CHAPTER X
Thus have 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.
[2] The Buddha-to-be.
And thus he sat for six long years, and at the end though he had discerned the perishable, the transient, the Eternal Way was far from his perception, and life rushed by him from an unknown beginning to a hopeless end, defending itself frantically for a few brief years, but in the end conquered, and the man broken in the frail edifice which is called his being.
And now he was so wasted that life hung in him by a thread worn slender as a spider’s, and the fame of his terrible austerities had spread like the sound of a great bell hung in the canopy of the skies, and if he had gained what he sought all this would have counted as nothing in his eyes, but in the long six years he had not gained, and his mind tortured him because now it seemed that it broke itself and its power dispersed like a mighty wave broken on rocks and fleeing in foam and spray. And one day when he rose to his feet, still drowned in hopeless meditation, his limbs failed beneath him, and he fell and so lay exhausted, spent, believing “This is death, and I am conquered.”
And it could not be otherwise for very terrible had been his austerities and later he told his disciple this.
“I remember when a crab-apple was my only daily food. I remember when a single grain of rice was my only grain of food. And my body became extremely thin and lean. Like dried withered reeds my arms and legs, my hips like a camel’s hoof, like a plait of hair my spine. As project the rafters of a house’s roof, so raggedly stuck out my ribs. As in a deep-lying brook the watery mirror beneath appears so small as almost to disappear, so in the deep hollows of my eye-pits my eye-balls well nigh wholly disappeared. As a gourd becomes shrivelled and hollow in the hot sun so did the skin of my head become parched. And pressing my stomach my hands touched my spine, and feeling my spine my hand felt through to the stomach. And yet with all this mortification I came no nearer to the supernatural faculty of clearness of knowledge.”
So for a long time he lay in the borderland of death, and had this been the end—O Light of the World extinguished, O Sun set at dawn!—but it was not to be, and slowly, very slowly, consciousness returned, and his heavy eyelids lifted and once more he beheld the light. And he thought:
“If I could creep down to the river the waters, warm and kindly, would refresh me, and thought would perhaps return to me, and a little rest.”
And painful inch by inch Siddhartha crept down to the river, supporting himself as he went by the extended hands of branches, and in a warm shallow of water, sparkling in green shade he lay, foredone, and it flowed about him gently, bringing healing.
And the five ascetics watching him from far off said to each other:
“He will die now; the ascetic Gotama will die now. It is not possible that a man so worn and exhausted should live.”
And indeed, when he tried to struggle up and leave the kindly water, there was no strength in him and he could not rise. And it is told that a heavenly spirit pressed down a branch that he might reach it and support himself. This it is certain he did, laying hold on a bough which dipped over its own image in still water, and he crept up the bank, dizzily, and seated himself beneath a tree, supporting his weakness against it, with closed eyes.
And now, being refreshed, he had power to reflect, and he said within himself.
“This way of mortification has failed me also. Like other ways I have sought this beats against a shut door and there is no help in it. My body is so broken that it can no longer support the intellect. I will eat and drink and strengthen this tortured body that it may still be the servant of the higher in me, no longer complaining of its own griefs and diverting attention from the goal. For it is possible that what I have already learned has prepared the way to Right Ecstasy and that in ecstasy I may behold the beginning of the Wisdom which in all the methods I have tried has been hidden from me.”
And even as he thought this the strong weakness overwhelmed him again and he could think no more.
Now, on the other side of the wood dwelt a chief herdsman, very wealthy in cattle and rice, owning land far-spreading and fertile in the rich water-meadows by the river, and he had a daughter fair and wise, named Sujata. And reaching womanhood this fair maiden had made a vow to the Tree-Spirit of the forest, saying:
“If I should wed a husband of equal rank with myself and my first-born should be a son, then would I make a noble offering every year, never forgetting the benefit.” And this prayer was heard, and her first-born son lay upon her bosom.
So wishing to make her offering on the day of the full moon, she pastured a thousand cows in the woods, and with their milk she nourished five hundred cows, and with theirs two hundred and fifty, drawing life through life until at last she possessed eight cows thus fed on the strength and life of a thousand, and no purer nor stronger milk could be. And this being ready Sujata rose earlier than dawn and, went to the byre with her pails, and as she came near the milk flowed in streams without milking, even as when the calves crowd for their food about their mothers.
So she took it and placed it in a new vessel and added rice, and herself made a fire and cooked it. And the bubbles rose and froth, but not a drop ran over the brim, and the fire burned clear and steady without smoke or blackness. And as a man crushes golden honey from the comb that has formed about a stick—the very essence of honey—so into that pure food was infused a marvellous sustenance.
And Sujata said to her waiting-maid, Punna:
“Punna, dear girl, surely the deity is auspiciously disposed to us. The omens are good. Run therefore and get all ready beneath the tree.”
And Punna answered obediently:
“Yes, lady,” and ran.
And when she came to the tree, the Bodhisattva—the Buddha-to-be—sat beneath it, and it appeared to her that his body shone like light and she flushed and trembled with terror, saying:
“Good indeed are the omens, for this is the Tree-Spirit himself come to receive our offering!”
And with all her might she ran to tell this to her lady, and when Sujata heard it she cried out:
“From this day be to me as a daughter, for this great good news!”
And running to where she kept her jewels she put upon the happy Punna all those ornaments suitable to a daughter of the house. And she thought; “What more can I do? For this is a great day,” and so took up a precious golden dish and into this she poured the milk-rice, and it rolled in like drops of water slipping off a lily-leaf and filled the vessel, neither more nor less. Then, covering it with a golden cover, she adorned herself with her best jewels and went stately to worship and make her offering.
So she came along the banks of the river, glad in the dawn, robed in grey like a cloud before sunrise, and about her slender wrists were bracelets of white chalcedony and the grey and white of them resembled the colours of the rounded river-bubble before it breaks, and she came as softly.
And parting the boughs she saw the Prince, his head fallen back against the tree, eyes closed and helpless hands beside him, and deep pity and veneration stirred in her heart, and seeing it was no Tree-Spirit but a holy man she thought “May he accept it!”
And bowing repeatedly she raised the dish in both hands, entreating his greatness and thus offered it humbly, saying:
“Lord, accept my gift and go where it seems good to you.” And he, seeing in this the accomplishment of his purpose, received it, and partook of that pure food while the happy giver watched with such delight as when a mother feeds her only child and beholds new life flow through his veins, and the very air about the Prince appeared to distil in dews of visible blessing upon her head and joy hitherto unknown possessed her noble soul. And she said:
“Lord, may your wishes prosper as mine have done!”, and so departed, caring no more for her golden dish than as if it had been an autumn leaf upon the ground.
But the five ascetics, watching far off with greedy eyes, said:
“The ascetic Gotama has failed. He is now mere man. Like the common herd he eats and drinks. He has nothing to teach us—nothing! Mistaken indeed were we in thinking to learn from a mere backslider! It is done and over, and the Gods are angry with him.”
So they turned their backs in scorn and departed to Benares, there to resume their austerities.
But when Sujata was gone, timidly receiving thanks, the Future Buddha arose and stood beneath the tree, refreshed in heart and body, his face shining with renewed strength, his energy swelling like a river in spate rushing rejoicing to the sea.
And he knew that that place where for six years he had pursued a vanishing truth could hold him no more, its use being ended, and he set steadfast steps toward the tree.
O Tree of Wisdom, Tree of Knowledge unsearchable, Tree whereunder the world’s deliverance was attained,—through all the rain of years between our sight and thee, shall we not look back and behold and veil our faces? For beneath this Tree was Wisdom perfected.
Then taking his way, Bodhisattva begged from a man cutting grass for his cattle, an armful of pure and pliant grass, and, going onward, he saw before him that Tree of Knowledge, broad-leaved, noble, a tower of leafage, and knowing that this was where time and place meeting clasped hands, he spread the grass and seated himself with folded hands and feet beneath the pillared stems and the night came quietly down the woodland ways and veiled him from the sight of man.