He made his way slowly to the patch of cultivated ground, he knocked at
the door of the hut, and then he called out. No answer was made to the
sound of his voice, he entered, and saw a rude, plain interior. There
were two forms half lying, half propped up by the walls, and some
domestic implements lay about. But when he spoke to the beings they did
not answer, and when he touched their arms they fell powerless on the
ground and remained there. A terrible fear came on the king lest he
should become such as these. He left them and again sought a possible
outlet, but fruitlessly. And that evening he sought the old man again
and inquired what sort of beings these were.
“For though in form and body like children outwardly,” said the king,
“they do nothing and seem unable to move; are they in an enchanted
slumber?”
Then the old man came near to the edge of the ravine and, speaking
solemnly and low, said:
“O king, thou dost not yet know the nature of the place wherein thou
art. For these children are like the children thou hast known always
both in form and body. I have worked on them as far as is within my
power. But here in this valley a law reigns which binds them in
sleepfulness and powerlessness. For here in everything that is done
there is as much pain as pleasure. If it is pleasant to tread a downward
slope there is as much pain in ascending the upward slope. And in every
action there is a pleasant part and a painful part, and in the tasting
of every herb the beings feel a bitter taste and a sweet taste, so
indistinguishably united that the pleasure and the pain of eating it are
equally balanced. And as hunger increases the sense of the bitterness in
the taste increases, so it is never more pleasant to eat than not to
eat. Everything that can be done here affords no more pleasure than it
does pain, from the greatest action down to the least movement. And the
beings as I can make them, they follow pleasure and avoid pain. And if
the pleasure and the pain are equal they do not move one way or the
other.”
“This is impossible,” said the king.
“Nay,” said the old man, “that it is as I have said I will prove to
thee.” And he explained to the king how it would be possible to
stimulate the children to activity, for he showed him how he could
divest anything that was done of part of its pain and render it more
pleasurable than painful. “In this way thou canst lead the beings I have
given thee to do anything,” said the old man, “but the condition is that
thou must take the painful part that thou sparest them thyself.” And he
bade the king cut himself of the reeds that grew by the side of the
ravine, and told him that putting them between himself and any being
would enable him to take a part of the pain and leave in their feeling
the whole of the pleasure and the pain diminished by that part which he
bore himself.
Then the king cut of the reeds that grew by the side of the ravine. He
went to the hut where these beings lay, and, taking the reeds in his
hand, he placed one between the child’s frame and himself. And the child
rose up and walked, while he himself felt a pain in his limbs. And he
found that by taking a pain in each part of him the child would exercise
that part; if he wished the child to look at anything he, by bearing a
pain in his eyes, made looking at it pleasurable to the child, and
accordingly the child did look at the object he wished him to regard.
And again, by bearing a bitter taste in his mouth he made the child feel
eating as pleasant, and the child gathered fruits and ate them.
Then the king by using two reeds made both the children move, and they
went together wheresoever he wished them. But they had not the slightest
idea of the king’s action on them. They recognized each other, and
played with each other. They saw the king and had a certain regard for
him, but of his action on them they knew nothing. For they felt his
bearing the pain as this thing or that being pleasurable. They felt his
action as a motive in themselves.
And all day long the king went with them, leading them through the
valley, bearing the pain of each step, so that the children felt nothing
but pleasure. But at nightfall he led them back to the rude dwelling
where he had found them. He led them by taking the pain from their steps
in that direction, and not taking any of the pain from steps in any
other direction.
And when they had entered the dwelling-place he removed his reeds from
them. Immediately they sank down into the state of apathy in which he
had found them. They did not move.
And the king at nightfall sought again the side of the ravine.
Gazing across it he saw the sandy waste of the land from which he had
come, he saw the great stones which were scattered about, looking pale
and grey in the moonlight. And presently in the shadow of a rock near
the opposite brink he discerned the form of the old man.
And he cried out to him, and bade him come near. And when the old man
stood opposite to him, he besought him to tell him how he could make the
beings go through their movements of life without his bearing so much
pain.
And the old man took his staff in his hand, and he held it out towards
the king, over the depth.
“Behold, O king, thy secret,” he cried. And with his other hand he smote
the staff which was pointing down into the depths. The staff swung to
and fro many times, and at last it came to rest again.
Then the king besought him to explain what this might signify.
“Thou hast been,” replied the old man, “as one who, wishing to make a
staff swing to and fro, has made every movement separately, raising it
up by his hand each time that it falls down. But, behold, when I set it
in movement it goes through many swings of itself, both downward and
upward, until the movement I imparted to it is lost. Even so thou must
make these beings go through both pleasure and pain, thyself bearing but
the difference, not taking all the pain.”
“Must I then,” asked the king, “by bearing pain give these beings a
certain store of pleasure, and then let them go through their various
actions until they have exhausted this store of pleasure?”
Then the old man made answer. “Can I have any secrets from thee?
Hearken, O king, and I will tell thee what lies behind the shows of the
world. What I have shown thee is an outward sign and symbol of what thou
shouldst do, but it lies far outside those recesses whither I shall lead
thee. Thou couldst indeed give these beings a store of pleasure, and
they would go through their actions until it was all spent; but then
thou wouldst be as one of themselves. Thou wouldst have to perform the
painful part of some action and let them perform the pleasant part, and
thus thou wouldst be immersed in the same chain of actions wherein they
were. For regard my staff as it begins to swing. It is not I that make
the movement that is imparted to it; that movement lay stored up in my
arm, and when I struck the staff with my arm it was as if I had let
another staff fall which in its falling gave up its movement to the one
I held in my hand.”
“Where, then, does the movement go to when the staff ceases to swing,”
asked the king.
“It goes to the finer particles of the air, and passes on and on. There
is an endless chain. It is as if there were numberless staffs, larger
and smaller, and when one falls it either raises itself or passes on its
rising to another or to others. There is an endless chain of movement to
and fro, and as one ceases another comes. But, O king, I wish to take
thee behind this long chain and to place thee where thou mayest not say,
I will do this or that; but where thou canst say, This whole chain of
movement shall be or shall not. For as thou regardest this staff
swinging thou seest that it moves as much up as it does down, as much to
right as to left. And if the movements which it goes through came
together it would be at rest. Its motion is but stillness separated into
equal and opposite motions. And in what thou callest rest there are vast
movements. It shall be thine, O king, to strike nothingness asunder and
make things be. Nay, O king, I have not given thee these beings in the
valley for thee to move by outward deeds, but I have given them to thee
such that thou canst strike their apathy asunder and let them live. And
know, O king, that even as those beings are whom thou hast found, so are
all things in the valley down to the smallest. The smallest particle
there is in the valley lies, unless it were for me, without motion. Each
particle has the power of feeling pain and of feeling pleasure, but by
the law of the valley these are equal. Hence of itself no particle
moves. But I make it move, and all things in the valley sooner or later
move back to whence they came. The streams which gather far off in the
valley I lead along to where they fall into the depths between us. There
they shiver themselves into the smallest fragments, and each fragment I
cause to return whence it first came. And, O king, in all this movement,
since it ends where it began, there is no more pleasure than pain. It is
but the apathy of rest broken asunder. But the particles will not go
through this round of themselves. I bear the pain to make them go
through, each one the round I appoint it.”
“How then,” exclaimed the king, thinking of the pain he had felt in
directing the movements of the children, “canst thou bear all this
pain?”
“It is not much,” answered the old man; “and were it more I would
willingly bear it for thee. For think of a particle which has made the
whole round of which I spoke to you—it will make this journey if on the
whole there is the slightest gain of pleasure over pain; and thus,
although for each particle in its movement at every moment I bear the
difference of pain, the pain for each particle is so minute that the
whole course of natural movements in the valley weighs upon me but
little. And behold all lies ready for thee, O king. I have done all that
I can do. I can perfect each natural process, each quality of the
ground, each plant and herb I make, up to the beings whom thou hast
found. They are my last work, and into your hands I give them.”
And when he had said this, the old man let drop his staff, and placing
both hands to his breast he seemed to draw something therefrom, and with
both hands to fling it to the king.
For some moments’ space the king could distinguish nothing, but soon he
became aware of a luminousness over the mid ravine. Something palely
bright was floating towards him. As the brightness came nearer he saw
that it was a centre wherein innumerable bright rays met, and from which
innumerable bright rays went forth in every direction.
“Take that,” the old man cried. “The rays go forth unto everything in
the valley. They pass through everything unto everything. Through them
thou canst touch whatsoever thou wilt.”
The king took the rays and placed them on his breast; thence they went
forth, and through them he touched and knew every part of the valley.
And thinking of the hut where the children lay, the king perceived
through the rays that went thither that the walls were tottering, and
like to fall on the children. And through his rays he knew that the
children perceived this in a dull kind of way; but since in their life
there was no more pleasure than pain, they did not feel it more pleasant
to rise up and move than to be still and be buried.
But the king through the rays, as before through the reeds, took the
pain of moving, and the children rose and came out of the hut; and soon
they were with the king, running and bounding as never children leapt
and ran, with ecstasy of movement and unlimited exuberance of spirit.
But as they leapt and ran the king felt an increasing pain in all his
limbs. Still he liked to see them in their full and joyous activity, and
he wished them to cast off that dull apathy in which they lay. So all
through the night he roamed about with them thinking of all the wildest
things for them to do, and leading them through dance and play, every
movement and activity he could think of.
At length the rising sun began to warm the air, and the king, exhausted
with pain, left off bearing it for them.
After a few languid movements the children sank down on a comfortable
bank into a state of absolute torpor. The king looked at them; it seemed
inconceivable that they could be the same children who had been running
about so merrily a few moments ago. Thus far he had received no
advantage from the rays the old man had given him, except that he could
touch the children more easily.
He turned wearily and looked around. His horse stood there. But instead
of whinnying and running up to greet him, the faithful animal stood
still, looking across the ravine.
“Perchance without my burden, and with the strength these rays may
impart,” thought the king, “he might manage the leap.”
The horse was standing opposite the remains of the natural bridge over
which the two had so rashly crossed the day before. The king touched the
horse with his rays. As with a sudden thrust of the spur, the noble
animal rushed forward and leapt madly from the fragments of the arch.
His fore feet gained the opposite brink, and with a terrible struggle he
raised himself on the firm ground. Then he stood still. With a crash the
remaining fragments of the bridge fell into the gulf, leaving the vast
gap unnarrowed at any part. The horse stood looking over the ravine. But
though the king called him by name, the faithful creature who used to
come to him at the slightest whisper paid no heed. In a few moments he
galloped off along the track the courtiers had pursued.