CHAPTER VII
Thus have I heard.
On that night of terror and wonder were strange influences astir in the darkness, influences moving steadily to war. For the battle was not between the armies of Kings nor was the prize a throne, but a combat strange, unearthly between the armies of the Appetites and Desires, and the warriors of the World of pure spirit and wisdom eternal, and there and thus was it fought.
It was the night of No Moon and the stars hung larger and brighter, suspended but a little above the earth, and the dark was still and breathless, so that Siddhartha would have willingly sat all night by Rohini listening to the cool ripple of water as she made her way through the gardens to an end he knew not. But this could not be, for by the Maharaja’s new orders the women must dog his footsteps, never permitting him to wander, or remain unseen. And thus, though they were invisible, he knew that bright eyes watched in every brake, and feet light as a spirit’s trod noiselessly where he went.
Therefore at last, sighing, he rose and passed into the Hall where the dancers stood ready to sway in their beautiful measure, and the singers and musicians were ranged in order, fair face outshining fair face until the most beautiful were nearest to the gold cushions of his seat. But the Princess Yashodara slept far off in the little marble chamber with her child clasped to her bosom.
And at last as the night went on a deep weariness oppressed him and lay like lead on his eyelids, and the subtly stealing dark and wearisome iteration of music and of rhythmic feet became like an opiate, and his head dropped on the raised pillows and he slept. So the dance slackened quietly and the dancers whispered one to another:
“How pale is the Prince! How careworn! Was it wise in the Maharaj to hide from him what cannot be hidden? But we are dancers—this is not our business. Do not wake him lest there be anger. Mute the instruments very slowly and softly and let none jangle as we lay it aside. We must not leave him alone, lest suddenly he awake and demand more pleasure, therefore remain here but be very quiet and, if it be possible, sleep. O, it is good to rest. We too are weary of singing and dancing. It is a hard service. Sleep, sisters, sleep.”
And it is told that when midnight drew veils of darkness over earth and sky there came Influences noiseless—winged as the white moth that haunts the evenings of summer, and that as these came, thought died from the soul of Siddhartha and it became Perception,—and he saw and heard inwardly while the women about him lay drunk with heavy sleep.
Now along the night crept a strange music, thin at first and faint as the far-off falling of rain, but drawing nearer, nearer, sweeter than all harps and lutes struck with earthly hands, and at first no words could be distinguished but only an unearthly sweetness, soul-dividing, purer than the crystal purity of ice on the highest summits of the mountains that speak face to face with heaven.
And at last, the clear sounds glided into clear words, and the Prince heard the mystic music, whether within or without his soul who shall say? But it fell from on high like white flakes of snow falling cold and passionless and drowning desire.
“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 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.