by
Norman Pitman
Once upon a time in China there lived a certain king who
had three daughters. The fairest and best of these was Kwan-yin,
the youngest. The old king was justly proud of this daughter, for
of all the women who had ever lived in the palace she was by far
the most attractive. It did not take him long, therefore, to decide
that she should be the heir to his throne, and her husband ruler of
his kingdom. But, strange to say, Kwan-yin was not pleased at this
good fortune. She cared little for the pomp and splendor of court
life. She foresaw no pleasure for herself in ruling as a queen, but
even feared that in so high a station she might feel out of place
and unhappy.
Every day she went to her room to read and study. As a
result of this daily labor she soon went far beyond her sisters
along the paths of knowledge, and her name was known in the
farthest corner of the kingdom as "Kwan-yin, the wise princess."
Besides being very fond of books, Kwan-yin was thoughtful of her
friends. She was careful about her behavior both in public and in
private. Her warm heart was open at all times to the cries of those
in trouble. She was kind to the poor and suffering. She won the
love of the lower classes, and was to them a sort of goddess to
whom they could appeal whenever they were hungry and in need. Some
people even believed that she was a fairy who had come to earth
from her home within the Western Heaven, while others said that
once, long years before, she had lived in the world as a prince
instead of a princess. However this may be, one thing is certain -
Kwan-yin was pure and good, and well deserved the praises that were
showered upon her.
One day the king called this favorite daughter to the
royal bedside, for he felt that the hour of death was drawing near.
Kwan-yin kowtowed before her royal father, kneeling and touching
her forehead on the floor in sign of deepest reverence. The old man
bade her rise and come closer. Taking her hand tenderly in his own,
he said, "Daughter, you know well how I love you. Your modesty and
virtue, your talent and your love of knowledge, have made you first
in my heart. As you know already, I chose you as heir to my kingdom
long ago. I promised that your husband should be made ruler in my
stead. The time is almost ripe for me to ascend upon the dragon and
become a guest on high. It is necessary that you be given at once
in marriage."
"But, most exalted father," faltered the princess, "I am
not ready to be married."
"Not ready, child! Why, are you not eighteen? Are not the
daughters of our nation often wedded long before they reach that
age? Because of your desire for learning I have spared you thus far
from any thought of a husband, but now we can wait no longer."
"Royal father, hear your child, and do not compel her to
give up her dearest pleasures. Let her go into a quiet convent
where she may lead a life of study!"
The king sighed deeply at hearing these words. He loved
his daughter and did not wish to wound her. "Kwan-yin," he
continued, "do you wish to pass by the green spring of youth, to
give up this mighty kingdom? Do you wish to enter the doors of a
convent where women say farewell to life and all its pleasures? No!
your father will not permit this. It grieves me sorely to
disappoint you, but one month from this very day you shall be
married. I have chosen for your royal partner a man of many noble
parts. You know him by name already, although you have not seen
him. Remember that, of the hundred virtues filial conduct is the
chief, and that you owe more to me than to all else on earth."
Kwan-yin turned pale. Trembling, she would have sunk to
the floor, but her mother and sisters supported her, and by their
tender care brought her back to consciousness.
Every day of the month that followed, Kwan-yin's relatives
begged her to give up what they called her foolish notion. Her
sisters had long since given up hope of becoming queen. They were
amazed at her stupidity. The very thought of any one's choosing a
convent instead of a throne was to them a sure sign of madness.
Over and over again they asked her reason for making so strange a
choice. To every question, she shook her head, replying, "A voice
from the heavens speaks to me, and I must obey it."
On the eve of the wedding day Kwan-yin slipped out of the
palace, and, after a weary journey, arrived at a convent called,
"The Cloister of the White Sparrow." She was dressed as a poor
maiden. She said she wished to become a nun. The abbess, not
knowing who she was, did not receive her kindly. Indeed, she told
Kwan-yin that they could not receive her into the sisterhood, that
the building was full. Finally, after Kwan-yin had shed many tears,
the abbess let her enter, but only as a sort of servant, who might
be cast out for the slightest fault.
Now that Kwan-yin found herself in the life which she had
long dreamt of leading, she tried to be satisfied. But the nuns
seemed to wish to make her stay among them most miserable. They
gave her the hardest tasks to do, and it was seldom that she had a
minute to rest. All day long she was busy, carrying water from a
well at the foot of the convent hill or gathering wood from a
neighboring forest. At night when her back was almost breaking, she
was given many extra tasks, enough to have crushed the spirit of
any other woman than this brave daughter of a king. Forgetting her
grief, and trying to hide the lines of pain that sometimes wrinkled
her fair forehead, she tried to make these hard-hearted women love
her. In return for their rough words, she spoke to them kindly, and
never did she give way to anger.
One day while poor Kwan-yin was picking up brushwood in
the forest she heard a tiger making his way through the bushes.
Having no means of defending herself, she breathed a silent prayer
to the gods for help, and calmly awaited the coming of the great
beast. To her surprise, when the bloodthirsty animal appeared,
instead of bounding up to tear her in pieces, he began to make a
soft purring noise. He did not try to hurt Kwan-yin, but rubbed
against her in a friendly manner, and let her pat him on the
head.
'All day she was busy carrying water.'
The next day the princess went back to the same spot.
There she found no fewer than a dozen savage beasts working under
the command of the friendly tiger, gathering wood for her. In a
short time enough brush and firewood had been piled up to last the
convent for six months. Thus, even the wild animals of the forest
were better able to judge of her goodness than the women of the
sisterhood.
At another time when Kwan-yin was toiling up the hill for
the twentieth time, carrying two great pails of water on a pole, an
enormous dragon faced her in the road. Now, in China, the dragon is
sacred, and Kwan-yin was not at all frightened, for she knew that
she had done no wrong.
The animal looked at her for a moment, switched its horrid
tail, and shot out fire from its nostrils. Then, dashing the burden
from the startled maiden's shoulder, it vanished. Full of fear,
Kwan-yin hurried up the hill to the nunnery. As she drew near the
inner court, she was amazed to see in the center of the open space
a new building of solid stone. It had sprung up by magic since her
last journey down the hill. On going forward, she saw that there
were four arched doorways to the fairy house. Above the door facing
west was a tablet with these words written on it: "In honor of
Kwan-yin, the faithful princess." Inside was a well of the purest
water, while, for drawing this water, there a strange machine, the
like of which neither Kwan-yin nor the nuns had ever seen.
The sisters knew that this magic well was a monument to
Kwan-yin's goodness. For a few days they treated her much better.
"Since the gods have dug a well at our very gate," they said, "this
girl will no longer need to bear water from the foot of the hill.
For what strange reason, however, did the gods write this beggar's
name on the stone?"
Kwan-yin heard their unkind remarks in silence. She could
have explained the meaning of the dragon's gift, but she chose to
let her companions remain in ignorance. At last the selfish nuns
began to grow careless again, and treated her even worse than
before. They could not bear to see the poor girl enjoy a moment's
idleness.
"This is a place for work," they told her. "All of us have
labored hard to win our present station. You must do likewise." So
they robbed her of every chance for study and prayer, and gave her
no credit for the magic well.
One night the sisters were awakened from their sleep by
strange noises, and soon they heard outside the walls of the
compound the blare of a trumpet. A great army had been sent by
Kwan-yin's father to attack the convent, for his spies had at last
been able to trace the runaway princess to this holy retreat.
"Oh, who has brought this woe upon us?" exclaimed all the
women, looking at each other in great fear. "Who has done this
great evil? There is one among us who has sinned most terribly, and
now the gods are about to destroy us." They gazed at one another,
but no one thought of Kwan-yin, for they did not believe her of
enough importance to attract the anger of heaven, even though she
might have done the most shocking of deeds. Then, too, she had been
so meek and lowly while in their holy order that they did not once
dream of charging her with any crime.
The threatening sounds outside grew louder and louder. All
at once a fearful cry arose among the women: "They are about to
burn our sacred dwelling." Smoke was rising just beyond the
enclosure where the soldiers were kindling a great fire, the heat
of which would soon be great enough to make the convent walls
crumble into dust.
Suddenly a voice was heard above the tumult of the weeping
sisters: "Alas! I am the cause of all this trouble."
The nuns, turning in amazement, saw that it was Kwan-yin
who was speaking. "You?" they exclaimed, astounded.
"Yes, I, for I am indeed the daughter of a king. My father
did not wish me to take the vows of this holy order. I fled from
the palace. He has sent his army here to burn these buildings and
to drag me back a prisoner."
"Then, see what you have brought upon us, miserable girl!"
exclaimed the abbess. "See how you have repaid our kindness! Our
buildings will be burned above our heads! How wretched you have
made us! May heaven's curses rest upon you!"
"No, no!" exclaimed Kwan-yin, springing up, and trying to
keep the abbess from speaking these frightful words. "You have no
right to say that, for I am innocent of evil. But, wait! You shall
soon see whose prayers the gods will answer, yours or mine!" So
saying, she pressed her forehead to the floor, praying the almighty
powers to save the convent and the sisters.
Outside the crackling of the greedy flames could already
be heard. The fire king would soon destroy every building on that
hill-top. Mad with terror, the sisters prepared to leave the
compound and give up all their belongings to the cruel flames and
still more cruel soldiers. Kwan-yin alone remained in the room,
praying earnestly for help.
Suddenly a soft breeze sprang up from the neighboring
forest, dark clouds gathered overhead, and, although it was the dry
season a drenching shower descended on the flames. Within five
minutes the fire was put out and the convent was saved. Just as the
shivering nuns were thanking Kwan-yin for the divine help she had
brought them, two soldiers who had scaled the outer wall of the
compound came in and roughly asked for the princess.
The trembling girl, knowing that these men were obeying
her father's orders, poured out a prayer to the gods, and
straightway made herself known. They dragged her from the presence
of the nuns who had just begun to love her. Thus disgraced before
her father's army, she was taken to the capital.
On the morrow, she was led before the old king. The father
gazed sadly at his daughter, and then the stern look of a judge
hardened his face as he beckoned the guards to bring her
forward.
From a neighboring room came the sounds of sweet music. A
feast was being served there amid great splendor. The loud laughter
of the guests reached the ears of the young girl as she bowed in
disgrace before her father's throne. She knew that this feast had
been prepared for her, and that her father was willing to give her
one more chance.
"Girl," said the king, at last regaining his voice, "in
leaving the royal palace on the eve of your wedding day, not only
did you insult your father, but your king. For this act you deserve
to die. However, because of the excellent record you had made for
yourself before you ran away, I have decided to give you one more
chance to redeem yourself. Refuse me, and the penalty is death:
obey me, and all may yet be well - the kingdom that you spurned is
still yours for the asking. All that I require is your marriage to
the man whom I have chosen."
"And when, most august King, would you have me decide?"
asked Kwan-yin earnestly.
"This very day, this very hour, this very moment," he
answered sternly. "What! would you hesitate between love upon a
throne and death? Speak, my daughter, tell me that you love me and
will do my bidding!"
It was now all that Kwan-yin could do to keep from
throwing herself at her father's feet and yielding to his wishes,
not because he offered her a kingdom, but because she loved him and
would gladly have made him happy. But her strong will kept her from
relenting. No power on earth could have stayed her from doing what
she thought her duty.
"Beloved father," she answered sadly, and her voice was
full of tenderness, "it is not a question of my love for you - of
that there is no question, for all my life I have shown it in every
action. Believe me, if I were free to do your bidding, gladly would
I make you happy, but a voice from the gods has spoken, has
commanded that I remain a virgin, that I devote my life to deeds of
mercy. When heaven itself has commanded, what can even a princess
do but listen to that power which rules the earth?"
The old king was far from satisfied with Kwan-yin's
answer. He grew furious, his thin wrinkled skin turned purple as
the hot blood rose to his head. "Then you refuse to do my bidding!
Take her, men! Give to her the death that is due to a traitor to
the king!" As they bore Kwan-yin away from his presence the
white-haired monarch fell, swooning, from his chair.
That night, when Kwan-yin was put to death, she descended
into the lower world of torture. No sooner had she set foot in that
dark country of the dead than the vast region of endless punishment
suddenly blossomed forth and became like the gardens of Paradise.
Pure white lilies sprang up on every side, and the odor of a
million flowers filled all the rooms and corridors. King Yama,
ruler of the dominion, rushed forth to learn the cause of this
wonderful change. No sooner did his eyes rest upon the fair young
face of Kwan-yin than he saw in her the emblem of a purity which
deserved no home but heaven.
"Beautiful virgin, doer of many mercies," he began, after
addressing her by her title, "I beg you in the name of justice to
depart from this bloody kingdom. It is not right that the fairest
flower of heaven should enter and shed her fragrance in these
halls. Guilt must suffer here, and sin find no reward. Depart thou,
then, from my dominion. The peach of immortal life shall be
bestowed upon you, and heaven alone shall be your dwelling
place."
Thus Kwan-yin became the Goddess of Mercy; thus she
entered into that glad abode, surpassing all earthly kings and
queens. And ever since that time, on account of her exceeding
goodness, thousands of poor people breathe out to her each year
their prayers for mercy. There is no fear in their gaze as they
look at her beautiful image, for their eyes are filled with tears
of love.
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