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.