PART III

[Cover Illustration]

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_THE NOVELS OF_

_L. ADAMS BECK_

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THE KEY OF DREAMS

THE PERFUME OF THE RAINBOW

THE TREASURE OF HO

THE NINTH VIBRATION

THE WAY OF STARS

THE SPLENDOUR OF ASIA

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[Illustration: A GANDHARA BUDDHA AT HOTI-MARDAN]

THE

SPLENDOUR OF ASIA

THE STORY AND TEACHING OF THE BUDDHA

BY

L. ADAMS BECK

[Illustration]

NEW YORK

DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY

1926

COPYRIGHT, 1926,

BY DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY, INC.

PRINTED IN U. S. A.

THE VAIL-BALLOU PRESS

BINGHAMTON AND NEW YORK

_I dedicate this book to_

ELLERY SEDGWICK

WHO INSPIRED ME WITH THE IDEA

OF WRITING IT.

PREFACE

I have endeavoured in this book to make not only the story but the

teaching of the Buddha intelligible and human, so that those who wish to

understand one of the greatest facts in history may not find themselves

entangled in the mazes of scholastic terms, and may perhaps be enabled

to realize its strange coincidences with modern psychology and certain

scientific verities. The teaching of the Indian Prince has indeed

nothing to dread from science. Sir Edwin Arnold’s beautiful “Light of

Asia” ends very early in that great ministry, and I have continued the

story to the death of the Buddha, and have enriched it with many

scriptures and ancient traditions unknown to or unused by Sir Edwin.

Words would fail me if I attempted to express how necessary I think a

knowledge of this high faith and philosophy is to leaven the materialism

of the West, and the reception my books on cognate subjects have had

encourages me to think there may be those who will see in what I here

set down a great revelation of truth. It is, at all events a truth which

influenced not only the mightiest thinkers of Greece and Rome, but also

the beginnings of Christian teaching—which it antedated by five or six

hundred years. It may well claim kindred with all the great faiths,

persecuting and opposing none which differ with it, and this for reasons

which are easily seen in the teachings themselves. In relation to its

noble and scientific austerity no words are needed.

Of the Founder himself, I may quote a great Buddhist scholar’s opinion,

one which none who have studied the subject impartially will controvert.

“Perhaps never while the world has lasted has there been a personality

who has wielded such a tremendous influence over the thinking of

humanity. And whoso recognizes this will also recognize that almost two

and a half millenniums ago the supreme summit of spiritual development

was reached, and that at that distant time in the quiet hermit groves

along the Ganges already had been thought the highest man can think.”

Of the august beauty of the Life those who read will form their own

judgment. It has been the mainspring of the highest art of Asia. It has

brought peace to myriads. It will bring it to many more.

I have consulted all the available Scriptures, and have not forgotten

the great traditions. I am indebted to all the best known scholars,

including Max Müller, Faüsboll, Dahlke, Rhys Davids, his accomplished

wife, Beal, and many more. I must mention Professor Radhakrishnan and

other Indian writers, and among illuminating thinkers I must not forget

Dr. Carus, and Mr. Edmond Holmes. To the latter’s work I owe a debt

because he appears to me to appreciate more keenly than other writers

the true point of junction between the early and later interpretations

of the Buddha’s teaching. I have myself had the advantage of studying

later Buddhist interpretation with Japanese scholars, with whom I have

translated the Buddhist Psalms of Shinran Shonin. About some of these

interpretations there will always be points of difference until we have

access to the whole body of ancient teaching in the Far East as well as

in India, and freedom from all error is beyond hope.

If any Buddhist scholars should look into this book they will recall the

immense difficulty of (so to speak) translating their work for the

public, especially where the words of one language often fail to

represent the thought of another. They will therefore be lenient to

shortcomings. They will note that I have employed Pali or Sanscrit words

and names alternatively as I thought they would be more familiar or

easier to remember. _Karma_ for _kamma_, and _Nirvana_ for _Nibbana_ are

instances of many others. I have omitted accents as mystifying to those

unfamiliar with Indian languages.

I can scarcely hope to satisfy scholars and the general public. But if I

succeed in interesting some of the latter, the former, will, I think,

recognize that my aim was justified.

L. ADAMS BECK.

CONTENTS

PART I

PART II

PART III

PART IV

PART I

CHAPTER I

THUS have I heard.

Nearly two thousand five hundred years ago, in the City of Kapila in

Northern India, the spring came with glory. And surely nowhere in all

the three worlds is spring more gracious, for the sunshine, life-giving,

inspiring, draws divine scents from moist earth and the deep luxuriance

of leaves and flowers to send on every breathing breeze pure incense

from the world, rejoicing as a bride in the all-enfolding delight.

Here stood the little City of Kapila, nobly placed, as beseems the

birthplace of the Perfect One, and above it the Himalayas stormed the

skies with tossing billows of snow, leading the aspiration of man on and

up until it melted in the Divine. On these, as was known, the Divinities

had their dwelling. Thence Indra, the heavenly lord, drove his flocks of

clouds to pasture in pure air, taking form and colour from the

splendours of the sun and the moon and the silver embroidery of the

constellations. Vaya, lord of the winds, charged in thunder or breathed

in music from awful heights of snow. Surya, the Sun, urged his golden

steeds from the low horizon to the zenith and on to the confines of

night. Chandra, the moon, rose on the crest of the mighty range and sank

below it into his mysterious kingdom in the darkening west. The deep

pine forests clothing the lower spurs and veiling the sources of the

rivers must surely have their indwelling spirits, and the river Rohini,

breaking light-foot from the heights to scatter her diamonds as she

leaped from rock to rock or brooded a moment in deep pools mirroring her

ferns and flowers—what was she but a lovely, living nymph, a Dancer,

pure as the silver peaks that fathered her? Therefore let it be known

that this city was set among celestial influences, that the gates of the

Paradise of India were not far from it, and that the Four Celestial

Kings were its wardens. And it dwelt at this time in a great peace.

The city and surrounding country, a part of the great kingdom of Kosala,

were inhabited by the Sakya clan. Very great was the kingdom of Kosala.

The vast and holy city of Benares, a hundred miles south from Kapila,

was but one of its cities, and its capital, Savatthi, lay in the cloudy

mountains of Nepal. To the south-east lay the kingdom of Magadha, and

only the great Gods then knew to which of these kingdoms would fall the

sceptre of India.

And peaceful was the City of Kapila, the City of Red Earth, home of the

Sakya clansmen, a race strong and high, for they were of the Arya, the

Noble People, and it was they who descending into India through the

passes had conquered the dark men of the land and driven them before

them like the shadows of night fleeing before the arrows of dawn; and

having dispossessed the dark-skinned, the lawless, the godless, the

fair-skinned Noble People entered in upon their lands and made them

theirs. With them the Noble People brought their Gods of Heaven and

Earth, and these they worshipped with sacrifice and ritual and chanting

of mantra and offerings of cows and grain and ghi and all the savours

dear to hovering divinity. And in peace and plenty their Maharaja ruled

them.

Very fair was the city on the banks of bright Rohini. As there were few

men of arrogant, dominant riches, so was there no piercing poverty, and,

since life was simple, all had enough. The streets were clean-swept and

watered, and parks and gardens lay about them where men might shelter in

the great heats and the gay, golden-skinned children played beside the

river and grew sleek and round on their food of pure rice and plantains

and milk from the deep-dewlapped cattle that wound home in the evenings

from high pastures by running water.

Nor was there fare only for the body. Wise men, the Wanderers, they

whose minds are fixed on things unearthly and whose souls climb toward

keen stars as the cragsmen follow the eagle to her eyry above the

clouds, came in from mighty forests where the hermits and their families

dwell in peace with God and man pursuing the purities of the

householder’s life in the wilds;—bringing with them the dreams, the

speculations, the conclusions of the hermits and themselves. And for

such the Raja had made a hall of cedarwood in the city, where they might

hold disputations with its wise men and the simpler folk sit and listen,

bestowing applause or condemnation as they heard. For there was none in

the city, gentle or simple, noble or humble, but set the things of the

spirit above the chaffer of the market-place and lent a ready ear to

such talk. Nor did they fear to speak, for the Arya are free peoples,

coming from the north and bold and adventurous.

And of these Wanderers the people learnt much, for if the clansmen were

free, these were freer. No love of earthly homes or riches held them.

Strip one of them of his worldly all—his tattered robe and bowl for

alms—and he would depart content, smiling his strange, secret smile, as

a man whose treasure is beyond thief or destroyer. But for the _Wasa_,

the three months’ rainy season, they would stay, willing to speak or to

hear, satisfied with a very little, and when the sun shone again, depart

like migrating birds on their mysterious way. And sometimes would come

one, God-intoxicated, utterly heedless of men, scarce emerging from

_samadhi_, the mystic ecstasy; and him would men surround with mute envy

because in that trance he beheld things not lawful nor possible to be

uttered. And such would stay but a little while and then, heedless of

rain or sun or wind or snow, press on to the cold glories of the

mountains, alone and in haste, and reappear no more.

So does the flame of the Divine draw the moth of the spirit of man to

hover about it until, dazzled and drunken with radiance, it joins itself

to the flame and is consumed into pure light.

Yet was not the talk of the City of Kapila for ever of things divine,

for bygone Rajas and this one also (knowing that where there is a

North-man he must still be talking and much trouble thereby averted) had

made a Folk Mote, a meeting hall, and not one only, where in the

different quarters of the town men might gather and talk of their

affairs, the farmers and handicraftsmen alike,—the sowing and

harvesting of rice, the well-doing of cattle, the doings of the

Kosalans, of whom they themselves were a clan, the subjugation of the

swarthy natives among whom they lay as pearls in a black ocean, the

ambitions of the Kings of Magadha, the trading of the merchants, and

many things more which concerned them nearly. And each householder had

the right to be heard, for each in his own house was king and priest and

there none might say him nay, were it not that the Brahmans made or

unmade his peace with the Lords of Heaven through gifts and sacrifices

and a ritual grown exceedingly heavy and burdensome. But against these

even the fair-skinned people, the Arya, as they called themselves, did

not as yet dare to murmur.

The women of Kapila also were wives and mothers of free men. Their faces

were not veiled save when they themselves for modesty chose to draw the

folds between themselves and too bold a gaze. They shared the joys and

sorrows of their men, though the great ladies were screened. And if they

walked in the ways of ritual piety even more eagerly and laid daily

gifts even more precious at the feet of the Brahmans, this is the way of

women all the world over.

And these happy people had a good Maharaja, named Suddhodana, or Pure

Rice, because not only were his granaries and those of his fathers’

before him full to overflowing, but his heart was pure as the grains of

living pearl; a man grave and kind, rich also in cattle and elephants,

yet not arrogant with riches, charitable, alms-giving, reverencing the

Brahman and the ascetic, walking in peace in the way of ancient pieties,

with thoughts of his own to think as he raised his eyes to the

mountains, awful in the heavens as intermediaries between men and Gods.

And he had taken to wife two fair sisters, the elder, Maya, the younger,

Prajapati; and by the elder, the more dearly loved, had as yet no child

and by neither a son to succeed him on his peaceful seat of rulership.

And this was a grief to him, for when he was gone who should sacrifice

to his soul and the souls of the great dead fathers? Very sweet and

grateful is the tenderness of daughters, but this they cannot do.

And one day, as they sat in the pleasure pavilion beside the waters of

Rohini, listening to her song of the snows as she danced onward,

downward from the heights, the Maharaja Suddhodana opened his heart once

more to his wives. And one, Maya the Maharani, sat at his feet on a

cushion of silk woven with gold, and her beauty was calm as the evening

star shining in a faint moonlight, luminous, remote, veiled with dreams

and hopes unknown to others. The second Queen, Prajapati, was fair and

gentle, and no more—yet that is much, as shall be shown. And these two

were sisters in heart as in blood and wifehood. So, laying his hand on

the head of Maya, the Maharaja spoke softly:

“What dreams my Queen?”

And she, pointing to the bamboo grove where stood in green slim hand

clasping her sister’s:

“Of motherhood. Of this I dream night and day, knowing many beautiful

things, but most of all this—that the heart of my lord, my beloved,

cannot rest until a son of his is laid in his arms. O would, if I am

barren, that my heart’s sister, my Prajapati, might give to our husband

this gift of gifts!”

And he, with heavy brows:

“Dear lady and wife, the Gods give and withhold their great gift of life

at pleasure. What have we left undone? We have besought them. We have

offered of our best on many an altar. We have fed Brahmans, we have kept

the precepts, and yet—they do not give. If in some former life we have

sinned—Yet who can tell? It is their will, and must be borne even if it

break my heart.”

Then Prajapati, raising her sweet eyes timidly to him, one slim hand

clasping her sister’s:

“If my lord please to take another wife, then indeed my sister and I

will serve her, and if a son is born, what can we but rejoice?”

And he:

“That son would not be the child of my Queens, and most of all of Maya,

the Great Lady. Dear he might be, but not so dear; and, moreover, you

both, my ladies, have heard the word of the wandering Rishi, the wise

ascetic, who prophesied that in this city, in this fortunate palace,

should a child be born, a ruler of men, a King among Kings.”

“May it be here and now!” said the lady Maya. And again, softly: “May we

be found worthy!”

There was a long silence and only Rohini, the river, talked of sweet

secret things as she went her way. And presently the Maharaja added:

“I think it will not be!”

And a large tear pearled itself on the long lashes of Prajapati and

spilt down the bloom of her cheek as she watched her baby daughter in

the arms of a dark-skinned nurse lulling her to sleep with strange and

wistful songs of the native people, by the lotuses on the great marble

tank in the shade of the pippalas.

And presently the evening came, gliding with silent steps through the

woods and along the waters, veiled as a maid who steals to meet her

star-eyed lover. And having beheld the pomps of sunset, the mountains

withdrew into their mysteries and a star stood on each of their summits

for guard, and in a great peace the moon floated upward, resplendent.

Then the beauty of heaven and earth became marvellous and remote, and

the earth was no longer for men but Gods.

Now that night Maya, the Great Lady, asleep beside her lord in the

pleasure pavilion when moonlight blanched the dewy lawns like snow,

dreamed a dream. Nor was it the first. This lady was vision-haunted. Her

eyes, her ears, were open to all the starry influences to all the

weeping of winds and the tales the reeds whisper to one another in

lonely places. But this dream came, not flitting ghostly along the ways

of sleep nor with the morning dissolving cloud-like, illusive, scarcely

to be grasped or recorded, more a feeling than a thought, but clear,

majestic, terrible and beautiful, so that she found herself (and knew

not how) sitting up, awake, aware, breathless, as it were a Queen to

whom has been made a great annunciation from equal powers. And, with an

awakening hand laid upon her husband, she spoke, nor did her voice

tremble:

“Beloved, awake! I have dreamed. For it seemed to me that the four

Guardian Divine Kings lifted me from my bed and bore me away to the

great mountains and laid me down. And heavenly spirits, shining as

stars, came about me and bathed me in the pure waters of a mountain

lake, freeing me of all human stain. And when this was done they laid me

down again, clothing me in the gold of divine garments and shedding

perfumes about me. And I saw a lordly elephant, white as silver,

wandering beneath the trees. For, as you know, this is the symbol of

royalty. And touching me on the right side with his trunk, he appeared

to melt into a cloud and pass like a vapor into my womb. In the darkness

I have seen a great light shine, and in the air myriads of radiant

spirits sang my joy. And O, beloved, all is well!”

And he stammering, amazed:

“Beloved, when you awaked me, the music of these very spirits rang in my

ears, and they cried to me with voices more tunable than all songs of

birds or harmony of well-touched lutes, ‘The child shall be born when

the Flower-Star shines in the east.’ And as you touched me, I awoke.”

And more they could not say, but clung to each other, trembling for joy

and wonder. Nor could any sleep come to them that night, for in their

gladness it seemed they stood on the shining shores of heaven, its light

about them like an ocean. And when on the morrow these dreams were told

to Prajapati, she rejoiced with them, no thought of envy to cloud the

crystal of her soul. And when they were laid before the dream-readers,

they could presage nothing but good, and being called in before the

Maharaja where he sat in state with his Maharanis, they spoke as

follows:

“A lord of men shall be born, a great and awful ruler. Let the soul of

the Maharaja be exalted, and the heart of the Maharani rejoice and

triumph, since to their house is given a son whose kingdom is the earth

and the fullness of it.”

Then the Maharaja shouted for joy, while Maya the Maharani, listened

with dreaming eyes.

“For he shall conquer the earth!” he cried, “and the trampling of his

elephants be heard like thunder, and Kosala shall be his kingdom and

Maghada prostrate before his feet, and riches and glory shall be the

slaves of the Conqueror for ever and ever!”

And the Maharani said:

“For ever and ever? Yet there is death.”

And Prajapati hid her face.

And the dream-readers, looking up with reverence where they knelt before

their diagrams and circles, answered:

“Great Lady, there are riches that Death cannot thieve. There are

conquests that Time does not triumph over. There is an Empire that

passes not away. What the fate of this child is to be we cannot yet

tell. It bewilders us, for great and auspicious as are the signs, they

are not plain reading as is the custom. It may be that the child shall

be a sage, dominating the souls of men, ruling by pure wisdom, a

conqueror——”

But here the Maharaja broke in, in anger:

“Be silent, for this I will not have! The men of my race are Kshatriyas,

warriors. The Brahman, the ascetic, the hermit, have their sacred uses,

and may the guardian Gods forbid that I should disparage their

merit—but my son is my son and a warrior, and if the signs are great,

it is a warrior’s greatness I claim for him, for in my family is no

other known or considered.”

But still the dream-readers lingered in doubt.

“Great sir, there is more to be told, strange and very wonderful. Two

ways lie before the child to be, and in which he will walk we cannot

say. If, when he is of age to judge, he beholds a sick man, an old man,

a dead man, and a holy monk, then great and wide is his kingdom but not

of this world. And if he see not these signs, he shall be a king of the

earth, magnificent in riches, glory and power. Therefore it is in the

hand of his father to choose what he shall see or not see. The dream is

read.”

“Gladly and gloriously is it read!” shouted the Maharaja. “No such

sights shall my son see. Leave spiritual things to spiritual men, for he

shall reign for ever and ever!”

And bowing, with minds perplexed, the dream-readers gathered up their

calculations and departed. And in the city they spread their news, and

there was scarcely a man but thought and rejoiced with the Maharaja,

commending him in that he chose rather to have a son to fight beside him

and ride terribly at his bridle rein than an ascetic in the woods, with

matted hair and clawed hands, to pray for his victories——“So would we

all choose, like men!” they said. And very joyful was the city.

But Maya the Great Lady, saying little, went her way in peace, strong

and calm of purpose as our general mother the earth, pure within and

without as the white lotus; and surrounding herself with a great

tranquillity, she floated on its surface as a water-lily, rooted in the

life-giving bosom of earth, turning an adoring face to the purities of

the heavens and absorbing their radiance, until her heart was pure gold

and her body white as the ivory of the flower that is a prayer embodied

and throne of all the Gods. And if she passed through the city, the

women and children strewed flowers before her as before a goddess borne

in procession, and when the benediction of her eyes fell on them, they

prostrated themselves.

And always her sister, Prajapati, went beside her, guarding her with her

own hands, treasuring her as a thing already enskied and sainted, a fear

in her heart clasping hands with joy. And the Maharaja Suddhodana would

stride into the pavilion, saying in his great voice:

“Wife, how goes it? For the time passes onward, and soon the spring

shall be here again, and with it our boy. This day have the farmers

given me a little plough, made of red cedarwood, banded with ivory, and

when he can walk and talk he shall plough his furrow like a man!”

And she, smiling, answered:

“Dear lord, he shall plough his furrow and sow his seed, and very great

shall his harvest be. All goes better than well.”

And again another day he came with a sword, the haft sparkling like

frost with jewels, and he cried, rejoicing:

“This have the goldsmiths and handicraftsmen of the city given me, that

with it my son may strike off the head of the goat for his first

sacrifice, and after destroy his enemies as when Indra thunders and

lightens from the peaks. But is all well?”

And she, smiling:

“Beloved, his enemies shall fall before him like chaff driven on a gale.

And all goes better than well.”

And she spent her time in deep meditation, free from grief or pain, free

also from illusions and desires, in a measureless content and

foreseeing. Thus the time went by, not swiftly as a dancer nor slowly as

a mourner, but in a great quiet, pacing with majesty from day to day.

Now, on a certain day when Spring with her birds and blossoms was come

to earth, the Maharani, following the custom of the ladies of her race,

with her sister made ready all her matters and entered the presence of

her husband, speaking thus:

“Dear lord, it is a habit of my people that when our children are born

it is in the house of our parents. Have I then your permission to

journey to them for this auspicious birth, that, returning, I may bring

my sheaves with me?”

And he, embracing her with true affection, gave her leave to go,

commending her to the care of Prajapati and giving strict command that

men should go before making all the ways clear for her litter, and men

and women be warned that no sight painful or terrifying should meet her

eyes. So, tenderly invoking the prayers and ritual of the Brahmans on

her and his son’s behalf, he sent her forth and returned to his duties

full of thought. But she, borne in her litter and embraced in the very

arms of peace, went her way, thinking to reach the house of her parents

and knowing not that the great hour of her life was even then upon her.

And passing the Lumbini gardens, where trees and flowers, placid waters

and green shades, the song of birds and cooing of doves combine to make

a heaven on earth, she commanded them to stay her litter that she might

set her feet in the sun-warmed grass and stand beside the coolness of

the lake. So it was done, and leaning on the arm of Prajapati, she

descended and entered the garden and wandered awhile, silent for joy.

And suddenly, as they stood beneath a great palsa tree, sweeping the

sward with robes of green and the honeyed snow of blossom, awe and

trembling seized her and a measureless marvelling; and the tree swept

its boughs earthward until the leaves and flowers lay thick upon the

grass, and she knew that the life of all growing things and of the

divine earth and the mountains and skies lived within her and that her

hour was come. So she laid her hand on a bough of the palsa tree, and as

Prajapati knelt beside her, stilled with joy and fear, and her women

crowded outside the close blossomed shelter of the palsa tree, her son

was born: not like a human birth with agony but painlessly.

Now, it was told afterwards that for wardens the Four Heavenly Kings

stood about him, and that the air was thronged with those birds of

heaven, the happy Shining Ones, singing and rejoicing. And it is told

that throughout the world all polluted streams flowed clear as crystal,

and that even as the lady his mother suffered no pang of childbirth, so

all sentient creatures knew surcease of pain because of that great Birth

and rejoiced with her in jungle and meadow, in deep waters, and in

clouds aerial—for what mother or child could sorrow in that hour?

CHAPTER II

BUT of the child, what shall be said? Borne back to the palace with

flute and drum, through streets thronged with eager men and women

pressing forward to behold him, he did not sleep, nor shrink, like other

children, but gazed about him as though the gem of thought were hidden

beneath the blue deeps of his eyes. He shone like pure gold, after the

manner of his people, Aryan, noble, a child of high descent. And it is

told that the hidden sweetness of precious lilies went with him and that

the garments of shining spirits, sweeping unseen above him, made the air

vibrant. So the Maharaja, receiving him in his arms, blessed his son,

rejoicing in his happy fate who was the father of such a one as the

world could not show the like. And in his ears the voices of prophecy

made a changing music of pride and triumph. And the Maharani,

overweighted with gladness, like a lily surcharged with dew, was borne

to her noble couch of ivory and gold; and Prajapati watched each breath

she drew, so great were her love and fear.

Then, to the rejoicing palace, came an ascetic of pure life and

understanding, a dweller on the holy heights of Himavat, a great

marvel-worker, honoured of all men; and he desired to enter the presence

of the Maharaja and make obeisance. And this was granted.

Bowing before the Maharaja, he addressed him thus:

“Great sir, as I came on the sun’s way, I heard the rejoicing of radiant

spirits in the air, and when I asked why they were glad, they triumphed

in this verse—

“‘The Wisdom-Child, that precious Jewel, unmatched, unrivalled,

Is born in Lumbini, in the land of the happy Sakyas,

For good and joy to all the world of men.’

“Therefore am I come. Lead me now to the young child that I may see him

and be glad also. Rejoice, O Maharaja of happy fortune, for most surely

is it owing to your righteous deeds in former lives that this good

celestial is fallen to your lot!”

And the Maharaja, dumb with love and pride, led the way to the palace

hall where the child slept; and they uncovered his little lovely person

that the old man might see and be glad also. So he considered the

precious marks and signs of his body, assuring him to be a Buddha, one

perfect in enlightenment, reading and comprehending them all with a

heart that scarce for joy could believe what lay before him. And, seeing

these wonderful birth-portents, the tears rolled down his cheeks; and at

his weeping fear seized the father, and he bowed down at the ascetic’s

feet, crying:

“O what is my lord’s grief: O what are his tears? Is the child doomed?

Do we lose him? Forbid it, all-seeing Divinities! Forbid it that one

parched, within reach of the eternal draught, should lose all and perish

of thirst! Forbid it that I should lose my treasure! For when a man dies

who owns a son, it is as a man with two eyes—one sleeps yet the other

watches,—but a man without a son is blind in death’s darkness.”

And the ascetic, seeing his grief, answered swiftly:

“Sir, have no fear. Good and better than good are the portents. I wept

for myself. This child shall rule the world, but I, by reason of my age,

shall not live to see it. Deep and full and wide is the river of his

Law. Like a great lake is the calm of his Yoga; like the sun at the

zenith his wisdom. The earth shall be glad for him, and he shall reign

and he SHALL reign, and mighty the glory of his dominion!”

And having said this, the ascetic departed mysteriously, after the

fashion of the Instructed, leaving joy as his gift.

But still Prajapati watched by the Queen Maya and leaned her ear close

to catch a whisper—for as yet the Great Lady had not spoken.

And now the child lay in the hollow of her arm, and it was the seventh

day. And without raising her lashes, she whispered:

“Sister, my true sister! On the seventh day I die, for so it is with

those mothers whose joy, too great for the lowlands of earth, soars like

a bird to the mountains of heaven. My joy is winged. No more can it walk

beside my sweet sister nor follow my husband as his shadow nor guard the

steps of my child. It is become divine. Already its wings quiver for

flight. But all is well. My place is prepared in a heaven where my

bliss, rolling outward, may spread into a sea to mirror the Wisdom I

have borne. And you, my true sister, will not forget me, but, taking

this child for your own, will nourish him with noble milk from your pure

bosom. And for our lord you will take heed. And this I know, that the

Way of Peace shall be opened to the feet of my son’s foster-mother as to

mine.”

And Prajapati pressed her cheek against the Great Lady’s in silence that

laid a finger on the lips of grief, and the child slept between them.

Now Night, with the moon in her hair and the stars for ear and breast

jewels, came gliding down from the high mountains and wandered in the

palace gardens, shedding sleep unutterable and all sweet influences from

her outspread hands. And there was not one in the palace, from the

Maharaja to the sweeper but slept, dreaming auspicious dreams.

And in the morning all woke refreshed and at peace. But Maya, the Great

Lady waked not. And her sister, the Queen Prajapati, seeing the child,

lovely as an image of pure gold, blue-eyed and beautiful, loved him, and

took him to her fragrant bosom, and became his mother. And he received

the name of Siddhartha, meaning “He who has attained his aim”—for who

could doubt that such a child must conquer where he would?

Thus have I heard.

With this child all good came to the City of Kapila and to the country

round about, and all the Sakya clansmen prospered very greatly. Their

cows were pure-coloured, well-proportioned, giving fragrant and rich

milk with even flow; their horses were as though winged, shaped for

speed and strength; their elephants royal beasts and understanding. When

rain was needed the air distilled it seasonably, and the five cereals

swelled with scented grain, wholesome and soft for food. All creatures

about to produce their young were content and at ease, their bodies

well-knit and healthful.

Nor was this grace confined to the lower creation, for in the City of

Kapila and its dominions, amongst men and women auspicious things grew

like seed flung from the hands of Gods, and even those whom their

passions spurred down the broad way of a dangerous karma, considered and

took heed, and, laying aside their selfish desires and covetousness,

thought no proud, envious thoughts, but lived in quiet with their

neighbours; and men were grave and recollected and women chaste and

calm, and by all were the Four Rules of Purity honoured. And it is told

that the Maharaja, seeing this heavenly guest within his palace, for his

sake dwelt purely, practising virtue, putting away from him all evil

company, that his heart might not be polluted with lust. And he

meditated much by night and day, drinking the moon’s brightness with

clasped hands and sacrificing in the golden silences of the dawn, when

all high influences are unloosed. And this course of conduct must ensue

from such a birth, for, as the lotus and champak flowers exhale their

perfume and the moon drops camphor in her secret glories, so do the

influences of purity and high thought spread outward from the person of

a Buddha-to-be. Therefore, as the light of sun or moon increases little

by little and none can measure its growth, so was it with the child,

orbing into beauty perfect and yet more perfect—if such a thing can be.

And with precious things they surrounded him. Noble amulets guarded his

person, great gems adorned him, and the scent of sandalwood made sweet

the air for his breathing.

Now, when the time for instruction came, the Maharaja considered whom he

should employ to teach his son. Should it be a man of the Wanderers,

who, having cast the world utterly aside, scans its wisdom with the

diamond ray of perfect comprehension—one of the Unfettered? Or should

it be one of the men of braided hair—a Brahman hermit, held, as yet, in

family ties, but living the life of pure contemplation? Or a bearer of

the Triple Staff?

Much he revolved these matters and, gathering opinions, digested them,

and summoned to the high task the wise and saintly Viswamitra. And the

boy was brought before him and made due obeisance to his teacher (who

is, if possible, more to be reverenced than even a father, being the

father of the soul and mind, whereas that other may be but the father of

the transitory body); but when Viswamitra questioned the noble child, it

has been told that there was nothing he did not know already. For it is

related that he was familiar with all that has been written in books or

told with tongues, even from the number of the spheres and heavenly

bodies, as also their triangular, square and sextile aspects, to the

powers of the lowliest worm that creeps upon the earth, unable even to

raise its head to adore the divine luminaries. There was nothing that

teacher could teach him, for already he knew all. So Viswamitra heard

and trembled, and at last, seeing that this matter touched on things

deep, incomprehensible and wonderful, he prostrated himself before the

child, and, closing up his books, went his way marvelling.

Yet let it not be thought that the Maharaja Suddhodana could behold

these portents with a heart of ease, for mingled with all his pride and

joy was fear. His son moved before him, beautiful exceedingly, perfect

in duty not only to his father and his foster-mother, Prajapati the fair

and noble, but also to all with whom he had to do, quick to smile and

reply, glad in a boy’s sports and games, and yet—apart. As a man,

looking down through the clear crystal of a lake, may behold beneath it

groves of strange leafage where silver fish dart and disappear in a life

unknown to him, so the Maharaja, looking through the translucence of his

son’s eyes uplifted to his, knew that they revealed yet hid a world in

which he had no part. And this aloofness grew to be to him a knife

driven into his very heart. And time passed, and the child became a

noble youth.

One day the Maharaja sent for his minister, an old man, wise and

instructed, and to him he said:

“Is all well in the city and the country about it?”

And the old minister, saluting, replied:

“O Maharaj, all is well. And since the birth of your auspicious son how

could it be otherwise? For it appears that in past times when a child of

pure brilliancy was born, there prevailed great prosperity, and

wickedness came to an end. And so it is now.”

And, sighing as if his heart were like to break, the Maharaja replied:

“This is true. And who should rejoice more than I? Yet it is not so, and

my heart is consumed with anxiety.”

But the minister remained respectfully silent, and the Maharaja

continued:

“For my son is not as the other young nobles, free and gay and enamoured

of sports and battle and women, but the opposite—rather enduring than

sharing the frolics suited to his age; and when I see him meditating

beneath the rose-laurels and mark his calm, abstracted eyes, it recalls

to me the saying of the sage Asita, that ‘embarking in the boat of

wisdom, he shall save the world from peril.’ Now, were this to be the

wisdom of a great King delivering his people, I might triumph as I did

in hearing it, but if it is to be the cold wisdom of the Wanderers and

forest-dwellers, then I desire none of it, for to embark in that boat is

to be severed from power and from all things dear and desirable to the

heart of man. What, then, is your counsel?”

And with grief written in his face, the aged minister replied:

“Great sir, who shall challenge Fate and the unwritten laws of the

Divine? I will own that sometimes in the noble youth’s presence I have

felt as it were a cold air blowing between him and me, as though he

stood apart from lesser men. And more than once this thought has

occurred: Suppose this noble Siddhartha is a Bodhisattva, destined in

his next re-birth to be a Buddha, how then shall we fight against a

destiny so great and awful? But yet it may not be thus, and so rarely

does a Buddha appear upon the earth that there is neither experience nor

knowledge to guide us.”

And, trembling, the Maharaja replied:

“You voice my very fear. It is certain that many of the predictions

which my soul applied to earthly glory, may be read otherwise if

considered. But since I dread this unspeakably and we are by no means

certain of the end, what is your counsel that we may divert him and so

fulfil his mind with beauty and bliss, that these cold visions may blow

away like mists at sunrise and leave him glad?”

Then, smiling subtly, the old man answered:

“There is one way, and one only. For it is acknowledged throughout the

three worlds that there is no charm of forgetfulness like the beauty of

a woman. On her bosom the Gods are forgotten and the wisdom of the wise

is vanity.”

But the Maharaja, with impatience:

“This is true of others, but as for my son, he has seen the loveliest

face to face and has never turned to look again. Think better, old man.”

And he:

“For the noble, a noble bait. And there is a girl, daughter of the great

Suprabuddha, young and lovely as the Maiden of the Dawn when she stands,

rose-fingered, smiling upon the mountain peaks, and this maiden is pure

in health and person, constant and faithful, cheerful evening and

morning, one to establish the palace in purity and quiet, full of

dignity and grace. Among her companions she moves as the queen-swan

leading the flotilla, with stately neck, yet bowed in humility. For a

King of all the earth this is a fitting consort. I have made diligent

inquiry. Her name is Yashodara.”

And the Maharaja replied with joy:

“In this Yashodara may be our deliverance! Send in haste, but with

dignity, to Suprabuddha her father, and call a gathering at which the

bridegroom-to-be shall show his strength with bow and sword and horse

against all rivals, after the manner of the free choice of our women.”

And the old man bowed and went away, smiling, but with a sore doubt at

his heart—for he also recalled the words and portents of the Prince’s

birth and dreaded the anger of awful Gods if any should let their

purpose.

Thus on a certain day the lists were set, and the Sakya lords were

challenged by the noble Siddhartha to archery, to sword-play and to

riding, that the maiden, Yashodara, might know she chose no craven to be

her husband. And all the people crowded to see, some wagering on the

success of this lord and some on that, but all, on whomsoever they

wagered, hoping that the son of the good Maharaja might win honour and

the bride. Yet most believed that the victor would be Devadatta, cousin

of Siddhartha, a young prince proud and obstinate and amorous and very

skilful in feats of arms.

It was in the golden silence of very early morning when the people

crowded to the _maidan_ where all should be done, for the heat of the

later day forbade it then. So still was it that not a frond of the palms

stirred nor even a bamboo leaf lifted on the air, and the dew lay bright

as silver upon grass and flower. So still that the voice of Rohini,

full-throated from the melting snows, would have filled the quiet but

for the myriad shufflings of bare feet through the dust and the tinkle

of litter bells as the hidden beauty and her companions were borne to

the place of meeting. For her face should not be seen until she made her

choice.

And all the way was strewn ankle-deep with flowers, as though the

Spirits of the Air had rained them with both hands upon the glad earth,

and from their bruised beauty was shed such sweetness on the dew that

the fragrance rose like incense to greet the lovely ones on their way.

But when the rival lords rode on to the _maidan_ in splendour of armour

jewelled and inlaid with gold and swords that flashed like lightning

from the rifts of cloudy mountains, and horses that seemed to spurn the

ground with their hoofs and desire to ride the air like the very

coursers of the sun, then the joy of the people so grew that they

clapped their hands and shouted lustily, for of all things the noble

fair-skinned Northern peoples love a good man and a good horse, and only

next to these a beautiful woman. And of the last the most beautiful as

yet was hidden. So they shouted until their voices were like the noise

of a great wind and the echoes returned them from far-off heights and

woods.

And Devadatta rode a horse so black that in the night he seemed a part

of it, but Siddhartha’s horse was white, proud and great and gentle, and

his name shall not be forgotten while the round world holds, for he was

Kantaka—and of him more hereafter. And when the maiden, looking between

the curtains of her palanquin so that none might know she looked, saw

the young Sakya lord, her heart left her bosom and fled into his,

settling there like a bird nestling with feet and wings, for there was

none like him—none. With calm he sat his horse, awaiting the moment,

and young he was and slender and like an image of pure gold, and his

eyes were blue and dark after the manner of his people, and his lips and

cheek shaped by a great graver. He carried his head as a stag in the

spring season, and for all his slenderness was he tense and eager as a

bow in the hand of the Brahma King with the arrow laid on the string.

And so he waited, and his eyes never sought the palanquin where was

hidden the Pearl of Victory. And to her sick heart she said:

“He is not mine! He is above me. What woman can cloud the serenity of

those eyes? How can the fiery dart of Madhu, the God of Love, pierce

that breast, guarded with the snow of high thoughts? He is a King too

high for me—too high.”

And it is true that the noble youth thought little of the maiden, but

much of the great clash with his rivals, for he knew well that Honour

was the prize of the day and that his father’s heart must needs break if

he failed before all the Kin of the House and the people.

Now it is certain that of this jousting many tales have grown up, of

arrows flying miraculously, winged by eager Gods, of sword-strokes such

as the world has never seen nor shall see, of horses that the Wind, Vaya

himself, might bestride for swiftness and cruel, dangerous pride. And

how all this may be I know not, who was not there; but this I know, that

Siddhartha was better than the best in all the tests, and that the

people stormed and shouted and laughed and wept, knowing not what they

did so only they might hail him conqueror, while he stood leaning on his

sword, breathing lightly and resting, for the first time smiling, a very

splendid young knight.

And the Maharaja, scarcely daring to look in his son’s face lest he

should too openly show his pride and joy, said only:

“Son, you have done well.” And, turning, “Bring forth the bride.”

Then all the people were of a sudden silent, that not a word, not a

sound of that Beautiful should be lost. And they drew back the pictured

curtains of the litter and she stepped forth, most resembling the silver

moon floating through clouds to her unveiling and pure radiance, and so

stood before the people, clad in supple silver that flowed about her

like water and jewels that dripped glory braided among the silk-soft

hair that fell to her ankles and crowned her brows. (Yet none could look

at her splendour, for her face drew the bees of all glances to the honey

of its sweetness and there held them, dizzy with ecstasy.) Thus, with a

maiden, only less fair, on either side, she paced towards Siddhartha

where he sat motionless on his white horse as a man of marble, carrying

in her hand the Garland of Choosing. And coming before him, she raised

her eyes to his and stood silent; but her look pleaded.

Then for the first time he knew in the solitude of his heart the drawing

near of another. And soft spring airs came before her, with the singing

of mating birds, and pearling of young buds and delicate tremble and

thrill of life in green silences and all the good things of this world.

And it troubled his calm, because he knew not what it meant, and it was

more pain than pleasure. This sweet melody, as it were of flutes and

lutes, that came from the tattling of her anklets and the rustle of her

garments, overpowered the austere, high voices that had breathed in his

ear from birth, and they were silent. Like a man bewildered, he

dismounted from white Kantaka, with his arm still laid along the noble

neck, and gazed down upon her, and their looks met and were one.

So she stooped and took the dust from his feet, then rising, stately as

a young palm-tree, she put the Garland of Choosing about his neck and

together they faced the shouting people and the rivals, some sullen as

Devadatta the evil-hearted, some glad in the victory as Ananda the

Prince, his true cousin.

And of all men who saw that sight be sure that none more beautiful could

ever meet their eyes than the silver bride hand in hand with the golden

lover, shining as Surya the Sun rejoicing to run his course; for with

the touch of her hand, doubt dropped from him like a garment and they

were submerged, he and she alike, in the joy of the bridegroom and the

bride.

And the Maharaja, laughing aloud for triumph and gladness, said to the

old minister:

“We have caught our bird! Thanks be to the God of Love!”

But the old man replied:

“Great sir, it will need the triple cord of love to bind him—your own,

the wife’s and the child’s. Let us wait. Still are we not secure.”

CHAPTER III

THUS have I heard.

Time went by, but since he had snared his bird, the Maharaja Suddhodana

resolved that the fetters should be gilded, and calling his minister

again, he said to him:

“If a man would cage a bird of heaven (and such, I think, is my son), it

is necessary that earth should be made heaven, so that no home-sickness

for the blue heights should take him. And because a young man may weary

of one woman’s beauty, however beautiful, let fresh faces be found to

make for him a wreath of such roses of the earth as may intoxicate him

with its love and perfume. Send north to Savatthi and south to Benares,

and fetch such beauties, such players on the vina and sitar as sing

before the high Gods, such dancers as those whose white limbs, melting

to music, enchant their eyes. Give orders to build him a house for the

winter, when the snow is blue in the hollows of Himalaya and the rivers

are locked in his cold heart. See that it be warm and silent and that no

wind may creep in, and let white furs of snow-leopards, clouded with

black, lie about it, soft and smooth to the touch, and let there be

story-tellers to speed the long nights with jest and amorous tale and

clash of battle. Shut out the cold and terrible moon with close

lattice-work and rich curtains, for she, remote and small in the blue,

profound skies, may freeze his soul to the chill calm I fear.”

And the minister, saluting, said:

“All shall be done. And yet——”

“And yet there is more before we may sleep in peace. Build for him also

a house of spring. Let it be pavilioned, and with little stiff, frilled

roofs flying outward like the skirts of a dancer when she revolves

swiftly. On every point set a wind-bell to resemble her anklets and

armlets in their tinkling, so that the soft breezes from the hills shall

make an aerial music as they wander about it. Let it appear as if the

whole were blown together like a cloud on a wind and might be lifted and

dispersed like thistle-down—a dream of spring.”

And the old wise man saluted, saying:

“It shall be done. And yet——”

“And yet it is not enough,” mused the Maharaja, stroking his great

beard. “For we must build also a house for summer—to drowse in, dim and

cool and with long echoing colonnades to catch the faintest breath of

breeze. Let this house be set in the grass by Rohini, that her liquid

voice may sing of the snows when the dog-days are sultry. And let it be

paved with shining stone from the mountains, and the walls be of dark

cedar, carved wonderfully, and all the windows dimmed and latticed that

the heats die on the threshold. Choose a place for it where the asoka

trees are deep with rich leafage and golden blossom, and the neems

spread their shade and the acacias rain white petals and the champak

swoons in its heavy sweetness. Let there be a lake, pensive with reeds

and green reaches, the haunt of swans and cranes and all beautiful water

birds, and silver rills by which my son may sit and muse if he will,

until the langour of slowly dropping water shall pass into his veins and

be a narcotic binding him for ever to long dreaming days and nights, and

he be utterly content.”

And the old man saluted, saying:

“So it shall be done. Is it also your pleasure, Maharaja, that I set a

guard at the gate of the park of the three Pleasure Houses?”

And he answered:

“It is my pleasure. And now I will visit my son’s wife and hear her

mind.”

So he went to the place of the women in the great house. And his

presence being told to Yashodara, she came before him, sweet as the star

of evening bathed in rosy vapours, for a dress fell about her coloured

as though dipped in the blood of red roses and bound with gold that,

winding spirally upward round her lovely limbs and bosom, embraced them,

drawing the eye to the slender curves, and she wore no jewels but only

the great rings in her ears sparkling with fiery gems. And he drew her

to his feet and she sat on a cushion beside him, looking upward with

duty and affection, waiting for the favour of his speech. And at last,

having observed the delicate sweetness of her face and her grace and

majesty, he said, sighing:

“Noble daughter, you have now been wedded to my son, Siddhartha, for six

months. Is all well with you?”

And, stooping to touch his feet, she replied:

“Great father, all is well. And I did not know that in all the world

there was such joy as I share night and day with my dear lord. For

beyond all beauty he is beautiful and beyond all goodness, good, and his

gentleness of speech is not like that of a woman, but with strength

behind it like Himalaya when he smiles in sunshine. And yet——”

The words stopped like hovering birds on her sweet lips and her fine

brows drew together as she meditated. And the Maharaja, drawing his hand

from her head, leaned forward to look into her eyes.

“Daughter, have you a doubt—and what is it?”

She, lovely and submissive, made haste to answer:

“Great lord, all is pure joy, and yet——”

And he, in great anger, so that she shrank down, veiling her face with

her hands:

“And yet! When I command my minister to surround my son with all joy

wherewith to bind and hold him, he obeys, but ends always with ‘And

yet—’ as though some mystery surrounded him! And you, that should

triumph in pride and joy, say the like. My son is fair and free and

noble and sharer in my riches and pride. What is this miserable ‘And

yet—’ that mocks my hope? Speak out, woman, and tell me what is in your

heart.”

And, kindling her courage at his sternness, the wife of Siddhartha

looked at him with clear, unsullied eyes.

“Father, all I have said is truth, but there is also this. In the midst

of rejoicings of song and when the women dance before him and the feast

is spread and the great fruits, cooled with snow, and purple wines in

cut crystal cups are set to his hand, then often I know that though his

fair body is among us, his soul is escaped and fled away.”

And in her eyes two tears gathered and stood but did not fall.

And he, with anger:

“Would it not be thought a woman should know her business! For what is

beauty but to hold a man prisoner to the senses? And you are beautiful

as the woman the high Gods made with flowers—how then do you fail? Does

he not love you?”

“Sir, he loves me. But not me only. He loves something that I know not,

and his thought flies away to it as a dove flies home.”

And he said:

“True, true! It is true. What is this thing? For I, too, have felt it.

When I have spoken of wealth and power and pride, I have known that as

you, daughter, say, his soul is escaped and gone, I cannot tell where.

But have no fear. Tell me only this—has never a word, never a sight of

sorrow crept into the paradises I have made for him?”

And she answered:

“Not one. All is joy unceasing.”

“And no sign of age, of sickness, of death? For, as I have told you, he

must not know that these things are, and until he passed into your

keeping, the secret was well guarded.”

And she replied gravely:

“The secret is well guarded. He does not know. When he speaks, it is of

an eternity of delight and of nothing else. And yet—if I may speak and

live——”

And he said:

“Speak. Even in the words of women there is sometimes wisdom, and you

are a pearl among women.”

“Great lord, is it possible to strive against the high Gods? For they

have appointed death and sickness and grief to be our lot, and it may be

that the very joy of life is the greater because we know it is brief.

Children suck sugar-cane until they sicken, and may not grown man and

woman weary of sweet things, desiring to match their fortitude against

grief? And he is great of soul.”

Then he would not look at her for anger, saying:

“Folly and double folly—woman’s madness! Have you not heard the saying

of the wise, that if ever he hears tell of age and sickness and death,

his doom is sealed? And mine with it—and mine with it! For I love my

son.”

Then the great tears overflowed her eyes and ran down like a stream at

the thaw.

“Forgiveness!” she cried. “Forgiveness! for I love my husband, and if

this unknown sweetness capture and carry him from me, what good should

my life do me? But now, most honoured father of my lord, I have a

hope—a hope! Will a child’s hand hold him?”

And even as the words left her lips, he caught her two hands and gazed

deep into her eyes and triumphed. And he said:

“Daughter, you are hope, and your words a cup in the desert! For,

knowing what my son is to me, I know that those hands will hold him when

yours and mine drop helpless. Go back to him and tell him, and to the

great Gods do I give thanks because my prayers and sacrifices have not

run to waste but are rewarded!”

And as she knelt before him, the tears rolled down his cheeks for

gladness, nor could he hide them, as a warrior should.

And, beautiful as a rainbow flowering against a black cloud, the

Princess returned to the carved chamber of cedar with its lattices set

wide to the perfumed air of summer. Beneath and around them the ivory

chalices of the frangipani blossoms and starred clouds of jasmine

offered warm incense to the sun and all was calm as ecstasy, as though

the world, captured by the power of Yoga, were in ecstasy, dreaming with

open eyes upon Perfection. The leaves of deep-foliaged trees floated on

air in absolute stillness, swimming, silent, in liquid gold, and below

the shades of the gardens gleamed Rohini, she also dancing no longer as

in spring, but calm and silent as the meditation of a saint, pursuing

her shining way in a deep quiet.

There, seated beneath a neem tree, in the green bower of its heart, the

Princess beheld Siddhartha as he sat with his feet folded and his hands

lying upon his knees. And as she watched, kneeling by the lattice, he

stirred no more than a noble image of himself made in gold and there was

that in his calm that struck her soul with fear. Then presently,

gathering courage from knowledge of the gladness she bore within her,

she rose, and folding the gold sari about her brows, she went with

rose-leaf footsteps through the House of Joy, passing those palace rooms

where the fair women talked and sang and made low music with their vinas

and sitars, eating fruits cooled in blocks of ice from the mountains and

laughing with each other as though joy could never cease nor death wreck

youth and life, for it seemed that the secret of the house held them

also and that they, like the Prince, believed that these things were

immortal.

But Yashodara, going through the garden ways, past groups of tall

flowers bee-haunted, flickered about by rose-coloured and black

butterflies, caught wafts of varying perfumes, like strains of music

through the opening and closing of celestial doors, so sweet was the

world that day. The jewelled peacock and his wife led forth their train

of little ones to pace in deep grass and silver pheasants went daintily

in the plumed shades of the bamboo and their young followed rejoicing in

life and warmth and plenty, and birds hidden in high branches sang as if

never they would cease, and above all floated the blue sky—a blue pure

and strong as that of the infinite ocean, and life and love wandered

hand in hand along the blossomed earth in sunlight like clear water. So

though her secret winged her feet the Princess must needs pause here and

there to share with all these living creatures the wine of joy poured

from the sun’s brimming cup, and her soul gladdened within her in the

youth of the world. And at last with steps light as the fall of a petal

she approached the great neem tree and stood and looked into its shade.

Now here was an extraordinary stillness as though an arresting finger

were laid upon the pulse of life, but not wholly silencing it, for from

a fern-fringed spring there fell at regular intervals a bright drop of

water marking time into divisions lest it should wholly slip into

Eternity and be lost. And the shade within was deep and green making a

soft dusk at noon, and through the shade could be seen the great spires

of silver mountains ecstatic in blue air and resembling the highest

reach of the aspiration of man arrested on the verge of comprehension.

Very still in green shade sat the son of the Maharaja, his hands, palm

upward, laid empty upon his knees, his eyes fixed on the everlasting

hills, neither joy nor trouble upon calm brows, lost in meditation so

deep that it walled him as in crystal from the fair shows around, and

her coming was nothing to him for he neither saw nor heard it.

Then a wave of anguish rose in her bosom and swelled until it spilt in

salt and bitter water from her eyes, and she could not restrain herself

from that forbidden show of sorrow and putting aside the boughs she ran

to him and fell at his knees and laid her head upon them, sobbing. And

with a long sigh he awoke and looked down upon her, smiling.

“What is it, wife, and why do your eyes run like Rohini. Is it a new

gladness beyond gladness? And why are you so glad?”

Weeping and sobbing she hid her fair face upon his knees, clasping them

passionately, her words stumbling from her lips in agony.

“It is not gladness, O heart of my heart. It is grief.”

And he, from the inward Kingdom of Calm.

“And what is grief, my lotus flower?”

For in all his life he had neither heard the word nor seen the thing and

she spoke an unknown language. And as she sobbed on, he lifted her face

gently in his two hands and looked at her closed eyelids, the lashes wet

and matted on her cheek with running tears, she pale as death, the rich

colour dead in her lips, and on his beautiful face was amazement and no

more, for how could he pity who had lived only in the presence of joy?

And at last he said very slowly as if bewildered:

“My rose, my delight, what is this new thing, and what have you to tell

me? Speak that I may rejoice also.”

And his words stung some terror in her because he could not understand

and it seemed that she must bear the burden of grief and the hidden

secret of the world’s woe not only for him and herself, but for all the

earth. For from any creature born human, though young and beautiful and

a Prince, it may well seem a daring too great for mortals to deny grief

and affront sorrow and to shut the door in their grey faces—knowing

them waiting and watching outside. So the words broke from her sobbing

lips:

“This morning I woke, and in the august quiet of the dawn I knew that my

hope of hopes was given to me and my joy brimmed and sparkled in the cup

of jewelled gold from the Gods, and I would have turned then into my

lord’s breast to tell of it, but that night you had not passed with me

but in the chamber of deodar, so I lay and dreamed awake, lost in bliss

until they brought me word that our father would speak with me, and I

went.”

“But all this was good, my lily swaying on blue waters. And what was

your hope?” he said with a hand coming and going softly in her hair, and

the monotony and gentleness of his touch soothed her like the

immeasurable falling of far-distant water—no louder than the humming of

a bee. And drawing more quiet breath, she continued:

“Our father asked me, lord of my soul, whether still you escaped away in

soul from all the love and laughter about you. For when this is so, is

it not that we fail to make you glad, and am not I, your wife, the worst

sinner? O heart of my heart, what more is there that we have not done?

Tell me, I beseech you.”

And he answered, “Nothing,” looking above her head to the heights.

Passionately she caught his hands in hers.

“Then, O beloved, if we have done all and fail, _what_ is it that draws

you from me? What is your soul’s desire? When our father, believing a

man might weary of my poor beauty, sought out new faces for the Painted

Chambers, did I weep? I smiled, though—But no, I will not say it. If it

was your pleasure, what should I be but glad? But still you were drawn

from us, and it has been a terror that bit into my soul, when waking in

a white moonlight, I have seen you sitting with alien eyes fixed upon

the great march of the stars. And yet I have kept silence. But now, lord

of my life I ask this—where is it your soul goes, and to whom?”

Her hands, hot with the fever of the soul, pleaded for her, clasping

his. Her dark eyes heavy with tears entreated mercy. He answered

gravely:

“I go to my own people.”

“And we are not your own people? Beloved, beloved—Your words are

swords, who then are your own?”

“I cannot tell.”

Her hope forgotten, the Princess knelt beside him.

“O noble one, is it life or death that draws you?”

“I cannot tell. What is death? But life such as this is weariness

inexpressible, and how men endure it I cannot know. Without change,

break, or ripple the sunshiny days glide past, each bringing in its

hands the same offering of love and peace monotonous as a dove’s cooing.

My life is without hope, for, having all, what is there to hope for? And

what I have is over-sweet. It cloys in the tasting like honey. And the

Brahmans make their sacrifices and mutter their mantras of invocation

and propitiation, and for what? For if we have all, what more is there

to have, and why pray for what is unneeded? If this Paradise over-sweet

can never crack asunder; if ages and ages hence we still shall sit here

young and beautiful as to-day,—the Gods have emptied their hands and

what have they left to give? And if we do amiss, how shall they punish

us? And will not the day come when I may lift up my hand to the

mountains and curse them, saying—‘Be at ease in your careless heavens,

O unapproachable Gods,—but I am a man with a soul not to be captured

and tamed in earth’s paddock. I demand my rights, though what they are I

know not, for I move in a perfumed cloud that blinds me. But I shall

know one day.’”

She looked up at him in fear that forbade speech.

“I hear the noise of hammers outside the gardens, the cry of the

plougher, the song of the maids who come home with cattle from the outer

meadows. And I say that these people have lives better than mine, and if

I could change I would, for sweet must be their sleep and glad their

leisure, but for me life is all idleness and sleep, and their eternity

is better than my own. I will ask my father to let me too go out and

labour in the glad world outside this prison, that buys its food with

happy toil, that I too may know what it is to eat the bread I have

earned in contentment.”

Pale with fear Yashodara answered:

“But, lord of my life, how is it known to you that their life is all

good? Is it possible to envy what you know not?”

“I know that with them life is eternal as with me and doubtless joy

perpetual. But to this they add useful toil that gives us our luxuries.

All these fair things about us are made by the hands of free men

rejoicing in beauty. And I make nothing. I pass from one enjoyment to

another, fettered—a winged bird in a jewelled cage. Are they not

happier than I? And you, sweet wife,—what joy have you in comforting

the long hours of a slave?”

She kissed his hands with passion, her black hair falling silken about

his feet.

“It is I that am the slave, my King—the happy slave of your beauty and

nobleness, and what could I ask but to wait eternally upon your pleasure

and that of your son.”

He turned his eyes gravely upon her.

“My son?” he said. And she:

“It is true—it is true. And it is because I bear this hope in my bosom

that it pierces me like a sword to see your calm averted eyes and know

you far away in that strange heaven where I cannot follow. O, my lord,

if it be true that you have alien kindred I cannot reach, let your son

be of them. Give him all good!”

Then stooping, he drew her head to his breast and put his arm about her

and drew her gently until she sat upon his left knee—that throne of the

Indian wife, and thus they remained awhile in silence, and his touch was

better than speech and his quiet healing as moonlight. Nor did she miss

words of love or rejoicing for his calm folded her in the very wings of

peace. At long last he spoke:

“My Pearl of Perfectness, we two are one, and of our true oneness

springs this new delight. To me the hope is sweeter than all harps

touched in the hollow of Heaven, and if you were dear to me before,

judge how dear now. But since we are so one, come nearer, share my

thought as well as my heart. Does it content you that we should bring

into our prison another prisoner and one so dear? Here the days slip by

uncounted—a chain of fadeless flowers. Here the river links its long

silver thought for ever and ever down the channel from the peaks. Here

the bright birds flash by eternally. Will they people the garden to

overflowing with their beauty or do they fly away to freer lands as I

would if I could? When this garden is full of our children and theirs,

what then? Am I the only prisoner or they also? _What_ is the secret my

father holds from me?”

But she, trembling, could answer nothing. And again there was silence

and only the bright slow dropping of the little spring, and her heart

forboded sorrow.

“O day of joy made bitter with fear!” it said within her.

And again he fell into deep cold meditation, and forgot her utterly and

his arm relaxed and slipping fell beside him, and she crept from his

knee, and he did not know, staring with lost eyes toward the stainless

heavens. And for awhile she stood and watched unnoticed, and then crept

shuddering away.

And beneath the shade of the neem Siddhartha sat motionless until the

rays from the low sun struck high up the tree trunks, and sunset

followed, a breath of rose on a rainbow sky, and presently the moon rose

unclouded in luminous loveliness and floated to the zenith, and all

boughs dropped dew, and the mountains were lost in stars.

Nor did any dare to break his dream.

CHAPTER IV

THUS have I heard.

Time went by, each day sweet as new honey dripping golden from a golden

comb, sweet, inexpressibly sweet, and the Princess, moving languidly,

trembling with hope mingled with doubt and fear, would tell only her

joys to the Maharaja Suddhodana and not her fears. For what help was

there in him? He could not strengthen the guarding gates for they were

strong and armed men watched by them, nor the walls, for they were high,

and observed from watch-towers. And yet, day by day and night by night

the spirit of Siddhartha had passed invisible between the swords and

unsleeping eyes.

But since the hope of the Princess was made known to him, he shut

himself within the great gardens in spirit also. There should no cloud

dim the eyes of the mother of his son—flowers must bud and blossom in

her heart as about her slender feet, and no thought but peace and

security creep into her Paradise. And little by little, as a wild deer

glimpsing through the green flies in terror, yet may be slowly won with

patience and tenderness till it will browse the rose-leaves in a girl’s

hand, so was the fear of the Princess put to sleep, and a low song of

joy and immeasurable thankfulness made music in her heart like the

summer voice of Rohini after the melting of the snows—when the river is

little and peaceful.

And one day the Maharaja came to visit her in the cool chamber of roses

looking toward the north and the eternal mountains and found her

stringing jade and crystal and amber on a fine golden cord, while ladies

sat about her plucking rose petals for paste of roses, and there was a

sound of far music in the gardens and looking through the lattice he saw

Siddhartha with his best and dearest cousin, the Prince Ananda, shooting

with bow and arrow in a wide meadow by the river, and Devadatta and

another of the Sakya lords stood by, and the young men laughed and

shouted, and their voices came small and clear with distance, so that

the heart of the King exulted and he triumphed as he seated himself on

the golden and peacock cushions, dismissing the women.

“We have conquered, lovely one!” he said, laughing kindly in his black

beard. “What neither I nor all my sages could do your small wise hands

have done, for in them the mother of his child holds my son’s heart. I

knew—I foretold, it must be so, for he is loving and good and all the

pieties of life hold him like bands of iron. You are content?”

And she smiling.

“Noble father, I am content. I have no more ‘And yets’ with which to

wound your ear. My lord leaves me neither by night or day, except when I

entreat him to try his strength with Ananda and Devadatta and the Sakya

lords. And this is wisdom. We strained too tight upon the fetters and

they ate into his soul. This freedom among the young lords is well. My

noble father, I entreat you to give him what liberty you can, for it is

good. Never now do I see him submerged in the cold dreams that stole him

from us. Those strange voices call him no more, the hands have ceased to

beckon. He is ours—yours and mine and the child’s, and of the child is

all his talk and thought. He shall ride with sword and lance and be a

King of Kings. So we say—one to the other.”

She looked up with tears of pure joy trembling like shed diamonds on her

long black lashes, and the Maharaja, grave with delight, replied:

“So it shall be! What!—the kingdom of Maghada is ruled by a foolish

man—the King Bimbisara,—why shall not my son oust him as we gather

strength? Ha! are not we too of the Arya—the great fighting people, and

may not one elephant subdue another! Daughter, I would have you breathe

these things in my son’s ear, and thrill him with hope of great

splendours for the child.”

She answered eagerly.

“Father, I have done—I do it. I say each day—‘Give him his

inheritance, my lord. Let all good that you gain be his, for he is yours

and ours,’ and always he replies: ‘Could I find the whole world’s Pearl

it would be for my great father, for you and for the child. Be content,

wife, for my heart is with my own people.’”

And as she spoke his words the tears of gladness brimmed and fell on the

crystals and jade and amber in her golden lap and the Raja clapped his

hands together and shouted for joy.

“Ha, ha! we have won him! O auspicious daughter, dip your hands in my

treasury and take at your will. What reward is enough for your beauty

and wisdom? But now be cautious”—[There he became grave and

weighty]—“guard your health and your person as the deposit of a King,

and all shall be well. And the day is not far distant when we shall

laugh at the sickly foretelling that said if he saw death, pain or old

age he would flee into the jungle. What! Shall not my son have strength

to face the common lot of man like a great King! But not yet—not yet!

We will go warily.”

And the wise Princess saw that beneath his triumph he was not even yet

wholly reassured. But she herself was content.

So when Siddhartha returned flushed and gay from riding and shooting by

the parks of Rohini with the great bow in his hand and quiver at his

shoulder, a glittering glorious young warrior, she clung about him

shining with bliss so that it appeared that visible rays surrounded her

as they do the Dawn Maiden when she, standing, flings her golden arrows

about the world from the peaks of Himalaya. And with his arms about her

in their chamber of marble he said:

“And is my dove content? And is life good?” and she replied:

“Most utterly content. If life is good to my lord it is delight to me.

But you, O, heart’s dearest—and are you not content? See how the world

is white with blossom dropping perfumed dew, and the blue birds flash

through them, and there is piping and singing and the flutter of wings

through all the happy gardens and the humming of black bees mad for

honey. And this morning as I walked with Gautami the slender-waisted,

close, close hidden in the jasmin flowers I found a small nest—small

and heart-holding and in it four blue jewels of eggs warm from the

mother’s breast—warm as love and home, and blue as the skies, and I

looked and said—‘One, two, three, four. This is a prophecy. These are

the three sons and the one daughter I shall bear to my lord.

First—three sons, one by one, and then a daughter so lovely that all

Kings of the earth shall desire her, and the three strong brothers shall

guard her beauty—that is fit only for the enjoyment of the King of the

Three Worlds! And we will hide this lovely one in the heart of the

gardens until he comes. Now, since I have seen this portent, four there

must be. Less there cannot. But possibly more!’”

And she leaned back, flashing the sunshine of her eyes in his, and he

laughed back holding her by the two hands, half dazzled with her beauty

and gladness.

“This is life,” he said—“and the cold dreams are gone. They rose like

mists from Rohini in autumn mornings—and in the rising of the sun they

disperse. And the coming of my son has driven them into the night where

they belong.”

Therefore great gladness reigned in the House of Gardens and doubt was

forgotten, and in his pride, willing to make his son more free and yet

security more secure, the Maharaja made another and most beautiful

garden across the city where Siddhartha might take his pleasure if he

wearied of the Gardens of Rohini, and the Princess approved this with

her wisdom, saying: “We must stretch the tether, lest the bird guess he

is not free to fly into the distances.”

And this was a most exquisite garden, with great pools and lakes where

white cranes stood meditating all day among blue lotus blossoms—the

very essence of the blue of the waters, and it was made a Paradise where

none might take life or harm the creatures of earth or air or water, and

the wild swans floated as pure and fearless upon those lakes as upon the

bosom of holy Manasa in the sky-uplifted bosom of the mountains, and the

deer were not shy but walked beside men, and with great eyes, silent

though full of speech, told them the hidden histories of their wild

hearts.

And on a certain day Siddhartha sent a message to his father.

“Great father, if my Paradise is ready, give me permission to drive

through the city to-morrow that I may enjoy it with my cousins Ananda

and Devadatta and the Sakya lords.”

And the answer returned was “To-morrow,” and that night Siddhartha

passed with his wife Yashodara in a pavilion of Chinese silks with blue

and gold dragons by the banks where Rohini wandered among her reeds

singing a little song of sleep, and as the orange sunset faded into grey

a few large stars came out, and swam in immeasurable deeps above them.

And she said, holding his hand:

“How beautiful—how beautiful is the coming of the night with all the

stars caught like bees in her net of blue,—and is it not strange, O

lord of my life, to think that long ages after we and our love are

forgotten other lovers shall sit by this little river and see the night

glide down the mountains scattering stars about the world like seeds of

light. Shall we see, shall we know, in those cold other lives they

promise?”

And he in great astonishment:

“Forgotten? In what age to come shall you not still be loveliest and

gentlest, Queen of the whole earth for beauty? Then, as now, shall men

come to happy Kapila because the city holds the most beautiful as the

shell its pearl. How should we be forgotten?”

And for a moment cold fear crept by her like the silent passing of a

snake, compelling her to remember that the truth was shut from those

dear eyes, light of her life,—and she brushed it from her and said

laughing.

“True—who should forget us? I dream sometimes that of all names in the

world my lord’s shall be greatest, uplifted, splendid, like that great

star throbbing upon the topmost peak of all, and men shall bow down and

do homage to it not only in the land of the Sakyas and in Maghada and

Kosala, but in the wide great world among strange people who send us

their treasures but whose very names we cannot utter.”

“And you have dreamed this, beloved? And how?”

“I have dreams that beat in my ears and their sound goes over the

mountains, north and south and east and west. And the sun is dimmed with

fumes of incense offered to a great King. And I see golden palaces like

the sands of all the rivers for number, with my lord sitting throned

beneath them in gold—palaces innumerable, and flowers cast in heaps to

exhale their perfume. And all this in my lord’s honour. This have I

dreamed four times.”

And he said, slowly:

“It is my dream also. Certainly the Gods come in dream. But who can say?

See, beloved, how the night, mother of men, brings us her dark reposes

lulling all things to sleep. There is no moon, but strange spirits as

white as moonbeams moving among the trees. Sing low to me, beloved, sing

low. I would not see their eyes—they look upon me with thoughts I

cannot read. Sing to me—fill my eyes with the love in yours. Sing!”

And she took her sitar of ebony and ivory and sang softly as Rohini that

made a silver music at their feet.

But there was a seal upon her lips that she might not sing of love

though love was beside her, for the awe of the mountains was heavy on

them and the listening of night. Therefore she sang these words, but no

louder than a bee hovering about a flower.

“The wild swans rise from earth,

Strong in the path of the sun.

How should it give them mirth

With his great day begun?

Upward the white wings fly,

Clouds in the bluest blue,

Far they soar—and high!—

Would I might follow too.”

And again after awhile she sang a great hymn of the ancient Scripture

but lower still:

“Though difference be none, I am of Thee,

Not Thou, O Lord, of me.

For of the sea is verily the wave,

Not of the wave the sea.”

And there was silence, and he turned and laid his cheek to hers and they

sat together long, gazing speechless at the marvel of the starry deeps.

Nor did they know that their last night of peace was with them.

Meanwhile the commands of the Maharaja went out into every street and

house of Kapila.

“To-morrow the chariot of my son goes through the streets to the

Paradise of Pleasure. See and beware that no aged man or woman be abroad

in the city, for my son’s eyes must behold no aged, sick or dead person.

It is forbidden by the Powers that rule his destiny. Therefore let none

but healthy, glad and beautiful persons fall in his way, for if

otherwise the transgressor must die.”

And there was not a soul in the place but heard this command and

touching their foreheads murmured, “It is an order.” And men, women and

children ran busily here and there garlanding the happy streets, and

they set up poles gilded and painted and with gay fluttering banners.

And dwarfed trees after the Chinese manner were placed along the roads,

and there were hanging canopies of blue and rose silk, and magnificent

tapestries were hung from the windows, until the city shone beautiful as

the Paradise of the Gods on the holy mountain Sumeru, and bands of

children running like the lesser angels strewed flowers through all the

ways where Siddhartha should pass.

Then steadily as the running of a river the people poured in from the

country-side to see their young Prince, and the ways were gay with happy

folk dressed in their best and garlanded with garlands of marigolds and

little rosebuds scented with fragrant oils to increase their own

fragrance. The towers were filled with men and women clustering like

bees. The mounds by the trees, the windows and terraces—were thronged

with eager persons,—the men looking sharply about them to see that

nothing was left which might offend the eyes of the heir. And there was

nothing, for in bright sunshine, tempered by a cool breath from the

mountains none but happy and beautiful people with their children

rejoiced and were glad.

Now see the glorious chariot of ivory inlaid with gold made ready by the

gate of the Garden House, fronted with jewels glittering in the bright

challenging sunbeams, spread with noble silks flowered with gold, and

drawn by four equal-pacing stately horses, white as the ivory they drew,

and harnessed with splendour,—their pride subdued to the pride of their

master. And beside them stood Channa, the charioteer, a young man well

born and noble in mind and person.

So having saluted his wife, the Princess Yashodara, the Prince

Siddhartha advancing ascended the chariot, robed in gold and jewels and

appearing like Surya the sun when he blazes at his zenith, and all

veiled their eyes from his brilliance.

And as he came through the streets, his horses pacing gently, the people

swayed toward him and a whisper of awe and delight ran through them like

the breathing of a breeze that blows the blossoms in passing.

Looking upon them his heart exulted with joy and kindness, for he

thought—“This is my city of delight. These are my people, and it shall

eternally be my bliss to do them good. Look at the strong fathers

holding up their little sweet children to see their Prince. Their hearts

are full of love even as my own. Look at the lovely mothers with their

babes in warm bosoms—only less fair than Yashodara, and full of love

and gentleness. And the glorious young men straight and tall, and the

antelope-eyed girls with silken hair braided with blossoms. The Gods

know it is a happy world with all these noble creatures in it, and my

sick dreams of I know not what are dispersed in this bliss and the great

joy of my people.”

And he saluted with his hands, smiling right and left that none might be

forgotten, and sometimes from the chariot he took an armful of flowers

and tossed them lightly among the crowd and they were gathered up with

delight and pressed to eager lips and brows because they had touched the

Prince’s hand. So he went through the city, marvelling why his father

had forbidden it hitherto. And as he flung his last handful of flowers

the appointed moment struck—predestined by the Rulers,—and across the

way of the chariot staggered an old, old man, and the stately stallions

arched white necks and tossed their heads in disdain at this revolting

sight, for they too had beheld nothing but loveliness until that moment.

And because the commands of the Maharaja were stern it is said that this

figure was no mortal man but a divinity hidden in flesh whom none could

let or hinder and that the myriad people of Kapila saw nothing of

this—but two saw clearly—the Prince and the charioteer, Channa. And

how this may be I cannot tell. Thus have I heard.

And the aged man with tattered white hair depending from his bleached

and bony head like lichen from a stricken tree, supporting his painful

steps on a stick, weak, imbecile, skinny jaw fallen disclosing toothless

gums, eyes red and bleared, without lashes, and moisture oozing from

them, drawing oppressed and painful breath and terror-stricken amidst

the crowds, tottered across the flowery way and sank, heaped and huddled

beside the chariot, casting a look of terror upon the radiant Prince,

and mumbling and muttering what none could hear, his head shaking like a

leaf in wind. And it was as if darkness and terror obliterated the sun

and all the crowded people bowed forward to see the stopping of the

chariot, breathlessly remembering the Maharaja’s commands, but none

stirred in his place and even the children were dumb. And yet they had

seen nothing but the face of the Prince with a shadow fallen upon it.

And the Prince laid his hand on the reins and the horses stopped with

drooped crests, and shaken with horror he cried aloud to the charioteer:

“Channa, what is it? What is this man? If indeed man it be.”

And the old man crouched there, muttering, and great fear held Channa

silent, and again the Prince cried aloud:

“What is it? What is it?”

And again the crowd sighed like the first stirring of winter answer from

Channa’s lips where he stood, bowed over the golden reins grasped in his

hand.

“Prince, this is an old man. This is old age.” And a long sighing sob

commoved the crowded people as though their doom were pronounced, when

they heard.

But the Prince, the words almost dying on his lips, said trembling.

“What is old age? Was this unhappy one born so, or has it fallen as a

judgment from Heaven?”

And again the crowd sighed like the first stirring of winter winds and

Channa, face hidden, replied:

“Prince, he was not so born, nor is it the Gods’ anger, but this is the

common lot and to every man born on earth it comes nor can it be

escaped. This ruin of a man was once a child at his mother’s breast, and

then a boy filled with laughter and sportive gaiety, a joy to see and

hear. Later, a youth, beautiful, amorous and brave, such as attended on

bliss, and in enjoyment of the Five Pleasures. But old age, dogging the

steps of men as a hound with fell teeth, has dragged him down at last

and had its will of him, and he lives a life of pain and men avoid him

and women pass him by.”

And some women in the crowd wept aloud, and the air was heavy with

sighing and the old man moaned and muttered with toothless jaws.

But the Prince, still unbelieving and trembling said:

“And will this doom come upon my great father?

“Noble sir, yes.”

“And upon the beauty of—my ladies?”

“Even so.”

“And upon me.”

And there was a fearful silence like death among the crowd and no word

from Channa so that had a breath stirred in the palms it would have

affrighted the soul.

Then suddenly the Prince cried aloud:

“Turn back the chariot. What heart have I for pleasures! Tear down the

garlands. Where is there room for joy! I have seen what I have seen.”

And, wordless, Channa turned the white horses, and guided the chariot

along the way it came and the people fell back to make way, and men and

women hid their faces like mourners for it seemed as though in the

knowledge of the Prince knowledge had come to them also of the terror of

life and the doom inevitable.

CHAPTER V

NOW when Siddhartha returned to the Garden House, one ran before him and

told the women what had occurred and the ladies bore the news to the

Princess where she waited, and when she heard it she said:

“O ill-foreboding heart of mine! Did I not know that the anger of the

Gods must burn against those who would conceal their righteous doom from

any man born upon this cruel earth? For who can fight with fate? If this

drives my lord to despair, what shall be done?”

So she sent messages to the Maharaja telling him the danger and went

forth into the Painted Hall to seek the Prince, and he sat there alone,

surrounded by lovely images painted upon the walls, where joy and

triumph and love clasped hands, and dancing limbs shone amongst flowers

and all the world was white with spring.

Now something in his eyes held his wife from him and she had no courage

to draw near, and went and sat herself humbly on the ground before him

but at a distance, and at last he said:

“This was the secret. You knew it and did not tell me.”

And in the hall was no sound.

“You saw me fed with lies such as these—” (and he flung out his arm

against the pictures) “and you did not tell me they were the mask of

horror.” She bowed her head upon her hands speechless.

“And I, most pitiable, most ignorant, rejoiced that a son should be

given to me, not knowing that such a one is born to a heritage of

wretchedness and the inevitable approach of shame and ruin. And from

this is no escape, for the Gods have appointed no end to our misery, no

door from the prison, but we must live eternally and horribly, old and

disgraced in body and mind. Could a man but end it and fall into the

dark and be forgotten! O had I known, no child of mine should ever have

felt the whip and dragged the chain. I will not blame you who are but a

woman,—but my father—my father.”

And in the hall was no sound at all. And the Princess, hiding her face,

thought, “Shall I tell him of the end—of Death?” But she dared not.

And he called aloud for the women and said:

“Deface these pictures for they are lies, and the sight of them turns

the knife in the wound. Blot them out with blackness.”

So it was done, but the Maharaja in terror bade them redouble the

pleasures of the Paradise and of the Garden House. And at great cost he

bought a fair slave from the outlands, golden-haired as dawn,

sapphire-eyed as blue ice of the Himalaya, white as the elephants’ tusk,

skilled in all arts of love, and among the darker beauties of the

pleasure chambers she moved radiant as though day had broken forth in

starry midnight, and all the neighbouring Kings hearing were envious.

And in this beauty all hoped, even the sad Yashodara, and her heart

failed her when she saw the Prince’s eyes coldly averted from loveliness

that might have stirred the eternal Gods. And again she sent a message

to the Maharaja.

“Your son, my lord, will not look upon the beautiful white stranger nor

on any. O send him forth in freedom, for penned in these sweet gardens

he muses and meditates and what is in his heart I cannot know, but fear

very terribly. Yet guard the way that no sad sight approach him, for if

he sees more all is lost.”

And again orders were given, and as before the Prince set forth, but

this time grave and sad, and the crowds shared his mood and the city

could not rejoice.

And as they neared the street all a-flutter with banners and flowers and

perfumes and thronged with silent gazing thousands again a divinity

masked his divinity in tortured flesh (thus it is told), and by the way

was seen a sick man struggling for life in a losing battle.

His body was swollen and disfigured, his hollow cheeks blazed with fever

and in his dying eyes fear and agony contended. Scarce could he drag

himself along, moaning and crying for pity, the hot tears pouring and

searing his cheeks as they ran. And seeing it, the Prince set his hands

on the reins and checked the horses and cried aloud.

“What is this horror?”

So the charioteer, Channa, with fear tearing at his vitals, yet

compelled by a force beyond all resistance to no other than the truth,

answered:

“Prince, it is a sick man. The four elements are all confused and

disordered, he is worn, feeble, and strengthless, tortured in body and

mind, dependent upon the mercy of men whose own evil day is but

postponed.”

And a shudder ran through the crowd as the Prince questioned him,

shrinking back as one in mortal fear.

“And this too is the common doom?”

“Prince, none escape it.”

“And the few poor years that old age leaves us are broken into misery

like this?”

“Prince, so it is.”

And he said:

“Turn my chariot again, I will go no further. I have seen what I have

seen.”

So the news was carried to the Maharaja and he was almost beside

himself, raging with anger that was half fear, and he sent for his wise

minister, and cried to him:

“What shall we do? For my son is learning the guarded secrets, and if I

keep him shut in the gardens he will rebel and break away, and if I send

him through the city such devils are my servants that horrible sights

afflict him and disperse my hopes in him. Here have I built a Paradise

so heavenly that could he but see it I need fear no more, for the man is

not born who could leave its deep and delicious shades for the dusty

world. And there have I placed a golden maiden whose smile is sunshine

and her lips singing roses, and were he to see her—But what do I say?

Is it not possible to a great person like myself that for a few short

hours the city ways should be guarded from horror while he passes

through? I am fallen indeed, otherwise.”

But the old wise minister shook his head.

“Great Sir, one should say it is possible, yet when I remember how the

city was searched and guarded this twice, what dare I say? O

Maharaj—may it not be that the high Gods being resolved may not be

thwarted, and that we fight against iron destiny? Great fear possesses

me.”

But his Master replied angrily.

“Foolish old man! And was I not given the choice? If I could withhold

the truth he would be a great world-King. If he guessed it he would be

an ascetic of the jungles. What father would choose other than I have

done? Once more I will send him to my Paradise, and if this time I am

tricked let your head answer it.”

And again the Prince was sent out but this time also though the city was

decorated and garlanded, there was no semblance of joy, and the very

horses went with drooped heads as though fear were the charioteer.

And as they reached the street, where most the people crowded, the

Divinity was again ready with his work, having prepared a sight terrible

and woeful. For slowly preceding the chariot there went a funeral train,

with four men bearing a bier and lying on it a body cold and stiff, with

dropped jaw and dreadful dead eyes staring blindly at the sun. Withered

flowers lay on the bier and the mourners beat their breasts and wept

aloud, filling the air with wailing and lamentation.

And the Prince closing his eyes to shut out the horror, and clenching

his palms said:

“What is this?”

And Channa not daring to look in his face, answered very low: bowed

under the weight of words he was compelled to utter.

“This is a dead man, all his powers of body destroyed, life departed,

his heart without thought, his intellect dispersed. His spirit is fled,

his body withered, stretched out like a dead log, taken from all who

loved him. And mourning they carry him forth to burn and obliterate him,

for they—even they—will have no more of his presence now become

loathsome, but cast him from them utterly. And this is Death.”

And into his clenched hands he murmured:

“Is this also the common lot?”

And the charioteer replied, with hidden face:

“Prince, so it is. He who begins his life must end it. And thus. For

death may at any moment seize us and carry us away into darkness.”

Then Siddhartha sank down in the chariot, his soul warring with his

body, catching at the leaning-board for support, hiding his face from

the light of day as the dead man was borne on before him and wailing and

lamentation filled the air.

And into his clenched hands he murmured:

“O terrible delusion of mortal men, who born in pain and utterly deluded

are brought through grief and sickness and old age to this frightful

end! Disperse the people. Turn back my chariot. The whole world is a

lie. I have seen what I have seen.”

So the people melted silently away in tears, as clouds disperse in rain.

For seeing the Prince’s horror and amazement in learning the truth, for

the first time they also sounded the deeps of their own misery, and life

appeared to them a traitor, and in all the universe was no comfort.

But Channa the charioteer, not daring to return because of the

Maharaja’s strict command, drove onward to the Paradise, and the Prince

crouching in the silks and gold with face hidden neither knew nor cared.

So at last they came in among the green lawns and pleasant waters and

deep-leaved trees, the last hope of the Maharaja, and slowly and

painfully he dismounted.

Suddenly about the chariot, running and fluttering like doves came the

lovely ones provided for pleasure, beautiful as flowers in a Paradise of

Gods, adorned with chains of pearls and other jewels.

Beautiful were they, each one chosen as merchants choose a pearl to

complete a queen’s necklace, for their eyes were long and languishing,

half hidden in black lashes as stars in midnight, and their mouths

pomegranate buds disclosing seeds of ivory, and down to the ankle rolled

their lengths of perfumed hair.

Most beautiful is the bosom of a woman, for in its gentle curves are all

love, all tenderness expressed, and these displayed its loveliness—dear

as rare jasmin flowers, precious as sweet food to the hungry, unveiled

or veiled a little in transparency like the running of shallow water.

And thus they surrounded him as he passed through the blossomed trees

rapt in sorrowful meditation, pale with the terror of gazing for the

first time on the face of Death.

So they fluttered about him, the lovely ones, skilled in all subtleties

of love, shedding enticements as the moon distils dews of camphor. One,

seeing him sad, saddened her sweet face and looked at him with tears

hanging on long lashes, as though she would say—“Dear Prince, I too

have tasted grief. Do I not know?” And one, smiles chasing one another

to cover in her merry eyes, promised forgetfulness, gladness in her

arms, and some clinging together like sister roses on twined stems,

seemed to defy severance even if love should call them, tempting him who

watched them to essay that sweet sorrow.

But amidst them the Prince paced lost in grief, not seeing them, or,

seeing, heeding not at all. And presently when they had tried all their

arts and could draw his regards no more than remote stars can draw the

gaze of a cold moon, they fell silent and gathered fearfully into

groups,—drawing back.

Now there stood in the shade of the bamboos a man much about the person

of the Maharaja, sent to see if all were well, and when the Prince

passed on, careless, this nobleman, Udayi, came out and addressed the

silent beauties.

“You women, all so graceful and fair, are you thus worsted? Surely in

all ages men have been subject to women when they put forth their power.

Too soon are you discouraged—too soon. For this Prince, though he

restrains his heart with the bit and bridle of purity, is but a man, and

the wisest and greatest in time past have slipped where they thought

themselves secure. And there is no fetter strong as white arms about a

man’s neck. Strive after new devices. Redouble your efforts. Great is

the prize.”

And the maidens, ashamed and angry at his chiding, fluttered again about

the Prince where he sat in the shade of a jambu tree, putting forth

amorous enticements, forgetful of all modesty and womanly reserve,

pressing on, striving to move him.

But he in his great heart, sorrowful, apart, looked upon them, sighing.

“O creatures most miserable, unheeding the dooms of age and death,

forgetful of the briefness of beauty, unconscious that above your

throats is suspended the sharp two-edged sword, how wretched is your

empty playing in the very jaws of destruction!”

And though he spoke nothing, they saw the homeless horror in his eyes,

and again they shrank away afraid.

So seeing the Prince alone, Udayi, smooth of speech, came softly along

the pleasure-paths of the Paradise, brushing aside the flowers,

observant and quiet as a serpent, and saluting the Prince he drew up

beside him and spoke this:

“Prince in whom all beauty and nobility meet, you sit here sad and

alone, and it is therefore that your great father, consumed by care for

your welfare appointed me to act as beseems a friend. Permit me then to

speak, for a wise friend removes what is unprofitable, promotes real

gain, and in adversity is true.”

And Siddhartha lifting his eyes said:

“Speak, if indeed in this great strait there be anything to say.”

So supporting his arm on a bough of the fire-flame tree Udayi spoke,

inclining his delicate dark face and subtle eyes toward the Prince.

“True it is that sickness may assail us and that old age and death will

by no means be baulked of their prey, yet youth is youth and beauty

divine, and the man who turns his back on pleasure because it passes is

a coward. Indeed the rose is the sweeter because even in blooming it

treads the way of death and soon we see it no more. Truly, my Prince,

you are afflicted with a distempered mind. Acquiescence is the secret of

life. We who are wise know that these things must be, and even old age

and death, the conquerors, we take to enhance our pleasures, saying to

ourselves, ‘The moment is mine, and love is sweet and lust the spur of

life. This moment neither death nor old age can take from me. I will

spend it as a man would spend his all if he knew that next day he would

be plundered, and a beggar.’”

But Siddhartha was silent, with brooding eyes fixed on the ground, and

presently Udayi resumed, in a delicately modulated voice:

“While you believed that joy and beauty were eternal, and that ages

hence these women would still surround you, beautiful and yielding, then

you might well shrink from a delight too prolonged, for dropped honey

cloys. An eternity of love may well become hell. Was it not so, my

Prince.”

And slowly the Prince answered:

“It was so. I have looked on the racing river, swollen with melting

snows, thinking that, were any end possible, to be hurled beaten and

broken down the rocks in its mad hurry were better than the changeless

Paradise of love and soft words and swooning music. There you are right,

Udayi the smooth-tongued. This is true.”

And highly satisfied, Udayi resumed:

“And now, having learnt that there _is_ an end, what should be your

course? The pleasures of a prisoner released, who enjoys knowing that he

has a respite though the doors will shut upon him one day. Surely it is

not the part of a brave man to fling away what he has because he cannot

have all, nor to own himself conquered because one day he must face the

enemy whom as yet he has not seen. No—not so. Take what the Gods

send—the Gods who have themselves been amenable to beauty and docile in

the arms of loveliness. Indeed what choice is there but to slink through

life starting at every shadow, or to dice and drink and love, like a man

tasting the best while it lasts. For what comes after we cannot tell.

Who knows?”

And the Prince said:

“This has the sound of wisdom, yet wisdom it is not. There is an

answer—there is a way, but I have not found it. It may be that it

cannot be found—that there is no such thing. Yet, better the search

than dully to agree with necessity. And as for these women—To me they

are no enticement, and if I would I cannot. Under their fair faces I see

the skull and they mop and mow like apes in the face of Horror. If the

Gods have thus made the world it is a folly and a brutality and they are

more foolish than men who must abide their cruelties, and if they have

not made it and all is chance we sink in the slough lit only by the

flicker of dying dreams. Leave me, Udayi the smooth-tongued. I would be

alone.”

And the courtier crept silently away under green shades, treading

lightly on turf and blossoms, thanking destiny that he was not as

Siddhartha but could lift the brimming cup and drain it to the dregs,

savouring every sparkle. And in his heart he mocked him, laughing at his

weakness—he whose name is now remembered only because one day he spread

out his folly before the Perfect One!

But the Prince, bending his great brows upon life and death, sat beneath

the jambu tree, feet folded, hands laid upon his knees in perfect

immobility. And he thought:

“Hollow compliance and a protesting heart! Is this life? Is there a

better? Great are the concerns of life and death. So great, so awful

that the poor race of mankind struggles only to forget for a brief

moment what it can never comprehend. For all about us are seen

injustices that were a King to commit his miserable people would rise

and hurl him from his bloody throne. And we are told of the priests that

the Gods have committed these crimes and yet are worthy of worship and

honour. No—rather is it the propitiation of fiends who will torture us

if they have not the servility of our praises while we die for their

pleasure. And the good suffer and the evil flourish, and to the rich man

is given more riches and to the poor more toil even exceeding their

strength. Now indeed all that was hidden from me bursts upon my mind as

when a flash of lightning tears the dark, and things I put aside for

want of comprehension shriek aloud in my ears. Why am I clothed in

jewels, why is my father generous and good, and my wife the fairest and

most loving of women, when at this moment were my eyes opened they would

behold men dying for bread that the least of my jewels would buy, with

none to tend or pity them. And what are my deserts more than theirs? And

why are some evil and some good as it were by nature? O cruel Gods who,

lapt in far-off pleasures, care nothing for our agonies, and let fall

your good things on the wicked and evil things on the good—yourselves

perhaps the sport of chance, if indeed you are at all!”

And these thoughts and many like them, black and miserable, stormed

about him in the wreckage of the world.

And at long last he aroused himself and the Paradise was empty of all

but a broad moonlight that lay in glories of light and shadow on trees

and waters and there was deep silence. For the women, ashamed and

terrified, had slipt noiselessly away and so back to the city, and far

off down a long glade his chariot and wearied horses stood waiting in

marble patience, and Channa sat beside them his head bowed upon his

raised knees like an embodied grief.

Very slowly the horses paced through the city, and that also was empty

of all but moonlight, for not a living soul went or came in the quiet,

and the pacing of the horses echoed loudly down the empty ways.

And not a word was spoken as they went, but when they reached the House

of the Garden, a woman ran out to meet them veiled like a ghost in the

moonlight, and cried aloud.

“O happy Prince, and happiest,—the Gods are good to this glad House and

to you, for on the bosom of the Princess lies your first-born son.”

And at these words a strange trembling seized him, so that for a moment

he hid his face in his hands. Then pale in the moonlight he said these

words:

“A fetter, a fetter is set upon me, therefore call the child Rahula, a

Fetter.”

CHAPTER VI

NOW at the birth of her son, so great was the joy of the Princess that

life and death were little things in her eyes, black rocks submerged in

bright water glittering with sunshine, and every day she blossomed more

beautiful and the child in her arms was like the star shining within the

moon’s crescent. And seeing this what could the nobility of Siddhartha

do otherwise than hide his grief and deep searchings of a heart tossed

like waves in a mighty wind.

Beautiful in his eyes was the tenderness of the lovely mother and her

eyes dwelling upon him and the child, but terrible also remembering that

at any moment the bright picture of life might break asunder and

disclose beneath the lurking horror of death and the dark and unknown

hereafter.

For if the Gods with their utmost forethought had made the world so full

of shameful things, what wise man could trust such unskilful workmen for

the world to come, and no hope was left anywhere.

He sat much alone by Rohini, his gaze dwelling on the silver peaks far

off and serene in blue air, and at his feet little fish darted in the

transparency of the pure waters, and the pheasant would lead her brood

to his unmoving feet, and the shimmering peacocks feed beside him. And

when the wild white swans spread snowy vans above his head, taking wing

for the mountains and for far lands beyond that he knew not, it seemed

in his deep musings that all these happy creatures were subject to a law

they knew and obeyed with content and that their life was better than

his own.

But compassion grew daily in his heart now that his eyes were

opened—Compassion for all the sorrows that surrounded him bleeding in

his heart like a wound such as drains life itself away. He saw the

little lovely dancer Amra drag wearied feet through the dance one night

and called her to him.

“Child, what ails you?”

“Great my lord, I must not tell you. But I dance no more. To-morrow I

go.”

“Child, I command you to speak. What is it?”

She looked about her with eyes large and fearful as the deer’s when she

sees the hunter’s knife glitter above her.

“Great my lord, it is an order. I dare not speak.”

“My order stands higher. Speak.”

She trembled as she stood, with fear and weakness.

“My lord, it is the sickness. Two years ago my sister Vijaya was a

dancer. Yourself has commended her. But the cruel cough came and tore

her breast, and at last she could scarcely lift her little feet, and

then they sent her secretly away, and she spat blood and the cough

devoured her, and she died. And now it has taken me also and the blood

came from my mouth last night, and to-morrow I go. But O I beseech your

greatness to hide my words, for it is forbidden that any grief should

soil the air about your noble presence.”

“But when you rest the cough will decline and you will be glad again, my

sister.”

“Great Prince, I shall die. For this there is no cure.”

There was a long silence.

“And do you fear this?”

“My lord, I fear very terribly—but there is no help. What must be,

must. And I am now too weary to dance, and it is better I die for I am a

burden and a distress to my mother now I am worth no more money, and she

is poor. There is scarce bread to eat.”

Then the blood poured into the pale face of Siddhartha for shame and

horror, and he said:

“On such foundations was my happiness built, and others have bled and

wept that I might laugh! O, evil Gods, shameful and disastrous to man,

if this is all! How shall the heart of man forgive your crimes against

us, and where is justice in all the wide Three Worlds?”

And as he spoke he lifted the chain of pearls from his shoulders and

threw them upon the dancer’s and she, beholding his nobleness and grief

with tears, went sobbing away.

The next day he sent a message to the Maharaja.

“Great father, since now I know all the secrets and there is nothing

hidden from me of the world’s woe, what hinders that I should go free to

see it? It may be that some joy shall meet my eyes and relieve the

burning of the flame of pity that consumes me. Also, since I have a son

it is now surely well that I should see and know the lives of the people

whom he and I one day shall rule. And I say this for truth, I am weary,

weary even to death of the music and dancing and the miserable

diversions of my prison, and if there be any hope for me it is in the

things of men, for I have done with those of women and children. Set

your prisoner free. It is your son who beseeches.”

And when the Maharaja agreed, the Prince sent another message.

“And let the city be neither decorated nor feasting. I desire to see the

life of the people as they live it, not as they would pretend it is

lived to please us great ones.”

And this too was conceded, but the Maharaja commanded that the chief

minister and a guard of the Sakya lords should accompany the Prince.

Therefore once more the chariot and well-paced horses were prepared,

adorned with precious stones and gold glittering like splendid sunshine,

and he passed through the city and out by the further gate into a new

world hitherto unknown.

And as he went on the road was smooth and white, and gardens gay on

either side and trees loaded, some with flowers and some with fruit, and

seeing this and knowing it unprepared for his eyes, his heart stirred

under the snow of grief and thawed a little from its ice, for it seemed

that the people who lived therein must know some happiness and freedom

from misery. But as he went further the heat of the day strengthened and

became like a weight of lead, oppressive even beneath the silken canopy

of the chariot and the sweat stood on his brow and his garments clung to

the moisture of his skin and weariness weighed upon him.

But for all this the toil about him could not cease, for men must eat,

and work be completed and the fields of the Maharaja ploughed, and he

saw how the labourers struggled with painful exertion, their bodies

bent, their wet hair falling about haggard faces, their bodies fouled

with mud and dust. And some were old and some were weak, and yet all

must greatly toil and very pitiful was it to see their strained muscles

and starting eyes.

The ploughing oxen also—they, toiling so pitifully and with no

reward,—their lolling tongues and gaping jaws, the whip and goad

indenting smooth flanks until bright blood drops started and they

trembled and shrank—all these things tortured the mind of Siddhartha as

he sat silently observant. And he said within himself:

“The world is built on pain and its foundations laid in agony. O Gods,

most cruel and unjust, if there be a way, where is it? If there be a Law

of Peace, where shall I find it? For I am bound in the dungeons of

despair.”

And, nobly moved to sympathy, he dismounted from the chariot, forcing

himself to look steadfastly upon the sufferings of man and beast, and he

sat down beneath a jambu tree, reflecting on the ways of death and

birth. And he desired his companions, the Sakya lords, to leave him and

wander where they would, and they went away laughing with each other and

talking, costly umbrellas borne over them in the heat until they should

reach the shade of the forest and there rest beside their wines and

fruits. And then, as was now his wont, he gave himself to deep

meditation on life and death, on transiency, and the progress of all to

decay, desiring with all his soul that somewhere, anywhere, he might

behold the changeless, the Abiding and in that find rest. And he asked

of his soul:

“Is there safety in riches? Are the rich exempt and high in the Gods’

favour. No—no, indeed,—for their very luxuries consume them body and

soul, making their bodies the home of disease and death, and their souls

the harbourage of cowardice and terror. For it is harder to leave a

Palace of gold than a mud hovel, and these are the spoilt children of

the universe. There is no refuge in riches. In all the Three Worlds I

see no refuge at all from the three Enemies—death, old age, and

disease.”

And as he meditated, his heart thus fixed, the five senses, as it were,

extinguished, lost in the clear light of insight he entered on the first

stage of pure rapture. All low desires submerged and in an ecstasy that

was not joy but perfect clarity he saw the misery and sorrow of the

world, sounding its deeps of agony and loss, the ruin wrought by age,

disease, and death,—the hopeless dark beyond.

Hitherto he had known only in part, but now the whole, even as an eagle

suspended on unmoving pinions, floating in supernal sunshine looks down

beholding the earth spread like a picture below him, and nothing hidden.

And suddenly a great light shone within him—not to be described in

words nor in thought comprehended. And he said these words, radiant with

the first dawning beams of illumination:

“I have heard the wisdom of men and it is the crackling of dry wood in a

destroying fire. Now will I seek a Noble Law they have not known, a Law

hidden and divine, and I will wrestle with disease and age and death and

bind their terrors. For behind these things is Peace, if the way is

opened. And I will seek until I die.”

And slowly at length, passing downward from ecstasy his thoughts

collecting centred again about things earthly, and he became aware that

a man approached him, carrying a bowl in his hand, wearing a coarse robe

of yellow, pacing slowly in the roadway. And their eyes met.

And it appeared to the Prince that he had never before seen a man who

resembled this strange mendicant, and he rose to greet him with

courtesy, saying in his heart:

“Who is this person? For his face is calm and joyful, and his eyes

bespeak a soul at rest. Nor has he the mien of one tricked by sensual

happiness, but austerity and contentment guide him, and though he treads

on earth it does not hold him. And what is this bowl in his hand? I will

accost him.”

And this done, the stranger, with due salutation grave and sweet,

replied:

“Great lord, I am a religious mendicant, who, shuddering at the

victorious onslaught of age, disease and death, seeing that all things

are transient and permanence nowhere to be found, have left the fetters

of my home behind me that I may search for some happiness that is

trustworthy, that decays not, that is imperishable, that looks with

equal mind on friend and enemy, and is regardless of wealth and beauty.

Such is the only happiness that will content me.”

And Siddhartha in deep amazement on hearing thoughts thus resembling his

own, enquired eagerly:

“And where, O wise man, do you seek it?”

“Great lord, I seek it in solitude, in the tranquillity of deep woods,

free from molestation. There in the Quiet dwells enlightenment. And I

carry this bowl that the charitable may deposit an alms of food within

it, and this is all I ask of the world. And now, pardon haste, for my

way lies onward to the mountains where the true light awaits me, and joy

for its attendant.”

And he passed onward and was no more seen, and it is related that this

ascetic was that divinity veiled in flesh who had made known to the

Prince the Three Terrors,—but this I cannot tell.

Be he what he might, this man left behind him the first hope that had

enlightened the midnight of grief. And the Prince said within his soul:

“This too is a seeker, and this is the life I covet, for the pleasures

of earth are but sea-waters enraging the thirst they seem to quench, and

what now has life to offer but the search for truth? Were there no

others in the world but my son, my father, my wife, then surely is it

incumbent upon me to find some means for their deliverance, but since

the whole wide earth weeps uncomforted, what a craven should I be, if I

spared to help it even with my blood and tears for unguents to its

wounds. The way most surely opens before me, and the cry of the

conquering ages is in my ears.”

And after a time the Sakya lords, weary of their enjoyments, gathered

about him and the horses were harnessed, and all returned to the city.

And the people, rejoicing to see their Prince, gathered to meet and

greet him, and one fair lady, leaning from a window, rejoicing in his

beauty cried aloud:

“Happy be the father, happy the mother, happy the wife of such a son and

husband.”

But this word “happy” means also “freed,” for are not freedom and

happiness one? And taking her auspicious words for the cry of freedom he

looked up smiling into her eyes, and said “Good is the teacher. Let this

be her fee,” unclasped his necklace of pearls and sent it to the happy

lady and passed on, forgetting, while she dreamed in vain of love.

And all dispersed to their abodes.

But the next day the Prince entered into his father’s presence, his face

bright with resolution like the full moon, his step strong and steady as

the gait of the King of Lions, noble and beautiful in strength.

And making due obeisance he asked.

“Is the Maharaj well and happy?”

“Well, my son, and rejoicing to see your face so bright and calm after

long sorrow. Is the cloud past?”

“My father, it is past in part. A clear way lies before me.”

“That too is well. Praise to the Wielder of the thunder and to all great

Gods who hear our prayers.”

Then tenderly, but with a calm immovable, the Prince declared his

heart’s desire.

“O kind father, worthy of all obedience, hear my case. The grief that

has moved me is not my grief alone. Were I to die, I can die silent,

after the manner of our race. But a man, when he beholds other men old,

diseased, dying, is hurt, ashamed, revolted that such things should be,

and no way of conquering such evils. There is a way if it could but be

found.”

And the Maharaja replied with anger.

“What way? This is child’s folly. These things have been from Eternity,

and men have faced the common lot as best they could, taking their

pleasure where they might. What would you have more than others? Life is

good, if you will but see it.”

But Siddhartha answered steadfastly.

“O my father, I desire your august permission to seek the solitude, and

there, deeply meditating, to find true deliverance not only for myself

but for you and all the world.”

And when the Maharaja heard these words—“to seek the solitude” a great

trembling of the heart seized him, and his strong voice choked in his

throat. And at last, even as the mighty wild elephant shakes with his

weight the boughs of a fair green sapling in the jungle, he caught the

hands of the Prince and clung to them most pitifully, crying aloud.

“Stop. Let not such ill-omened words be spoken. The time is not yet

come—even if come it must. You are young and full of life and your

heart beats to a glad measure. If you were to do this miserable thing

you would bitterly repent it. You have not the strength, nor the

knowledge. This is a resolution for old men, world-wearied. But

you—beautiful as the day, full of youth, husband of a fair and dutiful

wife, father of a young son, what talk is this? My son, I am ashamed for

you. It is for me to undertake the ascetic’s life, for you to rule in

Kapila. Let it be so, and I will go.”

And Siddhartha holding his father’s hands tenderly replied thus:

“My father, honoured and loved, you are the ruler and what have I to do

with putting you from your seat? No—far be it from me! Rule in gladness

and honour until the appointed day. But for myself—there is but one

condition on which I can stay! If you will assure me against old age,

disease, and death, I will remain—but not otherwise.”

And the Maharaja, blind with grief, the white hairs showing on head and

beard, said only:

“Such words are impious. Am I a God that I can say to these three, ‘Thus

far and no farther’? No—Betake yourself to pleasure and business like

other men and forget. There is no other remedy.”

But Siddhartha flung himself on his knees before his father and grasped

his robe in the agony of his pleading.

“Father, hinder me no more if you love me. If I were shut in a burning

home would you bar the door? Let me solve my doubt for it consumes my

very life. O let me go, let me go! For if not—what way is left? Men

have slain themselves for a lesser hope than mine, that perhaps down the

dark ways of death they might seek and find what they could not in this

world of lies and counterfeits.”

But he appealed in vain for the ears of his father were sealed, and when

after pleading even to anguish the Prince had left him grave and silent,

he issued orders that the Garden House should be guarded more strictly

than before—that fresh dancers, fresh music, should be ordered and new

pleasures invented and that every road and way should be watched with

ten-fold diligence.

And Siddhartha seeing the tears of his father with a compassion that

pierced his own heart returned to the Garden House, and set himself in

silence to consider, not knowing whence help would find him, but firm in

his resolve.

And beneath the trees Yashodara awaited him, carrying his young son in

her arms, and she knelt beside him, uncovering the face of the child,

bright and beautiful as a budding rose in earliest summer. For she

thought—“Let this speak for me,” and Siddhartha read the little face so

like his own, in silence.

Then, stretching out his hand, he clasped the hand of his wife, and

spoke thus:

“Well-beloved, if our child were in a house ruining about him, and I

stood by to see him crushed and broken, what would be your thoughts of

me?”

She smiled with pride and contentment.

“Why ask? That could not be. You would give your life for him and count

it nothing.”

“Well-beloved, mother of my son, that word is true; you know it. And

would you who love me hold me back if I rushed on death for his sake,

counting my own life as nothing?”

“For my love’s sake I would bid you go.”

“True again. So speak, so do the women of our race. But hear further.

Suppose my son fallen into bitter poverty, and that I knew of a great

treasure hidden in far-off forests and mountains, so far that great was

the danger, great the severance, would you bid me stay or go?”

Doubt clouded the beauty of her eyes, raised toward him.

“There, my heart’s lord, I know not. You are more to my son and me than

any treasure. What are jewels, pearls or gold compared with the heaven

of your presence? Better poverty together and the blue heaven above us

and bright earth beneath, than loneliness and splendour.”

Clasping her hand he answered:

“But starving, his face gaunt with want, haunted by ghosts of grief and

fear, would you send me or bid me stay? Think well, mother of my son.

Would you weigh your grief against his good, and he too young to know?”

And she answered:

“I would say, Go—how otherwise? But, O beloved, these words are

dreadful. Forget them. Look at the sunset strewing roses on the cold

snows and the splendour of Surya driving his chariot down the western

sky after the long day of glory. He is weary of pomp and colour. He

longs for the cool refreshing dews and the dusk and quiet and the dark

repose of midnight. Would that we could see him face to face,

golden-eyed and inconceivably divine. The Gods are far and grief is

near.”

He loosed her hand gently.

“Those words are true also, wise and beautiful.” And slowly he added:

“Night comes and the Gods are far. Go in and sleep, beloved,—Yet do not

forget the words we have spoken together, for grief comes to all and

when it comes there is but one way—to agree nobly with necessity.”

And she took the dust from his feet, rapt on the beauty of his eyes and

went, carrying the child with her.

PART II

CHAPTER VII

THUS have I heard.

On that night of terror and wonder were strange influences astir in the

darkness, influences moving steadily to war. For the battle was not

between the armies of Kings nor was the prize a throne, but a combat

strange, unearthly between the armies of the Appetites and Desires, and

the warriors of the World of pure spirit and wisdom eternal, and there

and thus was it fought.

It was the night of No Moon and the stars hung larger and brighter,

suspended but a little above the earth, and the dark was still and

breathless, so that Siddhartha would have willingly sat all night by

Rohini listening to the cool ripple of water as she made her way through

the gardens to an end he knew not. But this could not be, for by the

Maharaja’s new orders the women must dog his footsteps, never permitting

him to wander, or remain unseen. And thus, though they were invisible,

he knew that bright eyes watched in every brake, and feet light as a

spirit’s trod noiselessly where he went.

Therefore at last, sighing, he rose and passed into the Hall where the

dancers stood ready to sway in their beautiful measure, and the singers

and musicians were ranged in order, fair face outshining fair face until

the most beautiful were nearest to the gold cushions of his seat. But

the Princess Yashodara slept far off in the little marble chamber with

her child clasped to her bosom.

And at last as the night went on a deep weariness oppressed him and lay

like lead on his eyelids, and the subtly stealing dark and wearisome

iteration of music and of rhythmic feet became like an opiate, and his

head dropped on the raised pillows and he slept. So the dance slackened

quietly and the dancers whispered one to another:

“How pale is the Prince! How careworn! Was it wise in the Maharaj to

hide from him what cannot be hidden? But we are dancers—this is not our

business. Do not wake him lest there be anger. Mute the instruments very

slowly and softly and let none jangle as we lay it aside. We must not

leave him alone, lest suddenly he awake and demand more pleasure,

therefore remain here but be very quiet and, if it be possible, sleep.

O, it is good to rest. We too are weary of singing and dancing. It is a

hard service. Sleep, sisters, sleep.”

And it is told that when midnight drew veils of darkness over earth and

sky there came Influences noiseless—winged as the white moth that

haunts the evenings of summer, and that as these came, thought died from

the soul of Siddhartha and it became Perception,—and he saw and heard

inwardly while the women about him lay drunk with heavy sleep.

Now along the night crept a strange music, thin at first and faint as

the far-off falling of rain, but drawing nearer, nearer, sweeter than

all harps and lutes struck with earthly hands, and at first no words

could be distinguished but only an unearthly sweetness, soul-dividing,

purer than the crystal purity of ice on the highest summits of the

mountains that speak face to face with heaven.

And at last, the clear sounds glided into clear words, and the Prince

heard the mystic music, whether within or without his soul who shall

say? But it fell from on high like white flakes of snow falling cold and

passionless and drowning desire.

“Mighty One, O Mighty One.

There is a Way—a Way.

The wise of old have trodden it.

Rise now and go.

Finding the Light,

Share it with men.

Grant unto all

To drink in peace

The water of Righteousness.

Thou who in past lives

Didst agonize for men,

Nothing withholding,

Again go forth,

Conqueror of sorrow.”

And as he listened in tranced silence once more the clear words shaped

themselves from the heart of silence.

“Light of the world,

Remember past lives.

Griefs without end,

Revilings and prisons,

Deaths many and cruel.

These hast Thou borne,

Loving and patiently,

Shedding forgiveness

On those who slew thee.

Go forth again,

Riding to Victory.”

And when he heard and had understood this music, the Prince rose from

sleep and looked about him in the faint light of the lamps, with

thoughts new and awful stirring in his breast—thoughts beyond words,

unutterable.

And the women slept in disorder about him, heavily lolling as though

drunk with wine, their faces wried and twisted, mouths awry, running

over with saliva, limbs flung into coarse attitudes, sprawling, couchant

like animals, with pendant lips and breasts, laughing foolishly at

worthless dreams, hidden blemishes visible, abandoned to the disclosures

of careless sleep, ungainly, revolting, as though the truth had suddenly

touched them with clear ray disclosing them as they were.

And the Prince said slowly:

“It is a graveyard, and these are the corpses.”

And shrinking in his very soul, he rose, looking down upon them with

horror, and drawing his feet and garments from the contact went forth

treading quietly and ascended to the roof of the House of the Garden to

look out into the night.

Dead silent was it as he turned to the eastern horizon, the air

breathless as though the Universe waited in suspense to know what he

would do.

But he, standing alone in the night, joined the ten fingers of his

hands, and rendered homage to all the Enlightened who had preceded him,

exalting and uniting his purpose to theirs who had opened the way which

the eternities shall not close.

And even as he joined his hands he perceived that the bright star Pushya

which had shone upon his birth was rising in the sky, and he knew that

his hour was upon him.

Then turning he descended, led by human anguish and longing to see once

more his young child and its mother, for in the very deeps of his heart

those lives were rooted, but, lest resolution should waver, he went

first to the doorway where slept Channa the charioteer, wrapped in his

white garment, and even as the Prince stooped above him, this man sprang

to his feet, alert and faithful, saluting his Prince,—and in dim

lamplight each looked into the eyes of the other.

And Siddhartha said:

“O faithful! The blessing that is upon me has this night touched

perfection. Bring out my noble white horse, for my life here is done and

I depart.”

But Channa stood perfectly silent staring in his face as one bereft of

purpose, and once more Siddhartha spoke.

“What must be, must. I thirst and long for a draught of the Fountain of

Sweet Dew. Delay no more. Saddle white Kantaka. It is an order.”

And Channa obeyed.

So the Prince entered the little marble chamber where on her golden bed

lay the Princess, drowned in sweet sleep, clasping the child in her

arms, unconscious of the grief approaching. And it appeared to

Siddhartha that the cold air of his sorrow must rouse her, but it did

not. She slept and smiled, rapt in a dream of content. And garlands of

flowers hung about the chamber mingling their perfumes with the pure air

of night breathed through marble lattices, and all this was home and

his, and for the last time he looked upon it. And so great a desolation

fell upon him that twice he stretched his empty arms to clasp the child

in all its rosy warmth and dearness, and twice they fell because he

feared to wake Yashodara from her last dream of joy.

So he stood, enduring, looking upon them as a man who faces death and

for a while he stayed, with thoughts that cannot be told, nor should

that veil be lifted.

But when the end was come and he could endure no more, he stooped above

them until his breath mingled with theirs, and turned away leaving them

sleeping.

Then, passing through the quiet house, he came to the doorway where

stood white Kantaka, and Channa held him pale as death.

Now this horse was of all most noble, high-maned, with flowing tail,

broad-backed, wide-browed, with round and claw-shaped nostrils, and he

stood regarding his lord, and there was prescience in his great eyes.

And the Prince soothed and caressed the strong neck, saying:

“O brave in fight and fearless, now put forth strength in a sterner

battle. To-night I ride far—even to the River of Eternal Life. I ride

far to seek deliverance—not for men only, but for all your kind also.

Therefore for your own sake, great horse,—for the sake of all that draw

the breath of life, carry me far—far this night.”

And so, springing upon the noble horse, he settled himself in the

saddle, and pacing quietly the horse went on his way. So they passed out

dreamlike, the man like the sun shining forth from his cloudy palaces,

the horse like the white cloud beneath him, drawing quiet breath because

no sound must awake the house of sleepers.

And it is told—but I know not—that four attendant divine spirits laid

their hands beneath the strong ringing hoofs to deaden the sound, and

that others, casting the watchmen into sleep, caused the heavy barred

gates to roll open slowly and noiselessly. But be that as it will it is

certain that the Prince passed out, and gaining the road before the

gates, stopped and turned, saying these words:

“Never again shall I come here—never again see this beloved place,

unless I conquer old age, disease, and death, for this is my quest.”

And it is told that divine voices in the air cried aloud:

“Well done. Well said.” And whether the Prince heard this or no I cannot

tell, but he rode on his way. And man and horse, strong of heart, went

far that night, so far that when the east flashed into light and the

world-wide radiance of the rising sun they stood beside great woods and

the habitations of those ascetics who had relinquished the world.

There, wearied, the royal horse himself stopped, to draw restful breath

and to drink the pure lymph of those crystalline streams. So the Prince

dismounted and looking into the horse’s eyes he said:

“You have borne me well.” And from that he turned to Channa, saying:

“And you, O faithfullest, swift-footed as a bird is swift-winged, long

have you followed me, and even before this night my heart was full of

gratitude, and I knew you as a true man,—strong of heart and strong of

body. But now I know more, for you have come with me utterly disdainful

of profit, courting danger and rebuke, and what shall I say to you? Many

words I cannot say—but only this. My heart will remember. But, here we

part—here is our relationship ended. Take my horse and return. For me

are births and deaths about to be ended.”

And taking off the chain of beaten gold and glimmering jewels which he

wore about his neck, he gave it to Channa, saying:

“Take this in remembrance. Let it console your grief.”

Then loosing the precious jewel that shone in his head-tire, he looked

at it lying in his palm where it flashed resplendent like the sun of

Indra’s Paradise, and he said slowly:

“Take this, Channa, to my father and lay it reverently before him. It is

my heart. Tell him that I have entered upon the life of the ascetic, not

indeed seeking a heavenly birth, for what is that to me if again I fall

into rebirth and it leaves me in this world of lies and illusions?—but

that I may find the Way of Deliverance. For if that way is found then no

more need I leave those whom I love; no more put away my kindred. But

since I must go, let not my father endure grief for me. Let him forget

me and be glad.”

Then Channa, listening with reverence, tried to make his voice heard,

choking with grief.

“This will I do—but O the heaping up of sorrow! How shall it be

endured? Your father increases in years, your son is but a little

infant, the sister of your mother, who tended your childhood, loves you

as a son,—your wife, the mother of your child—My Prince, my

Prince!—think better before all are lost. And drive me not from you. If

I have been faithful is not trust the reward of fidelity? O turn for

pity’s sake: set your face homeward. This I beseech you.”

But the Prince, pale and resolved, made answer:

“What is relationship? Were I to die I must leave them. My own mother

loved me, but she is vanished from among us. The kinships of this world

are like a flock of birds that for a night settle on the same tree and

when dawn comes disperse. Such are its ties, no more. Does any tie of

relationship ensure the joy of permanent union? No. All is said. Say no

more, faithful one. Return to the city and make known to all men these

my words—‘When I have found the Way—that Way which puts an end to the

sad endless chain of birth and death, then and not otherwise I will

return.’ And if I do not obtain this victory my body shall perish in the

jungle.”

And as he turned to go, the horse, hearing, bent his head and licked the

foot of the Prince, and grief was seen in his large eyes. So the Prince,

fondly stroking his head, bade him also farewell.

“My horse, gentle and noble, your good deeds have gained their reward.

No painful rebirth awaits you—this I know. Be content, for it is well.”

Then taking his jewelled sword, shining like a meteor, he cut off the

knot of hair which as a Prince he wore twisted with jewels and even as

he did this, there passed a hunter going toward the jungle with bow and

arrows and wearing a garment of coarse yellow, and Siddhartha hailed the

man.

“Friend, will you change your garment for mine, for with mine I have

done for ever.”

And the man drew near, consenting, and stripped off his garment and took

the other, and for a moment the two looked each other in the eyes,

Channa standing by.

Now it is told—but this I cannot know—that this hunter was the same

divine spirit, who disguised in flesh had brought enlightenment to the

Prince, but be that as it may, he took the garment and went his way in

silence.

And having made this exchange Siddhartha took off his jewels one by one

and placed them in the hands of Channa, and stood a moment in the dull

garment as it were a bright star in eclipse, and so looked into the

faithful eyes of Channa—as though he would have spoken. But this he

could not, then slowly turning he made his way to the forest, and its

boughs and leaves opened to receive him, he parting them with his hands,

and he passed in and was seen no more.

And Channa left alone, cried aloud

“It is done.”

Raising his hands to the unpitying skies and letting fall his arm on the

neck of Kantaka, he stumbled homeward, his tears falling, and great fear

and grief possessing his soul.

And here and thus ends the scripture of the great Renunciation leading

us onward to the Discipline, the Enlightenment and the Victory.

CHAPTER VIII

THUS have I heard.

Going deeper into the forest, calm and resolved in mind, startling the

deer as he passed, the birds rising about him with cries, the Prince

went on his way, plucking the wild berries and fruits for food, he who

had been served from gold and silver, and the sun now fully risen poured

floods of light between the quivering leaves and ancient branches of

those venerable trees. And as he passed, seeing the world so beautiful,

dew trembling like crystals upon leaf and flower and the perfume of the

morning exhaling like the breath of a maiden in pure mist, the beginning

of peace rose in his troubled mind, and he said within himself.

“After a great storm comes calm. Let me now control my grief,

remembering that the past returns no more than Rohini after she has

flowed into the ocean. And as in the ocean drifting logs for awhile meet

and touch and are then driven apart by the waves so is it with parents,

wives, children and wealth. This is most true.”

And when at noon he was weary and his feet torn with the strong thorns

and hooks of jungle creepers he sat down to rest and the thought came.

“Were I now in the sweet garden by Rohini how would my wife,

soft-handed, gentle-voiced, weep to see these feet, with what cool

dropping unguents would she staunch the blood, which now I have not so

much as a rag to wipe away.”——

So, seeing this and waiting his opportunity Mara the Tempter—that One

evil from of old, drew near through the shining trees, and whether he

spoke within or without the heart of Siddhartha I cannot tell, but most

certainly he spoke and his voice at first distant as the humming of

ardent black bees about a flower became nearer, sweeter, subtle, until

it sealed every sense to all but its meaning. And thus he said:

“O Prince, merciful and compassionate but utterly misled, what is it you

would do in the wild forest? Is this a place for a ruler of men? Far be

it from you! By what evil counsel do you abandon your duties, flinging

all madly aside to become an ascetic? What reason is there in believing

that pain and destruction of the body give wings to the soul? No—but

far otherwise, for the soul dwindles with the tortured body as flame

dies when it has consumed the fuel. And if your aim be to benefit

mankind, are not just and powerful Kings needed, and was it not foretold

at your auspicious birth that you would become an empire-ruling King?

Here—living and dying in the jungle, how is your might wasted, and the

people forsaken!”

And the voice grew sweeter and more poignant and verily before him did

Siddhartha see the face of the Tempter, beautiful and melancholy with

pleading mouth and eyes that entreated and hands spread out in prayer.

“Think better, O Prince. Consider how the kingdom of Kosala lies near to

Kapila and easily to be captured. Great are the cities of Kosala.

Consider the city of Ayodhya—in length it is eighty-four miles, in

breadth seventy, and the streets so broad that a team of elephants—nay

two; might be easily driven abreast, and flowering trees stand along

them, and there are rows of stalls to which the wealthy merchants flock

from all the countries of the world, from China and Lanka and down the

Passes from Balkh and Samarkhand; their caravans of camels and horses

carrying such rarities as kingly hearts desire. There are gardens and

mango groves for the delight of the citizens and clear waters where they

may sport like swans and other aquatic birds, and mountain-like palaces

adorned with pinnacles and banners and glittering with precious

inlay,—and great houses where skilled actors delight their hearers with

song and dance and story, so that eye and ear are transported in seeing

and hearing. And there is a quarter of the city where dwell women of

beauty exceeding the Apsaras, for they are brought from the ends of the

earth to delight the happy people of Kosala. And the town is thronged

with splendid elephants and horses; and neighbouring kings, decked with

earrings and armlets, come to pay tribute and marvel at the glittering

beauty of the city. There is no want of food and the very water is sweet

as the juice of the sugar-cane, and night and day the air resounds with

music and stringed instruments. And all this is yours for the taking.”

And heart-enthralling was the picture that rose before the Prince’s eyes

in hearing, for he beheld Yashodara a Queen beside him, fair and royal,

example to women, and between his knees his son Rahula proud and

gentle—a great King to be, and a happy people sheltered in his

shadow—a noble people enlightening the dark tribes about them. And the

soft voice proceeded like the breathing melody of a flute.

“Nor are the Gods forgotten in the city of Ayodhya; great reverence is

done them, and were a royal saint upon the throne, crime would be

banished and forgotten and the Golden Age return to earth. O bountiful

and merciful, all this is in your hands. There also are troops of noble

Brahmans, celebrated for learning and piety, for it were shame indeed if

greatness of mind and soul were forgotten in the pleasure of the senses.

No—far otherwise. And with such wisdom, there is no poverty, for every

householder is rich in horses and cattle and food. All possess earrings

and garlands, each is content with his own gains, free from

covetousness, speaking the truth.”

And when the sweet subtle voice ceased the Prince replied:

“Then it is only I who shall be covetous—I, who must plunge this happy

city in blood and tears that I may take it to be my slave? And the King

who has made them happy I must slay. Is this what you would have me do?”

And the Tempter replied gravely.

“Prince, there is no good but what it might be better, and if that King

is wise you are wiser. Turn again to Kapila and to glory, and to the

good of mankind and this that I promise shall befall in seven days.”

Then summoning his fortitude, Siddhartha said slowly.

“This city filled with pleasure, beauty and wealth, with wisdom and

content,—is it safely protected, O wise one? Is it well fortified

against attack?”

And eager was the voice of the Tempter.

“Well asked, O Prince, and wisely. It is fortified as never city in the

world’s history. About it goes a mighty wall where the King’s chariots

may drive abreast, and about that a moat wide and deep, and there is a

host of warriors, each able to combat with a thousand. Never city so

safe. Nor could even yourself conquer it did I not give you friends

within the gates.”

“Then is it certain that age, disease and death, those fell enemies,

must needs stay outside? They cannot enter in this guarded city?” So

said the Prince.

There was silence. And presently Siddhartha answering the subtle voice

said:

“Go from me, thou Ancient Evil! The snare is set too plain. For all

their wealth this miserable people must suffer and decay and die like

all the world and their riches are but a pang the more. Truly one day I

may come to Ayodhya and as a conqueror bringing great riches in my hand

for their good, but not thus—not thus!”

And in his heart the subtle voice was stilled and he rose and went on

his way with bleeding feet. And as he went he said this to himself:

“Before the days when I considered the terrors of re-birth, old age,

disease and death, I sought after such merchandise as the merchandise of

Kosala, subject to all these lures. But now, seeing the danger, awake

and alert, let me seek only after the things which have no part in

these, even the supreme joy and security of the Peace.”

But though he did not know it, that Tempter followed, for who is immune

from his arts, and he thought, watching the serenity of the Prince:

“This time he has conquered, but sooner or later even if riches fail

some hurtful or malicious thought will burn within him and then—then he

is mine.”

And from that hour he crept behind the Prince on the watch for sin,

cleaving to him like a shadow which follows the object from which it

falls.

So after long journeying he came to Rajagriha—name never to be

forgotten because once the Light of the world sojourned there. And this

was the capital of King Bimbisara, King of Magadha, and it lay very

pleasantly in an eastern valley of holy Ganges, surrounded by the five

mountains of the Vindhya range, and these are beautiful though but as

foothills comparing them with those great ramparts of the Gods—the

mountains beyond Kapila.

Now in these Vindhya mountains are caves in the lower hills, all grown

about by trees, in the solitude yet not so far but what an ascetic may

go to the city if needful, and in these caves certain learned and holy

Brahmans had established themselves and to each came disciples, counting

this world as husks if they might rise to the heavens on strong wings of

knowledge and belief.

Coming wearily through the forest, pale and worn with unused hardships,

the Prince climbed upward to the caves shaded by great trees and in an

excellent quiet, and at last before him he saw the mouth of a cave hung

with vines and grown about by bushes in blossom, and before it sat a man

clothed in a garment of red bark, and he was in the lotus posture to

ward off evil, and the Prince seeing him thus meditating passed around

him respectfully three times and took his seat in silence at a proper

distance, waiting his pleasure.

So time went by, and the ascetic never stirred though his shadow shifted

as the sun went on his golden journey westward, and Siddhartha meditated

on the Way of Peace, wondering if the man before him had its key, and to

him too the time was not long, and the cool shade bathed his wounded

feet and refreshed them.

And at last the ascetic returned to earth and looked at him with

visionary incurious eyes while the Prince waited respectfully, and

finally he accosted Siddhartha, asking what had brought him hither, to

whom the Prince dutifully replied, for a teacher is more even than a

parent, being a spiritual and not a fleshly father, and he besought his

instruction.

And having heard, the Brahman Alara considered awhile, and agreed that

he should study the Vedas and Upanishads, those ancient holy scriptures,

under his guidance and amid the families of holy persons, both men and

women, who dwelt in the caves and woods each engaged in religious duties

and pursuing the way to Heaven.

And the Prince, with folded hands, said humbly:

“I am but a beginner, great sir; I do not know the rules of the

religious life. Be pleased to grant me information.”

And that twice-born Brahman of high lineage informed Siddhartha of the

rules of the various teachers and of the fruits expected from their

practices. He declared how some lived only on food proceeding from pure

water, some subsisting on edible roots and tender twigs, others on

fruits and flowers some, like deer, eating grass and herbs, others again

begging their food and giving it in charity, keeping only the crumbs and

remnants for themselves.

Also he named those ascetics who torture the body in order to subdue it,

those who let water drop continually on their heads—and many more,

cunning in devising sufferings and cruel austerities, so that at the end

of every life they may purchase birth in Heaven and taste divine

tranquillities and pleasures before they are again launched into the

dreary sea of mortal existence.

“And thus,” he said, “are great joys attained, impossible to be

described in words, delectable to the soul.”

And the Prince heard with reverence, and the ascetics, men and women who

dwelt in the woods and caves, seeing the beauty of his face and his

serenity and courtesy were moved with wonder and admiration,

saying—“Who is this most beautiful young man, so calm and noble? Surely

he has the appearance of a great Prince and can be no other. Well is it

when such forsake the world’s things for the things of the Gods.”

And his master appointed a cave for his dwelling tapestried with nests

of the wild black bees, and dripped about in one part with golden honey,

but because the holy men were friendly to all creatures and disturbed

none of their combs but only ate a little of the dripped honey, the bees

were friendly also and pleasant companions, their myriad voices soothing

to meditation as the sounds of a great ocean far off.

Here dwelt Siddhartha joining in the strong chanting of Vedic hymns and

hearing the recital of the Vedas and Upanishads, for books were

none—the memories of men carrying all knowledge, and he learnt these

things with a swiftness almost incredible, because his heart was in it.

And when food was needed, clad in his yellow garment he took his begging

bowl, and went down to the city begging from house to house, for he

considered thus:

“Full of hindrances is the household life; the haunt of passion. Free as

air is the homeless state,” and all the luxuries of his former life

seemed empty as a dream that flies at dawn. “Better is the alms of food

I beg than the wines and fruits cooled in snow, the rich meats and

costly of Kapila.” So he said night and day, though at first his soul

loathed the food.

Now one day when he went to the town of Giribaja to beg his food it so

happened that the King of Magadha, Bimbisara, stood on the high terrace

of his palace, looking down the street, and he saw the young ascetic

coming slowly, holding his bowl in his hands and courteously accepting

what was given. And there was that in the nobility of his person and

evident signs of Aryan birth which arrested the eyes of the King and he

said to those about him.

“Look upon this man, lords, beautiful is he, great and pure. He is

guarded in conduct: his eyes do not wander, he looks not more than a

fathom’s length before him. Such a man is of no low caste. See how, like

a great noble, he is self-possessed and serene, moving in solitary

majesty as the moon among faint stars. Send my royal messengers and

inquire where that mendicant goes.”

And the messengers ran at the King’s word and hurried down into the

street saying to one another.

“Where is that Bhikkhu[1] going? It is toward the mountain Pandava. That

must be his abode.”

-----

[1] Monk.

-----

And having followed where Siddhartha went they returned to the King and

told him—

“On the eastern slope of Mount Pandava that Bhikku has taken his seat, a

King among men as the tiger among beasts.”

And the King said, “Bring out my chariot,” and he directed it to the

mountain.

Now when the road ended he did not return discouraged but dismounting

went onward climbing up on foot until he came near to where the Prince

sat, and there with eagerness and courtesy the King greeted him, for as

lions know their kind, not mistaking them for jackals, so is it with the

great. And the King took his seat on a rock, saying:

“I beseech you, sir, to tell me your family and lineage. Young are you,

a man in his first youth, fine and delicate in colour, the glory of the

vanguard of an army. I would lay wealth at your feet, if wealth

delighted you. Speak, and tell me your mind.”

And as he spoke the nobles stood grouped about to hear, correcting every

careless or unseemly gesture because the man was great and the very air

about him pure, and they beheld with joy his noble body bright as gold,

his eyes of darkest blue, and the kingliness of his manners.

And the Prince replied with gratitude and noble courtesy:

“Great King, kind and liberal is your heart, and precious your

generosity to my own, but all these things lie behind me far as dawn

from sunset. I had wealth and power, and more, but regarding these

things as hindrances to perception I am come out into the solitude to

seek the Way of Peace.”

And having thus begun he related to the King his family and history and

all about them held breath to listen.

And the King, sighing, at last said this:

“Noble one, I cannot but reverence your choice yet I lament it, for the

world has need of you. I would share my kingdom with you could that

shake your resolution. There is nothing I could refuse would it draw you

to us again for I see you surpassing other men and have not known your

like.”

But the steadfast Prince replied:

“Illustrious and world-renowned, descendant of Arya, your words are

heard with deep veneration. Righteous and sincere, you speak the truth,

and virtue is not confined to any one school of thought—the sun lights

the whole world and the Way of a great and just king is blessed. But for

me, I have heard a call. My way is onward and behind me lie the Five

Desires. Would a hare rescued from a serpent’s jaws go back to be

devoured? As little would I return to the dreams and illusions that have

fallen from me. King, there are many quests and mine is to find

deliverance for the world from the Wheel of Agony that turns and turns

and will not cease through pitiless ages of rebirth and sorrow. There is

a way,—and I have given all that I may find it. But you—return, O wise

King, to your happy city. May you direct and defend your subjects in

peace. May the Gods be good to you. May all good go with you.”

And the King replied with gratitude and noble courtesy said these words:

“That which you seek, great Prince, may you attain, receiving the

perfect fruit of your birth. And when this is gained I pray you return

to me that I also may share in your wisdom, and graciously receive me as

one who would learn.”

So the Prince rising, with courteous salutations, pursued his way to the

solitude, and the King and his nobles with folded hands followed a

little way in reverence and then with thoughtful and mindful hearts

returned to the city.

CHAPTER IX

THUS have I heard.

So while the Prince went on into the woods, turning his steadfast face

to the dawn of Enlightenment, Channa the charioteer went slowly back to

Kapila, grieving and weeping, leading the noble horse, for he had most

surely hoped that where his lord went he might follow, having proved

himself faithful; and as the darkness of night closed in upon him he

wavered, halting and looking behind him and then again proceeding,

irresolute in mind.

And the horse also grieved for his master, going heavily, his head bowed

that was held so nobly, neither would he eat grass nor drink water, and

no joy nor spirit were left in him, for he thought “I shall never see

him again.” And even as he thought this, his great heart broke for

grief, and he died. But in a happy place was he reborn because of his

fidelity, even as the Prince had foreseen, for in no world can love lose

the blessedness of its love.

But Channa went yet more slowly, weeping a second sorrow, and to him the

land appeared withered as when a man returns to a ruined city which once

he knew glad and living, and it seemed as though the sun hidden behind a

mountain no longer enlightened the world.

So the men about the way, seeing him in grief, turned again to look, and

consternation seized them and one cried aloud:

“Where is the Prince—beloved of the world? Have you taken him away by

stealth? Where is he hidden?”

And Channa halting, said with sighs;

“I who followed him always with a loving heart, would I have left him?

Little do you know me! He has dismissed me,—O men of Kapila! He has

buried himself in the forests to live the life of an ascetic.”

And those who listened heard this with dark foreboding, for it appeared

to them that things deep, strange, and mysterious had suddenly appeared

in their way, and that the very world had changed in its course if such

things could be. What had there been lacking to the Prince that he

should go out thus to seek it? What had he beheld, invisible to them?

And the news spread from them to the city and men and women rushed out

to the gates, and when they saw that Channa wept as he returned in

loneliness, they, not understanding whether the Prince was dead or

alive, cried out.

“What has befallen? Surely sorrow is added to sorrow.”

And like the flash of lightning news spread to the House of the Garden

and the women of the palace, their hair dishevelled about them, their

robes flung hastily on as for a night-alarm, came pouring down to the

doors that they might hear the worst, and when they saw the charioteer

alone, they raised a loud and bitter cry. So women mourn the beloved

dead when hope itself is dead with him.

And the cry reached Prajapati, aunt and foster-mother of the Prince,

sister of Maya his mother, and she wept, saying to herself.

“Alas—his beauty, his beauty! O my son, who was there to compare with

him? I see his dark locks bound with gold, his eyes blue and deep as the

Ox-King’s, his broad shoulders and strong arms, a Tiger-King among men.

How can it be endured that you should suffer the chills and heats of the

forest and we, bereft and miserable, see you no more!”

And the great lady threw herself upon the earth and so lay, with the

women sitting about her, held motionless by strong grief, as marble

images.

And when at last one gathered up courage to tell the Princess she sent

for Channa, towering in indignation above him like an angry Queen.

“O faithless man, and trusted in vain! evil contriver, false

servant!—beneath these pretended tears there is a hidden smile. You

went out with him and alone you return. What have you done? Better an

open enemy than a false friend. Alas, the sorrows of our line! Surely

his noble mother died foreseeing the grief of to-day, for our house is

left unto us desolate!”

And Channa, pierced to the soul and thunderstruck, was silent, and she

spoke again.

“You weep aloud now. Why did you not awake the Palace when he went? Then

all might have been saved. Now it is too late.”

So, folding his hands, with no anger in his heart, for the agony of the

Princess was visible, the true Channa replied:

“Great Lady, have pity on my grief, for I am innocent in this. In my

soul I believe it was the Gods’ doing. From the day of his birth there

have been portents, and who was I to stand against it?”

Then the Princess, just and noble of soul, recollected herself,

regretting her words, knowing well that the burden of the Gods’ purpose

is their own and cannot be charged upon a man, and she spoke gently to

him, and when he was gone she sat alone mourning, recalling the face and

voice of her Prince, and slowly as the strong grief overburdened her she

slipped down strengthless from the golden cushions and lay upon the

ground, her empty arms stretched out before her.

So her women found her, and as they raised her tenderly, she said this

only:

“Take away my golden bed where my lord and I lay, for henceforth I will

lie upon bare earth. Take away my robes of silk and my jewels and bring

me the yellow robe of the mendicant, for I am beggared indeed.

Henceforth I will wear no other. Cut off my long hair, for I have done

with beauty. And once a day and once only, bring me the food of the

mendicant, such as will keep the flame of life alight and no more, for

as to pleasure, the name of it is forgotten.”

And as she said so was it done, and the long and perfumed tresses that

touched her lovely feet fell about her like a dropped veil, and thus she

lived henceforward, and for her child’s sake only.

But as to the Maharaja his case was different, for love and anger

contended in him, and his thoughts charged each other as in battle,

rushing madly hither and thither like a herd of wild elephants. And when

his nobles gathered about him he raged aloud before them:

“Once I had a son. Now I have none. What is my kingdom to me, and my

horribly echoing empty palace? And what are rule and dominance? Why was

he given to be taken?”

And for all the royal priest and the wise minister could do, they could

not assuage his wrath and grief until the thought occurred to them that

they might follow the wanderer and yet compel or persuade him to return.

Then, and then only, the King listened:

“Go,” he said, “and swiftly. Let not a breath intervene between now and

your going, for life is unendurable until you return with him.”

So in great haste the priest and minister set out on the way indicated

by Channa, counting every instant of time they lost precious as dropped

grains of pearl.

And when they were come to the forests and hills of Rajagriha, they

asked their way of the wandering religious persons whom they met, and of

the cave-dwelling ascetics, and to these grave persons they said:

“We are come, beseeching your aid. We serve a King like to the greatest

of the Gods and his son, beautiful as the God who pierces hearts, has

forsaken us and gone out into the solitudes seeking a remedy against old

age, disease, and death, a thing no man can find. Knowing this, tell us,

we entreat, where we may find him.”

And the ascetics replied:

“We know him and his beauty and nobleness. He is gone to the cave of

Alara the Brahman that he may seek for illumination.”

Scarcely giving themselves time to hear and to utter thanks those two

old men, the priest and minister, hurried on.

Now as they did so the awe of the place and its quiet and the spirit of

deep contemplation arising from the residence of so many holy persons

fell on them, and insensibly their speed slackened, and neither said

this to the other, but the same influence was upon them both, and as

they had abandoned the royal chariot when the track ceased, so also they

now divested themselves of the insignia of their high offices, and

advanced humbly towards their destination. And as they went they saw a

young ascetic seated beneath a tree, his hands folded and eyes fixed

upon the running water of a stream before his feet, and he heard their

steps and rising saluted them, and it was their Prince.

Surely words cannot tell how this sight moved them—they who had seen

him far otherwise, who perceived about him now a difference immeasurable

even in thought!

But they saluted him with more than the old obedience, and being hidden

took their seats beside him as the twin stars attend the moon. And about

them was the vast quiet and silence and shadow of the forest.

Then choosing their words with care as a warrior chooses the arrows that

shall lose his life or save it, in turn they set before him the

condition of his father the King, asking him with deep earnestness how

it could be right in his eyes to abandon all his duties, inflicting

sorrow worse than death upon those he loved and left.

And when they had spoken, only the little running water took up the tale

for the Prince meditated upon their words, and they dared not interpose.

After a long interval he raised his head and answered:

“This is well spoken, but I have entered the road wherein is no turning.

For it is not for myself only that I seek the remedy, but for all

creation. And to me the earth is filled with this thought and with this

only, and however you may use the sorcery of words to bewilder me it

fails. I have heard and I will again hear your plea, but this is and

will be my answer—The sun, the moon, forsaking the sky, may fall to

earth, the snowy mountains topple from their base, but I will never

change my purpose.”

And having said this he rose, and the two with him, and they, seeing

that they broke themselves against rock, answered gently:

“My Prince, it is enough. No more remains to be said. We will intrude

our presence on you no more, but will return to the King and lay your

fixed resolution before him.”

And they saluted him, and returned slowly through the forest, pausing

here and there as they went to speak with the calm and untroubled

inhabitants who therein sought the treasure of wisdom, eager to

understand from them if possible the teaching which as the nectar of

flowers draws the bee, had drawn the Prince to the homeless life. Hard

was it to comprehend, and at last, sad and bewildered, they emerged from

the green ocean of leaves to the light of common day and mounting the

chariot, plied lash and shout hastening homeward, and thus was the last

tie with Kapila broken.

And the Prince remained behind them, upborne by the love of those he had

forsaken, a love too great for them and such as they to comprehend.

CHAPTER X

THUS have I heard.

Then for patient years. Siddhartha, the Buddha to be,—struggled to the

light in the forest, finding none. Surely was this the dark night of the

soul wherein not so much as a star gleams in the thick and stifling

midnight.

With Alara he studied long and patiently, so mastering his system of

thought that the ascetics who followed Alara besought the Prince to

become their master. But this he would not, for he discerned no finality

in this teaching, nor any real deliverance, because desire is not

extinguished even though it be for high things, and though it be held

but by a finger the ego of man is drawn again and yet again into the

revolving wheel that mangles him,—the wheel of birth and death.

Therefore abandoning the teacher Alara he went sorrowfully on to the

teacher Uddaka, that wise dweller in solitude, and with him he studied

in patience, hoping yet against hope that here at last might be the

beginning of light.

And he mastered this system also, confronting his instructor with

difficulties which could be neither explained nor overcome,—finding

that Uddaka promised a glittering heaven not founded upon the

Unchangeable, but transitory, vanishing, illusory. And here too the Way

was not, nor the unchanging Law.

Then at last on his long patience dawned a certainty—that no help was

in any son of man, that the riddle was too high for them and their wings

fluttered lamed in the blue and awful heights where his own thoughts

soared—and that even this height was not high enough. And within

himself he said:—

“What I have learned here I have learned and there is no more. The

pasture is eaten bare. I will go on alone into the forests of Uruvela

and there I will practise a terrible asceticism beyond all I have seen

in Rajagriha, for it may be these men are right who teach that in the

destruction of the body lies enfranchisement of the soul. I cannot tell,

but I will pass by no opening which may set my feet in the Way.”

So travelling alone (for he said in his heart:

“If a traveller does not meet with one who is his better or his equal

let him steadfastly keep to his solitary journey: there is no

companionship with a fool.”) He came at last to the town of Uruvela, and

when he saw the place he loved it, and long afterwards, when

Enlightenment was come he spoke of it thus.

“Then, O disciples, I thought within myself, Surely this is a place dear

and delightful. The forest is wide and deep. There flows a pure river,

with little creeks where a man may bathe, and fair lie the villages of

the simple people. This is a good place for one in search of

deliverance.”

But he was very weary, and often he said to his heart:

“Long is the night to him who is awake, long is a mile to him who is

tired, long is life to him who knows not the true Law. O that it would

shine upon me in this gross darkness.”

And there in the great woods he set himself to a cruel discipline so

that other wood-dwellers marvelled at his austerities though themselves

treading a painful way. And of these were in especial five, of whom more

hereafter. And they established themselves within reasonable distance,

hoping to learn from him when he should attain, and talking with him of

great things.

So by the river in the forest composing his body and mind he set himself

to contemplation lessening his food little by little daily until he

subsisted on a morsel incredible to the mind of man, and even this he

would have spared had it been possible that the attenuated body could

still have caged the soul. And after awhile he spoke to no man, sitting

lost in far-off regions they could not enter, even controlling his

breath so that scarcely could he be said to breathe at all.

So still, so motionless, he sat day-long that he became a part of nature

as much as the tree that sheltered him, and the creatures of the forest

moved about him unafraid. The furry mothers brought their cubs to nestle

by his feet, and winged mothers lit upon his shoulders to call their

broods, and at his feet the wild peacock outspread his jewelled fans,

and fear was unknown in the still presence of the Bodhisattva—the

Buddha-to-be.

Far and wide spread the fame of this great and noble ascetic in the

woods of Uruvela, and persons would journey from the city that they

might stand far off and see him lost in meditation, and when, looking

timidly through the boughs, they beheld his starved body like a withered

tree and his calm unseeing eyes they were moved with wonder and

compassion, and went away very softly, in their hearts entreating his

prayers and blessings.

But lost in deep meditation Siddhartha was beyond prayer or blessing and

whether they came or went, he neither saw nor knew.

Making his way perfect through the disentangling powers of wisdom,

fasting cruelly, yet not trusting in this austerity for enfranchisement,

he strengthened in heart and wisdom even as his body weakened.

And first he meditated on transience, and all about him confirmed the

truth, for nothing stayed but all became and passed instantly, never

resting, into further becoming. About him the seasons trod their quiet

round. Scarcely had the young spring burst into blossom, when, before

she had leisure to mirror her beauty in the river at his feet, she was

lost in the burning splendour of summer, and this passed without pause

or division into the gold and orange fruitage of autumn and the

passionate weeping of the rains, and so ended in the temperate sweetness

of winter, there to recommence the eternal Wheel of Change.

And he thought: “There is no being, for all is becoming. On what shall

we build?”

And before him the spider spun her frail thread, glittering with morning

dew, lovely as a queen’s garments in the pale morning gold that filtered

through green leaves. And so in a moment it was gone. And he thought:

“Surely the existence of man is frailer. A blow, a breath of pestilence

and he lies broken, an offence to the earth. To appear, to disappear.

Such is the history of man as of the meanest of insects.” And before his

strained perception unrolled itself the whole vast phantasmagoria of

thought like a veil hung to conceal the Permanent, the Eternal, and he

could not penetrate behind it. Before him were the steps by which the

creature ascends to the Source, but in the height they dissolved into

vapour and dispersed into cloud and there was no way there.

And sometimes so present were the evil and pain of life to his vision,

so unescapable their presence, that for a space it seemed the perfection

of divine attainment was but an infinite of the first power, but evil

and pain an infinite of immeasurable power, terrible in perfection. And

to a lesser than the Bodhisattva this must have brought madness or

despair, but strong as an eagle to the sun he outsoared the dark clouds.

And unknown to himself nature spread her guards about him. In the rising

of the moon was peace and her light shed tenderer dreams like the soft

falling of snow, and the strong leap of the sun at dawn in the first of

his three strides, was the outrush of hope—hope unfulfilled but ever on

before. And the breeze was good to him, laying a cool hand on weary

temples, and the singing of the river overflowed from the very heart of

quiet.

And as the tapestry of life unrolled its pictures before his eyes he

read its lesson. Happiness is a dream and sorrow a truth and individual

life a misfortune from which impersonal contemplation is the only

enfranchisement. Could this be true? Could it be possible that a barren

soul, a proud and complete selfishness and heedlessness of all other

sufferers than himself, disdain of the crowd and indifference to all

that the vulgar covet, represent the only escape for the wise man from

the entanglements of Maya—Illusion? No—a thousand times no! Better to

drop into the jaws of darkness and be extinguished than remain petrified

and apart in a world where men must bleed and die.

Then is goodness itself a lie? Is man the eternal dupe of words and

phrases contrived to make us docile to suffering as slaves to the whip?

Is hope but a watery rainbow painted on a dissolving cloud? Is the Way

itself a dream begotten of Misery, the Mother, and Pride, the

father—Pride that will have man think himself a something when in

reality he is nothing and his fate concerns the universe as much as

blown grains of sand in a whirlwind, rising and settling as aimlessly?

And at such times the Bodhisattva felt the endless turning of the Wheel

within his own soul, and a vertigo of perception seized him as the

Infinities gazed over his head in untroubled calm, and only the Wheel

turned and turned in merciless revolution.

Then were it not better to submit to passive ignorance and fight no

more? To sink into wearied submission, accepting the lash and fetter for

doom? For each life is built up of millions, and where is the redemption

for its infinite littleness? Let all pass for all is nothing.

But at such times he steadied himself upon the thought of Law. Could a

man nobly agree with necessity which is the other name of Law, were that

no peace and enlightenment? Is not Law beheld in nature? What is this

incessant changing yet unchanging series of phenomena unperplexed by

self-contemplation and analysis which man sees about him. What? Is it a

play—a spectacle that Brahm the Universal Spirit has set in motion for

Its own delight, or is it Itself expanded throughout the Universe, and

if this be so is man the one thing outside Its circumference, and if he

be within it, shall he only be ignorant of the Law and agonized because

he does not obey it? If man is capable of conceiving the Law surely it

exists and is his and him.

So he looked down the abyss and beheld nothing but persistence in change

and the infinity of infinities. Was there anywhere a fixed point? Surely

only in the relation of all to Law. Therefore he hungered and thirsted

for Law, forgetting the emaciation of his body and its pitiable

weakness, thirsting for the Way with a deathly thirst that consumed him,

rendering him incapable of all other suffering.

But though he knew full well and each day perceived more clearly that

the climax of wisdom is perception of this universal Law from which

nothing—no, not the very soul of man is exempt—still it evaded him.

Freedom from deception he attained, diamond-clear lucidity, certainty

that there is a first principle and final aim of the Universe, but the

Way to touch hands with it he could not find.

Thus, having caught but a glimpse of the Absolute like a star in driven

clouds, he had gained the certainty of what is not, but not as yet the

knowledge of what is, and there even the majesty of the Bodhisattva’s[2]

intellect fell back baffled, and at last his mind became like a dimness

in which thought itself lost its way and analysis stumbled, and the

clear call became like the falling of a great water in which many sounds

fuse into a confused roar in which nothing but mere noise is to be

discerned, deafening the ears and confusing the senses.

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[2] The Buddha-to-be.

-----

And thus he sat for six long years, and at the end though he had

discerned the perishable, the transient, the Eternal Way was far from

his perception, and life rushed by him from an unknown beginning to a

hopeless end, defending itself frantically for a few brief years, but in

the end conquered, and the man broken in the frail edifice which is

called his being.

And now he was so wasted that life hung in him by a thread worn slender

as a spider’s, and the fame of his terrible austerities had spread like

the sound of a great bell hung in the canopy of the skies, and if he had

gained what he sought all this would have counted as nothing in his

eyes, but in the long six years he had not gained, and his mind tortured

him because now it seemed that it broke itself and its power dispersed

like a mighty wave broken on rocks and fleeing in foam and spray. And

one day when he rose to his feet, still drowned in hopeless meditation,

his limbs failed beneath him, and he fell and so lay exhausted, spent,

believing “This is death, and I am conquered.”

And it could not be otherwise for very terrible had been his austerities

and later he told his disciple this.

“I remember when a crab-apple was my only daily food. I remember when a

single grain of rice was my only grain of food. And my body became

extremely thin and lean. Like dried withered reeds my arms and legs, my

hips like a camel’s hoof, like a plait of hair my spine. As project the

rafters of a house’s roof, so raggedly stuck out my ribs. As in a

deep-lying brook the watery mirror beneath appears so small as almost to

disappear, so in the deep hollows of my eye-pits my eye-balls well nigh

wholly disappeared. As a gourd becomes shrivelled and hollow in the hot

sun so did the skin of my head become parched. And pressing my stomach

my hands touched my spine, and feeling my spine my hand felt through to

the stomach. And yet with all this mortification I came no nearer to the

supernatural faculty of clearness of knowledge.”

So for a long time he lay in the borderland of death, and had this been

the end—O Light of the World extinguished, O Sun set at dawn!—but it

was not to be, and slowly, very slowly, consciousness returned, and his

heavy eyelids lifted and once more he beheld the light. And he thought:

“If I could creep down to the river the waters, warm and kindly, would

refresh me, and thought would perhaps return to me, and a little rest.”

And painful inch by inch Siddhartha crept down to the river, supporting

himself as he went by the extended hands of branches, and in a warm

shallow of water, sparkling in green shade he lay, foredone, and it

flowed about him gently, bringing healing.

And the five ascetics watching him from far off said to each other:

“He will die now; the ascetic Gotama will die now. It is not possible

that a man so worn and exhausted should live.”

And indeed, when he tried to struggle up and leave the kindly water,

there was no strength in him and he could not rise. And it is told that

a heavenly spirit pressed down a branch that he might reach it and

support himself. This it is certain he did, laying hold on a bough which

dipped over its own image in still water, and he crept up the bank,

dizzily, and seated himself beneath a tree, supporting his weakness

against it, with closed eyes.

And now, being refreshed, he had power to reflect, and he said within

himself.

“This way of mortification has failed me also. Like other ways I have

sought this beats against a shut door and there is no help in it. My

body is so broken that it can no longer support the intellect. I will

eat and drink and strengthen this tortured body that it may still be the

servant of the higher in me, no longer complaining of its own griefs and

diverting attention from the goal. For it is possible that what I have

already learned has prepared the way to Right Ecstasy and that in

ecstasy I may behold the beginning of the Wisdom which in all the

methods I have tried has been hidden from me.”

And even as he thought this the strong weakness overwhelmed him again

and he could think no more.

Now, on the other side of the wood dwelt a chief herdsman, very wealthy

in cattle and rice, owning land far-spreading and fertile in the rich

water-meadows by the river, and he had a daughter fair and wise, named

Sujata. And reaching womanhood this fair maiden had made a vow to the

Tree-Spirit of the forest, saying:

“If I should wed a husband of equal rank with myself and my first-born

should be a son, then would I make a noble offering every year, never

forgetting the benefit.” And this prayer was heard, and her first-born

son lay upon her bosom.

So wishing to make her offering on the day of the full moon, she

pastured a thousand cows in the woods, and with their milk she nourished

five hundred cows, and with theirs two hundred and fifty, drawing life

through life until at last she possessed eight cows thus fed on the

strength and life of a thousand, and no purer nor stronger milk could

be. And this being ready Sujata rose earlier than dawn and, went to the

byre with her pails, and as she came near the milk flowed in streams

without milking, even as when the calves crowd for their food about

their mothers.

So she took it and placed it in a new vessel and added rice, and herself

made a fire and cooked it. And the bubbles rose and froth, but not a

drop ran over the brim, and the fire burned clear and steady without

smoke or blackness. And as a man crushes golden honey from the comb that

has formed about a stick—the very essence of honey—so into that pure

food was infused a marvellous sustenance.

And Sujata said to her waiting-maid, Punna:

“Punna, dear girl, surely the deity is auspiciously disposed to us. The

omens are good. Run therefore and get all ready beneath the tree.”

And Punna answered obediently:

“Yes, lady,” and ran.

And when she came to the tree, the Bodhisattva—the Buddha-to-be—sat

beneath it, and it appeared to her that his body shone like light and

she flushed and trembled with terror, saying:

“Good indeed are the omens, for this is the Tree-Spirit himself come to

receive our offering!”

And with all her might she ran to tell this to her lady, and when Sujata

heard it she cried out:

“From this day be to me as a daughter, for this great good news!”

And running to where she kept her jewels she put upon the happy Punna

all those ornaments suitable to a daughter of the house. And she

thought; “What more can I do? For this is a great day,” and so took up a

precious golden dish and into this she poured the milk-rice, and it

rolled in like drops of water slipping off a lily-leaf and filled the

vessel, neither more nor less. Then, covering it with a golden cover,

she adorned herself with her best jewels and went stately to worship and

make her offering.

So she came along the banks of the river, glad in the dawn, robed in

grey like a cloud before sunrise, and about her slender wrists were

bracelets of white chalcedony and the grey and white of them resembled

the colours of the rounded river-bubble before it breaks, and she came

as softly.

And parting the boughs she saw the Prince, his head fallen back against

the tree, eyes closed and helpless hands beside him, and deep pity and

veneration stirred in her heart, and seeing it was no Tree-Spirit but a

holy man she thought “May he accept it!”

And bowing repeatedly she raised the dish in both hands, entreating his

greatness and thus offered it humbly, saying:

“Lord, accept my gift and go where it seems good to you.” And he, seeing

in this the accomplishment of his purpose, received it, and partook of

that pure food while the happy giver watched with such delight as when a

mother feeds her only child and beholds new life flow through his veins,

and the very air about the Prince appeared to distil in dews of visible

blessing upon her head and joy hitherto unknown possessed her noble

soul. And she said:

“Lord, may your wishes prosper as mine have done!”, and so departed,

caring no more for her golden dish than as if it had been an autumn leaf

upon the ground.

But the five ascetics, watching far off with greedy eyes, said:

“The ascetic Gotama has failed. He is now mere man. Like the common herd

he eats and drinks. He has nothing to teach us—nothing! Mistaken indeed

were we in thinking to learn from a mere backslider! It is done and

over, and the Gods are angry with him.”

So they turned their backs in scorn and departed to Benares, there to

resume their austerities.

But when Sujata was gone, timidly receiving thanks, the Future Buddha

arose and stood beneath the tree, refreshed in heart and body, his face

shining with renewed strength, his energy swelling like a river in spate

rushing rejoicing to the sea.

And he knew that that place where for six years he had pursued a

vanishing truth could hold him no more, its use being ended, and he set

steadfast steps toward the tree.

O Tree of Wisdom, Tree of Knowledge unsearchable, Tree whereunder the

world’s deliverance was attained,—through all the rain of years between

our sight and thee, shall we not look back and behold and veil our

faces? For beneath this Tree was Wisdom perfected.

Then taking his way, Bodhisattva begged from a man cutting grass for his

cattle, an armful of pure and pliant grass, and, going onward, he saw

before him that Tree of Knowledge, broad-leaved, noble, a tower of

leafage, and knowing that this was where time and place meeting clasped

hands, he spread the grass and seated himself with folded hands and feet

beneath the pillared stems and the night came quietly down the woodland

ways and veiled him from the sight of man.

CHAPTER XI

THUS have I heard.

Yet of what follows I veil my face in writing, for it is high, holy, and

beyond the mind of man to conceive, nor can it be told but in great

parables, for by pictures we teach little children. It is the Arhats

only,—the perfected saints,—who comprehend and can distinguish the

symbol from the truth.

Bodhisattva was tempted in the wilderness. Against him that Wicked One

led his hosts, strong and cunning to daunt and allure. And as our Lord

sat there in peace, suddenly the calm sea, heaven-reflecting, of his

mind, was tossed and torn into wild billows as in a furious storm, and

foes which he had thought conquered, rose mighty against him, some most

infinitely sweet, piercing the heart with a pain more to be desired than

joy.

For, shaping on the dark like a picture—but real, so real that he had

but to rise and enter, came the lost heaven of Kapila, where Rohini

flowed in liquid light, and there in cool green shades he beheld those

loveliest in whose arms once he lay. Soft bosoms, intolerably sweet

after long pain and loneliness, entreated him to rest. Deep eyes,

love-filled, invited. And at the last one alone drew near him and it

seemed that in that one fair face was centred all beauty that was his in

those far days. In one all wooed him.

“Come to me—Come to me. Dear lord, you have borne torture for long

years and grief exceeding. You have hungered and thirsted and wept tears

of blood and still the Way eludes you, and all was vain. There is no

Way. It is delusion. Vain it must be: not thus is Paradise found. Love

is heaven—there is no other.”—So said the Beautiful kneeling before

him, most dear and desirable, with passionate dark eyes more eloquent

than music plucked on harp or sitar, words spoken between kisses and the

slackening and straining of arms that are the bonds of love. On his

knees he felt the warmth of her golden bosom, sun-kissed fruit for the

tasting, on his hands the clasp of those little fingers that once

clenched his heart.

“Put away your pale dreams of Heaven. O Prince beloved!” she pleaded.

“Heaven is here and now by bright Rohini. Come, taking and giving joy. O

sad and wearied, and utterly foredone, come back to us and be made whole

and glad. Am I not yours? Rest in my arms. Forget the cold ascetic, and

be again our Prince, our warrior. Come! Time goes swiftly and the sands

of life are blown about the desert and man knows them no more.”

She moved as if to draw him with her, and all her naked loveliness swam

rose and gold before his eyes, long hair, brightening at the

tendril-ends, caressing the slender curves of perfect feet, the smile of

victory touching soft lips,—breathless beauty waiting its fruition,

queen and slave of men, thinking its victory won, looking downward half

amazed at its own perfection.

Then lifting her head that Beautiful regarded him in triumph as the moon

rides serene over tossing waves, and lo! he sat motionless and unmoved,

with eyes looking past her to a distant hope, and his face was set and

calm as doom.

And suddenly, shuddering together with the sighing shudder of leaves in

cold rain, the sweet shape wavered, trembled like an image in water when

the rings widen outward and all is dispersed, and it was gone, for the

waste night closed about it and took it.

But the garden remained—that home beloved, and a new and dearer shape

wandered lonely by the river bank gazing steadfastly upward to the

bright billows of the silver peaks, remote and pure as they, and she led

by the hand a child. And surely he whom lust cannot conquer may

unashamed kneel at the feet of love pure as the very sources of light!

And his heart said “My Princess!” and almost ceased to beat, so strange,

so sweet, that living bleeding memory;—and whether it was the voice of

his own soul or hers he could not know,—but she seemed to shape the one

word, “Beloved”, and so withdrawing her gaze from the mountains, looked

at him, all love, all entreaty in those sunken eyes—beauty faded by

grief, but stronger a thousandfold to plead with him, and mutely she

showed the child, and so stood, waiting to know his sentence whether she

must live or die.

And round her like mourning shadows swept the image of his father, aged

by grief and visibly stooping under the heavy burden; the gentle queen,

sister of his mother, who had fed him from her own bosom, wrung her

hands beside him and all the faithful friends and servants who had

guarded his youth; and together they were the very voice of home, and

his own heart asked itself, “Have I the right to hurt these faithful

ones! But what are they and myriads like them to her—my wife, my son!”

And whether he would have moved to reach her, I cannot tell, but

suddenly, past all knowledge, he certainly knew that never could that

great lady his wife present herself as an obstacle and a temptation, and

that this was but a shift and a shape-changer not to be trusted,

dangerous and cunning like the first, and steadfastly he gazed past her,

his face set and calm as doom, and shrieking horribly she fled.

And then, thick as rain in _Wasa_, fell delirious dreams and delusions,

and there came about him frightful things, misshapen, goblin, the very

spume and smoke of the pit, and there was a noise in the air, that

stupified the brain, of shrieks and shouts and groans and terrible cries

and far off wailings and it appeared as though great spirits fought in

the air about him with the black armies of the Wicked One.

And upon the night the Tempter flung a vast phantasmagoria of the power

and splendour awaiting the Prince if he would but stoop to grasp them.

King of the earth, throned and crowned, he saw himself. And flames shot

about the pictures and huge confusions, and an ocean of terrors broke

against him, and the billows threatened to overwhelm him, and he knew

that did he relax but for the instant that a man blinks his eye, all

were lost.

But he sat motionless his face fixed and calm as doom, and it is told

that in all the tumult not one leaf of the Tree flickered but hung still

as if carved in stone. Within its shadow was calm: without tumult as

when heaven and earth break together in storm.

So the strife raged about him and Lust and Love, and Power and Wealth

thundered or pleaded at his ear and could not move him. And huge

elemental Powers led on their armies, deep instincts from the abyss of

the primeval life of man, conqueering, cunning, rock-rooted, hard to be

fought, beckoning, alluring, threatening. And some, robed like heavenly

spirits, showed, as it were, the Way, but it was no way, and very

terrible were the confusions, sights and sounds of that night of dread.

Nor is it possible or lawful that all should be uttered.

But when the worst and utmost were done and endured and no more

remained, the Wicked One and his hosts, outwearied, ceased their

torment, and very slowly the angry roar of the billows subsided and the

foam of their fury stilled, and the mind of the Blessed One relaxed into

peace, and the great darkness thinned as at the cold breath of dawn.

The moon and the stars reappearing shed dying light, the barriers of the

dark being removed. And now—the marvel,—the marvel!

Let the Three Worlds wait in silence.

Thus have I heard.

For the east became grey, and all being now hushed, our Lord passed into

deep and subtle contemplation and entered thus upon the First Stage of

Ecstasy, and this was the First Watch.

And, consciousness withdrawn into the Infinite, passing through the

bounds of human comprehension, seeing the world as it truly is, not as

it appears, his mind moved swiftly onward and upward as the eagle soars

effortless to the sun, or rather, as the swimmer daring the current, is

caught up and carried strongly and without volition to his desired end.

For, be it known, this world about us is far other than it appears, and

with enlightenment we pass free from the fetters of illusion. And this

is Perception in which time as it is known in this our world ceases to

exist.

And in this Perception he beheld his past lives and all his former

births, with their gains and losses, their sins and purities, as they

passed steadily onward and led him inevitably to the Tree; seeing all at

once as a picture.

And soaring higher, carried ever more swiftly onward, ever more

profoundly withdrawn, in the second watch he beheld with diamond-clear

perception all that lives, and the round of birth and death of all

mankind, hollow all and false and transient, built upon nothingness—the

piers and fabric of a dream; and saw before him erring creatures born

and born again to die, the righteous and the evil heirs alike of pain

self-inflicted, and stabbed with daggers their own hands have forged.

And he saw the transient heavens gained through desire, won through

righteousness that craves reward, and beheld these longer-lived than the

joys of earth yet transient also, for he who desires the joys of an

individual heaven and pays down righteousness as the coin of its price,

he too is still held within the pitiless fetters of craving, though it

be for heaven, and nothing rooted in desire is eternal, but must pass

and be done.

And he saw the hells that, gorged with suffering, yet again yield up

their prey to the weary round of rebirth and lo—heaven and hell and

earth empty and vain, the Wheel of Birth and Death revolving evermore,

hopeless and without delay or stay, now heaven-high, now low as earth,

but ever and ever a whirling Wheel without rest. And in the third watch

there came Perception higher still and our Lord entered upon the deep

apprehension of Truth.

And in this the secrets of birth and death were apparent and he became

assured that age and death have their source in birth and are rooted in

it as trees in the ground, for the body and earthly self implicate man

in all evils, divided thus from the Source, and, in a word, life in this

world of ignorance, is suffering. For here men walk blinded with

ignorance, not knowing whence nor whither, and the high things move

veiled about them and are not seen.

And as to rebirth, he saw that its cause is in deeds done and thoughts

thought in former lives.

Swept on and up in ecstasy, perception becoming ever clearer, he beheld

the so-called soul-self of man unravelled into its component parts and

laid before him like the unwoven threads of a garment, and behold in

these was no durability nor immortality, for there is but one Immortal,

one Infinite, and the man who claims his own, his separate immortality,

is dying and reborn through the ages and but the fierce desire of life

gives him its simulacrum and the long-linked chain of births and deaths

and griefs immeasurable.

So then, swept on and up in ecstasy, he beheld the causes of the

long-linked chain of existence stretching from Infinite to Infinite.

And these are they, and this is the lineage of suffering:

Contact brings forth sensation.

Sensation brings desire.

Desire produces the clinging to shows and illusions.

Clinging to shows and illusions produces deeds.

Deeds engender birth.

Birth produces age and death.

And this is the weary round, the offspring of Ignorance repeated in the

endless turning of the Wheel, the dragging of a lengthening chain of

births. For the ignorant man, desiring the things that are worthless,

transient, illusory, seeing about him false shows instead of the high

things which are real, creates in himself a passion which in turn

creates more and more dangerous illusions, and thus is his own victim.

But when false desire dies, illusions end, and Ignorance, dispersing

like the night, gives place to the Sun of Enlightenment and the world

lies about such a man as it truly is. And he _knows_, being no more the

prisoner of time and space and their brood of follies, for Ignorance,

the true cause of all ill, in him is dead.

And having thus perceived the world as it is, our Lord was perfected in

wisdom, and shows and illusions being ended for him, there died in him

that false self which will have all for its own; never again to be born,

utterly at an end,—even that false ego shut in the prison of itself.

And in him was completed the destruction of craving and evil desire, as

a fire goes out for lack of fuel. For the man in whom is no separation

from the Source, in whom is no ignorance, how shall he desire that which

has no eternity but is transient as a morning dream? And over him Desire

and Death—which indeed are one—had no more dominion.

Thus first he found the way of perfect knowledge, and in the broad east

the onrushing of the sun’s golden wheels was heard afar.

So he reached at last the unfathomable source of Truth, beholding past,

present, and future as one, having passed beyond the glimmer of the six

senses into true perception, no longer gazing through a narrow window,

but about and around him the wide horizon—and more.

Illumined with all wisdom sat the Buddha, the Perfected One, having at

last attained, and the light strengthened and grew in rapture. And about

him the world lay calm and bright and a soft breeze lifted the leaves.

And for seven days and nights sat our Lord beneath the Tree, lost in

contemplation of the World as it Is, submerged in the ocean of love,

having entered the Nirvana, most utterly at peace, and day and night—or

what men call such—made their solemn procession about him unheeded, for

he was lost in bliss, and his heart said:

“Now, resting here, have I attained my birth-weary heart’s desire,

having traversed many lives to this goal. Now have I slain the self, and

the fetters are broken, and not for myself alone.”

And lifting up his voice he cried aloud this song of triumph in the

hearing of all worlds.

“Many a house of life

Has held me, seeking ever that which wrought

These prisons of the senses, sorrow-fraught,

Sore was my ceaseless strife.

But now,

Thou Builder of the body-prison,—Thou!

I know thee! Never shalt thou build again

These walls of pain,

Nor raise the roof-tree of deceits, nor lay

Fresh rafters on the clay.

Broken the House is, and the ridge-pole split,

Delusion fashioned it.

Safe pass I hence, deliverance to attain.”[3]

-----

[3] For this verse I have used Edwin Arnold’s translation slightly

modified.

-----

For now he knew that the builder of the prison, the cause of rebirth,

the hinderer from the Peace was his own false self, the dreamer of

dreams, the creator of false desires and illusions, and in him this

false self was dead, and only the true, the Self that is mysterious and

high and One with the One survived.

And next, sending his sight through the invisible (for when

enlightenment is attained all bars of time and space fall and man is no

longer blinded by his eyes and deafened by his ears), he considered all

that live, and like a swelling tide there rose in him compassion for

their darkness and misery, and in deep contemplation he considered how

to gain deliverance for them also, and with this came the thought:

“Shall I teach? And how?” for he doubted that any would believe and

relinquish that false and illusory self which holds men from the light.

And he said:

“How can they believe the world is other than it seems and the very sea

and sky and mountains far differing from what they have supposed? And

they the prisoners of Ignorance.” And a deep voice from the Divine

within and without him answered:

“O let your heart most loving be moved into pity toward the people, most

ignorant, toiling amid deathly illusions to a goal unknown.”

And as this purpose rooted and flowered within him—a mighty blossom

opening its chalice of perfume to all worlds and heavens, the dawn of

the seventh day broke resplendent, as it were a new heaven and a new

earth and it was light.

Light also within him and a great flooding of light, for not only was

the Way opened but the steps now lay clear before him—the Noble

Eightfold Path whereby men setting one foot before the other achieve the

first heights, the true Self developing as does the body from lowly

beginnings to great ends and royalties, but all in order and gradually,

each step rising by the stepping stones of dead selves in dead lives to

higher.

O peace: O bliss inexplicable, not to be confounded with others, but

singular, lovely, and alone! Not in the heavens, unattainable save by

the strength of Gods, but within reach of all who set their faces to the

heights in true and steadfast endeavour, proceeding step by step in love

and patience. For the lowly, the little children of the Law, as for the

wise and noble. For he who is ruler over a few things in this life shall

in lives to come be ruler over many, so he be found faithful. And at the

last—not the dewdrop lost in the ocean, but the ocean drawn into the

dewdrop and eternal Unity.

And in his heart this thought arose.

“I will proclaim accordingly the way unto the further shore!”

As he saw it, so he told it: He the stainless, the Very Wise, the

Passionless, the Desireless Lord; for what reason should he speak

falsely?

Thus, flooded with sunshine and bathed in peace sat the Perfect One.

CHAPTER XII

NOW as the Blessed One sat beneath the Tree in the Dawn, two merchants

bound on their way passed through the wood, and within them spoke the

Voice of Wisdom, saying:

“In this wood, outspread upon the spurs of the mountain, dwells a

Rishi—a wise ascetic—deeply to be reverenced; go then and make him an

offering.”

And with joy they went, glad in the opportunity of righteousness, and

found him enthroned beneath the Tree, laving his feet in the ripples of

the Sea of Bliss; and with reverence they placed food in his bowl, a

simple gift and good; and they were respectfully silent while he ate,

but when they saw that the Exalted One, his need over, had washed his

bowl and hands in the mountain stream, they bowed their heads to his

feet, saying:

“We who are here take refuge in the Perfect One and his Law. May the

Blessed One accept us as his adherents from this day forth throughout

our life, who have taken refuge in him.”

And they were accepted as lay followers and went on their business

rejoicing in peace; and these were the first persons who accepted the

Law, with faith in the One Enlighted and his teaching, for as yet the

communion of the Order was not. And their names were Bhallika and

Tapussa.

Yet, having risen, he paused, and again seated himself in meditation,

for he doubted again whether it were either wise or possible to make

known the great Law to the world.

And into the mind of the Exalted One yet retired in solitude, came this

thought.

“I have penetrated this deep truth of the abandonment of the imprisoning

self, hard to be perceived, difficult to grasp. Man moves in an earthly

sphere, and there has he his place and delights, tapestried about with

illusions real indeed to the dim feelers of his poor senses. For such it

will be hard to grasp this matter, the chain of causes and effects, for

man sees the effect but not the cause. And hard indeed to grasp are

withdrawal from earthly illusions, extinction of desire, cessation of

longing, and the deep mysterious Peace. Should I now preach the Law, it

would gain nothing—grief and weariness would be the only fruit of

labour. The truth remains hidden from men absorbed by hate and greed. It

is deep and difficult, veiled from the coarse mind. How shall he

apprehend it whose thought moves in the darkness of earthly

preoccupations?”

And this was without doubt the last, the uttermost temptation of that

Wicked One, and the subtlety of it stirred a vibration in the highest of

the Divine Beings, and this thought arose.

“Truly the world is lost, truly the world is undone if the heart of the

Perfect One be set on abiding in peace without revealing the Law.”

And instantly this Divine thought was light in the heart of the Exalted

One and its symbol was that he beheld a Divine Being who raised his

folded hands before him, saying:

“May it please the Perfect One to preach the Law! There are a few whose

eyes are not dimmed with the dust of earth. They will see. They will

hear. Open, O Wise One, the door of Eternity. He who stands on the

mountain peaks looks out over all peoples. Go forth to Victory.”

Then, hearing this voice in his ears, the Exalted One turned the gaze of

perfect enlightenment upon the world, and he beheld this:

As on a lotus stem bearing the lotus blossom of ivory, some flowers do

not rise out of the water but are below the surface, and others float on

the calm surface, and others rise high, reflecting themselves in its

mirror, so are men—some pure, and some impure, some noble and some

ignoble, some strong in mind and intellect, others weak and dull,—but

all needing what they are qualified to take of the light of wisdom. And

perceiving this, he replied as it were to the Divine Voice:

“It was because I believed the toil fruitless, Holy One, that I have not

yet uttered the Word.”

And the Divine Voice perceived what would be, saying:

“It is done. The Perfect One will preach the Law,” and the matter being

thus ended the Divine Voice returned to its source and the Buddha passed

onward in majesty, musing on the first means whereby the Law should be

made known. And since a man owes deep duty to his teachers who, if they

have not opened the gate have yet directed him in the Path, his though

hovered first over Alara and Uddaka the Brahmans,—but the diamond-clear

inward sight revealed to him that in the six years of his asceticism

they were dead.

And next he remembered the five ascetics who had scorned him when in

starving he had tasted of the food offered by the lady Sujata, thinking

“These shall be the first fish I catch in my net!”—and because they had

betaken themselves to Benares, he resolved that leaving the Forest of

Enlightenment he would go to that great and ancient city bathing her

feet in holy Ganges and there for the first time make known the Pearl he

had found.

So, alone in the wood, he arose from beneath the Tree and turning

regarded it steadfastly, saying:

“O Tree, because of this, many generations of men as yet unmanifested on

earth, shall hold your name in honour and a leaf of you shall be

precious. Rejoice therefore and accept the sunshine and rain gladly,

knowing that life is in the least of your leaves for ever and ever.”

Then with eyes deep and kind, shedding light, as it were about him,

steadfast in noble composure did he advance through the Wood of Wisdom,

taking the way to Benares, strengthened as one fed on food divine. And

beside the way to Benares, journeying on in peace, he met a young and

haughty Brahman, proud in the possession of his greatness, whose name

was Upaka, and as this man went he repeated the mystic word “Aum,” of

which the three letters are the Threefold and the word the One, and in

this he put his faith. And seeing the Exalted One passing by, rapt in

meditation, he cried aloud with scorn:

“Ha, Master,—what constitutes the true Brahman?” hoping to trip him in

his answer. And from the heart of his calm the Exalted One replied:

“To put away all evil, to be pure in thought, word and deed, to

transcend pride and desire,—this it is to be a true Brahman.”

And the answer astonished the proud young man, and turning suddenly he

looked into the face of the Perfect One and said slowly:

“How comes it that your face is so beautiful, shining like the full moon

reflected in water, your form so stately? And whence the peace that

surrounds you? What is your noble tribe, and who your master? Here, in

this country, where each man struggles to find the Way, what is your

way?”

And, glad at heart, the Perfect One answered:

“Happy the solitude of him who is full of joy, who has seen the truth.

Happy he who in all the wide world has no ill-will, self-restrained and

guided, Happy—happiest is freedom from lusts and desires. And highest

is the bliss of freedom from the pride of the thought _I am I_. No

honourable tribe have I,—no Teacher. I go alone and content.”

And the Brahman heard in great astonishment, for much as he had heard of

religion it was not this. And he said, hesitating:

“And where, sir, are you bound?” And the World-Honoured replied:

“I desire to set revolving the Wheel of the Excellent Law, and therefore

I go to the great and ancient city of Benares, to give light to them

that sit in darkness and to open the gate of true Immortality to men.”

And when the Brahman Upaka heard this his pride was revolted and he was

angry that a man should assume to himself such mastership, and he

replied curtly:

“Reverend person, your way lies onward,” and struck into the opposite

path, yet as he went, he stopped, proceeded, stopped again, lost in

thought, for there was that in the occurrence which startled him from

his equanimity. So the moment goes by us, and we do not know it! But the

Blessed One, proceeding quietly day by day, came at last to Benares, to

the Deer Park of Isipatana where now dwelt the five ascetics who had

scorned him. And there they sat practising the weary round of their

austerities, not knowing that the Perfect One who approached them had

discovered the way that leads from the world of sorrowful becoming and

the flowing stream of transiency into the world of happy being where all

is beheld as it is.

For to the man who knows not the way all things flow and pass in

unreality and nothing abides; but the foot of him who has thus attained

is set on the Eternal and in That is no motion nor any change.

So when they saw him coming the five ascetics were angry, and they said

to one another:

“Friends, here comes the ascetic Gotama [using in contempt his family

name] he who eats rich food, who lives in self-indulgence and has given

up his quest. Let us show him no respect nor rise up to meet him, nor

take his alms-bowl nor cloak from him. Let us only give him a seat as we

would to any person, and he can sit down if he likes.”

But the nearer the Exalted One came to the five the more did the majesty

of his presence precede him, and the less could they abide by their

resolution. Slowly they rose, and went forward, and one took the cloak

and alms-bowl—another brought a seat, a third brought water, and

accepting the water the Blessed One sat down and bathed his weary feet.

And then they addressed him as “Friend” and “Gotama” but he replied:

“It is not seemly, monks, that you should address Him who has thus

Attained as ‘Friend’ and ‘Gotama.’ For I am now the Enlightened. Open

your ears: I teach you the Law. If you will learn, the Truth shall meet

you face to face.”

But, still in much doubt, they said:

“If you were not able, friend Gotama, to attain full knowledge by

mortification of the body, is it likely you can attain it by

self-indulgence and a worldly life?”

And thus replied the Blessed One:

“Monks, I do not live in self-indulgence although I torture my body no

more. Nor have I forsaken my quest. Open your ears. Found is deliverance

from death and illusion!”

And because the five still doubted, the Blessed One said to them:

“Tell me, monks,—when we dwelt in the forest, did I ever before speak

to you in this manner?”

And they said:

“Sir, never.”

And it is told in the ancient scriptures that the very Evening opened

their ears and heard.

So, with the five about him, the Perfect One spoke the first words of

the Teaching of the Law, the first ever heard in this world,—and where

the last shall be spoken who can tell? But it is needful that all to

whom their happy Karma allows it should hear and ponder these words for

in them is all truth. Now this is the high teaching in the Deer Park of

Isipatana, as dusk came on and the shadows.

And it is told in the ancient scriptures that the very evening appeared

to bow at the knees of the Exalted One—the World-Honoured, that she

might hear his word. Like a maiden she came, the stars the pearls about

her throat, the gathering dark her braided hair, the deepening vastness

of space her cloudy robe. For a crown had she the holy heavens where

dwell divine spirits. The Three Worlds were her body, her eyes were as

blue lotus blossoms opening to the moonlight, and her voice of stillness

as the distant murmur of bees. To worship and to hear the Perfect One

this lovely maiden came.

And though our Lord spoke in the Pali tongue each man heard his own. And

thus said the Blessed One, the Tathagata, He who has thus Attained:

“Monks, there are two extremes which he who would follow my attainment

must shun. The one is a life of pleasure devoted to desire and

enjoyments. That is base, ignoble, unworthy, unreal, and is the Path of

Destruction. The other is the life of self-mortification and torture. It

is gloomy, unworthy, unreal. It is nothing and leads to nothing. But

hear and be attentive, monks, for I have found the Middle Way which lies

between these two, the way which in a spiral of eight stages ascends the

Mount of Vision even to the summit where dwells the glory of the Peace.

“This is the Noble Eightfold Path, and the stages in their order. Right

Comprehension. Doubts and wrong views and mere opinions must be laid

aside. The man must perceive the distinction between the Permanent and

the Transient. He must behold facts behind hypotheses. Realization of

the need of truth is the attitude for its reception. This is the first

stage.

“Right Resolution. This is the will to attain, based on self-discipline

and the vision which has perceived that attainment of perfect knowledge

is possible. This is the second stage.

“Right Speech. This is the first step in the practice of

self-discipline. Indiscretion, slander, abuse, and bitter words are

forbidden. Only such words must be uttered as are kind, pure, true. This

is the third stage.

“Right Conduct. Deeds which are blameless, true, and noble. These only

must be done. Put away all thought of gain or reward here or hereafter,

for the motive is the deed. Retaliation is dead. Impulse cannot exist

with discipline. Deeds actuated by likes and dislikes are

forbidden,—let each action be guided by inward Law irrespective of whom

it concerns. Act only from this Law which is in its highest Love and

Pity, and very swiftly will come the insight to distinguish which deeds

are in harmony with the Law and which gainsay it,—and that blessedness

will follow which the doer has not thirsted to gain or garner. This is

the fourth stage.

“Very difficult to climb are the two stages of Right Speech and Right

Conduct, but, when they are surmounted, fair and wide and noble is the

prospect seen from those heights, and very great self-mastery is gained.

“Right Living. And this includes the right means of earning a livelihood

for there are means a man cannot follow and maintain his integrity and

purity. Let him take heed to avoid these dangerous circumstances, and

which they may be that man’s mind shall declare to him if he have

trodden the Four First Stages. Such a man cannot be in doubt. And so is

the learner become a Master. This is the Fifth stage.

“Right Effort. Now, loving, wise, and enlightened, he apportions all his

strength to wise purpose, fully comprehending his deed and its aim. He

who has reached this noble stage does all, whether eating or drinking,

sleeping or waking, working or resting, in harmony with the great Law,

for in his obedience he is perfect, and the Law is his life, nor does he

need to consider longer than while a man in health need count his

heart-beat. And this is the Sixth Stage.

“Right Meditation. This is the right state of a mind at peace, self, he

considers only the truth, and having utterly abandoned the thought of

self he is clear in perception, having slain illusion and stood face to

face with Reality as a man speaks with a friend. He is the Knower of

Truth. More, he _is_ the Truth, and this is the Seventh Stage.

“Right Meditation. This the right state of a mind at peace. At peace

indeed, for what is left for grief? Nothing is here to wail, nothing but

what must quiet us. Doubt and fear, trouble and confusions are dead.

Groundless beliefs, false hopes and fears are forgotten, and in this

stage is the attainment of the Peace which passes understanding. This is

the Eighth Stage from which, having attained, a man cannot fall.

“But, monks, you may ask, what is the cause from which springs the need

for the Noble Eightfold Path? It is this. Hear the Four Noble Truths.

“Birth is the cause of suffering, for life is suffering, passing through

all the stages of grief from birth to death. This is the first Truth.

The cause of birth is the thirst for living, leading from birth to

birth, fed by the lust of the flesh, the lust of the eye, the pride of

life. This is the second Truth.

“The cure of the cause of birth is the extinction of this thirst for

living by complete extinction of wrong desire, letting it go, expelling

it, giving it no room. This is the third Truth.

“And the fourth Truth is the Noble Eightfold Path. These are the four

Truths.

“So by the truth of suffering, monks, my eyes were opened to these

conceptions and judgment and vision were opened in me. Not by sacrifice

nor mortification nor prayer, but by that which a man has in himself is

the Way of Deliverance opened. And as long as I did not know this I had

not received enlightenment. But now have I attained, and deliverance is

secured, and henceforth I shall no more go out into birth and death.

Death has no more dominion over me.”

This is the first Teaching and it was spoken in the Deer Park at

Isipatana,—and the five ascetics sat about to hear, and borne on these

great words, their eyes were opened and with joy they accepted the Law,

and the chief of them, Kondanna, since called “Kondanna the Knower,”

entreated the Lord that he would receive them as disciples, and in these

words he received them:

“Draw near, monks, well preached is the Doctrine. Walk in purity to the

goal of the end of all suffering.”

And further he taught them of the transiency and impermanence of all

earthly things and of the Truth that lies beyond when the world is

apprehended as it is, free of illusion, free of the fleeting

apprehensions of the senses, and knowing this, they entered into the

Peace.

And when it was ended the darkness was deep about them and the night of

rest was come.

PART III