BUDDHADA –SA BHIKKHU
Translated, edited, and introduced by Santikaro
UNDER THE BODHI TREE
Buddha’s Original Vision of Dependent Co-arising
BUDDHADA SA BHIKKHU
Translated. edited, and introduced by Santikaro
Wisdom Publications
199 Elm Street
Somerville, MA 02144 USA wisdompubs.org
© 2017 Santikaro
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photography, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system or technologies now known or later developed, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Phra Thēpwisutthimēthī (Ngū’am), 1906–1993, author. | Santikaro, Bhikkhu, 1957– editor.
Title: Under the Bodhi Tree: Buddha’s original vision of dependent co-arising / Buddhadāsa Bhikkhu; edited and introduced by Santikaro.
Description: Somerville, MA: Wisdom Publications, 2017. | Includes bibliographical references and index. | Includes translations from Thai.
Identifiers: LCCN 2016031571 (print) | LCCN 2016049186 (ebook) | ISBN 9781614292197 (pbk.: alk. paper) | ISBN 1614292191 (pbk.: alk. paper) | ISBN 9781614292371 (eISBN) | ISBN 9781614292371 () | ISBN 161429237X ()
Subjects: LCSH: Pratītyasamutpāda.
Classification: LCC BQ4240 .P58 2017 (print) | LCC BQ4240 (ebook) | DDC 294.3/42041—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016031571
ISBN 978-1-61429-219-7 ebook ISBN 978-1-61429-237-1
21 20 19 18 17
5 4 3 2 1
Cover design by Phil Pascuzzo. Interior design by Barbara Haines. Set in 10.75/14.25 Garamond Premier Pro.
The Buddha, recently awakened, remained seated at the base of the Bodhi tree, near the bank of the Nerañjarā River, in the vicinity of Uruvelā. The Splendid One occupied a single seat beneath the Bodhi tree for all of seven days savoring the joy of liberation.
At that time, the Splendid One reflected upon paṭiccasamuppāda forward and backward throughout the first . . . middle . . . and final watches of the night . . . and uttered this verse:
Whenever dhammas manifest clearly to a supreme one ardent in focused contemplation, this excellency incinerates Māra and his armies just as the rising sun vanquishes darkness.
Vin.i.1 (Mahāvagga) and Udāna 1:1–3 (Bodhi Suttas 1–3)
Translator’s Preface and Acknowledgments
Setting and Provenance
The morning bell sounds through the coconut palm grove containing Suan Mokkh’s International Dhamma Hermitage at 4 a.m. Just inland from the Gulf of Siam, the climate is warm and tropical, though relatively cool so early in the day. The monthly meditation course’s participants awake, dress, and assemble for a mile-long walk in the dark. As in many of the months between February 1986 and October 1991, Ajahn Buddhadāsa will be speaking during this retreat. Many of those filing down the laterite road between marshes and mangroves, know little if anything about the octogenarian monk they are about to meet, though he is the founder of the “Garden of Liberation,” Suan Mokkh in Thai, where they’ve come to learn about Buddhism and meditation. Perhaps a third of them are brand new to Buddhism, having stumbled into this retreat from beaches in southern Thailand. Responding to the hospitality of their Thai hosts and the kindness of the retreat guides, mostly Westerners like themselves, they good humoredly follow the program.
The line of meditators enters under the large trees of Suan Mokkh proper. By 5 a.m. they are seated on concrete benches outside a simple two-story building. An elderly, rotund monk slowly walks to his own seat with the aid of a cane, followed by a dog who seems to own the place. As he arranges his robes and legs, a skinny American monk takes a seat beside him. After clearing his throat, Ajahn Buddhadāsa begins with a brief welcome and then launches into his topic. The American—myself—translates first sentence by sentence, then a few sentences at a time, and eventually minutes at a time. If the translator leaves anything out, Ajahn Buddhadāsa repeats it. Occasionally, he interrupts the translation with a cough and correction. As the American monk has been translating like this for over two years he is only slightly discomfited by the corrections, grateful for the warning coughs.
Ajahn Buddhadāsa is in no hurry, having over a week to work with. Assuming that his audience knows little about Buddhism and is therefore free of the preconceptions that many born-Buddhists carry, he lays a foundation of what Buddhism is and is not. Far more familiar with Western philosophy and literature than other Thai forest masters, he works around our assumptions about “isms” (ideologies), philosophies, and religion. Understanding “religion” in a way that fits with the Buddha’s teaching rather than cramming Buddhism into Western categories, he explains what sort of religion Buddhism is. He even broaches the topic of “God,” although the American translator has informed him that few of this audience believe in the God Ajahn Buddhadāsa has read about in The Bible and known from Muslim friends in southern Thailand. His two introductory talks conclude with the coolness and freedom that is the purpose of Buddhism.
In the third talk, he takes up his primary theme, dependent co-arising (paṭiccasamuppāda). He explains how this unifying thread runs through all of the Buddha’s teaching and points to its deepest insights through the remainder of the seven talks. Each talk lasts two hours, including translation. A few dogs wander in and out. Dawn rises about halfway through with roosters serenading. In the background, monks leave on almsround. At 7 a.m. the retreatants return to the International Dhamma Hermitage for breakfast, followed by a full day of meditation practice along with instruction in mindfulness with breathing (ānāpānasati). Ajahn Buddhadāsa liked to send them on their “morning walk” with advice such as “Walk without a walker.”
Dependent Co-arising in Buddhism
The Buddha’s vast corpus of teaching is anchored by a handful of core insights and principles. He stated that his teaching is only concerned with distress, dissatisfaction, or suffering (dukkha) and its quenching (nirodha).
Friends, there are groups of wanderers and priests that misrepresent me with deceitful, empty, baseless, insincere words: “The wanderer Gotama, who leads people astray to their ruin, lays out a creed of the vacancy, destruction, and nonexistence of beings.”
These wanderers and priests misrepresent me with deceitful, empty, baseless, insincere words because I have never said such things. You’ll never hear me saying such things.
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In the past as well as now, friends, I teach only dukkha and the remainderless quenching of dukkha.1
This core concern is investigated through the prism of a subtle understanding of conditionality (idappaccayatā)—that everything happens, changes, and ceases dependent on other things that share the same essenceless nature.
When this exists, this naturally exists; due to the arising of this, this consequently arises. When this does not exist, this naturally does not exist; due to the quenching of this, this consequently is quenched.2
When we view ourselves and our world this way—more as processes than entities, as natural law—we see the Dhamma, we see the Buddha.
One who sees dependent co-arising sees the Dhamma.3 One who sees the Dhamma sees the Buddha.4
Citing these statements of the Buddha, Ajahn Buddhadāsa continually reminded and emphasized how dependent co-arising (paṭiccasamuppāda) is the very core of Buddha’s teaching. It provides the definitive perspective of the Buddha’s insights and awakening. Realize dependent co-arising and one realizes the natural truth that sets life free. Consequently, whether informing foreigner visitors new to Buddhism or reminding Thais born into Buddhism, Ajahn Buddhadāsa insisted that dependent co-arising is central to the Buddha’s experience and teaching, and therefore to our own study and practice. Having taken these words to heart, Ajahn Buddhadāsa endeavored to return dependent co-arising to a central place in Dhamma teaching and practice.
Having committed his life to service of the Buddha, he felt a responsibility to do everything in his power to proclaim the teaching of dependent co-arising, even when warned by elders in the monastic hierarchy that ordinary people will not be able to understand. Further, he thought getting to the core of the Buddha’s original awakened understanding of dependent co-arising was more important than adhering to later orthodoxies, let alone pieties and dogmas. Lastly, he believed in making a teaching as accessible
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Thus it made perfect sense for Ajahn Buddhadāsa to introduce foreign meditators attending monthly retreats at Suan Mokkh, many of them brand new to Buddhism, to core Dhamma teachings that were more often than not centered on dependent co-arising. He felt that such newcomers, unencumbered by traditional Buddhist beliefs, yet familiar with scientific thought, should understand what is central and unique to Buddhism. He skipped the articles of faith that appeal to traditional Buddhists and went for the heart. This book captures that approach.
Among traditional assumptions about dependent co-arising is the belief that this teaching is too difficult for lay people, that they will get confused and be lead astray by it. After all, the Buddha told Ānanda, “Dependent co-arising both has the outward appearance of being profound and is truly profound. Through not understanding deeply and not penetratively realizing this Dhamma of dependent co-arising, minds of the many kinds of sentient beings are like a tangled skein of thread, are entangled like thread all tied up in knots, are like muñja grass and pabbaja grass all matted together.”5 As beings, we remain trapped in suffering and distress because we do not understand dependent co-arising. Investigating dependent co-arising is crucial to liberation from dukkha, which is the sole purpose of Buddha’s teaching. This makes it incumbent upon teachers to make this vital teaching available to all sincere practitioners, including those without monastic status. Rather than taking its profundity as a reason to be silent about dependent co-arising, Ajahn Buddhadāsa took it as a challenge to do everything in his power to make it better known and understood.
Dependent co-arising is also about not-self or selflessness (anattā) and voidness or emptiness (suññatā). Ajahn Buddhadāsa’s Heartwood of the Bodhi Tree surveys the role of emptiness in the Pāli suttas of early Buddhism. Under the Bodhi Tree provides the complementary perspectives of conditionality (idappaccayatā) and dependent co-arising found in those suttas. All of these help us recognize that nothing can be found to be truly self (a substantial, independent lasting something that is me) and therefore nothing is worth clinging to as “me” or “mine.” This is what Buddha’s Dhamma is truly about, rather than religiosity, moralism, tradition, clericalism, philosophy, or belonging. For many decades Ajahn Buddhadāsa did what he could to cut through such secondary concerns and focus on the core meaning and
Preface as possible without watering it down. These are tasks Ajahn Buddhadāsa accepted as a “Servant of the Buddha.”
Ajahn Buddhadāsa’s Dependent Co-arising
Ajahn Buddhadāsa’s work in Theravāda Buddhism has been to recover the core perspectives that have been ignored, lost, or obscured as Buddha-Dhamma was encumbered with the trappings of religious rituals, moralistic beliefs, afterlife speculations, donation-seeking rationalizations, and quick-fix meditation techniques. As a clerical caste emerged over the centuries following the Buddha’s passing, Dhamma was segregated into Dhamma for those identified as renunciate wanderers (bhikkhus and bhikkunīs) and Dhamma for householders (upāsakas and upāsikās). Further, a moralizing tone crept in and emphasis began to shift from liberation in this life to earning a better life after death. While such developments may have their place, something crucial was muddled in the process. Ajahn Buddhadāsa did not accept the segregation of practice and the bias underlying it, nor the superficial moralizing that overlooked the subtler perspectives found throughout the Pāli suttas.
After intentionally flunking out of the Thai monastic education system—he never wanted a position in a big Bangkok monastery anyway— Ajahn Buddhadāsa moved to an abandoned temple near his natal village, dug deep into the suttas, and refined his studies in the crucible of his own practice. Along the way, he discovered dependent co-arising as he thought the Buddha intended, rather than how traditional, pedantic orthodoxy has interpreted it. This required exploring dependent co-arising in light of other core teachings: “only suffering (dukkha) and the quenching of suffering,” “nothing is worth clinging to (as me or mine),”6 voidness, thusness, and the middle way. Most of all, one’s understanding must be practical rather than metaphysical, ontological, or cosmological; a matter of experience rather than merely accepting the assertions of authorities; and must lead to liberation in this life.
To aid his investigation, he compiled over eight hundred pages of passages translated from the Pāli suttas that concern dependent co-arising in one way or another.7 These were published as Paṭiccasamuppāda from His Own Lips, a volume that allows one to read the wonderful variety of perspectives and details on dependent co-arising in its own terms, largely
Preface xiii purpose of dependent co-arising. The current work expands that effort for English readers.
free of later interpretive assumptions and biases. In translating the Pāli into Thai, Ajahn Buddhadāsa left key terms in Pāli rather than rendering them with an interpretative twist. For example, consciousness (viññāṇa) remains just consciousness, and is not twisted into “relinking consciousness,” a term the Buddha himself never used. Also, birth is just birth (jāti), and need not be assumed to mean “rebirth”; after all, there is no “re-” in jāti. If a sutta passage was somewhat ambiguous, he left it to the reader to explore the ambiguity. His own views were appended as comments. This book includes a number of such passages translated from his Thai translations.
Choosing to put the orthodox Theravāda commentaries back in their rightful place—secondary to the Pāli suttas, yet potentially helpful in understanding the originals—left him open to constant sniping from those who had been raised on and never questioned the commentarial system. The commentaries had come to be accepted as the Buddha’s word, rather than remembered as derived from the original teachings. In response to those who felt threatened by his approach, Ajahn Buddhadāsa insisted he was hewing to the Buddha’s intent—liberation from dukkha. His critique of the commentarial system does not take up much space in this book, as the original talks were given to a largely Western audience unfamiliar with the Pāli suttas and their commentaries. It was not as necessary to clear up traditional obfuscations for his Western audience, as was usually the case with Thai audiences. Nevertheless, he does refer to that system and readers will have some sense of the controversy that existed in relation to it.
Certain writers who adhere to the commentarial understanding of dependent co-arising, which spans at least three physical lives, often warn and scold those who do not follow their beliefs. While the better scholars among them have valid points that serious students of Buddhism should not ignore, there is a tendency among such scholars to over-simplify, if not flatly misunderstand, critiques of their beliefs. To imply, as has happened, that thoughtful teachers such as Ajahn Buddhadāsa are amoral, irresponsible, or heretical smacks of the authoritarianism that often goes with scholarly hubris and patriarchal positions. Rather than dogmas and defenses of the faith, Ajahn Buddhadāsa advocated reasoned debate and honest disagreement with a spirit that never forgets that we are aiming for the end of suffering as soon as possible. Perhaps none of us truly and fully understand dependent co-arising and can enjoy exploring it for the rest of our lives, as
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the Buddha appeared to have done. Careful, unbiased translations of the relevant suttas are crucial here.
Exponents of the “the three lifetimes interpretation” assert that it is consistent with anattā or not-self. Ajahn Buddhadāsa found their explanations unconvincing, as they have not escaped the implications of something that remains the same as it carries over from one life to the next. This vehicle for karmic results smells rather like a self (attā)—that is, an individual, separate and lasting entity. Such presentations fail to explain, although they claim to, how karma works over lifetimes without implying such an entity. In Ajahn Buddhadāsa’s view, the karma and rebirth emphasizing approach sacrifices the liberating value of a not-self understanding of dependent co-arising for a moral version of dependent co-arising. It may conventionally be correct from an ethical perspective, and therefore may be of value, but it misses out from an ultimate perspective. Ajahn Buddhadāsa found this unfortunate.
There is no doubt that passages that describe “rebirth” appear in the suttas.8 What are we to make of them? Do we take them to be literally, materially true? If so, how do we deal with the fact that they seem to contradict the notion of not-self? Do we fudge one to protect the other? Are the suttas any less contradictory when we read them less literally? Do suttas present ultimate truth or conventional truth? Might there be value in understanding dependent co-arising in a variety of ways, wherein no single way of understanding it, even Ajahn Buddhadāsa’s, is the sole and whole truth?
Ajahn Buddhadāsa is not the only intelligent, thoughtful student of Buddha-Dhamma to have questioned an apparent logical contradiction in the standard view, though he was the earliest and most prominent of Theravāda teachers to do so. He had discussed such contradictions privately with a personal confidant of his who enjoyed a very high rank in the monastic hierarchy, but his confidant would not discuss it publicly. In recent decades, a growing number of scholars and Dhamma students, lay and monastic, Asian and Western, have raised the same questions in various ways as well. Fortunately, when those who raise such questions have studied the matter at least as much as traditional apologists have, dismissing such questions on the grounds that the questioners simply do not understand the matter is no longer accepted as an honest response.
The Buddha was not one to fall back on mysticism. Ajahn Buddhadāsa recognized that religious teachings, including the Buddha’s teaching, use ordinary language in ways that express perspectives and realities less obvious
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than the perspectives and realities that ordinary language is typically used to express. Fundamentalist minds seem unable or unwilling to consider this natural fact of language and instead seek to interpret all teachings literally. Ajahn Buddhadāsa, being more creative and skillful, recognized two levels in the Buddha’s language: an ordinary level of language that speaks of people and beings, and a Dhamma level of language that expresses not-self and dependent co-arising. Sensitivity to language and the meanings of key terms, which have changed over time, is central to understanding the vital teaching on dependent co-arising, in particular.
In short, Ajahn Buddhadāsa consistently read the suttas from a not-self perspective and was consequently the first major figure in Thai Buddhism to publicly question the many lifetimes view of dependent co-arising that has long dominated Theravāda teaching. One need not agree with him in order to appreciate the serious reflection he has given the matter. If seeing dependent co-arising is to see the Dhamma, Ajahn Buddhadāsa’s perspectives challenge us to examine whether we actually see dependent co-arising or not. May this translation of his work serve the ending of egoism and suffering.
The Process of Creating the Text
As with Ajahn Buddhadāsa’s earlier book Mindfulness with Breathing, this book was edited from transcripts of live oral translations.9 The transcripts were compared with the audio recordings of Ajahn Buddhadāsa’s original Thai discourses to make sure that nothing significant was omitted and that elaborations introduced into the translation were not inappropriate. The book that you hold in your hands includes everything he said. The natural redundancies that come with extemporaneous, oral teaching have been somewhat consolidated, but some redundancy is retained as a natural reflection of Ajahn Buddhadāsa’s style.
As editor, I worked to shape these talks into a book with the help of friends acknowledged below. I have added chapter titles and section headings to make the book easier to navigate for readers. Endnotes have been added to the text to mark the terms and principles discussed within the chapters, and are, as much as possible, comprised of translations or paraphrases from other talks and writings of Ajahn Buddhadāsa. At times, I have relied on my own memory and understanding of his teaching, and to the
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best of my knowledge the explanations are in line with his understanding of Buddha-Dhamma and life.
I have resisted suggestions to soften occasional provocative language that might be jarring for some Western readers, for example, “stupid” and “foolish.” I would rather preserve his own words, as Ajahn Buddhadāsa is saying important things in his own way. Over polishing and prettying would result in someone else’s book, and a more common Dharma book at that.
The original talk and translation was a collaborative process. It usually began with Tan Ajahn, as we usually referred to him there, thinking about his theme for an upcoming retreat series and discussing it with me. He would often try out certain themes and terms on me in the week preceding a retreat, without actually telling me what his talks would be about. He would have me look up key terms in the dictionary and discuss them with me so that I would have the appropriate translation available. During the talks, he would listen as I orally translated to make sure I didn’t leave out anything important. If I did, he would remind me. Occasionally, when I would get carried away with one of my additions (“improvements” he called them), he would politely clear his throat. In this way, Ajahn Buddhadāsa’s talks and my translation of them happened in collaboration with one another. However, in the end, as the translator and editor of this book, the responsibility for any additions to his talks that were not there in the Thai falls on me. I can only offer my sincere apologies for any errors or inclusion of any extraneous material that I have failed to excise.
Pāli Terminology
To encourage a common basis of understanding central terms, Ajahn Buddhadāsa emphasized the importance of the Pāli terms that appear in the traditional discourses of the Buddha and used them as much as possible. Becoming familiar with them is a great aid to careful reading of the teachings. Nevertheless, this can be daunting for new students, especially Americans who only know their native tongue. Therefore, at the publisher’s request we have minimized the use of Pāli terms in this work. When a Pāli source term first appears in translation, the original Pāli word is provided immediately following it in parentheses. After a Pāli term has been introduced, it is occasionally reiterated alongside its English translation as a means of indicating that Ajahn Buddhadāsa often left such terms untranslated in his
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Thai discourses, and as a way of helping readers become more familiar with source terminology. Certain terms are either so central to understanding the teachings (e.g. dukkha) or lack a good equivalent (e.g. vedanā and samādhi) that we use the original Pāli term more often. The Pāli terms used herein are discussed in the glossary, where they are explained in keeping with Ajahn Buddhadāsa’s understanding.
The suttas passages that begin each chapter have few if any Pāli terms. For readability we have used all English terms even when some of them are problematic (see Glossary). This is also the case with additional passages from Ajahn Buddhadāsa’s From His Own Lips series. These translations from the Pāli via Thai are found in Companion to Under the Bodhi Tree (Liberation Park Press). These additional readings are recommended on a chapter by chapter basis in the “Guide to Source Texts” that follows the final chapter. As multiple translations are now available, such as those by Bhikkhu Bodhi and published by Wisdom and online repositories such as Sutta Central and Access to Insight, I’ve chosen to be less strict in my renderings from Ajahn Buddhadāsa’s Thai in order to bring out nuances that “more orthodox” translations may obscure. Such alternative translations are referenced throughout and readers are encouraged to compare the various translations in order to better understand how an ancient language finds its way into modern English.
Acknowledgments
Two old friends from Suan Mokkh helped get this project going: Sister Wendy McCrae transcribed the original oral translations and Sam Settle (then Sujitto Bhikkhu) provided early editing. Since then, Jonathan Watts has championed this manuscript more than anyone and kindly nudged me toward its conclusion. He also transcribed the chapters on existence and helped with the organization of the chapters. His patient encouragement has been much appreciated.
Viriyanando, an even older Dhamma buddy from Suan Mokkh, and Lise McKean, a more recent Dhamma friend, read later drafts of the manuscripts and offered valuable advice. The participants in classes in Oak Park and Chicago, Illinois, and Viroqua and Madison, Wisconsin, asked helpful questions, challenged certain wordings, and gave me chances to try the chapters out.
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Jo Marie Thompson, my life-partner through the later stages of the project, provided the emotional support that got me though some personal hang-ups and blockages, and a year of successful cancer treatment. Without her multifaceted aid, this book may never have reached completion. She also did the last round of proof reads.
Finally, I hope that students of Buddha-Dhamma will find this teaching inspiring, provocative, and insightful as we cultivate the right understanding that guides the noble path of suffering’s quenching.
Santikaro
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1 Ï Buddhism Is Natural Truth
Kālāmas, you ought to question, you ought to wonder, your doubts have arisen concerning things you should question. Come, Kālāmas, do not accept (or reject10) something as true merely because of oral tradition; do not accept (or reject) something as true merely because of customary practice; do not accept (or reject) something as true merely because it is widely rumored; do not accept (or reject) something as true merely because of scriptural citation; do not accept (or reject) something as true merely because of logical inference; do not accept (or reject) something as true merely because of reasoned deduction; do not accept (or reject) something as true merely because of thinking according to appearances; do not accept (or reject) something as true merely because it holds up to (or goes against) one’s views; do not accept (or reject) something as true merely because the speaker appears (or does not appear) credible; do not accept (or reject) something as true merely because the speaker is (or is not) one’s teacher.
Kālāmas, whenever you yourselves know that these things are unwholesome, these things are harmful, these things are criticized by the wise, and when practiced according to their own standard these things bring suffering and have no benefit, then you ought to abandon such things.
Kālāmas, how do you regard the following: When greed arises in someone does it arise for their benefit or not? “Not for any benefit.” When that
person is greedy, when greed dominates, when greed overwhelms the heart, he may kill, steal, commit adultery, lie, and encourage others to behave in such ways, which are actions leading to suffering and are without benefit for a long time, is that not right? “That is true.”
How do you regard the following: When hatred arises in someone does it arise for their benefit or not? “Not for any benefit.” When that person is hateful, when hatred dominates, when hatred overwhelms the heart, she may kill, steal, commit adultery, lie, and encourage others to behave in such ways, which are actions leading to suffering and are without benefit for a long time, is that not right? “That is true.”
How do you regard the following: When delusion arises in someone does it arise for their benefit or not? “Not for any benefit.” When that person is delusory, when delusion dominates, when delusion overwhelms the heart, he may kill, steal, commit adultery, lie, and encourage others to behave in such ways, which are actions leading to suffering and are without benefit for a long time, is that not right? “That is true.”
How do you regard the following: Are these things wholesome or unwholesome? “They are unwholesome.” Are they harmful or not harmful? “They are harmful.” Do the wise censure or praise them? “The wise censure them.” After one practices according to their standards do they lead to suffering and are of no benefit, or the opposite? “After one practices according to their standards they lead to suffering and are of no benefit.”
[The Buddha repeats the ten bases for unwise acceptance and rejection again.]
Kālāmas, whenever you yourselves know that these things are unwholesome, are harmful, are censured by the wise, and when practiced according to their own standard bring suffering and have no benefit, then you ought to abandon these things.
[The Buddha repeats the ten bases again and then asks the same questions about non-greed, non-hatred, and non-delusion, which the Kālāmas answer appropriately.]
Kālāmas, whenever you yourselves know that these things are wholesome, are harmless, are praised by the wise, and when practiced according to their own standard bring happiness and are beneficial, then you ought to dwell with these things.11
We are here to investigate something of central importance to our lives. I can think of no better way to begin than to be clear about the meaning of the word “Buddhism” (buddha-sāsanā). Later in this book, we will consider other important terms and concepts, including one that is at the very core of Buddhist teaching. So please relax your preconceptions about Buddhism, as well as religion in general, in order to explore with a fresh mind. We will begin by clarifying what kind of religion Buddhism is. In subsequent chapters, we will probe deeper into the core of Buddhism—the law of conditionality (idappaccayatā).12
What Kind of “Ism” is Buddhism?
The world is full of “-isms,” each of them with their different meanings. Among them, the meaning of the suffix -ism changes, transforms, and bounces all over the map. Specifically, “-isms” such as communism, socialism, materialism, and consumerism are fundamentally different from the “-ism” of Buddhism. Since those kinds of “-isms” might prejudice us, we should try to understand what the “-ism” of Buddhism means.
Although Buddhism is also an “-ism,” it differs in a crucial respect from all the other “-isms” of the world. All those other “-isms” are theories and ideologies created by human beings. They are made up of ideas, opinions, beliefs, theories, and structures concocted by people. Conversely, the “-ism” of Buddhism is not dependent on or created by human beings in any way. Buddhism is something natural; it exists naturally in nature. At its heart, it is natural law that has been discovered by the Buddha because it has always been available to discovery. Thus, real Buddhism is in no way man-made.
Inseparable from nature, being the truth of nature, Buddhism is in itself free and independent. It depends only on its own reality, which it itself is. Consider the words “fact,” “truth,” and “law.” Facts or truths exist naturally, in line with the laws of nature. That is what Buddhism is: it exists naturally, in line with the laws of nature. A human being discovered this truth of nature and then showed people how to understand it, so that they could apply it in their everyday lives. Every aspect of this process of discovery and transmission is natural and unfolds according to natural laws. This reality and the way to understanding it are all there is to Buddhism.
Any who care to look can discover this law for themselves. For this reason, true Buddhism is unique among all other “-isms” in that it is not exclusive
Originally, Buddhism was not called “Buddhism” or “buddha-sāsanā.” And even when the term sāsanā was applied to the Buddha’s teachings, it wasn’t used in the way that it is frequently used nowadays to mean “religion.”13 The Buddha’s disciples did not call it “Buddhism,” “the Buddhist religion,” or anything like that. The Buddha initially spoke of his teachings as brahmacariya—a way of life that is sublime, excellent, and able to solve all human problems. This supreme way of life later came to be called “sāsanā,” which has in turn become associated with the English word “religion,” creating misunderstanding. The Buddha did not talk about sāsanā, as Asians do now, to mean “a religion.” If we treat Buddhism in terms of religion, our discussion is likely to become sloppy, complicated, and confusing. Instead, to keep things simple and clear, think of Buddhism in terms of “truth,” “facts,” and “laws of nature.” These truths or laws are the foundation of the Buddha’s teaching. He rediscovered and then revealed them to us. Now we must understand and apply these truths so that we can live free from problems.
Buddhism does not depend on or assume any external authority whatsoever. It is neither exclusive nor possessive. Being Buddhist is a matter of living a sublime way of life, the brahmacariya, wherein one explores the law of nature and lives in harmony with it. It is not a matter of external identity or affiliation. Therefore, you need not convert or register yourself as a Buddhist in order to study and practice Buddhism. You can follow whatever religion pleases you or follow no religion at all, and still study and practice Buddhism. It is simply a matter of how you live your life. Any who are willing to approach, learn, investigate, practice, and live according to natural truth can experience this. Buddhism is available to everyone and is not exclusive in any way.
Another way to understand Buddhism is by thinking about the word buddha, which means “to awaken from sleep” or “to be awake.” We should reflect on the difference between ordinary sleep and ordinary wakefulness. Here, however, “to be awake” means more than simply being awake in an ordinary sense; it means not going through life in a sleepy, befuddled way. To do so requires that we see things as they really are, that we see the gen-
Bodhi Tree or monopolistic. It does not assume any exclusive authority to itself, nor is it dependent on any other authority. It remains intellectually free and spiritually independent as a natural truth to be discovered, studied, and explored by any who care to look.
uine truth of things. Our practice as Buddhists, then, is to wake up, to use that awakening to see everything in the light of truth, and to live accordingly. Once awakened, we know: we see and experience all things as they actually are. Through knowing, we blossom into the fullness of life—clear, calm, and clean. This is how we understand “Buddha” in Thailand, as the Awakened One, the Knowing One, and the Blossomed One. The Buddha’s awakening is symbolized by the lotus that rises above muddy pond waters and fully opens to the sun. This is what Buddha and Buddhism are all about.
We may also consider the word “religion” here, but let’s be careful that our understanding is not superficial. The Latin roots of this word tell us that religion is a system of life and practice that binds humanity to the highest reality or to “the supreme.” Christians and other theists might say that their way of practice ties humanity to God, but in Buddhism the highest reality does not have to be God. So we prefer to speak of “the supreme” or the highest reality (paramadhamma), as these are more inclusive terms. In our case, “the supreme” specifically refers to that condition, state, or reality in which all problems end and there is no suffering.
We Buddhists call this supreme reality nibbāna (Pāli) or nirvāṇa (Sanskrit). Nibbāna is the end of all suffering and misery, of everything that burns and scorches us. Nibbāna is the coolness of life, the quenching of the fires of suffering (dukkha) that burn us. This is the supreme reality in Buddhism: the supreme truth that can be realized. So, where other religions speak of God as that highest reality to which religion binds us, we Buddhists speak of the supreme reality in which all dukkha ends.
Some claim that there is no God in Buddhism. Don’t mind them. Know that Buddhists have their own kind of God, but understand it differently than how the old pre-Buddhist gods or the monotheistic Gods of the West are understood. It’s neither correct nor fair to describe Buddhism as atheistic, which is a rather narrow-minded point of view. It’s just that Buddhists have a much different kind of God than the kind most people understand. The Buddhist God is nonpersonal. It doesn’t have the anthropomorphic characteristics, such as consciousness and personal feelings, that many people attribute to God.
Nevertheless, you must not allow such trivial points of debate to interfere with your study, make it difficult for you to practice, or make it impossible for you to get along with people of other religious persuasions. In the end, issues such as whether or not there is a God are not really that important.
We should not allow them to become obstacles or to create divisions. Such things are often just a matter of language, so it’s best not to let them get in the way of understanding. Putting an end to suffering and solving our problems is what really matters. Awakening, release, and blossoming into the fullness of life is good enough to accomplish this. We shouldn’t let minor questions get in the way of this freedom.
Further, you needn’t worry about whether you can believe another religion and still practice Buddhism. Nor do you need to worry that you must believe something in order to practice Buddhism. Please let go of such apprehensions and fears. Please also let go of any opposition or hatred that you might feel toward Buddhism or any religion. Give up any notion you might have about the impossibility of various religions meeting and cooperating with one another. It isn’t true that we cannot develop mutual understanding. We can get along perfectly if we all help find ways to end suffering. Each religion contributes its own methods and practices for putting an end to dukkha, it’s just a matter of which works best in whichever situation and for whichever people.
We have the right to choose for ourselves which religion we will practice from among all the religions of the world. As human beings, we can test for ourselves as many teachings and practices as we like. If one genuinely frees us from suffering, we will be able to affirm, accept, and follow it; we will believe it with the firmest confidence. This is our right and freedom within the laws of nature. If you wish to look into Buddhism, you must understand this point from the start.
Faith, Energy, and Wisdom in Religious Practice
Discussions of religion inevitably bring us to consider another problematic concept—that of faith. There are generally two kinds of faith. One is the kind of faith that comes from knowledge, intelligence, and wisdom. It is a product of correct understanding and wisdom. The other kind is the blind faith that is mere belief and comes before or instead of any real understanding. Both kinds of faith may be necessary. Those who are unable to understand directly, such as young children, may rely on blind faith. Those who are mature and intelligent enough to understand what is happening in life now, who are able to investigate suffering in their own lives, have no need for such blind faith. We need a faith that comes with wisdom. In Buddhism,
such faith is called saddhā, and arises from a clear awareness of suffering. If you can understand the difference between blind faith and saddhā, the word “faith” won’t cause any problems for you.
Some may prefer the word “confidence” to “faith.” Confidence implies a certainty, a conviction, that can only come from wisdom. If we lack direct knowledge and understanding, real certainty is impossible. True faith must follow from wisdom. The kind of blind faith that merely believes what it is told without reason or direct experience is a false certainty. We must know how to tell the difference between these two.
To be true saddhā, true faith, as Buddhists conceive of it, it must be a confidence accompanied by energy (viriya) and wisdom (paññā). From the Buddhist perspective, all three of these factors—faith, energy, and wisdom—must be present in order for us to practice whatever religion we follow. We cannot get by as religious people if we are lacking any one of them. Energy refers to the effort we put into that which we believe. We must back up our faith with effort and perseverance. Wisdom refers to the knowledge and intelligence that oversee and regulate faith, energy, and other factors so that they proceed correctly.14 It is natural that different religions place more or less emphasis on these three aspects, favoring one above the others in their practice. Some religions lay much greater stress on faith and belief, some emphasize energy and perseverance, and others focus mainly on developing understanding and wisdom. Buddhism falls within the group of religions that emphasize wisdom and take experiential understanding as their central principle. This is reflected in the fact that the religion has named itself after Buddha—that which is awake, knowing, and fully blossomed. This discerning, guiding, and balancing element is given prominence in Buddhism. Despite the fact that Buddhism places great emphasis on wisdom, we should understand that problems with our religious practice will arise if we neglect to cultivate faith and energy alongside it. The qualities of faith and energy are still vitally important to our religious practice.
When faith is exalted as the most important principle, for example, we must ask ourselves from where the energy to follow it through will come. Will we have enough wisdom to govern our beliefs and views, to rein them in should they go awry? Sometimes, when we have too much faith, we don’t have enough energy and effort to make it meaningful. We may even hear from those that emphasize faith over all else that we only need to believe, and that effort is unnecessary. Some even say that practicing pure faith is
a way to eliminate suffering. Whether or not that works, I don’t know. I haven’t followed that approach.
Although effort and wisdom may be underemphasized in “faith-based religions,” they cannot be ignored altogether, whatever some adherents claim. Similarly, other religions that focus almost solely on motivation, mental effort, meditative power, and energy as their means of getting rid of suffering, shouldn’t abandon faith and wisdom altogether. Of course, it is only natural that we are drawn to a form of religion that has a particular emphasis appropriate to our needs and situation. Those in life situations that require great faith will need sufficient faith, those in situations that require great energy will need sufficient energy, and those in situations that require great intelligence will need sufficient intelligence. You must know well enough to discern which cases require faith, which require energy, and which require wisdom. Such knowledge provides you the tools to free yourself from suffering.
Understanding this will allow us to draw upon all the religions, not let particular emphases distract us, and eventually transcend them all. We need not bother to critique them as right or wrong, good or bad, although we may be wary of overly simplified claims. They all have their place and value. Seeing that the background and development of unique individuals and cultures leads to reliance on different religious factors in accordance with the times and circumstances in which they grow, we also see that we have no reason to begrudge people what they need. We have no need to say our way is right and that others are wrong, or that ours is good and others are bad. Such judgments are unnecessary. We can accept that all three approaches to religious practice—faith-dominant, effort-dominant, and wisdom-dominant— are valid. We should not judge other religions as wrong, while considering ourselves alone to have the right religion. Please reflect on this.
The important thing to remember is that we must employ all three factors in our lives. Faith, energy, and wisdom have necessary roles to play in everyone’s lives. There is no reason to disparage any of them or any religion based primarily on one or the other. We should manage all three factors skillfully according to the different challenges and problems that face us in life. So, let’s accept that sometimes faith is most needed, sometimes energy, and sometimes wisdom, depending on our proclivities and the circumstances in which we find ourselves. If we understand the differences among religions in this way, we lose any inclination we might have had to argue about which approach is best or right.
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Richelieu seemed in no haste to do. They had proceeded for some distance before he remarked, suddenly:
"It is cold."
"Most true. What hangs upon the weather?"
"This. It is too chilly to wander about outside. Take me to your apartment and present me to the Countess."
"With pleasure, if you wish it."
"Many thanks." They turned into a cross street that led towards the little Rue Anjou, when Richelieu, after a deep breath, began quickly, in a new strain: "Claude—do you know—that my fall is imminent?"
"What!"
"Oh, it is true. My fall is imminent. I am frank with you when I say that never before has my position been so beset with difficulties. You would learn soon, at any rate, and I prefer that you hear now, from me, what every member of the Court save Mme. de Châteauroux herself knows—that it was I who, beside myself with anxiety for the King, was the instrument of her dismissal from Metz."
Claude opened his mouth quickly as if to speak. Thinking better of it, however, he remained silent and waited.
"As I have said, madame, now out of touch with Court circles, has not yet heard of what she would term my treachery. But during the first conversation she holds with a courtier she must learn the truth. Of course, you perceive that, if she comes again into favor—I—am dismissed. Of course, also, her every nerve is strained towards the natural object of reattaining to her former position. My dear Claude, I am speaking to you in my own interests, but they are yours as well. Your cousin is just now playing with d'Agenois in order to rouse the possible jealousy of the King. It is her method. It may, for the third time, prove successful. But if the success does come, it will be over my fallen body. I shall oppose her as I have opposed
nothing before, because never before have I been so deeply concerned. I would ask you, Claude, which side you will espouse—hers or mine?"
Claude was silent for a few steps. Then he said, musingly: "A battle between my cousin and my friend. You ask me a difficult question. Perhaps you are thinking that, if a d'Agenois alone fails with his Majesty, a d'Agenois and a de Mailly might do her work. Is that your notion? Hein?"
"Your astuteness is as perfect as of old. That is my notion. And I would beg of you that you do not allow yourself to be played with again."
"As a de Mailly—I might be willing. As the husband of my charming wife—I do not need your pleading to decide me."
Richelieu laughed, and there was relief in the tone. He had secured himself from one danger, and, out of gratitude, he should befriend this unknown wife if she were in the smallest degree possible. "And now for Mme. de Mailly!" he cried, gayly, with lips and heart, as they approached the house in the Rue d'Anjou.
"She will be delighted. I fancy her afternoon so far has been lonely."
In this Claude was wrong. Deborah's afternoon had been far from dull. Quite without her husband's assistance she was learning something more of this Court life, this atmosphere in which he had lived through his youth. When he left her, early in the afternoon, after the gentle lecture on manners, Deborah's first move had been to take from her trunk those articles which Julie had been forbidden to touch, to carry them into the empty salon, and place them in the little black cabinet by the mantel, where she stood regarding them for some moments absently. They were ten crystal phials, of different sizes, filled with liquids varying in tone from brown to limpid crystal. Upon each was pasted a paper label, covered with fine writing, which told, in quaint phraseology and spelling, the contents of the bottle, and the method of obtaining it. Beside the flasks was a small wooden box with closed lid, containing a number of round, dry, brownish objects, odorless, and tasteless, too, if one had dared bite into them. They were specimens of amanita muscaria and amanita phalloides which Deborah, still catering to her strange delight, had brought to her new home, together with the best of
her various experiments in medicinal alkaloids. To her profound regret, she had been unable to pack Dr. Carroll's glass retort. But here, some time when Claude was in humor, she would ask him to get her another; for surely, in this great city of Paris, such things might be obtained. Then, even here, in her own tiny dressing-room, she would arrange a little corner for her work, and so make a bit of home for herself at last. Poor Deborah was young, heedless, enthusiastic, and in love with her talent, as, indeed, mortals should be. She did not consider, and there was no one to tell her, since she did not confide in Claude, that no more dangerous power than hers could possibly have been brought into this most corrupt, criminal, and intriguing Court in the world. Reckless Deborah! After a last, long look at her little flasks, she closed the cabinet door upon them, locked it, and carried the key into her dressing-room, where she laid it carefully in one of the drawers of her chiffonier, From this little place she did not hear the rapping at the antechamber door, nor see her lackey go through the salon. It was only when, with a slight cough, he announced from the doorway behind her, "The Maréchale de Coigny," that Mme. de Mailly turned about.
"Oh!" she said, in slightly startled fashion. It was very difficult for her as yet to regard white servants as her inferiors. As she entered the little salon with cordial haste, Victorine, cloaked and muffed, rose from her chair.
"You are very kind to come. Cl—M. de Mailly is out. I was quite alone."
"That is charming. We shall get to know each other better now—is it not so? May I take off my pelisse? Thank you. M. de Coigny and I have just come out—to Versailles, you know—for the winter. Later, we may be commanded to the palace. If so, I shall have to be under that atrocious Boufflers; and, in that case, life will be frightful."
While Victorine spoke she had, with some assistance from Deborah, removed all her things and thrown them carelessly upon a neighboring chair, after which she seated herself opposite her hostess, smiling in her friendliest manner.
"I should like to be able to offer you something, madame," said Deborah, hesitatingly, unable to banish the instinct of open hospitality. "What—would you like?"
Victorine smiled again, with a quick pleasure at the unaffected offer. "Thank you very much. A dish of thé à l'anglais would be delightful."
Deborah's heart sank. In Maryland tea was a luxury drunk only upon particular occasions. She had not the slightest idea that there was such an article in her kitchen here. Bravely saying nothing, however, she struck a little gong, and, at the appearance of Laroux, ordered, rather faintly, two dishes of Bohea. Laroux, receiving the command with perfect stoicism, bowed and disappeared, to return, in a very short space of time, with two pretty bowls filled with sweet, brown liquid. These he deftly arranged on a low stand between the ladies, placing beside them a little plate of rissoles. Madame la Comtesse decided at once that such a servant as this should not soon leave her.
"Ah—this is most comfortable. I am going to remain with you during the whole afternoon. It is wonderful to find some one who is neither a saint, an etiquette, nor a rival. My faith, madame, one might say anything to you!"
Deborah smiled, sipped her tea, and could find nothing to reply. Her face, however, invited confidence; and the Maréchale sighed and continued:
"You seem to be almost happy! The look on your face one sees only once a lifetime. It is youth, and—innocence, I think. How old are you? Oh, pardon! I am absurdly thoughtless! But you look so young!"
"I am eighteen," responded Deborah at once.
"And I—nineteen. Beside you I appear thirty. It is because I have lived here for three years. Ah! How I have been bored!"
"It must have been very lonely all the summer. But now, with Monsieur the Marshal returned, it will be better."
"Oh, you are right! It will be more difficult now, and so, more absorbing. But Jules lets me do almost as I please. If he were but more strict, less cold, François would have more interest. He is growing indifferent. Dieu! How I have worked to prevent that! But—it is imbecile of me! I care so much for him that I cannot behave as I should!"
"I do not understand," said Deborah, indistinctly, with a new feeling, one of dread, stealing over her. Instinctively she feared to hear what this pale, big-eyed little creature was going to say next.
For an instant Victorine stared at her. Then, leaning slowly forward and looking straight into Deborah's honest eyes, she asked, in a low tone, "You did not know—that de Bernis—that—I—"
Deborah sprang up, the empty tea-bowl rolling unheeded at her feet. She had grown suddenly very white, and, as she returned Victorine's own look, searchingly, she found in the other face what made the horror in her own deepen, as she backed unconsciously towards the wall.
"You don't know!—Mon Dieu!—Why, Claude—was mad, mad, to have brought you here!—Why, madame—Deborah—we're all alike! You mustn't look at me like that. I am not different from the others. Henri de Mailly—the Marquise—the Mirepoix—Mme. de Rohan—Mme. de Châteauroux—child, it is a custom. The King—Claude himself—before—"
"Ah!" Deborah made a sound in her throat, not a scream, not an articulate word, but a kind of guttural, choking groan. Then she covered her face with her hands. For a moment that seemed an eternity she stood there repeating to herself those last cruel, insensate words, "'Claude himself— before—'"
And then Victorine, looking at her, came to a realizing sense of what she had done. Moved by a half-impulse, she started up unsteadily, swayed for an instant, and then fell back upon her chair, covering her head with her hands and arms, and bursting into a passion of sobs so heart-broken, so deep, so childlike forlorn, that they roused Deborah from herself. Letting her hands fall, she looked over towards her visitor. There was a note in the Maréchale's voice, and a line of utter abandon in her position, that brought a pang of woman's sympathy into the heart of the woman-child who regarded her. Putting away from her all selfishness, even that miserable thought of Claude, forgetting the brutal openness with which Victorine had spoken, she suddenly ran across the room and took Victorine into both her strong, young arms. Victorine's head found a resting-place on her shoulder; Victorine's aching, hopeless, impure heart beat for an instant in unison with that other
one; Victorine's racking sobs ceased gradually. She gave a long, shivering sigh. There was a quickening silence through the room. Then the frail little figure loosed its grasp on Deborah, straightened quickly up, and turned to move to the chair where her wraps lay. Dully, Deborah watched the Maréchale tie on her hood and pull the cloak about her shoulders. Then, picking up gloves and muff, the visitor turned again and moved back to where Deborah stood. In front of her she stopped, and her eyes, in which shone two great tears, rested in dim pity and sorrow upon Deborah's white face. The look lasted for a long moment. Then, slowly, without a word, the Maréchale picked her handkerchief from the floor where it lay and began moving towards the door. Before she had reached it Claude's wife spoke again, more steadily:
"Mme. de Coigny—you must not go—yet."
The Mare'chale paused, with her back to Deborah, and stood hesitating.
"You must not go yet," repeated the voice. "You must tell me, first— about Claude."
A little moan came from Victorine's lips. "Claude—Claude—I c-cannot tell you about him. I know nothing! I—I lied to you. He is not like the rest."
"No, madame; that is not so. You try to be—kind. Was it—tell me— Mme. de Châteauroux? Yes. Now I know. That is true."
Victorine faced quickly around, the tears coming again into her eyes. Mme. de Mailly had begun to walk up and down the room, speaking in a monotone, twisting and untwisting her fingers as she went.
"I see. I know. Claude was exiled because the King—did not like him." Here she turned about and looked her companion squarely in the face. "Claude married me so that he might return to Court. In his letter the King said that he might return when he could present his wife at Versailles. Yes. Claude read that letter to me, and still—I married him. Oh, madame—" a nervous laugh broke from her—"did M. de Coigny do that to you?"
Victorine stared at her in horror of her tone. "Deborah—Deborah—don't look so! Claude isn't like that. And you—you are good. You are pure. Ah—I
cannot forgive myself while I live for what I have done! Is there anything that I can do? Tell me, is there nothing—nothing that I can do?"
"Oh, madame, may we not help also? Is it a new costume, or—"
It was Claude who spoke. He and Richelieu had entered the antechamber just in time to hear the last phrase. Mme. de Coigny faced about sharply. She knew that Deborah must have time to recover herself.
"It was not a garment—but a secret, messieurs. Monsieur le Duc, I am offended that I meet you for the first time since your return in the apartment of a friend. Have you struck me from your list?"
"Ah, madame, one does well to keep from your side, since one does not fight an abbé. M. de Bernis has more enemies from jealousy than any man about the Court," returned Richelieu, a trifle maliciously.
Claude, much displeased with the Duke's ill-timed pleasantry, glanced anxiously at his wife. Her manner was composed, but her expression he did not know.
"Madame, allow me to present to you M. de Richelieu, of whom I have so often spoken. Monsieur, Mme. de Mailly."
Deborah courtesied, and Richelieu bowed profoundly. For some unaccountable reason, the Duke's ready gallantry suddenly deserted him, and he could conjure up no fit compliment for this girl with the unrouged cheeks and the calm, frigid self-possession. Deborah's mood was new to Claude, and he regarded her with amazement, as she stood perfectly silent after the introduction, her glance moving slowly from Richelieu's immaculate shoes to his large brown eyes and the becoming curls of his wig. Once more it remained for Victorine to save the situation. She was wondering anxiously if her eyes were very red, as she asked:
"Gentlemen, you have been to—Berkley's—that name!—have you not?"
"Yes, madame, and we left your husband there. He lost to Claude here, I think. Mordi, Claude! The gods are too good to you. If you would not have Mme. de Mailly carried off by some stricken gentleman, you should keep
her locked in a jewel-case. Are you to be presented soon, madame, and by whom?"
Deborah blankly shook her head. "I do not know, monsieur."
Claude looked at her, more puzzled than ever, and Richelieu commented mentally: "Beauty and presence, without brains. It is as well."
"Mme. de Mailly-Nesle may present her, is it not so?" asked Victorine, again ending the pause.
"Certainly—I believe so. She has been a lady of the palace."
"I should advise Mme. de Conti, Claude. Her price is about two thousand francs, but she does it with an unequalled manner. She will direct the courtesies, the train, the kiss, the retreat, everything—perfectly. Besides that, you have her patronage forever after, particularly if you supplement the two thousand with a small jewel, or some such gift. Her rents are mortgaged, and she lives now on her presentations."
"When does the King leave Paris?" asked Claude, contemplatively.
Richelieu shrugged. "On Wednesday, we trust. He is now making snuffboxes by the score, and if a fit of cooking succeeds that—Heaven knows! He may remain at the Tuileries till Christmas."
Deborah stared at this information, and Victorine turned to her, laughing nervously: "Has not monsieur told you what an excellent cook his Majesty is? He rivals Marin; and it is said that, could he win a cordon bleu, he would wear no other order. His bonbons are delicious. I once ate some of those that he sent to—" she stopped suddenly.
"Mme. de Châteauroux," finished the Duke, fearing that her hesitation was for him.
Victorine nodded hastily. "Well, dear madame," she continued, turning to Deborah, "I must go, I have been with you an eternity. It grows late."
"Do you return to Paris, madame?" inquired Richelieu.
"No. We are already living here. My chair is below."
"Permit me, then, to escort you," said Claude, seeing that Deborah did not press her to remain.
"My dear Count, you must resign that happiness to me," observed Richelieu. "I am to sup with the King, and I have just time to reach Paris. Mme. de Mailly, I trust that our first meeting may prove our shortest."
"That is safe gallantry, monsieur, since one could scarce be shorter," returned Deborah, with something of her usual manner.
"Ah! That was better. Perhaps it is only embarrassment," thought Richelieu, as he made his farewells to Claude and bowed to Deborah's courtesy.
A moment later de Mailly and his wife were alone together. The sound of steps in the outer hall had died away. The little salon was quiet. Then the man and woman faced each other, Deborah mute, heavy-eyed, expressionless, her husband curious and expectant. After two minutes of uncomfortable silence he spoke:
"What is the matter, Debby? What has Victorine de Coigny said to you?"
Then, to his utter amazement, for he had never imagined her doing such a thing, he saw the girl's lip tremble, her face work convulsively with effort at control, and finally, as an ominous drop suddenly rolled over her eye and down her cheek, she turned from him sharply and ran into her boudoir, shutting the door after her.
Before Deborah consented to come forth from her retreat, his Grâce de Richelieu had arrived at the Tuileries, made a necessary alteration in his dress, and was admitted to the presence of the King, who, in company with de Gêvres and Maurepas, awaited him in the small supper-room. The Duke made proper apologies for tardiness, which Louis graciously accepted on condition that, during the entremets, he should recount the adventure that had kept him.
"Ah, Sire, it has been my fortune to encounter the lady whom you deigned to salute on Saturday, in the window of the Hôtel de Mailly."
There was a murmur of interest from the other two as the King looked up. "By my faith, du Plessis, you are phenomenal! Who is she?—what is she? Is she eligible—or not?"
"Ah!" A sudden thought crossed Richelieu's mind. He answered very slowly, crumbling a bit of bread the while, "She is the Countess de Mailly, Claude's wife, and so a cousin to Madame la Duchesse de Châteauroux."
There was a pause. The atmosphere was dubious. De Gêvres and Maurepas rejoiced to think that they had been wise enough to voice no curiosity. Richelieu, perfectly calm, inwardly calculating, finished his soup. Suddenly Louis's mouth twitched, his eyes twinkled, and he permitted himself to laugh.
"Parbleu! he has taste in women, this Claude! Have her presented, du Plessis, and de Mailly shall have back his place. Her Majesty holds a salon on Sunday—the 21st, hein? Have her presented at all hazards. By my faith, the fellow has a taste in women!"
CHAPTER V
Two Presentations
Upon the 18th of November their Majesties, the dauphin, the royal suites, and, in a word, the French Court, returned to Versailles and took up its abode in palace or town for the winter. The little city was alive with nobility and nobility's servants. Every fourth person one met bore with him, as a mantle of dignity, some fifteen generations of ancestry; and every third man with whom one came in contact was one whose forebears, for fifteen
misty and not wholly glorious generations, had been accustomed to the honor of adjusting nobility's wig and helping him on with his coat.
The great park of Versailles, with its leafless bosquets, its bare avenues, its deadened terraces, its lifeless fountains, was forlorn enough. But within the monster palace hard by everything hummed with preparation for the gayest of winters. Here was a hero-King returned from the scene of his heroisms, bored with doughty deeds, waiting to be entertained with matters strained to less heroic pitch. There on the second floor, behind the court of the grand staircase, with a little private stair of its own, empty and desolate behind its locked doors, lay the deserted suite of the favorite's rooms. And who shall say how many a great lady, honorable to her finger-tips, with some honor to spare, cast a mute, curious glance at that closed door, in passing, and went her way with a new question in her heart? Who shall tell the germs of intrigue, struggling jealousy, rivalry, hatred, ambition, and care that were fostered in this abode of kings during that third week in November, when the "season" was budding, and would, on Sunday night, at the Queen's first salon, open into a perfect flower?
During that week, ever since Richelieu's visit on Monday, one would scarcely have thought that Deborah de Mailly had had time for thinking. There was never an hour when she could be alone. Claude's words were proven true. She had known nothing of what this life would mean; and she possessed not one leisure moment which she could have given to the care of their abiding-place. Slightly to her husband's surprise, certainly much to her own amazement, she had become a little sensation; and almost every member of the Court followed the speedy example of Mme. de Mirepoix and called upon her during that first week. The tale of the King's salute, of her forthcoming presentation, and, more than all, a story whispered behind Richelieu's hand of a possible favoritism, had wrought this result.
Deborah bore herself very well at the innumerable afternoon visits. Claude was always with her; but, after the first two days, she ceased to watch his eye, and found herself able to pay some little attention to the characteristics of the different people. She had small fancy for the Maréchale de Coigny, and an equally accountable dislike for de Bernis, who, for some reason of his own, paid her assiduous attention.
Each morning Deborah went to Paris, to her milliner's, where the presentation dress was being made. Claude almost always accompanied her on these trips, and during the long drives there should have been more than enough opportunity for them to discuss her first impressions of the new life. Though Claude could not tell why, such conversations never occurred. He felt, vaguely, that his wife was holding aloof from him. She was perfectly courteous, sometimes merry, in his company; but she was never confiding as she had been. At home there was no longer any necessity for them to linger in an antechamber before retiring, for the sake of being alone together. After eleven at night they had their apartment to themselves. But, oddly enough, they now never saw each other alone. Deborah was occupied, was too tired, was not in the mood—any of a thousand things. Claude wondered, and was disappointed, but never pressed the point. Not once did it occur to him to connect her present impenetrability with the singular crying-spell on Monday evening, after her afternoon alone with Victorine de Coigny. He put her new manner down rather to the growing influence of the Court customs. And perhaps, to some extent, he was right.
Just now Claude's attention, like that of the rest of the Court, was concentrated upon the approaching Sunday evening. He was ambitious for Deborah. He wanted to make her success as great as possible. The danger of success he knew, perhaps, but the other alternative was worse; and, besides, not a hint of Richelieu's careful gossip had reached his ears. As to the royal salute which had, at the time, so annoyed him, he had now all but forgotten it in the renewal of his old connections, his old associations with every foot of this ground that was home to him. He had played a good deal during the week, to such purpose that there was now small cause to fear the necessary expenditures for the winter; and out of his first day's winnings at Berkley's he could pay for Deborah's entire wardrobe. Claude took more interest than his wife herself, perhaps, in the presentation dress, which had been especially designed to emphasize her freshness, her youth, and her slender figure. She was to wear very small hoops, which articles of dress were now in their largest possible state, preparatory to a long-needed collapse to the graceful puffs of the Pompadour era. Her petticoat was of white India crépe, embroidered in white. Her over-dress was of lace, made en princesse, with the train falling from the shoulders and flowing behind her for more than a yard, like a trail of foam in the wake of a ship.
The busy week ended almost too soon, and Sunday dawned—about an hour before his Majesty rose. During the morning Versailles was deserted. Not a lady had risen, and the gentlemen went shooting, after mass, with his Majesty. Deborah, greatly to her displeasure, had been commanded to stay in bed till three in the afternoon, at which hour she might begin her toilet. Claude was with the hunting-party, however, and his wife rose at ten o'clock and had her chocolate in the dining-room, to the bland amazement of the first lackey. A little later, however, Madame la Comtesse regretted her wilfulness, for she had nothing to do. Despite Mme. de Conti's reassuring instructions, she was extremely nervous as to the evening. She had already practised the presentation at home, with Julie for her Majesty, chairs for the ladies of honor, and the King rather inadequately represented by her dressing-table. This morning, however, Deborah was not in the mood for the tiresome manoeuvres, but instead sat disconsolately at the window, rigorously keeping her thoughts from home, and trying to fasten them, for want of a better subject, on the lady who was also to be presented that evening by Mme. de Conti. This, as history would have it, was a person of somewhat humbler birth than Deborah herself, styled in the beginning Jeanne Poisson, later wedded to solid Lenormand d'Etioles, and at some day now neither dim nor distant to become that Marquise de Pompadour whom an Empress of Austria should salute as an equal. Deborah mused for some time on this unknown lady, ate her solitary dinner without appetite, and lay on her salon sofa for two hours more, thinking unhappily of Maryland, before Julie roused her to begin the momentous toilet.
Evening drew on apace. Claude, returning at something past five from his royal day, found the hair-dresser at his task, and so proceeded to dress before he visited his wife. Supper was served to monsieur and madame in their rooms. Claude ate heartily and gossiped with his valet while his wig was being adjusted, his face powdered, and his suit, the most costly that he had ever worn, together with his diamonds, put on. When all was to his taste, he despatched Rochard to inquire, with much ceremony, if madame would receive her lord. Madame would. And so Claude, with a smile of anticipation, drew from a little cabinet a large, flat, purple morocco box, and, with this in his hand, crossed the passage and tapped gently at the door of Deborah's boudoir.
Julie opened it. Within, facing him, her back to the toilet-table, stood his wife. The room was not very light. Only four candles burned in it, and the disorder of the little place was but dimly exposed. Deborah was quite dressed. Her figure looked taller than usual, from the smallness of her hoops; and, in her delicate, misty robes, with the uncertain light she appeared like some shadowy spirit. Claude stopped upon the threshold and looked at her in silence. She did not speak. And Julie, who had rightly thought her mistress the most beautiful woman in France, stood back in quick chagrin that Monsieur le Comte did not go into ecstasies of delight over madame.
"More light, Julie. She is very well so, but there will be a trying glare in the Queen's salon," was his first remark.
Deborah herself felt disappointed, and turned aside as her maid hastily lit the various waxen tapers in the brackets on the walls. When the little place was as bright as it could be made, Claude went to his wife, placed a hand upon her shoulder, and drew her gently about till she once more faced him. Then he stood off a little, critically examining her, and carefully refraining from any expression of his pleasure. Finally, when he had decided that art could do no more, he merely said, with a little smile, "You wear no jewels, Debby."
She was silent with displeasure, knowing him to be well aware that she possessed none. He passed behind her, however, picked up the box that he had brought in with him, and put it into her hands.
"It is my presentation gift," he said, a little wistfully.
"Claude!" she whispered, without lifting the cover.
"Open it—open and put it on. It is growing late."
Quite breathless now, she opened the box, and gave a low exclamation. Julie shrieked with rapture, and Claude, reading his wife's expression, was satisfied with the reception of his gift.
"Oh, they are much—much more beautiful than Virginia's!" murmured Deborah, as, half afraid to touch them, she lifted the jewels from the box. They consisted of three rows of white pearls, clasped with a larger one, the
first string passing just comfortably about her throat, the second somewhat longer, and the third touching the lace edge of her dress. The ornament was simple enough, but the stones needed no pendants to set them off. In size, evenness, and purity they were incomparable. Deborah's heart was touched. He was very kind to her—as kind as any real lover could be. Why must she always remember that she was a secondary object to him? Why could she never forget that he had only brought her here that his exile might be ended?
"Well then—you are pleased?" he asked, still wistfully.
"Oh yes! You are too good to me, Claude."
"A kiss, then?"
As she kissed him gently upon the forehead he seized one of her hands, clasped it tightly for an instant, and then, putting it quickly away from him, let her go. Julie approached with her wraps, and the lackey announced that the coach was waiting.
The apartments of the Queen in the palace of Versailles were on the south side of the rez-de-chaussée, in the body of the palace, looking out along the south wing. They consisted of five rooms, the Salon de la Reine, where so many royal functions were held, being between her Majesty's bedroom and the Salle du Grand Couvert; while a third door on the north side opened into the antechamber which led out to the Court of the Staircase. This last small room was, to her Majesty's circle, what the Œil-de-Bœuf was to the general court.
The reception planned for this evening of Sunday, November 21st, was to be rather more ceremonious than such affairs became later in the season. There would be six presentations—a large number; and, to the Queen's delight, not only her usual small circle of friends, but the entire Court, had assembled here for the first time in more than a year. Judging from her smiling appearance, it was not probable that the Queen guessed that the reason why her rooms were so frequented was that certain tongues had set afloat the rumor that a new candidate for the favorite's post was to be presented to-night to Queen and Court, to be judged by them as eligible or not.
At one side of her salon, upon a raised dais, beneath a golden canopy, sat Marie Leczinska, royally dressed, looking only like the gentle Polish woman that she was, talking in low tones with Mme. de Boufflers, who would have liked very well to escape for a few moments into the throng. In two semicircular lines, from the throne to the door of the anteroom, leaving between them an open space, stood the dames d'étiquette, or, more properly, the ladies of the palace of the Queen, among whom, magnificently dressed, with the proceeds of her forthcoming task, was the Princess de Conti. Behind these formidable rows the rest of the Court stood, packed in such close masses that many a hooped toilet was threatened with collapse. About the throne were gathered the Queen's immediate friends, the "Saints," as they were termed by members of the King's set; Mme. de Boufflers, from necessity; the Duc and Duchesse de Luynes; M. and Mme. de la Vauguyon; the Duc and Duchesse de Luxembourg; the Cardinal de Tencin; the Cardinal de Luynes; Mme. d'Alincourt; the inevitable Père Griffet; and President Hénault. One person, however, who was becoming a very familiar figure to the Queen's household, was not with them to-night. This was the Abbé François de Bernis, whose connection with Mme. de Coigny had never been discussed in that part of the palace.
M. de Bernis was not, however, absent from Court on this interesting occasion. At the present moment he was in the antechamber, conversing in his peculiarly charming manner with a lady to whom he had just been presented by Richelieu, and who was to be presented to the Queen by Mme. de Conti—Mme. Lenormand d'Etioles. An extremely pretty woman she was, thought the abbé; and well dressed also, in her white satin, with stately hoops, and her neck covered with the sapphires that matched her eyes. While chatting with de Bernis she eyed Richelieu or made close scrutinies of the half-dozen other ladies in the room, with one of whom her stout husband was talking nervously.
"Are all the women here, Monsieur l'Abbé?" she asked, presently.
De Bernis glanced about him. "I have not yet seen Mme. de Mailly. She is late."
"Ah, Mme. de Mailly—the new Countess, is she not? I am curious to see her. She is a cousin of Mme. de Châteauroux."
"Her husband is the cousin. His wife—" de Bernis shrugged—"ended his exile for him, and so brought him back to his famous Marie Anne. However, they say that he never sees her now, so furious is the jealousy of his fair colonial. You know it has been whispered, madame, that his Majesty is less insensible than the young de Mailly."
"Ah! She is not lost yet, then?" inquired Mme. d'Etioles, hastily.
"Not yet. But—when you have been presented, madame—" and de Bernis finished the tactful sentence with a look which completed it admirably.
Mme. d'Etioles smiled with affected indifference; and her next remark was interrupted by the entrance of some one whose arrival at the anteroom created a small sensation. Deborah, with Claude beside her, carrying her cloak, and Henri de Mailly a step behind, with her fan and scarf, floated delicately in, her laces trailing noiselessly about her, apparently unconscious of her beauty, or of the fact that every eye in the little place was upon her. Richelieu, abruptly leaving de Mouhy, hurried to her side, inwardly delighted with her appearance. To Claude's surprise, and perhaps a little to Deborah's also, he paid her no compliment whatever, but merely began a flying conversation on the people, the evening, and the season's promise of gayety.
"So that is the Countess de Mailly," observed Mme. d'Etioles, after a long scrutiny. "How very—a—colonial she appears, and how inelegant she is with those small hoops! Her manner is bourgeois, one can perceive at once. Present her to me, Monsieur l'Abbé."
De Bernis, with an inward smile and very willing obedience, crossed over to Mme. de Mailly, and, after his salutation and some murmured phrases that made Deborah flush, informed her of the request of Mme. d'Etioles. Deborah assented readily, for she hailed with no little relief the prospect of talking to a woman. She was not fond of the conspicuousness that Court ladies struggled for, and which resulted from being surrounded with men. A Maryland training was not that of Versailles.
In the end it was Richelieu who performed the introduction between the women. After their courtesies, Mme. d'Etioles addressed Deborah very cordially, and with so many pretty words about her toilet that de Bernis nodded to himself at her display of one of the traits which promised a Court success. While the little group stood talking in one corner of the anteroom the first lady was summoned for presentation. No one but the abbé took any notice of the exit. He, however, whispered to Richelieu:
"They say that the King will not be present this evening. Is it so?"
The Duke took snuff, slowly. "My dear abbé, if I could read his Majesty's mind I should be first minister in a week."
De Bernis smiled, but looked unsatisfied as he turned again to the ladies. Presently, however, Richelieu continued in his ear: "The King had supper with Monseigneur, who made certain dutiful remarks regarding his fiancée, the Infanta Marie. These, since they might be construed into casting a slur on his Majesty's devotion to the Queen, threw Louis into a—well, a temper. One cannot tell whether he will recover or not. I, like the rest of the Court, shall infinitely regret it if he does not receive these charming women."
"Ah, my lord, has it ever occurred to you—beneath the rose—that Mme. de Mailly almost, in beauty and charm, approaches her—cousin, the Duchesse de Châteauroux?"
A quick frown passed over Richelieu's face, and he glanced sharply about him. Seeing no one who could have overheard the remark, however, he nodded shortly, saying in a tone that finished the matter: "Approaches— perhaps. That, Monsieur l'Abbé, many women might do."
By this time, in the salon, the first four presentations were over. They had been utterly uninteresting, the costumes commonplace, the courtesies only passably executed, and, worse than all, the King had not appeared. It was already long after ten o'clock, and there was small chance now of his entering on the scene. The Court yawned, not even behind its hand, and the very "saints" began to long for some better amusement. Rumor of interest to be found in such functions was certainly false.
After the fourth presentation came a pause.
"Are they finished?" inquired the Queen, hopefully, of the first lady.
"Mme. de Conti announces still two more, your Majesty."
"Two! That is not quite customary. However, bid her hasten them. This is very fatiguing."
A moment later the Princess de Conti passed into the antechamber, the pages at her side. Two or three moments after came the clear announcement from the chamberlain, at the door:
"Mme. de Conti has the honor to present to her Majesty the Comtesse de Nesle de Mailly."
At that moment a small, tapestried door cut in the wall beside the throne, and designed for unceremonious escape or arrival of royalty, was pushed quietly open, and Louis appeared. He was not instantly perceived, for every eye in the room was just then fixed on Deborah, who, with Mme.
de Conti at her side and a royal page bearing her train, entered and passed slowly up the salon towards the Queen. Half-way up the aisle, at a slight sign from her conductress, she made the first reverence. They were not simple to perform, these presentation courtesies. One was obliged to stop short in the walk, and, without any perceptible break in movement, sink slowly to the floor, rise again, and proceed. Many had been the nervous débutante who overbalanced in going down, and had to be rescued from disgrace by the skill of her lady of honor. The barest murmur—approval from the gentlemen and assent from the ladies—floated through the room as Deborah went gracefully down a second time. And the murmur continued, changed into one of surprise, when, Marie Leczinska being perceived to have risen, the King was discovered beside the throne, his whole attention concentrated on Mme. de Mailly in her laces. Deborah herself was extremely nervous. She alone, of all the roomful, had witnessed the entrance of the King. And now, as she finished the progress, her eyes, unconscious of what they were doing, remained fixed on Louis' face. The King was delighted. He answered the gaze with a slight smile, and beheld the young woman's eyes quickly fall, while the color rushed into her cheeks. The Queen, owing to the presence of her husband, stood, while Deborah made the last of the three grand courtesies. Her Majesty was greatly pleased with the youthful innocence of Mme. de Mailly's face and the odd simplicity of her costly dress. Therefore, when Deborah made the motion of kissing the hem of her garment, she extended her hand instead, and afterwards murmured, graciously:
"It is with delight, madame, that we receive you in our salon."
And as Claude's wife repeated the formula of her gratitude and devotion, his Majesty gayly advanced, and, with a "Permit me, Madame la Comtesse," kissed her, as was his custom, upon the left cheek.
Deborah had not been informed of this possible part of the ceremony, and would have backed away in horror had not Mme. de Conti vigorously pinched her arm. A moment later they began the retreat. This time all the ladies of the palace must be included in the semi-courtesies which occurred with every four or five backward steps. It was a difficult performance for all three of the party, the presented, the presenter, and the train-bearer.
