CHAPTER VI
Now at the birth of her son, so great was the joy of the Princess that life and death were little things in her eyes, black rocks submerged in bright water glittering with sunshine, and every day she blossomed more beautiful and the child in her arms was like the star shining within the moon’s crescent. And seeing this what could the nobility of Siddhartha do otherwise than hide his grief and deep searchings of a heart tossed like waves in a mighty wind.
Beautiful in his eyes was the tenderness of the lovely mother and her eyes dwelling upon him and the child, but terrible also remembering that at any moment the bright picture of life might break asunder and disclose beneath the lurking horror of death and the dark and unknown hereafter.
For if the Gods with their utmost forethought had made the world so full of shameful things, what wise man could trust such unskilful workmen for the world to come, and no hope was left anywhere.
He sat much alone by Rohini, his gaze dwelling on the silver peaks far off and serene in blue air, and at his feet little fish darted in the transparency of the pure waters, and the pheasant would lead her brood to his unmoving feet, and the shimmering peacocks feed beside him. And when the wild white swans spread snowy vans above his head, taking wing for the mountains and for far lands beyond that he knew not, it seemed in his deep musings that all these happy creatures were subject to a law they knew and obeyed with content and that their life was better than his own.
But compassion grew daily in his heart now that his eyes were opened—Compassion for all the sorrows that surrounded him bleeding in his heart like a wound such as drains life itself away. He saw the little lovely dancer Amra drag wearied feet through the dance one night and called her to him.
“Child, what ails you?”
“Great my lord, I must not tell you. But I dance no more. To-morrow I go.”
“Child, I command you to speak. What is it?”
She looked about her with eyes large and fearful as the deer’s when she sees the hunter’s knife glitter above her.
“Great my lord, it is an order. I dare not speak.”
“My order stands higher. Speak.”
She trembled as she stood, with fear and weakness.
“My lord, it is the sickness. Two years ago my sister Vijaya was a dancer. Yourself has commended her. But the cruel cough came and tore her breast, and at last she could scarcely lift her little feet, and then they sent her secretly away, and she spat blood and the cough devoured her, and she died. And now it has taken me also and the blood came from my mouth last night, and to-morrow I go. But O I beseech your greatness to hide my words, for it is forbidden that any grief should soil the air about your noble presence.”
“But when you rest the cough will decline and you will be glad again, my sister.”
“Great Prince, I shall die. For this there is no cure.”
There was a long silence.
“And do you fear this?”
“My lord, I fear very terribly—but there is no help. What must be, must. And I am now too weary to dance, and it is better I die for I am a burden and a distress to my mother now I am worth no more money, and she is poor. There is scarce bread to eat.”
Then the blood poured into the pale face of Siddhartha for shame and horror, and he said:
“On such foundations was my happiness built, and others have bled and wept that I might laugh! O, evil Gods, shameful and disastrous to man, if this is all! How shall the heart of man forgive your crimes against us, and where is justice in all the wide Three Worlds?”
And as he spoke he lifted the chain of pearls from his shoulders and threw them upon the dancer’s and she, beholding his nobleness and grief with tears, went sobbing away.
The next day he sent a message to the Maharaja.
“Great father, since now I know all the secrets and there is nothing hidden from me of the world’s woe, what hinders that I should go free to see it? It may be that some joy shall meet my eyes and relieve the burning of the flame of pity that consumes me. Also, since I have a son it is now surely well that I should see and know the lives of the people whom he and I one day shall rule. And I say this for truth, I am weary, weary even to death of the music and dancing and the miserable diversions of my prison, and if there be any hope for me it is in the things of men, for I have done with those of women and children. Set your prisoner free. It is your son who beseeches.”
And when the Maharaja agreed, the Prince sent another message.
“And let the city be neither decorated nor feasting. I desire to see the life of the people as they live it, not as they would pretend it is lived to please us great ones.”
And this too was conceded, but the Maharaja commanded that the chief minister and a guard of the Sakya lords should accompany the Prince.
Therefore once more the chariot and well-paced horses were prepared, adorned with precious stones and gold glittering like splendid sunshine, and he passed through the city and out by the further gate into a new world hitherto unknown.
And as he went on the road was smooth and white, and gardens gay on either side and trees loaded, some with flowers and some with fruit, and seeing this and knowing it unprepared for his eyes, his heart stirred under the snow of grief and thawed a little from its ice, for it seemed that the people who lived therein must know some happiness and freedom from misery. But as he went further the heat of the day strengthened and became like a weight of lead, oppressive even beneath the silken canopy of the chariot and the sweat stood on his brow and his garments clung to the moisture of his skin and weariness weighed upon him.
But for all this the toil about him could not cease, for men must eat, and work be completed and the fields of the Maharaja ploughed, and he saw how the labourers struggled with painful exertion, their bodies bent, their wet hair falling about haggard faces, their bodies fouled with mud and dust. And some were old and some were weak, and yet all must greatly toil and very pitiful was it to see their strained muscles and starting eyes.
The ploughing oxen also—they, toiling so pitifully and with no reward,—their lolling tongues and gaping jaws, the whip and goad indenting smooth flanks until bright blood drops started and they trembled and shrank—all these things tortured the mind of Siddhartha as he sat silently observant. And he said within himself:
“The world is built on pain and its foundations laid in agony. O Gods, most cruel and unjust, if there be a way, where is it? If there be a Law of Peace, where shall I find it? For I am bound in the dungeons of despair.”
And, nobly moved to sympathy, he dismounted from the chariot, forcing himself to look steadfastly upon the sufferings of man and beast, and he sat down beneath a jambu tree, reflecting on the ways of death and birth. And he desired his companions, the Sakya lords, to leave him and wander where they would, and they went away laughing with each other and talking, costly umbrellas borne over them in the heat until they should reach the shade of the forest and there rest beside their wines and fruits. And then, as was now his wont, he gave himself to deep meditation on life and death, on transiency, and the progress of all to decay, desiring with all his soul that somewhere, anywhere, he might behold the changeless, the Abiding and in that find rest. And he asked of his soul:
“Is there safety in riches? Are the rich exempt and high in the Gods’ favour. No—no, indeed,—for their very luxuries consume them body and soul, making their bodies the home of disease and death, and their souls the harbourage of cowardice and terror. For it is harder to leave a Palace of gold than a mud hovel, and these are the spoilt children of the universe. There is no refuge in riches. In all the Three Worlds I see no refuge at all from the three Enemies—death, old age, and disease.”
And as he meditated, his heart thus fixed, the five senses, as it were, extinguished, lost in the clear light of insight he entered on the first stage of pure rapture. All low desires submerged and in an ecstasy that was not joy but perfect clarity he saw the misery and sorrow of the world, sounding its deeps of agony and loss, the ruin wrought by age, disease, and death,—the hopeless dark beyond.
Hitherto he had known only in part, but now the whole, even as an eagle suspended on unmoving pinions, floating in supernal sunshine looks down beholding the earth spread like a picture below him, and nothing hidden.
And suddenly a great light shone within him—not to be described in words nor in thought comprehended. And he said these words, radiant with the first dawning beams of illumination:
“I have heard the wisdom of men and it is the crackling of dry wood in a destroying fire. Now will I seek a Noble Law they have not known, a Law hidden and divine, and I will wrestle with disease and age and death and bind their terrors. For behind these things is Peace, if the way is opened. And I will seek until I die.”
And slowly at length, passing downward from ecstasy his thoughts collecting centred again about things earthly, and he became aware that a man approached him, carrying a bowl in his hand, wearing a coarse robe of yellow, pacing slowly in the roadway. And their eyes met.
And it appeared to the Prince that he had never before seen a man who resembled this strange mendicant, and he rose to greet him with courtesy, saying in his heart:
“Who is this person? For his face is calm and joyful, and his eyes bespeak a soul at rest. Nor has he the mien of one tricked by sensual happiness, but austerity and contentment guide him, and though he treads on earth it does not hold him. And what is this bowl in his hand? I will accost him.”
And this done, the stranger, with due salutation grave and sweet, replied:
“Great lord, I am a religious mendicant, who, shuddering at the victorious onslaught of age, disease and death, seeing that all things are transient and permanence nowhere to be found, have left the fetters of my home behind me that I may search for some happiness that is trustworthy, that decays not, that is imperishable, that looks with equal mind on friend and enemy, and is regardless of wealth and beauty. Such is the only happiness that will content me.”
And Siddhartha in deep amazement on hearing thoughts thus resembling his own, enquired eagerly:
“And where, O wise man, do you seek it?”
“Great lord, I seek it in solitude, in the tranquillity of deep woods, free from molestation. There in the Quiet dwells enlightenment. And I carry this bowl that the charitable may deposit an alms of food within it, and this is all I ask of the world. And now, pardon haste, for my way lies onward to the mountains where the true light awaits me, and joy for its attendant.”
And he passed onward and was no more seen, and it is related that this ascetic was that divinity veiled in flesh who had made known to the Prince the Three Terrors,—but this I cannot tell.
Be he what he might, this man left behind him the first hope that had enlightened the midnight of grief. And the Prince said within his soul:
“This too is a seeker, and this is the life I covet, for the pleasures of earth are but sea-waters enraging the thirst they seem to quench, and what now has life to offer but the search for truth? Were there no others in the world but my son, my father, my wife, then surely is it incumbent upon me to find some means for their deliverance, but since the whole wide earth weeps uncomforted, what a craven should I be, if I spared to help it even with my blood and tears for unguents to its wounds. The way most surely opens before me, and the cry of the conquering ages is in my ears.”
And after a time the Sakya lords, weary of their enjoyments, gathered about him and the horses were harnessed, and all returned to the city. And the people, rejoicing to see their Prince, gathered to meet and greet him, and one fair lady, leaning from a window, rejoicing in his beauty cried aloud:
“Happy be the father, happy the mother, happy the wife of such a son and husband.”
But this word “happy” means also “freed,” for are not freedom and happiness one? And taking her auspicious words for the cry of freedom he looked up smiling into her eyes, and said “Good is the teacher. Let this be her fee,” unclasped his necklace of pearls and sent it to the happy lady and passed on, forgetting, while she dreamed in vain of love.
And all dispersed to their abodes.
But the next day the Prince entered into his father’s presence, his face bright with resolution like the full moon, his step strong and steady as the gait of the King of Lions, noble and beautiful in strength.
And making due obeisance he asked.
“Is the Maharaj well and happy?”
“Well, my son, and rejoicing to see your face so bright and calm after long sorrow. Is the cloud past?”
“My father, it is past in part. A clear way lies before me.”
“That too is well. Praise to the Wielder of the thunder and to all great Gods who hear our prayers.”
Then tenderly, but with a calm immovable, the Prince declared his heart’s desire.
“O kind father, worthy of all obedience, hear my case. The grief that has moved me is not my grief alone. Were I to die, I can die silent, after the manner of our race. But a man, when he beholds other men old, diseased, dying, is hurt, ashamed, revolted that such things should be, and no way of conquering such evils. There is a way if it could but be found.”
And the Maharaja replied with anger.
“What way? This is child’s folly. These things have been from Eternity, and men have faced the common lot as best they could, taking their pleasure where they might. What would you have more than others? Life is good, if you will but see it.”
But Siddhartha answered steadfastly.
“O my father, I desire your august permission to seek the solitude, and there, deeply meditating, to find true deliverance not only for myself but for you and all the world.”
And when the Maharaja heard these words—“to seek the solitude” a great trembling of the heart seized him, and his strong voice choked in his throat. And at last, even as the mighty wild elephant shakes with his weight the boughs of a fair green sapling in the jungle, he caught the hands of the Prince and clung to them most pitifully, crying aloud.
“Stop. Let not such ill-omened words be spoken. The time is not yet come—even if come it must. You are young and full of life and your heart beats to a glad measure. If you were to do this miserable thing you would bitterly repent it. You have not the strength, nor the knowledge. This is a resolution for old men, world-wearied. But you—beautiful as the day, full of youth, husband of a fair and dutiful wife, father of a young son, what talk is this? My son, I am ashamed for you. It is for me to undertake the ascetic’s life, for you to rule in Kapila. Let it be so, and I will go.”
And Siddhartha holding his father’s hands tenderly replied thus:
“My father, honoured and loved, you are the ruler and what have I to do with putting you from your seat? No—far be it from me! Rule in gladness and honour until the appointed day. But for myself—there is but one condition on which I can stay! If you will assure me against old age, disease, and death, I will remain—but not otherwise.”
And the Maharaja, blind with grief, the white hairs showing on head and beard, said only:
“Such words are impious. Am I a God that I can say to these three, ‘Thus far and no farther’? No—Betake yourself to pleasure and business like other men and forget. There is no other remedy.”
But Siddhartha flung himself on his knees before his father and grasped his robe in the agony of his pleading.
“Father, hinder me no more if you love me. If I were shut in a burning home would you bar the door? Let me solve my doubt for it consumes my very life. O let me go, let me go! For if not—what way is left? Men have slain themselves for a lesser hope than mine, that perhaps down the dark ways of death they might seek and find what they could not in this world of lies and counterfeits.”
But he appealed in vain for the ears of his father were sealed, and when after pleading even to anguish the Prince had left him grave and silent, he issued orders that the Garden House should be guarded more strictly than before—that fresh dancers, fresh music, should be ordered and new pleasures invented and that every road and way should be watched with ten-fold diligence.
And Siddhartha seeing the tears of his father with a compassion that pierced his own heart returned to the Garden House, and set himself in silence to consider, not knowing whence help would find him, but firm in his resolve.
And beneath the trees Yashodara awaited him, carrying his young son in her arms, and she knelt beside him, uncovering the face of the child, bright and beautiful as a budding rose in earliest summer. For she thought—“Let this speak for me,” and Siddhartha read the little face so like his own, in silence.
Then, stretching out his hand, he clasped the hand of his wife, and spoke thus:
“Well-beloved, if our child were in a house ruining about him, and I stood by to see him crushed and broken, what would be your thoughts of me?”
She smiled with pride and contentment.
“Why ask? That could not be. You would give your life for him and count it nothing.”
“Well-beloved, mother of my son, that word is true; you know it. And would you who love me hold me back if I rushed on death for his sake, counting my own life as nothing?”
“For my love’s sake I would bid you go.”
“True again. So speak, so do the women of our race. But hear further. Suppose my son fallen into bitter poverty, and that I knew of a great treasure hidden in far-off forests and mountains, so far that great was the danger, great the severance, would you bid me stay or go?”
Doubt clouded the beauty of her eyes, raised toward him.
“There, my heart’s lord, I know not. You are more to my son and me than any treasure. What are jewels, pearls or gold compared with the heaven of your presence? Better poverty together and the blue heaven above us and bright earth beneath, than loneliness and splendour.”
Clasping her hand he answered:
“But starving, his face gaunt with want, haunted by ghosts of grief and fear, would you send me or bid me stay? Think well, mother of my son. Would you weigh your grief against his good, and he too young to know?”
And she answered:
“I would say, Go—how otherwise? But, O beloved, these words are dreadful. Forget them. Look at the sunset strewing roses on the cold snows and the splendour of Surya driving his chariot down the western sky after the long day of glory. He is weary of pomp and colour. He longs for the cool refreshing dews and the dusk and quiet and the dark repose of midnight. Would that we could see him face to face, golden-eyed and inconceivably divine. The Gods are far and grief is near.”
He loosed her hand gently.
“Those words are true also, wise and beautiful.” And slowly he added:
“Night comes and the Gods are far. Go in and sleep, beloved,—Yet do not forget the words we have spoken together, for grief comes to all and when it comes there is but one way—to agree nobly with necessity.”
And she took the dust from his feet, rapt on the beauty of his eyes and went, carrying the child with her.