“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 allTo drink in peaceThe water of Righteousness.Thou who in past livesDidst agonize for men,Nothing withholding,Again go forth,Conqueror of sorrow.”
“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 allTo drink in peaceThe water of Righteousness.Thou who in past livesDidst agonize for men,Nothing withholding,Again go forth,Conqueror of sorrow.”
“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 allTo drink in peaceThe water of Righteousness.Thou who in past livesDidst agonize for men,Nothing withholding,Again go forth,Conqueror of sorrow.”
“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 forgivenessOn those who slew thee.Go forth again,Riding to Victory.”
“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 forgivenessOn those who slew thee.Go forth again,Riding to Victory.”
“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 forgivenessOn those who slew thee.Go forth again,Riding to Victory.”
“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
Thushave 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.
[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
Thushave 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
Thushave 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.