my exit. And there is one

high window in the rear, of which the paper-panes contain some holes;

and I see shadows of little people climbing up to get to the holes.

Presently there is an eye at every hole.

When I approach the window, the peepers drop noiselessly to the ground,

with little timid bursts of laughter, and run away. But they soon come

back again. A more charming crowd could hardly be imagined: nearly all

boys and girls, half-naked because of the heat, but fresh and clean as

flower-buds. Many of the faces are surprisingly pretty; there are but

very few which are not extremely pleasing. But where are the men, and

the old women? Truly, this population seems not of Kaka-ura, but rather

of the Sai-no-Kawara. The boys look like little Jizo.

During dinner, I amuse myself by poking pears and little pieces of

radish through the holes in the shoji. At first there is much hesitation

and silvery laughter; but in a little while the silhouette of a tiny

hand reaches up cautiously, and a pear vanishes away. Then a second pear

is taken, without snatching, as softly as if a ghost had appropriated

it. Thereafter hesitation ceases, despite the effort of one elderly

woman to create a panic by crying out the word Mahotsukai, 'wizard.' By

the time the dinner is over and the shoji removed, we have all become

good friends. Then the crowd resumes its silent observation from the

four cardinal points.

I never saw a more striking difference in the appearance of two village

populations than that between the youth of Mitsu-ura and of Kaka. Yet

the villages are but two hours' sailing distance apart. In remoter

Japan, as in certain islands of the West Indies, particular physical

types are developed apparently among communities but slightly isolated;

on one side of a mountain a population may be remarkably attractive,

while upon the other you may find a hamlet whose inhabitants are

decidedly unprepossessing. But nowhere in this country have I seen a

prettier jeunesse than that of Kaka-ura.

'Returning-time-in-to-look-at-as-for-is-good.' As we descend to the bay,

the whole of Kaka-ura, including even the long-invisible ancients of the

village, accompanies us; making no sound except the pattering of geta.

Thus we are escorted to our boat. Into all the other craft drawn up on

the beach the younger folk clamber lightly, and seat themselves on

the prows and the gunwales to gaze at the marvellous

Thing-that-by-looking-at-worn-out-is-not. And all smile, but say

nothing, even to each other: somehow the experience gives me the

sensation of being asleep; it is so soft, so gentle, and so queer

withal, just like things seen in dreams. And as we glide away over the

blue lucent water I look back to see the people all waiting and

gazing still from the great semicircle of boats; all the slender

brown child-limbs dangling from the prows; all the velvety-black heads

motionless in the sun; all the boy-faces smiling Jizo-smiles; all

the black soft eyes still watching, tirelessly watching, the

Thing-that-by-looking-at-worn-out-is-not. And as the scene, too swiftly

receding, diminishes to the width of a kakemono, I vainly wish that I

could buy this last vision of it, to place it in my toko, and delight

my soul betimes with gazing thereon. Yet another moment, and we round a

rocky point; and Kaka-ura vanishes from my sight for ever. So all things

pass away.

Assuredly those impressions which longest haunt recollection are the

most transitory: we remember many more instants than minutes, more

minutes than hours; and who remembers an entire day? The sum of the

remembered happiness of a lifetime is the creation of seconds. 'What is

more fugitive than a smile? yet when does the memory of a vanished smile

expire? or the soft regret which that memory may evoke?

Regret for a single individual smile is something common to normal human

nature; but regret for the smile of a population, for a smile considered

as an abstract quality, is certainly a rare sensation, and one to be

obtained, I fancy, only in this Orient land whose people smile for ever

like their own gods of stone. And this precious experience is already

mine; I am regretting the smile of Kaka.

Simultaneously there comes the recollection of a strangely grim Buddhist

legend. Once the Buddha smiled; and by the wondrous radiance of that

smile were countless worlds illuminated. But there came a Voice, saying:

'It is not real! It cannot last!' And the light passed.