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