CHAPTER IV.
Phralaong leaves his palace, the royal city, and retires into solitude, amidst the plaudits of the Nats—He cuts his fine hair with a stroke of his sword, and puts on the habit of Rahan—He begs his food at Radzagio—His interview with the ruler of that place—His studies under two Rathees—His fast and penances in the solitude of Oorouwela during six years.
Phralaong had scarcely begun to recline on his couch, when a crowd of young damsels, whose beauty equalled that of the daughters of Nats, executed all sorts of dances to the sound of the most ravishing symphony, and displayed in all their movements the graceful forms of their elegant and well-shaped persons, in order to make some impression upon his heart. But all was in vain; they were foiled in their repeated attempts. Phralaong fell into a deep sleep. The damsels, in their disappointment, ceased their dances, laid aside their musical instruments, and, soon following the example of Phralaong, quietly yielded to the soporific influence caused by their useless and harassing exertions. The lamps, lighted with fragrant oil, continued to pour a flood of bright light throughout the apartments. Phralaong awoke a little before midnight, and sat in a cross-legged position on his couch. Looking all around him, he saw the varied attitudes and uninviting appearance of the sleeping damsels. Some were snoring, others gnashing their teeth, others had their mouths wide open; some tossed heavily from the right to the left side, others stretched one arm upwards and the other downwards; some, seized as it were with a frantic pang, suddenly coiled up their legs for a while, and with the same violent motion again pushed them down. This unexpected exhibition made a strong impression on Phralaong; his heart was set, if possible, freer from the ties of concupiscence, or rather he was confirmed in his contempt for all worldly pleasures. It appeared to him that his magnificent apartments were filled with the most loathsome and putrid carcasses. The seats of passions, those of Rupa and those of Arupa, that is to say, the whole world, seemed, to his eyes, like a house that is a prey to the devouring flames. "All that," said he to himself, "is most disgusting and despicable." At the same time his ardent desires for the profession of Rahan were increasing with an uncontrollable energy. "On this day, at this very moment," said he with an unshaken firmness, "I will retire into a solitary place." He rose instantly and went to the arched door of his apartment. "Who is here watching?" said he to the first person he met. "Your servant," replied instantly the vigilant nobleman Tsanda. "Rise up quickly," replied the prince; "now I am ready to retire from the world and resort to some lonely place. Go to the stable and prepare the fastest of my horses." Tsanda bowed respectfully to his master, and executed his orders with the utmost celerity. The horse Kantika, knowing the intentions of the prince, felt an inexpressible joy at being selected for such a good errand, and he testified his joy by loud neighs; but, by the power of the Nats, the sound of his voice was silenced, so that none heard it.
While Tsanda, in compliance with the orders he had received, was making the necessary preparations, Phralaong desired to see his newly born son Raoula. He opened gently the door of the room where the princess was sleeping, having one of her hands placed over the head of the infant. Phralaong, stopping at the threshold, said to himself:—"If I go farther to contemplate the child, I will have to remove the hand of the mother; she may be awakened by this movement, and then she will prove a great obstacle to my departure. I will see the child after I have become a Buddha." He then instantly shut the door and left the palace. His charger was waiting for him. "To your swiftness," said Phralaong to Kantika, "do I trust for executing my great design. I must become a Buddha, and labour for the deliverance of men and Nats from the miseries of existence, and lead them safely to the peaceful shores of Neibban." In a moment he was on the back of his favourite horse. Kantika was a magnificent animal; his body measured eighteen cubits in length, with which his height and circumference were in perfect proportion. The hair was of a beautiful white, resembling a newly cleaned shell; his swiftness was unrivalled, and his neighings could be heard at a very great distance; but on this occasion the Nats interfered, no sound of his voice was heard, and the noise of his steps was completely silenced. Having reached the gate of the city, Phralaong stopped for a while, uncertain as regarded the course he was to follow. To open the gate, which a thousand men could with difficulty cause to turn upon its hinges, was deemed an impossibility. Whilst he was deliberating with his faithful attendant Tsanda, the huge gate was silently opened by the Nats, and a free passage given to him through it. It was in the year 97 when he left Kapilawot.
Phralaong had scarcely crossed the threshold of the gate when the tempter endeavoured to thwart his pious design. Manh[1] Nat resolved to prevent him from retiring into solitude and becoming a Buddha. Standing in the air, he cried aloud, "Prince Theiddat, do not attempt to lead the life of a recluse; seven days hence you will become a Tsekiawaday; your sway shall extend over the four great islands; return forthwith to your palace." "Who are you?" replied Phralaong. "I am Manh Nat," cried the voice. "I know," said Phralaong, "that I can become a Tsekiawaday, but I feel not the least inclination for earthly dignities; my aim is to arrive at the nature of Buddha." The tempter, urged onward by his three wicked propensities, concupiscence, ignorance, and anger, did not part for a moment from Phralaong; but as the shadow always accompanies the body, he too, from that day, always followed Phralaong, striving to throw every obstacle in his way towards the dignity of Buddha. Trampling down every human and worldly consideration, and despising a power full of vanity and illusion, Phralaong left the city of Kapilawot, at the full moon of July under the constellation Oottarathan. A little while after, he felt a strong desire to turn round his head and cast a last glance at the magnificent city he was leaving behind him; but he soon overcame that inordinate desire and denied himself this gratification. It is said that on the very instant he was combating the rising sense of curiosity the mighty earth turned with great velocity, like a potter's wheel, so that the very object he denied himself the satisfaction of contemplating came of itself under his eyes. Phralaong hesitated a while as to the direction he was to follow, but he resolved instantly to push on straight before him.
His progress through the country resembled a splendid triumphal ovation. Sixty thousand Nats marched in front of him, an equal number followed him, and as many surrounded him on his right and on his left. All of them carried lighted torches, pouring a flood of light in every direction; others again spread perfumes and flowers brought from their own seats. All joined in chorus, singing the praises of Phralaong. The sound of their united voices resembled loud peals of continued thunder, and the resounding of the mighty waves at the foot of the Mount Oogando. Flowers, shedding the most fragrant odour, were seen gracefully undulating in the air, like an immense canopy, extending to the farthest limits of the horizon. During that night, Phralaong, attended with that brilliant retinue, travelled a distance of thirty youdzanas, and arrived on the banks of the river Anauma. Turning his face towards Tsanda, he asked what was the river's name. "Anauma is its name," replied his faithful attendant. "I will not," said Phralaong to himself, "show myself unworthy of the high dignity I aspire to." Spurring his horse, the fierce animal leaped at once to the opposite bank. Phralaong alighted on the ground, which was covered with a fine sand resembling pearls, when the rays of the sun fell upon it in the morning. On that spot he divested himself of his dress, and calling Tsanda to him, he directed him to take charge of his ornaments, and carry them back with the horse Kantika to his palace. For himself, he had made up his mind to become a Rahan. "Your servant too," replied Tsanda, "will become also a recluse in your company." "No," said the prince, "the profession of Rahan does not at present befit you." He reiterated this prohibition three times. When he was handing over to Tsanda his costly ornaments, he said to himself, "These long hairs that cover my head, and my beard too, are superfluities unbecoming the profession of Rahan." Whereupon with one hand unsheathing his sword, and with the other seizing his comely hairs, he cut them with a single stroke. What remained of his hairs on the head measured about one inch and a half in length. In like manner he disposed of his beard. From that time he never needed shaving; the hairs of his beard and those of the head never grew longer during the remainder of his life.[2] Holding his hairs and turban together, he cried aloud, "If I am destined to become a Buddha, let these hairs and turban remain suspended in the air; if not, let them drop down on the ground." Throwing up both to the height of one youdzana, they remained suspended in the air, until a Nat came with a rich basket, put them therein, and carried them to the seat of Tawadeintha. He there erected the Dzedi Dzoulamani, wherein they were religiously deposited. Casting his regards on his own person, Phralaong saw that his rich and shining robe did not answer his purpose, nor appear befitting the poor and humble profession he was about to embrace. While his attention was taken up with this consideration, a great Brahma, named Gatigara, who in the days of the Buddha Kathaba had been an intimate friend of our Phralaong, and who, during the period that elapsed between the manifestation of that Buddha to the present time, had not grown old, discovered at once the perplexity of his friend's mind. "Prince Theiddat," said he, "is preparing to become a Rahan, but he is not supplied with the dress and other implements essentially required for his future calling. I will provide him now with the thinbaing, the kowot, the dugout, the patta, the leathern girdle, the hatchet, the needle, and filter.[3] He took with him all these articles, and in an instant arrived in the presence of Phralaong, to whom he presented them. Though unacquainted with the details of that dress, and untrained in the use of those new implements, the prince, like a man who had been a recluse during several existences, put on with a graceful gravity his new dress. He adjusted the thinbaing round his waist, covered his body with the kowot, threw the dugout over his shoulders, and suspended to his neck the bag containing the earthen patta. Assuming the grave, meek, and dignified countenance of a Rahan, he called Tsanda and bade him go back to his father and relate to him all that he had seen. Tsanda, complying with his master's request, prostrated himself three times before him; then, rising up, he wheeled to the right and departed. The spirited horse, hearing the last words of Phralaong, could no more control his grief.[4]
"Alas!" said he, "I will see no more my master in this world." His sorrow grew so great that his heart split into two parts, and he died on the spot.
After his death, he became a Nat in the seat of Tawadeintha. The affliction of Tsanda at parting with his good master was increased by the death of Kantika. The tears that streamed down his cheeks resembled drops of liquid silver.