dignitaries, who moved by affection and love spoke frankly, foreseeing
the calamities to be expected from bad policy, the king was ashamed of
the wrath of the chiefs of his people, and with downcast eyes,
overwhelmed by the sorrowful thought of a separation from his son, he
heaved a deep, woeful sigh, and said to the _S_ibis: 'If this is your
peremptory decision, allow him, at least, the delay of one day and
night. Tomorrow at day-break Vi_s_vantara shall accomplish your desire.'
This answer satisfied the _S_ibis. Then the king said to his
chamberlain: 'Go and tell Vi_s_vantara what has happened.' The
chamberlain said he would do so, and, his face bathed in tears, went to
Vi_s_vantara, who was at that moment in his own palace. Overwhelmed by
his sorrow, he threw himself at the feet of the prince, weeping aloud.
Then Vi_s_vantara anxiously inquired after the health of the royal
family; the other said in a voice rather indistinct by affliction: 'O,
the royal family is well.' 'But why are you thus excited, then?'
Vi_s_vantara replied. Being so asked once more, the chamberlain whose
throat was choked with tears, uttered slowly and in a faltering tone
these words, interrupting and disturbing them by his sobs:
21. 'Brusquely disregarding the royal command, though it was declared to
them in gentle terms, the _S_ibis, moved by anger, order you to be
banished from the kingdom, my prince.'
Vi_s_vantara said: 'Me ... the _S_ibis ... order to be banished, moved
by anger! What you say is out of all reason.
22. 'Never did I take delight in leaving the path of discipline, and I
detest carelessness about my duties. What evil action of mine, unknown
to me, makes the _S_ibis angry with me?'
The chamberlain said: 'They are offended at your exceeding loftiness of
mind.
23, 24. 'Your satisfaction was pure by the disinterested feeling you
experienced, but that of those mendicants was troubled by cupidity. When
you gave away that foremost of elephants, O most noble prince, wrath put
the _S_ibis out of patience and caused them to transgress the limits of
their duty. They are furious against you. You must go, indeed, the way
of those who live as ascetics.'
At this moment the Bodhisattva displayed both his deeply-rooted
affection for the mendicants which his continuous practice of compassion
had firmly established, and his grand, immense patience. He said: 'The
nature of the _S_ibis is fickle, and they cannot understand mine, it
seems.
25. 'The objects of sense being outside of ourselves, it is superfluous
to say that I would give away my eyes or my head[84]. For the benefit of
the creatures I support this body, how much more the possession of
clothes and vehicles.
[84] The Bodhisattva is said to have given away his eyes in one of
his existences (Story II). The gift of his head is related in some
_g_âtaka, not found in this selection of Ârya _S_ûra. It occurs in
Kshemendra's Avadânakalpalatâ, pallava the fifth.
26. 'Me, wanting to honour the requests of the mendicants, if need be,
with my own limbs, the _S_ibis believe to restrain from charity by fear!
So considering, they do but unfold their foolish fickleness of mind.
27. 'Let all _S_ibis kill me or banish me, I shall not desist from
charity for that reason. With this mind I am ready to set out for the
penance-grove.'
After this, the Bodhisattva said to his wife, who had turned pale while
hearing the sad news: 'Your Highness has heard the resolution of the
_S_ibis.' Madrî[85] replied: 'I have.' Vi_s_vantara said:
[85] It is plain that _S_ûra supposes the story of Vi_s_vantara to
be known to his readers. Neither the name of Vi_s_vantara's wife
nor even the fact of his being married has been told before.
28. 'Now make a deposit, fair-eyed one, of all your property, taking
what you have got from my part as well as from your father's side[86].'
[86] On this strîdhana, or 'wife's property,' see the paper of
Jolly in the Sitzungsber. der bair. Akad. der Wiss., 1876.
Madrî answered: 'Where shall I lay the deposit, my prince?' Vi_s_vantara
spoke:
29, 30. 'You must always give in charity to people of good conduct,
embellishing your bounty by kind observance. Goods deposited in this
manner are imperishable and follow us after death. Be a loving daughter
to your parents-in-law, a careful mother to our children. Continue in
pious conduct, beware of inadvertence; but do not mourn for my absence,
will you?'
Upon this, Madrî, avoiding what might impair the firmness of mind of her
husband, suppressed the deep sorrow that put her heart to anguish, and
said with feigned calmness:
31, 32. 'It is not right, Your Majesty, that you should go to the forest
alone. I too will go with you where you must go, my lord. When attending
on you, even death will be a festival to me; but living without you I
deem worse than death.
'Nor do I think the forest-life to be unpleasant at all. Do but consider
it well.
33. 'Removed from wicked people, haunted by deer, resounding with the
warbling of manifold birds, the penance-groves with their rivulets and
trees, both intact, with their grass-plots which have the loveliness of
inlaid lapis lazuli floors, are by far more pleasing than our artificial
gardens.
'Indeed, my prince,
34. 'When beholding these children neatly dressed and adorned with
garlands, playing in the wild shrubs, you will not think of your
royalty.
35. 'The water-carrying brooks, overhung by natural bowers of
perpetually renewed beauty, varying according to the succession of the
seasons, will delight you in the forest.
36, 37. 'The melodious music of the songs of birds longing for the
pleasure of love, the dances of the peacocks whom Lasciviousness has
taught that art, the sweet and praised buzzing of the honey-seeking
bees: they make together a forest-concert that will rejoice your mind.
38. 39. 'Further, the rocks overspread at night with the silk garment of
moonlight; the soft-stroking forest wind impregnated with the scent of
flowering trees; the murmuring noise of the rivulets, pushing their
waters over moving gravel so as to imitate the sound of a number of
rattling female ornaments--all this will gladden your mind in the
forest.'
This entreaty of his well-beloved wife filled him with a great desire to
set out for the forest. Therefore he prepared to bestow great largesses
on the mendicant people.
But in the king's palace the news of the banishment pronounced upon
Vi_s_vantara caused great alarm and violent lamentations. Likewise the
mendicants, agitated by sorrow and grief, became almost beside
themselves, or behaved as if they were intoxicated or mad, and uttered
many and various lamentations of this kind:
40. 'How is it that Earth does not feel ashamed, permitting the hatchets
to hew down that shady tree, her foster-child, the giver of such sweet
fruits? It is now plain she has been deprived of consciousness.'
41. 'If no one will prevent those who are about to destroy that well of
cold, pure, and sweet water, then in truth the guardians of the
world-quarters are falsely named so, or they are absent, or they are
nothing but a mere sound.'
42. 'Oh! Indeed Injustice is awake and Righteousness either asleep or
dead, since prince Vi_s_vantara is banished from his reign.'
43. 'Who possesses such a refined skill in occasioning distress, as to
have the cruelty to aim at starving us, the guiltless, who obtain a
scanty livelihood by begging?'
The Bodhisattva then gave away his wealth. He bestowed on the mendicants
the contents of his treasury, filled to the very top with precious
stones, gold, and silver, of the value of many hundred thousands; his
magazines and granaries, containing stores of manifold goods and grains;
all his other property, consisting of slaves of both sexes, beasts of
draught, carriages, garments and the like. The whole of this he
distributed according to the merit of the recipients. This being done,
he paid his respectful homage to his father and mother, taking leave of
them, who were overwhelmed with sadness and grief. Then he mounted his
royal chariot with his wife and children. He left the capital, while a
great body of people uttered lamentations, the streets being as noisy as
on a holiday; nor did he succeed without difficulty in making the crowd
turn back, who followed him out of affection, shedding tears of sorrow.
Then himself taking the reins, he drove in the direction of Mount Vaṅka.
And without the least agitation of mind he passed along the environs of
the capital, crowned with charming gardens and groves, and approached
the forest, betokened by the gradually increasing rareness of shady
trees and of human beings, the sight of flocks of antelopes running at a
far distance, and the chirping of crickets. Now by chance some Brâhmans
came to meet him, who begged from him the horses that were drawing his
chariot.
44. And he, though on a journey of many yo_g_anas without attendants,
and burdened with his wife, gave away to these Brâhmans his four horses,
being rejoiced at this opportunity of giving, and not caring for the
future.
Now, when the Bodhisattva was about to put himself under the yoke, and
was fastening the girth tightly round his waist, there appeared four
young Yakshas, under the form of red deer. Like well-trained excellent
horses they put their shoulders under the yoke themselves. On seeing
them, the Bodhisattva said to Madrî, who stared at them with joy and
surprise:
45. 'Behold the extraordinary might of the penance-groves honoured by
the residence of ascetics. Their kindness towards guests has in this
degree taken root in the breast of the foremost of deer.'
Madrî replied:
46. 'This is rather your superhuman power, I suppose. The practice of
virtue by the pious, however deeply rooted, is not the same with respect
to everybody.
47. 'When the beautiful reflection of the stars in the water is
surpassed by the laughing lustre of the night-waterlilies, the cause
thereof is to be found in the beams which the Moon-god sends down as if
out of curiosity[87].'
[87] The white waterlilies (kumuda) are said to open at moonrise.
The connection between these flowers and the moon is a commonplace
in Indian poetry.
While they were going on, so speaking to each other kind words of
affection, see, another Brâhman came near, and asked the Bodhisattva for
his royal chariot.
48. And the Bodhisattva, as he was indifferent to his own comfort, but
to the beggars a loving kinsman, fulfilled the wish of that Brâhman.
He gladly caused his family to alight from the chariot, presented the
Brâhman with it, and taking _G_âlin, his boy, in his arms, he continued
his way on foot. Madrî, she too free from sadness, took the girl,
K_ri_sh_n_â_g_inâ, in her arms and marched after him.
49. The trees, stretching out to him their branches adorned at their
ends with charming fruits, invited him, as it were, to enjoy their
hospitality, and paying homage to his merit-obtained dignity, bowed to
him like obedient disciples, when they got sight of him.
50. And, where he longed for water, in those very places lotus-ponds
appeared to his eyes, covered on their surface with the white and
reddish-brown pollen fallen down from the anthers of the lotuses shaken
by the wing-movements of the swans.
51. The clouds overspread him with a beautiful canopy; there blew an
agreeable and odoriferous wind; and his path was shortened by Yakshas
not enduring his labour and fatigue.
In this manner the Bodhisattva with his wife and children experienced
the pleasure and the delight of a walk, without feeling the sensation of
weariness, just as if he were in some park, and at last he perceived
Mount Vaṅka. Being showed the way by some foresters, he went up to the
penance-forest which was on that mountain. This forest was beset with
manifold charming and smooth-barked, excellent trees, with their
ornaments of twigs, flowers, and fruits; birds exulting with lust made
it resound with their various notes; groups of dancing peacocks enhanced
its beauty; many kinds of deer lived in it. It was encircled as with a
girdle by a river of pure, blue water, and the wind was agreeable there,
carrying red flower-dust. In this grove stood a desert hut of leaves,
lovely to behold, and pleasing in every season. Vi_s_vakarman himself
had built it by the orders of _S_akra. There the Bodhisattva took up his
residence.
52. Attended by his beloved wife, enjoying the artless and sweet talk of
his children, not thinking of the cares of royalty, like one who is
staying in his gardens, he practised in that grove strong penance for
half a year.
One day, when the princess had gone to seek roots and fruits, and the
prince watching the children kept himself within the borders of the
hermitage, there arrived a Brâhman, whose feet and ankles were stiff
with the dust of the journey, and whose eyes and cheeks were sunken by
toil; he was bearing over his shoulder a wooden club, from which his
waterpot hung down. His wife had despatched him with the pressing
errand, to go and search after some attendance. When the Bodhisattva saw
a mendicant coming up to him after a long time, his heart rejoiced, and
his countenance began to beam. He went to meet him, and welcomed him
with kind words. After the usual complimentary conversation he told him
to enter the hermitage, where he entertained him with the honour due to
a guest. Then he asked him the object of his coming. And the Brâhman,
who through fondness for his wife had banished virtue and shame and was
but eager to receive his boon, said in truth something like this:
53. 'Where a light is and an even road, there it is easy for men to go.
But in this world the darkness of selfishness prevails to such a degree
that no other men would support my words of request.
54. 'Thy brilliant renown of heroic almsgiving has penetrated
everywhere. For this reason I have undertaken this labour of begging
from thee. Give me both thy children to be my attendants.'
Being so addressed, the Bodhisattva, that Great Being,
55. As he was in the habit of cheerfully giving to mendicants and had
never learnt to say no, bravely said that he would give even both his
darlings.
'Bless thee! But what art thou still waiting for?' Thus speaking the
Brâhman urged the Great Being. Now the children, having heard their
father saying he would give them away, became afflicted, and their eyes
filled with tears. His affection for them agitated him, and made his
heart sink. So the Bodhisattva spoke:
56, 57. 'They are thine, being given by me to thee. But their mother is
not at home. She went out to the forest in search of roots and fruits;
she will come back at evening-time. Let their mother see them, neatly
dressed as they are now and bearing wreaths, and kiss[88] them
(farewell). Rest this night here; to-morrow thou shalt carry them away.'
[88] The literal translation is 'to smell at.' This old and
traditional manner of caressing is prescribed in the ritual-books,
see for instance, Â_s_valâyanag_ri_hyasûtra I, 15, 9; Pâraskara I,
18; Gobhila II, 8, 22 and 25.
The Brâhman said: 'Thy Reverence ought not to urge me.
58. 'A metaphorical name of womankind is "beautiful charmers[89]," thou
knowest. She might prove a hindrance to the fulfilment of thy promise.
Therefore I do not like staying here.'
[89] I have tried to render approximately the ambiguousness of the
original. Women are designated, says the Brâhman, by the
appellation of vâmâ_h_. Now vâmá means 'beautiful,' but pronounced
with a different accent vâma, it is a word signifying 'left,
contrary, opposite.'
The Bodhisattva said: 'Do not think of that. My wife will not obstruct
the fulfilment of my promise. She is in fact the companion of my pious
practice[90]. But do as pleases Thy Reverence. Yet, great Brâhman, thou
shouldst consider this:
[90] Vi_s_vantara uses here the solemn appellation of
sahadharma_k_âri_n_î (= 'housewife') with its full meaning. The
formula sahobhau _k_arata_m_ dharmam is uttered in the fourth or
Prâ_g_âpatya form of marriage. Manu III, 30.
59-61. 'How should these children satisfy thy wants by slavework? They
are very young and weak and have never been accustomed to such kind of
occupation. But the king of _S_ibi, their grandfather, seeing them
fallen into this state of bondage, will doubtlessly give thee as much
money as thou desirest to redeem them. Well, for this reason I pray
thee, take them to his realm. When acting thus, thou wilt get the
possession of great wealth and at the same time of righteousness.'
'No' (said the Brâhman), 'I do not venture to come to this king with an
offer which would excite his anger; he would be unapproachable like a
snake.
62. 'He would have the children torn from me by force, perhaps he would
also inflict punishment on me. I shall bring them rather to my
Brâhma_n_î that they may attend on her.'
Upon this the Bodhisattva said nothing but: 'Then as thou likest,'
without finishing the sentence. He instructed the little ones with
persuasive words how they had to act in accordance with their new
condition of servants; after which he took the waterpot, bending it
over the outstretched hand of the Brâhman, greedy to accept the
ratification of the gift.
63. Yielding to his effort, the water poured down from the pot, and at
the same time tears fell without effort from his eyes resembling dark
red lotus-petals.
Overjoyed with his success, agitated by his excitement, and hastening to
carry off the children of the Bodhisattva, the Brâhman uttered a short
phrase of benediction, and telling the children with a harsh voice of
command to go out, he prepared to make them leave the hermitage. They,
however, could not bear the too intense grief of separation, their
hearts shrunk together and they embraced the feet of their father.
Bathed in tears, they exclaimed:
64. 'Mother is out of doors, while you are about to give us away. Do not
give us away before we have bidden adieu to mother too.'
Now the Brâhman reflected: 'The mother will return erelong, or it is
likely that his paternal love will make him repent.' Thus considering,
he tied their hands like a bundle of lotuses with a creeper, and as they
were reluctant and looked back at their father, he began to drag those
young and delicate children along with him, threatening them. At this
moment K_ri_sh_n_â_g_inâ the girl, having never before experienced a
sudden calamity, cried out with tears to her father:
65. 66. 'This cruel Brâhman, father, hurts me with a creeper. No, it is
no Brâhman, to be sure. Brahmans are righteous, they say. It is an ogre
under the guise of a Brâhman. Certainly he carries us off to eat us. Why
do you suffer us, father, to be led away by this ogre?'
And _G_âlin the boy lamented on account of his mother, saying:
67. 'I do not suffer so much by the violence of this Brâhman, as by the
absence of mother. It is as if my heart is pierced by grief that I did
not see her.
68. 'Oh! certainly, mother will weep for us for a long time in the
empty hermitage, like the bird _k_âtaka[91] whose little ones have been
killed.
[91] This bird, the cuculus melanoleucus, is a favourite with
Indian poets and rhetoricians. It is said to feed on raindrops.
69. 'How will mother behave, when coming back with the many roots and
fruits she has gathered in the forest for us, she will find the
hermitage empty?
70. 'Here, father, are our toy horses, elephants, and chariots. Half of
them you must give to mother, that she may assuage her grief therewith.
71. 'You must also present to her our respectful salutations and
withhold her at any rate from afflicting herself; for it will be
difficult for us, father, to see you and her again.
72. 'Come, K_ri_sh_n_â, let us die. Of what use is life to us? We have
been delivered by the prince to a Brâhman who is in want of money.'
After so speaking they parted. But the Bodhisattva, though his mind was
shaken by these most piteous laments of his children, did not move from
the place where he was sitting. While representing to himself that it is
not right to repent having given, his heart was burnt by the fire of
irremediable grief, and his mind became troubled, as though it were
paralysed by torpor occasioned by poison. The fanning of the cool wind
made him soon recover his senses, and seeing the hermitage noiseless and
silent, as it were, being devoid of his children, he said to himself in
a voice choked with tears:
73. 'How is it possible that this man did not scruple to strike my very
heart before my very eyes in my children?[92] O, fie on that shameless
Brâhman!
[92] Lit.: 'On my very heart, whose name is offspring.' This
identification of the heart of the father with his children depends
on an old formula, forming part of the prayers and sacred mantras
of the g_ri_hya-books. Cp. also Kaushîtakibrâhma_n_opanishad II,
11.
74. 'How may they be capable of making the journey, going bare-footed,
unable to bear fatigue by reason of their tender age, and become
servants to that man?
75. 'Who will afford rest to them, when they are way-worn and exhausted?
Whom may they go and ask, if vexed by the suffering of hunger and
thirst?
76. 'If this sorrow strikes even me, the earnest striver after firmness
of mind, what then will be the condition of those little ones, brought
up in ease?
77. 'Oh! the separation from my children is to my mind like a burning
fire.... Nevertheless, who, holding on to the righteous conduct of the
virtuous, would give way to repentance?'
In the meanwhile Madrî was disquieted by ill omens and prognostics, the
foretokens of some accident. Desiring therefore to get back with her
roots and fruits as soon as possible, she was obstructed on the way by
ferocious animals, and was obliged to return to the hermitage by a long
circuitous way. And when she did not see her children neither on the
way, where they were used to come to meet her, nor in the playground,
her uneasiness greatly increased.
78. Apprehending evil because of these dreadful sensations of danger,
she was agitated and anxious, and looked round about if she might get
sight of the children; then she called them. Receiving no answer, she
began to lament, being sore with grief.
79. 'Formerly the hermitage, resounding with the shouts of my children,
appeared to me a much-frequented region; now not perceiving them, I feel
myself helpless in the very same place as in a wilderness.
80. 'But perhaps they have fallen asleep and are slumbering, tired with
playing. Or should they have gone astray in the thicket? Or should they
have hidden themselves out of childishness, being displeased that I was
so long in coming home?
81. 'But why do not yonder birds warble? Are they perhaps bewildered,
having witnessed mischief done to the children? Can it be that my
darlings have been carried away by that very rapid stream, which is
eagerly pushing forth its dashing waves?
'Oh! that my suspicions may prove to be groundless and false even now,
and the prince and the children be well! Oh! may the evil-boding
prognostics find their fulfilment on my body! But why then is my heart
big with sadness because of them? Why is it enwrapt in the night of
sorrow and as if it would sink away? Why is it that my limbs seem to
slacken, that I am no more able to discern the objects around me, that
this grove, deprived of its lustre, seems to turn round?'
Having entered the hermitage-ground and put aside her roots and fruits,
she went to her husband. After performing the usual salutation, she
asked him for the children. Now the Bodhisattva, knowing the tenderness
of a mother's love and also considering that bad news is hard to be
told, was not able to make any answer.
82. It is a very difficult matter for a pitiful man, indeed, to torment
with evil tidings the mind of one who has come to him and deserves to
hear pleasant words.
Then Madrî thought: 'Surely, some ill has befallen the children; his
silence must be the effect of his being overwhelmed by grief and
sadness,' and almost stricken with stupor she stared about the
hermitage, but saw no children. And again she said in a voice rather
indistinct by smothered tears:
83. 'I do not see the children, and you do not speak anything to me!
Alas! I am wretched, I am forlorn. This silence speaks of some great
evil.'
No sooner had she said these words, than overpowered by the sorrow that
tortured her heart, she sank down like a creeper violently cut off. The
Bodhisattva prevented her from falling to the ground, clasping his arms
round her, and brought her to a grass couch, on which lying and being
sprinkled with cold water she recovered her senses. Then he endeavoured
to comfort her, saying: