CHAPTER IX
Thus have I heard.
So while the Prince went on into the woods, turning his steadfast face to the dawn of Enlightenment, Channa the charioteer went slowly back to Kapila, grieving and weeping, leading the noble horse, for he had most surely hoped that where his lord went he might follow, having proved himself faithful; and as the darkness of night closed in upon him he wavered, halting and looking behind him and then again proceeding, irresolute in mind.
And the horse also grieved for his master, going heavily, his head bowed that was held so nobly, neither would he eat grass nor drink water, and no joy nor spirit were left in him, for he thought “I shall never see him again.” And even as he thought this, his great heart broke for grief, and he died. But in a happy place was he reborn because of his fidelity, even as the Prince had foreseen, for in no world can love lose the blessedness of its love.
But Channa went yet more slowly, weeping a second sorrow, and to him the land appeared withered as when a man returns to a ruined city which once he knew glad and living, and it seemed as though the sun hidden behind a mountain no longer enlightened the world.
So the men about the way, seeing him in grief, turned again to look, and consternation seized them and one cried aloud:
“Where is the Prince—beloved of the world? Have you taken him away by stealth? Where is he hidden?”
And Channa halting, said with sighs;
“I who followed him always with a loving heart, would I have left him? Little do you know me! He has dismissed me,—O men of Kapila! He has buried himself in the forests to live the life of an ascetic.”
And those who listened heard this with dark foreboding, for it appeared to them that things deep, strange, and mysterious had suddenly appeared in their way, and that the very world had changed in its course if such things could be. What had there been lacking to the Prince that he should go out thus to seek it? What had he beheld, invisible to them?
And the news spread from them to the city and men and women rushed out to the gates, and when they saw that Channa wept as he returned in loneliness, they, not understanding whether the Prince was dead or alive, cried out.
“What has befallen? Surely sorrow is added to sorrow.”
And like the flash of lightning news spread to the House of the Garden and the women of the palace, their hair dishevelled about them, their robes flung hastily on as for a night-alarm, came pouring down to the doors that they might hear the worst, and when they saw the charioteer alone, they raised a loud and bitter cry. So women mourn the beloved dead when hope itself is dead with him.
And the cry reached Prajapati, aunt and foster-mother of the Prince, sister of Maya his mother, and she wept, saying to herself.
“Alas—his beauty, his beauty! O my son, who was there to compare with him? I see his dark locks bound with gold, his eyes blue and deep as the Ox-King’s, his broad shoulders and strong arms, a Tiger-King among men. How can it be endured that you should suffer the chills and heats of the forest and we, bereft and miserable, see you no more!”
And the great lady threw herself upon the earth and so lay, with the women sitting about her, held motionless by strong grief, as marble images.
And when at last one gathered up courage to tell the Princess she sent for Channa, towering in indignation above him like an angry Queen.
“O faithless man, and trusted in vain! evil contriver, false servant!—beneath these pretended tears there is a hidden smile. You went out with him and alone you return. What have you done? Better an open enemy than a false friend. Alas, the sorrows of our line! Surely his noble mother died foreseeing the grief of to-day, for our house is left unto us desolate!”
And Channa, pierced to the soul and thunderstruck, was silent, and she spoke again.
“You weep aloud now. Why did you not awake the Palace when he went? Then all might have been saved. Now it is too late.”
So, folding his hands, with no anger in his heart, for the agony of the Princess was visible, the true Channa replied:
“Great Lady, have pity on my grief, for I am innocent in this. In my soul I believe it was the Gods’ doing. From the day of his birth there have been portents, and who was I to stand against it?”
Then the Princess, just and noble of soul, recollected herself, regretting her words, knowing well that the burden of the Gods’ purpose is their own and cannot be charged upon a man, and she spoke gently to him, and when he was gone she sat alone mourning, recalling the face and voice of her Prince, and slowly as the strong grief overburdened her she slipped down strengthless from the golden cushions and lay upon the ground, her empty arms stretched out before her.
So her women found her, and as they raised her tenderly, she said this only:
“Take away my golden bed where my lord and I lay, for henceforth I will lie upon bare earth. Take away my robes of silk and my jewels and bring me the yellow robe of the mendicant, for I am beggared indeed. Henceforth I will wear no other. Cut off my long hair, for I have done with beauty. And once a day and once only, bring me the food of the mendicant, such as will keep the flame of life alight and no more, for as to pleasure, the name of it is forgotten.”
And as she said so was it done, and the long and perfumed tresses that touched her lovely feet fell about her like a dropped veil, and thus she lived henceforward, and for her child’s sake only.
But as to the Maharaja his case was different, for love and anger contended in him, and his thoughts charged each other as in battle, rushing madly hither and thither like a herd of wild elephants. And when his nobles gathered about him he raged aloud before them:
“Once I had a son. Now I have none. What is my kingdom to me, and my horribly echoing empty palace? And what are rule and dominance? Why was he given to be taken?”
And for all the royal priest and the wise minister could do, they could not assuage his wrath and grief until the thought occurred to them that they might follow the wanderer and yet compel or persuade him to return. Then, and then only, the King listened:
“Go,” he said, “and swiftly. Let not a breath intervene between now and your going, for life is unendurable until you return with him.”
So in great haste the priest and minister set out on the way indicated by Channa, counting every instant of time they lost precious as dropped grains of pearl.
And when they were come to the forests and hills of Rajagriha, they asked their way of the wandering religious persons whom they met, and of the cave-dwelling ascetics, and to these grave persons they said:
“We are come, beseeching your aid. We serve a King like to the greatest of the Gods and his son, beautiful as the God who pierces hearts, has forsaken us and gone out into the solitudes seeking a remedy against old age, disease, and death, a thing no man can find. Knowing this, tell us, we entreat, where we may find him.”
And the ascetics replied:
“We know him and his beauty and nobleness. He is gone to the cave of Alara the Brahman that he may seek for illumination.”
Scarcely giving themselves time to hear and to utter thanks those two old men, the priest and minister, hurried on.
Now as they did so the awe of the place and its quiet and the spirit of deep contemplation arising from the residence of so many holy persons fell on them, and insensibly their speed slackened, and neither said this to the other, but the same influence was upon them both, and as they had abandoned the royal chariot when the track ceased, so also they now divested themselves of the insignia of their high offices, and advanced humbly towards their destination. And as they went they saw a young ascetic seated beneath a tree, his hands folded and eyes fixed upon the running water of a stream before his feet, and he heard their steps and rising saluted them, and it was their Prince.
Surely words cannot tell how this sight moved them—they who had seen him far otherwise, who perceived about him now a difference immeasurable even in thought!
But they saluted him with more than the old obedience, and being hidden took their seats beside him as the twin stars attend the moon. And about them was the vast quiet and silence and shadow of the forest.
Then choosing their words with care as a warrior chooses the arrows that shall lose his life or save it, in turn they set before him the condition of his father the King, asking him with deep earnestness how it could be right in his eyes to abandon all his duties, inflicting sorrow worse than death upon those he loved and left.
And when they had spoken, only the little running water took up the tale for the Prince meditated upon their words, and they dared not interpose.
After a long interval he raised his head and answered:
“This is well spoken, but I have entered the road wherein is no turning. For it is not for myself only that I seek the remedy, but for all creation. And to me the earth is filled with this thought and with this only, and however you may use the sorcery of words to bewilder me it fails. I have heard and I will again hear your plea, but this is and will be my answer—The sun, the moon, forsaking the sky, may fall to earth, the snowy mountains topple from their base, but I will never change my purpose.”
And having said this he rose, and the two with him, and they, seeing that they broke themselves against rock, answered gently:
“My Prince, it is enough. No more remains to be said. We will intrude our presence on you no more, but will return to the King and lay your fixed resolution before him.”
And they saluted him, and returned slowly through the forest, pausing here and there as they went to speak with the calm and untroubled inhabitants who therein sought the treasure of wisdom, eager to understand from them if possible the teaching which as the nectar of flowers draws the bee, had drawn the Prince to the homeless life. Hard was it to comprehend, and at last, sad and bewildered, they emerged from the green ocean of leaves to the light of common day and mounting the chariot, plied lash and shout hastening homeward, and thus was the last tie with Kapila broken.
And the Prince remained behind them, upborne by the love of those he had forsaken, a love too great for them and such as they to comprehend.