CHAPTER V
Nowwhen 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 thereisan 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
Nowat 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
Thushave 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.