A GANDHARA BUDDHA AT HOTI-MARDAN

THE

SPLENDOUR OF ASIA

The Story and Teaching of the Buddha

BY

L. ADAMS BECK

NEW YORK

DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY

1926

Copyright, 1926,

By DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY, Inc.

PRINTED IN U. S. A.

THE VAIL-BALLOU PRESS

BINGHAMTON AND NEW YORK

I dedicate this book to

ELLERY SEDGWICK

WHO INSPIRED ME WITH THE IDEA

OF WRITING IT.

PREFACE

I have endeavoured in this book to make not only the story but the teaching of the Buddha intelligible and human, so that those who wish to understand one of the greatest facts in history may not find themselves entangled in the mazes of scholastic terms, and may perhaps be enabled to realize its strange coincidences with modern psychology and certain scientific verities. The teaching of the Indian Prince has indeed nothing to dread from science. Sir Edwin Arnold’s beautiful “Light of Asia” ends very early in that great ministry, and I have continued the story to the death of the Buddha, and have enriched it with many scriptures and ancient traditions unknown to or unused by Sir Edwin. Words would fail me if I attempted to express how necessary I think a knowledge of this high faith and philosophy is to leaven the materialism of the West, and the reception my books on cognate subjects have had encourages me to think there may be those who will see in what I here set down a great revelation of truth. It is, at all events a truth which influenced not only the mightiest thinkers of Greece and Rome, but also the beginnings of Christian teaching—which it antedated by five or six hundred years. It may well claim kindred with all the great faiths, persecuting and opposing none which differ with it, and this for reasons which are easily seen in the teachings themselves. In relation to its noble and scientific austerity no words are needed.

Of the Founder himself, I may quote a great Buddhist scholar’s opinion, one which none who have studied the subject impartially will controvert. “Perhaps never while the world has lasted has there been a personality who has wielded such a tremendous influence over the thinking of humanity. And whoso recognizes this will also recognize that almost two and a half millenniums ago the supreme summit of spiritual development was reached, and that at that distant time in the quiet hermit groves along the Ganges already had been thought the highest man can think.”

Of the august beauty of the Life those who read will form their own judgment. It has been the mainspring of the highest art of Asia. It has brought peace to myriads. It will bring it to many more.

I have consulted all the available Scriptures, and have not forgotten the great traditions. I am indebted to all the best known scholars, including Max Müller, Faüsboll, Dahlke, Rhys Davids, his accomplished wife, Beal, and many more. I must mention Professor Radhakrishnan and other Indian writers, and among illuminating thinkers I must not forget Dr. Carus, and Mr. Edmond Holmes. To the latter’s work I owe a debt because he appears to me to appreciate more keenly than other writers the true point of junction between the early and later interpretations of the Buddha’s teaching. I have myself had the advantage of studying later Buddhist interpretation with Japanese scholars, with whom I have translated the Buddhist Psalms of Shinran Shonin. About some of these interpretations there will always be points of difference until we have access to the whole body of ancient teaching in the Far East as well as in India, and freedom from all error is beyond hope.

If any Buddhist scholars should look into this book they will recall the immense difficulty of (so to speak) translating their work for the public, especially where the words of one language often fail to represent the thought of another. They will therefore be lenient to shortcomings. They will note that I have employed Pali or Sanscrit words and names alternatively as I thought they would be more familiar or easier to remember. Karma for kamma, and Nirvana for Nibbana are instances of many others. I have omitted accents as mystifying to those unfamiliar with Indian languages.

I can scarcely hope to satisfy scholars and the general public. But if I succeed in interesting some of the latter, the former, will, I think, recognize that my aim was justified.

L. Adams Beck.

CONTENTS

[Part I]

[Part II]

[Part III]

[Part IV]

PART I

CHAPTER I

Thus have I heard.

Nearly two thousand five hundred years ago, in the City of Kapila in Northern India, the spring came with glory. And surely nowhere in all the three worlds is spring more gracious, for the sunshine, life-giving, inspiring, draws divine scents from moist earth and the deep luxuriance of leaves and flowers to send on every breathing breeze pure incense from the world, rejoicing as a bride in the all-enfolding delight.

Here stood the little City of Kapila, nobly placed, as beseems the birthplace of the Perfect One, and above it the Himalayas stormed the skies with tossing billows of snow, leading the aspiration of man on and up until it melted in the Divine. On these, as was known, the Divinities had their dwelling. Thence Indra, the heavenly lord, drove his flocks of clouds to pasture in pure air, taking form and colour from the splendours of the sun and the moon and the silver embroidery of the constellations. Vaya, lord of the winds, charged in thunder or breathed in music from awful heights of snow. Surya, the Sun, urged his golden steeds from the low horizon to the zenith and on to the confines of night. Chandra, the moon, rose on the crest of the mighty range and sank below it into his mysterious kingdom in the darkening west. The deep pine forests clothing the lower spurs and veiling the sources of the rivers must surely have their indwelling spirits, and the river Rohini, breaking light-foot from the heights to scatter her diamonds as she leaped from rock to rock or brooded a moment in deep pools mirroring her ferns and flowers—what was she but a lovely, living nymph, a Dancer, pure as the silver peaks that fathered her? Therefore let it be known that this city was set among celestial influences, that the gates of the Paradise of India were not far from it, and that the Four Celestial Kings were its wardens. And it dwelt at this time in a great peace.

The city and surrounding country, a part of the great kingdom of Kosala, were inhabited by the Sakya clan. Very great was the kingdom of Kosala. The vast and holy city of Benares, a hundred miles south from Kapila, was but one of its cities, and its capital, Savatthi, lay in the cloudy mountains of Nepal. To the south-east lay the kingdom of Magadha, and only the great Gods then knew to which of these kingdoms would fall the sceptre of India.

And peaceful was the City of Kapila, the City of Red Earth, home of the Sakya clansmen, a race strong and high, for they were of the Arya, the Noble People, and it was they who descending into India through the passes had conquered the dark men of the land and driven them before them like the shadows of night fleeing before the arrows of dawn; and having dispossessed the dark-skinned, the lawless, the godless, the fair-skinned Noble People entered in upon their lands and made them theirs. With them the Noble People brought their Gods of Heaven and Earth, and these they worshipped with sacrifice and ritual and chanting of mantra and offerings of cows and grain and ghi and all the savours dear to hovering divinity. And in peace and plenty their Maharaja ruled them.

Very fair was the city on the banks of bright Rohini. As there were few men of arrogant, dominant riches, so was there no piercing poverty, and, since life was simple, all had enough. The streets were clean-swept and watered, and parks and gardens lay about them where men might shelter in the great heats and the gay, golden-skinned children played beside the river and grew sleek and round on their food of pure rice and plantains and milk from the deep-dewlapped cattle that wound home in the evenings from high pastures by running water.

Nor was there fare only for the body. Wise men, the Wanderers, they whose minds are fixed on things unearthly and whose souls climb toward keen stars as the cragsmen follow the eagle to her eyry above the clouds, came in from mighty forests where the hermits and their families dwell in peace with God and man pursuing the purities of the householder’s life in the wilds;—bringing with them the dreams, the speculations, the conclusions of the hermits and themselves. And for such the Raja had made a hall of cedarwood in the city, where they might hold disputations with its wise men and the simpler folk sit and listen, bestowing applause or condemnation as they heard. For there was none in the city, gentle or simple, noble or humble, but set the things of the spirit above the chaffer of the market-place and lent a ready ear to such talk. Nor did they fear to speak, for the Arya are free peoples, coming from the north and bold and adventurous.

And of these Wanderers the people learnt much, for if the clansmen were free, these were freer. No love of earthly homes or riches held them. Strip one of them of his worldly all—his tattered robe and bowl for alms—and he would depart content, smiling his strange, secret smile, as a man whose treasure is beyond thief or destroyer. But for the Wasa, the three months’ rainy season, they would stay, willing to speak or to hear, satisfied with a very little, and when the sun shone again, depart like migrating birds on their mysterious way. And sometimes would come one, God-intoxicated, utterly heedless of men, scarce emerging from samadhi, the mystic ecstasy; and him would men surround with mute envy because in that trance he beheld things not lawful nor possible to be uttered. And such would stay but a little while and then, heedless of rain or sun or wind or snow, press on to the cold glories of the mountains, alone and in haste, and reappear no more.

So does the flame of the Divine draw the moth of the spirit of man to hover about it until, dazzled and drunken with radiance, it joins itself to the flame and is consumed into pure light.

Yet was not the talk of the City of Kapila for ever of things divine, for bygone Rajas and this one also (knowing that where there is a North-man he must still be talking and much trouble thereby averted) had made a Folk Mote, a meeting hall, and not one only, where in the different quarters of the town men might gather and talk of their affairs, the farmers and handicraftsmen alike,—the sowing and harvesting of rice, the well-doing of cattle, the doings of the Kosalans, of whom they themselves were a clan, the subjugation of the swarthy natives among whom they lay as pearls in a black ocean, the ambitions of the Kings of Magadha, the trading of the merchants, and many things more which concerned them nearly. And each householder had the right to be heard, for each in his own house was king and priest and there none might say him nay, were it not that the Brahmans made or unmade his peace with the Lords of Heaven through gifts and sacrifices and a ritual grown exceedingly heavy and burdensome. But against these even the fair-skinned people, the Arya, as they called themselves, did not as yet dare to murmur.

The women of Kapila also were wives and mothers of free men. Their faces were not veiled save when they themselves for modesty chose to draw the folds between themselves and too bold a gaze. They shared the joys and sorrows of their men, though the great ladies were screened. And if they walked in the ways of ritual piety even more eagerly and laid daily gifts even more precious at the feet of the Brahmans, this is the way of women all the world over.

And these happy people had a good Maharaja, named Suddhodana, or Pure Rice, because not only were his granaries and those of his fathers’ before him full to overflowing, but his heart was pure as the grains of living pearl; a man grave and kind, rich also in cattle and elephants, yet not arrogant with riches, charitable, alms-giving, reverencing the Brahman and the ascetic, walking in peace in the way of ancient pieties, with thoughts of his own to think as he raised his eyes to the mountains, awful in the heavens as intermediaries between men and Gods. And he had taken to wife two fair sisters, the elder, Maya, the younger, Prajapati; and by the elder, the more dearly loved, had as yet no child and by neither a son to succeed him on his peaceful seat of rulership. And this was a grief to him, for when he was gone who should sacrifice to his soul and the souls of the great dead fathers? Very sweet and grateful is the tenderness of daughters, but this they cannot do.

And one day, as they sat in the pleasure pavilion beside the waters of Rohini, listening to her song of the snows as she danced onward, downward from the heights, the Maharaja Suddhodana opened his heart once more to his wives. And one, Maya the Maharani, sat at his feet on a cushion of silk woven with gold, and her beauty was calm as the evening star shining in a faint moonlight, luminous, remote, veiled with dreams and hopes unknown to others. The second Queen, Prajapati, was fair and gentle, and no more—yet that is much, as shall be shown. And these two were sisters in heart as in blood and wifehood. So, laying his hand on the head of Maya, the Maharaja spoke softly:

“What dreams my Queen?”

And she, pointing to the bamboo grove where stood in green slim hand clasping her sister’s:

“Of motherhood. Of this I dream night and day, knowing many beautiful things, but most of all this—that the heart of my lord, my beloved, cannot rest until a son of his is laid in his arms. O would, if I am barren, that my heart’s sister, my Prajapati, might give to our husband this gift of gifts!”

And he, with heavy brows:

“Dear lady and wife, the Gods give and withhold their great gift of life at pleasure. What have we left undone? We have besought them. We have offered of our best on many an altar. We have fed Brahmans, we have kept the precepts, and yet—they do not give. If in some former life we have sinned—Yet who can tell? It is their will, and must be borne even if it break my heart.”

Then Prajapati, raising her sweet eyes timidly to him, one slim hand clasping her sister’s:

“If my lord please to take another wife, then indeed my sister and I will serve her, and if a son is born, what can we but rejoice?”

And he:

“That son would not be the child of my Queens, and most of all of Maya, the Great Lady. Dear he might be, but not so dear; and, moreover, you both, my ladies, have heard the word of the wandering Rishi, the wise ascetic, who prophesied that in this city, in this fortunate palace, should a child be born, a ruler of men, a King among Kings.”

“May it be here and now!” said the lady Maya. And again, softly: “May we be found worthy!”

There was a long silence and only Rohini, the river, talked of sweet secret things as she went her way. And presently the Maharaja added:

“I think it will not be!”

And a large tear pearled itself on the long lashes of Prajapati and spilt down the bloom of her cheek as she watched her baby daughter in the arms of a dark-skinned nurse lulling her to sleep with strange and wistful songs of the native people, by the lotuses on the great marble tank in the shade of the pippalas.

And presently the evening came, gliding with silent steps through the woods and along the waters, veiled as a maid who steals to meet her star-eyed lover. And having beheld the pomps of sunset, the mountains withdrew into their mysteries and a star stood on each of their summits for guard, and in a great peace the moon floated upward, resplendent. Then the beauty of heaven and earth became marvellous and remote, and the earth was no longer for men but Gods.

Now that night Maya, the Great Lady, asleep beside her lord in the pleasure pavilion when moonlight blanched the dewy lawns like snow, dreamed a dream. Nor was it the first. This lady was vision-haunted. Her eyes, her ears, were open to all the starry influences to all the weeping of winds and the tales the reeds whisper to one another in lonely places. But this dream came, not flitting ghostly along the ways of sleep nor with the morning dissolving cloud-like, illusive, scarcely to be grasped or recorded, more a feeling than a thought, but clear, majestic, terrible and beautiful, so that she found herself (and knew not how) sitting up, awake, aware, breathless, as it were a Queen to whom has been made a great annunciation from equal powers. And, with an awakening hand laid upon her husband, she spoke, nor did her voice tremble:

“Beloved, awake! I have dreamed. For it seemed to me that the four Guardian Divine Kings lifted me from my bed and bore me away to the great mountains and laid me down. And heavenly spirits, shining as stars, came about me and bathed me in the pure waters of a mountain lake, freeing me of all human stain. And when this was done they laid me down again, clothing me in the gold of divine garments and shedding perfumes about me. And I saw a lordly elephant, white as silver, wandering beneath the trees. For, as you know, this is the symbol of royalty. And touching me on the right side with his trunk, he appeared to melt into a cloud and pass like a vapor into my womb. In the darkness I have seen a great light shine, and in the air myriads of radiant spirits sang my joy. And O, beloved, all is well!”

And he stammering, amazed:

“Beloved, when you awaked me, the music of these very spirits rang in my ears, and they cried to me with voices more tunable than all songs of birds or harmony of well-touched lutes, ‘The child shall be born when the Flower-Star shines in the east.’ And as you touched me, I awoke.”

And more they could not say, but clung to each other, trembling for joy and wonder. Nor could any sleep come to them that night, for in their gladness it seemed they stood on the shining shores of heaven, its light about them like an ocean. And when on the morrow these dreams were told to Prajapati, she rejoiced with them, no thought of envy to cloud the crystal of her soul. And when they were laid before the dream-readers, they could presage nothing but good, and being called in before the Maharaja where he sat in state with his Maharanis, they spoke as follows:

“A lord of men shall be born, a great and awful ruler. Let the soul of the Maharaja be exalted, and the heart of the Maharani rejoice and triumph, since to their house is given a son whose kingdom is the earth and the fullness of it.”

Then the Maharaja shouted for joy, while Maya the Maharani, listened with dreaming eyes.

“For he shall conquer the earth!” he cried, “and the trampling of his elephants be heard like thunder, and Kosala shall be his kingdom and Maghada prostrate before his feet, and riches and glory shall be the slaves of the Conqueror for ever and ever!”

And the Maharani said:

“For ever and ever? Yet there is death.”

And Prajapati hid her face.

And the dream-readers, looking up with reverence where they knelt before their diagrams and circles, answered:

“Great Lady, there are riches that Death cannot thieve. There are conquests that Time does not triumph over. There is an Empire that passes not away. What the fate of this child is to be we cannot yet tell. It bewilders us, for great and auspicious as are the signs, they are not plain reading as is the custom. It may be that the child shall be a sage, dominating the souls of men, ruling by pure wisdom, a conqueror——”

But here the Maharaja broke in, in anger:

“Be silent, for this I will not have! The men of my race are Kshatriyas, warriors. The Brahman, the ascetic, the hermit, have their sacred uses, and may the guardian Gods forbid that I should disparage their merit—but my son is my son and a warrior, and if the signs are great, it is a warrior’s greatness I claim for him, for in my family is no other known or considered.”

But still the dream-readers lingered in doubt.

“Great sir, there is more to be told, strange and very wonderful. Two ways lie before the child to be, and in which he will walk we cannot say. If, when he is of age to judge, he beholds a sick man, an old man, a dead man, and a holy monk, then great and wide is his kingdom but not of this world. And if he see not these signs, he shall be a king of the earth, magnificent in riches, glory and power. Therefore it is in the hand of his father to choose what he shall see or not see. The dream is read.”

“Gladly and gloriously is it read!” shouted the Maharaja. “No such sights shall my son see. Leave spiritual things to spiritual men, for he shall reign for ever and ever!”

And bowing, with minds perplexed, the dream-readers gathered up their calculations and departed. And in the city they spread their news, and there was scarcely a man but thought and rejoiced with the Maharaja, commending him in that he chose rather to have a son to fight beside him and ride terribly at his bridle rein than an ascetic in the woods, with matted hair and clawed hands, to pray for his victories——“So would we all choose, like men!” they said. And very joyful was the city.

But Maya the Great Lady, saying little, went her way in peace, strong and calm of purpose as our general mother the earth, pure within and without as the white lotus; and surrounding herself with a great tranquillity, she floated on its surface as a water-lily, rooted in the life-giving bosom of earth, turning an adoring face to the purities of the heavens and absorbing their radiance, until her heart was pure gold and her body white as the ivory of the flower that is a prayer embodied and throne of all the Gods. And if she passed through the city, the women and children strewed flowers before her as before a goddess borne in procession, and when the benediction of her eyes fell on them, they prostrated themselves.

And always her sister, Prajapati, went beside her, guarding her with her own hands, treasuring her as a thing already enskied and sainted, a fear in her heart clasping hands with joy. And the Maharaja Suddhodana would stride into the pavilion, saying in his great voice:

“Wife, how goes it? For the time passes onward, and soon the spring shall be here again, and with it our boy. This day have the farmers given me a little plough, made of red cedarwood, banded with ivory, and when he can walk and talk he shall plough his furrow like a man!”

And she, smiling, answered:

“Dear lord, he shall plough his furrow and sow his seed, and very great shall his harvest be. All goes better than well.”

And again another day he came with a sword, the haft sparkling like frost with jewels, and he cried, rejoicing:

“This have the goldsmiths and handicraftsmen of the city given me, that with it my son may strike off the head of the goat for his first sacrifice, and after destroy his enemies as when Indra thunders and lightens from the peaks. But is all well?”

And she, smiling:

“Beloved, his enemies shall fall before him like chaff driven on a gale. And all goes better than well.”

And she spent her time in deep meditation, free from grief or pain, free also from illusions and desires, in a measureless content and foreseeing. Thus the time went by, not swiftly as a dancer nor slowly as a mourner, but in a great quiet, pacing with majesty from day to day.

Now, on a certain day when Spring with her birds and blossoms was come to earth, the Maharani, following the custom of the ladies of her race, with her sister made ready all her matters and entered the presence of her husband, speaking thus:

“Dear lord, it is a habit of my people that when our children are born it is in the house of our parents. Have I then your permission to journey to them for this auspicious birth, that, returning, I may bring my sheaves with me?”

And he, embracing her with true affection, gave her leave to go, commending her to the care of Prajapati and giving strict command that men should go before making all the ways clear for her litter, and men and women be warned that no sight painful or terrifying should meet her eyes. So, tenderly invoking the prayers and ritual of the Brahmans on her and his son’s behalf, he sent her forth and returned to his duties full of thought. But she, borne in her litter and embraced in the very arms of peace, went her way, thinking to reach the house of her parents and knowing not that the great hour of her life was even then upon her.

And passing the Lumbini gardens, where trees and flowers, placid waters and green shades, the song of birds and cooing of doves combine to make a heaven on earth, she commanded them to stay her litter that she might set her feet in the sun-warmed grass and stand beside the coolness of the lake. So it was done, and leaning on the arm of Prajapati, she descended and entered the garden and wandered awhile, silent for joy.

And suddenly, as they stood beneath a great palsa tree, sweeping the sward with robes of green and the honeyed snow of blossom, awe and trembling seized her and a measureless marvelling; and the tree swept its boughs earthward until the leaves and flowers lay thick upon the grass, and she knew that the life of all growing things and of the divine earth and the mountains and skies lived within her and that her hour was come. So she laid her hand on a bough of the palsa tree, and as Prajapati knelt beside her, stilled with joy and fear, and her women crowded outside the close blossomed shelter of the palsa tree, her son was born: not like a human birth with agony but painlessly.

Now, it was told afterwards that for wardens the Four Heavenly Kings stood about him, and that the air was thronged with those birds of heaven, the happy Shining Ones, singing and rejoicing. And it is told that throughout the world all polluted streams flowed clear as crystal, and that even as the lady his mother suffered no pang of childbirth, so all sentient creatures knew surcease of pain because of that great Birth and rejoiced with her in jungle and meadow, in deep waters, and in clouds aerial—for what mother or child could sorrow in that hour?

CHAPTER II

But of the child, what shall be said? Borne back to the palace with flute and drum, through streets thronged with eager men and women pressing forward to behold him, he did not sleep, nor shrink, like other children, but gazed about him as though the gem of thought were hidden beneath the blue deeps of his eyes. He shone like pure gold, after the manner of his people, Aryan, noble, a child of high descent. And it is told that the hidden sweetness of precious lilies went with him and that the garments of shining spirits, sweeping unseen above him, made the air vibrant. So the Maharaja, receiving him in his arms, blessed his son, rejoicing in his happy fate who was the father of such a one as the world could not show the like. And in his ears the voices of prophecy made a changing music of pride and triumph. And the Maharani, overweighted with gladness, like a lily surcharged with dew, was borne to her noble couch of ivory and gold; and Prajapati watched each breath she drew, so great were her love and fear.

Then, to the rejoicing palace, came an ascetic of pure life and understanding, a dweller on the holy heights of Himavat, a great marvel-worker, honoured of all men; and he desired to enter the presence of the Maharaja and make obeisance. And this was granted.

Bowing before the Maharaja, he addressed him thus:

“Great sir, as I came on the sun’s way, I heard the rejoicing of radiant spirits in the air, and when I asked why they were glad, they triumphed in this verse—

“ ‘The Wisdom-Child, that precious Jewel, unmatched, unrivalled,

Is born in Lumbini, in the land of the happy Sakyas,

For good and joy to all the world of men.’

“Therefore am I come. Lead me now to the young child that I may see him and be glad also. Rejoice, O Maharaja of happy fortune, for most surely is it owing to your righteous deeds in former lives that this good celestial is fallen to your lot!”

And the Maharaja, dumb with love and pride, led the way to the palace hall where the child slept; and they uncovered his little lovely person that the old man might see and be glad also. So he considered the precious marks and signs of his body, assuring him to be a Buddha, one perfect in enlightenment, reading and comprehending them all with a heart that scarce for joy could believe what lay before him. And, seeing these wonderful birth-portents, the tears rolled down his cheeks; and at his weeping fear seized the father, and he bowed down at the ascetic’s feet, crying:

“O what is my lord’s grief: O what are his tears? Is the child doomed? Do we lose him? Forbid it, all-seeing Divinities! Forbid it that one parched, within reach of the eternal draught, should lose all and perish of thirst! Forbid it that I should lose my treasure! For when a man dies who owns a son, it is as a man with two eyes—one sleeps yet the other watches,—but a man without a son is blind in death’s darkness.”

And the ascetic, seeing his grief, answered swiftly:

“Sir, have no fear. Good and better than good are the portents. I wept for myself. This child shall rule the world, but I, by reason of my age, shall not live to see it. Deep and full and wide is the river of his Law. Like a great lake is the calm of his Yoga; like the sun at the zenith his wisdom. The earth shall be glad for him, and he shall reign and he SHALL reign, and mighty the glory of his dominion!”

And having said this, the ascetic departed mysteriously, after the fashion of the Instructed, leaving joy as his gift.

But still Prajapati watched by the Queen Maya and leaned her ear close to catch a whisper—for as yet the Great Lady had not spoken.

And now the child lay in the hollow of her arm, and it was the seventh day. And without raising her lashes, she whispered:

“Sister, my true sister! On the seventh day I die, for so it is with those mothers whose joy, too great for the lowlands of earth, soars like a bird to the mountains of heaven. My joy is winged. No more can it walk beside my sweet sister nor follow my husband as his shadow nor guard the steps of my child. It is become divine. Already its wings quiver for flight. But all is well. My place is prepared in a heaven where my bliss, rolling outward, may spread into a sea to mirror the Wisdom I have borne. And you, my true sister, will not forget me, but, taking this child for your own, will nourish him with noble milk from your pure bosom. And for our lord you will take heed. And this I know, that the Way of Peace shall be opened to the feet of my son’s foster-mother as to mine.”

And Prajapati pressed her cheek against the Great Lady’s in silence that laid a finger on the lips of grief, and the child slept between them.

Now Night, with the moon in her hair and the stars for ear and breast jewels, came gliding down from the high mountains and wandered in the palace gardens, shedding sleep unutterable and all sweet influences from her outspread hands. And there was not one in the palace, from the Maharaja to the sweeper but slept, dreaming auspicious dreams.

And in the morning all woke refreshed and at peace. But Maya, the Great Lady waked not. And her sister, the Queen Prajapati, seeing the child, lovely as an image of pure gold, blue-eyed and beautiful, loved him, and took him to her fragrant bosom, and became his mother. And he received the name of Siddhartha, meaning “He who has attained his aim”—for who could doubt that such a child must conquer where he would?

Thus have I heard.

With this child all good came to the City of Kapila and to the country round about, and all the Sakya clansmen prospered very greatly. Their cows were pure-coloured, well-proportioned, giving fragrant and rich milk with even flow; their horses were as though winged, shaped for speed and strength; their elephants royal beasts and understanding. When rain was needed the air distilled it seasonably, and the five cereals swelled with scented grain, wholesome and soft for food. All creatures about to produce their young were content and at ease, their bodies well-knit and healthful.

Nor was this grace confined to the lower creation, for in the City of Kapila and its dominions, amongst men and women auspicious things grew like seed flung from the hands of Gods, and even those whom their passions spurred down the broad way of a dangerous karma, considered and took heed, and, laying aside their selfish desires and covetousness, thought no proud, envious thoughts, but lived in quiet with their neighbours; and men were grave and recollected and women chaste and calm, and by all were the Four Rules of Purity honoured. And it is told that the Maharaja, seeing this heavenly guest within his palace, for his sake dwelt purely, practising virtue, putting away from him all evil company, that his heart might not be polluted with lust. And he meditated much by night and day, drinking the moon’s brightness with clasped hands and sacrificing in the golden silences of the dawn, when all high influences are unloosed. And this course of conduct must ensue from such a birth, for, as the lotus and champak flowers exhale their perfume and the moon drops camphor in her secret glories, so do the influences of purity and high thought spread outward from the person of a Buddha-to-be. Therefore, as the light of sun or moon increases little by little and none can measure its growth, so was it with the child, orbing into beauty perfect and yet more perfect—if such a thing can be. And with precious things they surrounded him. Noble amulets guarded his person, great gems adorned him, and the scent of sandalwood made sweet the air for his breathing.

Now, when the time for instruction came, the Maharaja considered whom he should employ to teach his son. Should it be a man of the Wanderers, who, having cast the world utterly aside, scans its wisdom with the diamond ray of perfect comprehension—one of the Unfettered? Or should it be one of the men of braided hair—a Brahman hermit, held, as yet, in family ties, but living the life of pure contemplation? Or a bearer of the Triple Staff?

Much he revolved these matters and, gathering opinions, digested them, and summoned to the high task the wise and saintly Viswamitra. And the boy was brought before him and made due obeisance to his teacher (who is, if possible, more to be reverenced than even a father, being the father of the soul and mind, whereas that other may be but the father of the transitory body); but when Viswamitra questioned the noble child, it has been told that there was nothing he did not know already. For it is related that he was familiar with all that has been written in books or told with tongues, even from the number of the spheres and heavenly bodies, as also their triangular, square and sextile aspects, to the powers of the lowliest worm that creeps upon the earth, unable even to raise its head to adore the divine luminaries. There was nothing that teacher could teach him, for already he knew all. So Viswamitra heard and trembled, and at last, seeing that this matter touched on things deep, incomprehensible and wonderful, he prostrated himself before the child, and, closing up his books, went his way marvelling.

Yet let it not be thought that the Maharaja Suddhodana could behold these portents with a heart of ease, for mingled with all his pride and joy was fear. His son moved before him, beautiful exceedingly, perfect in duty not only to his father and his foster-mother, Prajapati the fair and noble, but also to all with whom he had to do, quick to smile and reply, glad in a boy’s sports and games, and yet—apart. As a man, looking down through the clear crystal of a lake, may behold beneath it groves of strange leafage where silver fish dart and disappear in a life unknown to him, so the Maharaja, looking through the translucence of his son’s eyes uplifted to his, knew that they revealed yet hid a world in which he had no part. And this aloofness grew to be to him a knife driven into his very heart. And time passed, and the child became a noble youth.

One day the Maharaja sent for his minister, an old man, wise and instructed, and to him he said:

“Is all well in the city and the country about it?”

And the old minister, saluting, replied:

“O Maharaj, all is well. And since the birth of your auspicious son how could it be otherwise? For it appears that in past times when a child of pure brilliancy was born, there prevailed great prosperity, and wickedness came to an end. And so it is now.”

And, sighing as if his heart were like to break, the Maharaja replied:

“This is true. And who should rejoice more than I? Yet it is not so, and my heart is consumed with anxiety.”

But the minister remained respectfully silent, and the Maharaja continued:

“For my son is not as the other young nobles, free and gay and enamoured of sports and battle and women, but the opposite—rather enduring than sharing the frolics suited to his age; and when I see him meditating beneath the rose-laurels and mark his calm, abstracted eyes, it recalls to me the saying of the sage Asita, that ‘embarking in the boat of wisdom, he shall save the world from peril.’ Now, were this to be the wisdom of a great King delivering his people, I might triumph as I did in hearing it, but if it is to be the cold wisdom of the Wanderers and forest-dwellers, then I desire none of it, for to embark in that boat is to be severed from power and from all things dear and desirable to the heart of man. What, then, is your counsel?”

And with grief written in his face, the aged minister replied:

“Great sir, who shall challenge Fate and the unwritten laws of the Divine? I will own that sometimes in the noble youth’s presence I have felt as it were a cold air blowing between him and me, as though he stood apart from lesser men. And more than once this thought has occurred: Suppose this noble Siddhartha is a Bodhisattva, destined in his next re-birth to be a Buddha, how then shall we fight against a destiny so great and awful? But yet it may not be thus, and so rarely does a Buddha appear upon the earth that there is neither experience nor knowledge to guide us.”

And, trembling, the Maharaja replied:

“You voice my very fear. It is certain that many of the predictions which my soul applied to earthly glory, may be read otherwise if considered. But since I dread this unspeakably and we are by no means certain of the end, what is your counsel that we may divert him and so fulfil his mind with beauty and bliss, that these cold visions may blow away like mists at sunrise and leave him glad?”

Then, smiling subtly, the old man answered:

“There is one way, and one only. For it is acknowledged throughout the three worlds that there is no charm of forgetfulness like the beauty of a woman. On her bosom the Gods are forgotten and the wisdom of the wise is vanity.”

But the Maharaja, with impatience:

“This is true of others, but as for my son, he has seen the loveliest face to face and has never turned to look again. Think better, old man.”

And he:

“For the noble, a noble bait. And there is a girl, daughter of the great Suprabuddha, young and lovely as the Maiden of the Dawn when she stands, rose-fingered, smiling upon the mountain peaks, and this maiden is pure in health and person, constant and faithful, cheerful evening and morning, one to establish the palace in purity and quiet, full of dignity and grace. Among her companions she moves as the queen-swan leading the flotilla, with stately neck, yet bowed in humility. For a King of all the earth this is a fitting consort. I have made diligent inquiry. Her name is Yashodara.”

And the Maharaja replied with joy:

“In this Yashodara may be our deliverance! Send in haste, but with dignity, to Suprabuddha her father, and call a gathering at which the bridegroom-to-be shall show his strength with bow and sword and horse against all rivals, after the manner of the free choice of our women.”

And the old man bowed and went away, smiling, but with a sore doubt at his heart—for he also recalled the words and portents of the Prince’s birth and dreaded the anger of awful Gods if any should let their purpose.

Thus on a certain day the lists were set, and the Sakya lords were challenged by the noble Siddhartha to archery, to sword-play and to riding, that the maiden, Yashodara, might know she chose no craven to be her husband. And all the people crowded to see, some wagering on the success of this lord and some on that, but all, on whomsoever they wagered, hoping that the son of the good Maharaja might win honour and the bride. Yet most believed that the victor would be Devadatta, cousin of Siddhartha, a young prince proud and obstinate and amorous and very skilful in feats of arms.

It was in the golden silence of very early morning when the people crowded to the maidan where all should be done, for the heat of the later day forbade it then. So still was it that not a frond of the palms stirred nor even a bamboo leaf lifted on the air, and the dew lay bright as silver upon grass and flower. So still that the voice of Rohini, full-throated from the melting snows, would have filled the quiet but for the myriad shufflings of bare feet through the dust and the tinkle of litter bells as the hidden beauty and her companions were borne to the place of meeting. For her face should not be seen until she made her choice.

And all the way was strewn ankle-deep with flowers, as though the Spirits of the Air had rained them with both hands upon the glad earth, and from their bruised beauty was shed such sweetness on the dew that the fragrance rose like incense to greet the lovely ones on their way.

But when the rival lords rode on to the maidan in splendour of armour jewelled and inlaid with gold and swords that flashed like lightning from the rifts of cloudy mountains, and horses that seemed to spurn the ground with their hoofs and desire to ride the air like the very coursers of the sun, then the joy of the people so grew that they clapped their hands and shouted lustily, for of all things the noble fair-skinned Northern peoples love a good man and a good horse, and only next to these a beautiful woman. And of the last the most beautiful as yet was hidden. So they shouted until their voices were like the noise of a great wind and the echoes returned them from far-off heights and woods.

And Devadatta rode a horse so black that in the night he seemed a part of it, but Siddhartha’s horse was white, proud and great and gentle, and his name shall not be forgotten while the round world holds, for he was Kantaka—and of him more hereafter. And when the maiden, looking between the curtains of her palanquin so that none might know she looked, saw the young Sakya lord, her heart left her bosom and fled into his, settling there like a bird nestling with feet and wings, for there was none like him—none. With calm he sat his horse, awaiting the moment, and young he was and slender and like an image of pure gold, and his eyes were blue and dark after the manner of his people, and his lips and cheek shaped by a great graver. He carried his head as a stag in the spring season, and for all his slenderness was he tense and eager as a bow in the hand of the Brahma King with the arrow laid on the string. And so he waited, and his eyes never sought the palanquin where was hidden the Pearl of Victory. And to her sick heart she said:

“He is not mine! He is above me. What woman can cloud the serenity of those eyes? How can the fiery dart of Madhu, the God of Love, pierce that breast, guarded with the snow of high thoughts? He is a King too high for me—too high.”

And it is true that the noble youth thought little of the maiden, but much of the great clash with his rivals, for he knew well that Honour was the prize of the day and that his father’s heart must needs break if he failed before all the Kin of the House and the people.

Now it is certain that of this jousting many tales have grown up, of arrows flying miraculously, winged by eager Gods, of sword-strokes such as the world has never seen nor shall see, of horses that the Wind, Vaya himself, might bestride for swiftness and cruel, dangerous pride. And how all this may be I know not, who was not there; but this I know, that Siddhartha was better than the best in all the tests, and that the people stormed and shouted and laughed and wept, knowing not what they did so only they might hail him conqueror, while he stood leaning on his sword, breathing lightly and resting, for the first time smiling, a very splendid young knight.

And the Maharaja, scarcely daring to look in his son’s face lest he should too openly show his pride and joy, said only:

“Son, you have done well.” And, turning, “Bring forth the bride.”

Then all the people were of a sudden silent, that not a word, not a sound of that Beautiful should be lost. And they drew back the pictured curtains of the litter and she stepped forth, most resembling the silver moon floating through clouds to her unveiling and pure radiance, and so stood before the people, clad in supple silver that flowed about her like water and jewels that dripped glory braided among the silk-soft hair that fell to her ankles and crowned her brows. (Yet none could look at her splendour, for her face drew the bees of all glances to the honey of its sweetness and there held them, dizzy with ecstasy.) Thus, with a maiden, only less fair, on either side, she paced towards Siddhartha where he sat motionless on his white horse as a man of marble, carrying in her hand the Garland of Choosing. And coming before him, she raised her eyes to his and stood silent; but her look pleaded.

Then for the first time he knew in the solitude of his heart the drawing near of another. And soft spring airs came before her, with the singing of mating birds, and pearling of young buds and delicate tremble and thrill of life in green silences and all the good things of this world. And it troubled his calm, because he knew not what it meant, and it was more pain than pleasure. This sweet melody, as it were of flutes and lutes, that came from the tattling of her anklets and the rustle of her garments, overpowered the austere, high voices that had breathed in his ear from birth, and they were silent. Like a man bewildered, he dismounted from white Kantaka, with his arm still laid along the noble neck, and gazed down upon her, and their looks met and were one.

So she stooped and took the dust from his feet, then rising, stately as a young palm-tree, she put the Garland of Choosing about his neck and together they faced the shouting people and the rivals, some sullen as Devadatta the evil-hearted, some glad in the victory as Ananda the Prince, his true cousin.

And of all men who saw that sight be sure that none more beautiful could ever meet their eyes than the silver bride hand in hand with the golden lover, shining as Surya the Sun rejoicing to run his course; for with the touch of her hand, doubt dropped from him like a garment and they were submerged, he and she alike, in the joy of the bridegroom and the bride.

And the Maharaja, laughing aloud for triumph and gladness, said to the old minister:

“We have caught our bird! Thanks be to the God of Love!”

But the old man replied:

“Great sir, it will need the triple cord of love to bind him—your own, the wife’s and the child’s. Let us wait. Still are we not secure.”

CHAPTER III

Thus have I heard.

Time went by, but since he had snared his bird, the Maharaja Suddhodana resolved that the fetters should be gilded, and calling his minister again, he said to him:

“If a man would cage a bird of heaven (and such, I think, is my son), it is necessary that earth should be made heaven, so that no home-sickness for the blue heights should take him. And because a young man may weary of one woman’s beauty, however beautiful, let fresh faces be found to make for him a wreath of such roses of the earth as may intoxicate him with its love and perfume. Send north to Savatthi and south to Benares, and fetch such beauties, such players on the vina and sitar as sing before the high Gods, such dancers as those whose white limbs, melting to music, enchant their eyes. Give orders to build him a house for the winter, when the snow is blue in the hollows of Himalaya and the rivers are locked in his cold heart. See that it be warm and silent and that no wind may creep in, and let white furs of snow-leopards, clouded with black, lie about it, soft and smooth to the touch, and let there be story-tellers to speed the long nights with jest and amorous tale and clash of battle. Shut out the cold and terrible moon with close lattice-work and rich curtains, for she, remote and small in the blue, profound skies, may freeze his soul to the chill calm I fear.”

And the minister, saluting, said:

“All shall be done. And yet——”

“And yet there is more before we may sleep in peace. Build for him also a house of spring. Let it be pavilioned, and with little stiff, frilled roofs flying outward like the skirts of a dancer when she revolves swiftly. On every point set a wind-bell to resemble her anklets and armlets in their tinkling, so that the soft breezes from the hills shall make an aerial music as they wander about it. Let it appear as if the whole were blown together like a cloud on a wind and might be lifted and dispersed like thistle-down—a dream of spring.”

And the old wise man saluted, saying:

“It shall be done. And yet——”

“And yet it is not enough,” mused the Maharaja, stroking his great beard. “For we must build also a house for summer—to drowse in, dim and cool and with long echoing colonnades to catch the faintest breath of breeze. Let this house be set in the grass by Rohini, that her liquid voice may sing of the snows when the dog-days are sultry. And let it be paved with shining stone from the mountains, and the walls be of dark cedar, carved wonderfully, and all the windows dimmed and latticed that the heats die on the threshold. Choose a place for it where the asoka trees are deep with rich leafage and golden blossom, and the neems spread their shade and the acacias rain white petals and the champak swoons in its heavy sweetness. Let there be a lake, pensive with reeds and green reaches, the haunt of swans and cranes and all beautiful water birds, and silver rills by which my son may sit and muse if he will, until the langour of slowly dropping water shall pass into his veins and be a narcotic binding him for ever to long dreaming days and nights, and he be utterly content.”

And the old man saluted, saying:

“So it shall be done. Is it also your pleasure, Maharaja, that I set a guard at the gate of the park of the three Pleasure Houses?”

And he answered:

“It is my pleasure. And now I will visit my son’s wife and hear her mind.”

So he went to the place of the women in the great house. And his presence being told to Yashodara, she came before him, sweet as the star of evening bathed in rosy vapours, for a dress fell about her coloured as though dipped in the blood of red roses and bound with gold that, winding spirally upward round her lovely limbs and bosom, embraced them, drawing the eye to the slender curves, and she wore no jewels but only the great rings in her ears sparkling with fiery gems. And he drew her to his feet and she sat on a cushion beside him, looking upward with duty and affection, waiting for the favour of his speech. And at last, having observed the delicate sweetness of her face and her grace and majesty, he said, sighing:

“Noble daughter, you have now been wedded to my son, Siddhartha, for six months. Is all well with you?”

And, stooping to touch his feet, she replied:

“Great father, all is well. And I did not know that in all the world there was such joy as I share night and day with my dear lord. For beyond all beauty he is beautiful and beyond all goodness, good, and his gentleness of speech is not like that of a woman, but with strength behind it like Himalaya when he smiles in sunshine. And yet——”

The words stopped like hovering birds on her sweet lips and her fine brows drew together as she meditated. And the Maharaja, drawing his hand from her head, leaned forward to look into her eyes.

“Daughter, have you a doubt—and what is it?”

She, lovely and submissive, made haste to answer:

“Great lord, all is pure joy, and yet——”

And he, in great anger, so that she shrank down, veiling her face with her hands:

“And yet! When I command my minister to surround my son with all joy wherewith to bind and hold him, he obeys, but ends always with ‘And yet—’ as though some mystery surrounded him! And you, that should triumph in pride and joy, say the like. My son is fair and free and noble and sharer in my riches and pride. What is this miserable ‘And yet—’ that mocks my hope? Speak out, woman, and tell me what is in your heart.”

And, kindling her courage at his sternness, the wife of Siddhartha looked at him with clear, unsullied eyes.

“Father, all I have said is truth, but there is also this. In the midst of rejoicings of song and when the women dance before him and the feast is spread and the great fruits, cooled with snow, and purple wines in cut crystal cups are set to his hand, then often I know that though his fair body is among us, his soul is escaped and fled away.”

And in her eyes two tears gathered and stood but did not fall.

And he, with anger:

“Would it not be thought a woman should know her business! For what is beauty but to hold a man prisoner to the senses? And you are beautiful as the woman the high Gods made with flowers—how then do you fail? Does he not love you?”

“Sir, he loves me. But not me only. He loves something that I know not, and his thought flies away to it as a dove flies home.”

And he said:

“True, true! It is true. What is this thing? For I, too, have felt it. When I have spoken of wealth and power and pride, I have known that as you, daughter, say, his soul is escaped and gone, I cannot tell where. But have no fear. Tell me only this—has never a word, never a sight of sorrow crept into the paradises I have made for him?”

And she answered:

“Not one. All is joy unceasing.”

“And no sign of age, of sickness, of death? For, as I have told you, he must not know that these things are, and until he passed into your keeping, the secret was well guarded.”

And she replied gravely:

“The secret is well guarded. He does not know. When he speaks, it is of an eternity of delight and of nothing else. And yet—if I may speak and live——”

And he said:

“Speak. Even in the words of women there is sometimes wisdom, and you are a pearl among women.”

“Great lord, is it possible to strive against the high Gods? For they have appointed death and sickness and grief to be our lot, and it may be that the very joy of life is the greater because we know it is brief. Children suck sugar-cane until they sicken, and may not grown man and woman weary of sweet things, desiring to match their fortitude against grief? And he is great of soul.”

Then he would not look at her for anger, saying:

“Folly and double folly—woman’s madness! Have you not heard the saying of the wise, that if ever he hears tell of age and sickness and death, his doom is sealed? And mine with it—and mine with it! For I love my son.”

Then the great tears overflowed her eyes and ran down like a stream at the thaw.

“Forgiveness!” she cried. “Forgiveness! for I love my husband, and if this unknown sweetness capture and carry him from me, what good should my life do me? But now, most honoured father of my lord, I have a hope—a hope! Will a child’s hand hold him?”

And even as the words left her lips, he caught her two hands and gazed deep into her eyes and triumphed. And he said:

“Daughter, you are hope, and your words a cup in the desert! For, knowing what my son is to me, I know that those hands will hold him when yours and mine drop helpless. Go back to him and tell him, and to the great Gods do I give thanks because my prayers and sacrifices have not run to waste but are rewarded!”

And as she knelt before him, the tears rolled down his cheeks for gladness, nor could he hide them, as a warrior should.

And, beautiful as a rainbow flowering against a black cloud, the Princess returned to the carved chamber of cedar with its lattices set wide to the perfumed air of summer. Beneath and around them the ivory chalices of the frangipani blossoms and starred clouds of jasmine offered warm incense to the sun and all was calm as ecstasy, as though the world, captured by the power of Yoga, were in ecstasy, dreaming with open eyes upon Perfection. The leaves of deep-foliaged trees floated on air in absolute stillness, swimming, silent, in liquid gold, and below the shades of the gardens gleamed Rohini, she also dancing no longer as in spring, but calm and silent as the meditation of a saint, pursuing her shining way in a deep quiet.

There, seated beneath a neem tree, in the green bower of its heart, the Princess beheld Siddhartha as he sat with his feet folded and his hands lying upon his knees. And as she watched, kneeling by the lattice, he stirred no more than a noble image of himself made in gold and there was that in his calm that struck her soul with fear. Then presently, gathering courage from knowledge of the gladness she bore within her, she rose, and folding the gold sari about her brows, she went with rose-leaf footsteps through the House of Joy, passing those palace rooms where the fair women talked and sang and made low music with their vinas and sitars, eating fruits cooled in blocks of ice from the mountains and laughing with each other as though joy could never cease nor death wreck youth and life, for it seemed that the secret of the house held them also and that they, like the Prince, believed that these things were immortal.

But Yashodara, going through the garden ways, past groups of tall flowers bee-haunted, flickered about by rose-coloured and black butterflies, caught wafts of varying perfumes, like strains of music through the opening and closing of celestial doors, so sweet was the world that day. The jewelled peacock and his wife led forth their train of little ones to pace in deep grass and silver pheasants went daintily in the plumed shades of the bamboo and their young followed rejoicing in life and warmth and plenty, and birds hidden in high branches sang as if never they would cease, and above all floated the blue sky—a blue pure and strong as that of the infinite ocean, and life and love wandered hand in hand along the blossomed earth in sunlight like clear water. So though her secret winged her feet the Princess must needs pause here and there to share with all these living creatures the wine of joy poured from the sun’s brimming cup, and her soul gladdened within her in the youth of the world. And at last with steps light as the fall of a petal she approached the great neem tree and stood and looked into its shade.

Now here was an extraordinary stillness as though an arresting finger were laid upon the pulse of life, but not wholly silencing it, for from a fern-fringed spring there fell at regular intervals a bright drop of water marking time into divisions lest it should wholly slip into Eternity and be lost. And the shade within was deep and green making a soft dusk at noon, and through the shade could be seen the great spires of silver mountains ecstatic in blue air and resembling the highest reach of the aspiration of man arrested on the verge of comprehension.

Very still in green shade sat the son of the Maharaja, his hands, palm upward, laid empty upon his knees, his eyes fixed on the everlasting hills, neither joy nor trouble upon calm brows, lost in meditation so deep that it walled him as in crystal from the fair shows around, and her coming was nothing to him for he neither saw nor heard it.

Then a wave of anguish rose in her bosom and swelled until it spilt in salt and bitter water from her eyes, and she could not restrain herself from that forbidden show of sorrow and putting aside the boughs she ran to him and fell at his knees and laid her head upon them, sobbing. And with a long sigh he awoke and looked down upon her, smiling.

“What is it, wife, and why do your eyes run like Rohini. Is it a new gladness beyond gladness? And why are you so glad?”

Weeping and sobbing she hid her fair face upon his knees, clasping them passionately, her words stumbling from her lips in agony.

“It is not gladness, O heart of my heart. It is grief.”

And he, from the inward Kingdom of Calm.

“And what is grief, my lotus flower?”

For in all his life he had neither heard the word nor seen the thing and she spoke an unknown language. And as she sobbed on, he lifted her face gently in his two hands and looked at her closed eyelids, the lashes wet and matted on her cheek with running tears, she pale as death, the rich colour dead in her lips, and on his beautiful face was amazement and no more, for how could he pity who had lived only in the presence of joy? And at last he said very slowly as if bewildered:

“My rose, my delight, what is this new thing, and what have you to tell me? Speak that I may rejoice also.”

And his words stung some terror in her because he could not understand and it seemed that she must bear the burden of grief and the hidden secret of the world’s woe not only for him and herself, but for all the earth. For from any creature born human, though young and beautiful and a Prince, it may well seem a daring too great for mortals to deny grief and affront sorrow and to shut the door in their grey faces—knowing them waiting and watching outside. So the words broke from her sobbing lips:

“This morning I woke, and in the august quiet of the dawn I knew that my hope of hopes was given to me and my joy brimmed and sparkled in the cup of jewelled gold from the Gods, and I would have turned then into my lord’s breast to tell of it, but that night you had not passed with me but in the chamber of deodar, so I lay and dreamed awake, lost in bliss until they brought me word that our father would speak with me, and I went.”

“But all this was good, my lily swaying on blue waters. And what was your hope?” he said with a hand coming and going softly in her hair, and the monotony and gentleness of his touch soothed her like the immeasurable falling of far-distant water—no louder than the humming of a bee. And drawing more quiet breath, she continued:

“Our father asked me, lord of my soul, whether still you escaped away in soul from all the love and laughter about you. For when this is so, is it not that we fail to make you glad, and am not I, your wife, the worst sinner? O heart of my heart, what more is there that we have not done? Tell me, I beseech you.”

And he answered, “Nothing,” looking above her head to the heights.

Passionately she caught his hands in hers.

“Then, O beloved, if we have done all and fail, what is it that draws you from me? What is your soul’s desire? When our father, believing a man might weary of my poor beauty, sought out new faces for the Painted Chambers, did I weep? I smiled, though—But no, I will not say it. If it was your pleasure, what should I be but glad? But still you were drawn from us, and it has been a terror that bit into my soul, when waking in a white moonlight, I have seen you sitting with alien eyes fixed upon the great march of the stars. And yet I have kept silence. But now, lord of my life I ask this—where is it your soul goes, and to whom?”

Her hands, hot with the fever of the soul, pleaded for her, clasping his. Her dark eyes heavy with tears entreated mercy. He answered gravely:

“I go to my own people.”

“And we are not your own people? Beloved, beloved—Your words are swords, who then are your own?”

“I cannot tell.”

Her hope forgotten, the Princess knelt beside him.

“O noble one, is it life or death that draws you?”

“I cannot tell. What is death? But life such as this is weariness inexpressible, and how men endure it I cannot know. Without change, break, or ripple the sunshiny days glide past, each bringing in its hands the same offering of love and peace monotonous as a dove’s cooing. My life is without hope, for, having all, what is there to hope for? And what I have is over-sweet. It cloys in the tasting like honey. And the Brahmans make their sacrifices and mutter their mantras of invocation and propitiation, and for what? For if we have all, what more is there to have, and why pray for what is unneeded? If this Paradise over-sweet can never crack asunder; if ages and ages hence we still shall sit here young and beautiful as to-day,—the Gods have emptied their hands and what have they left to give? And if we do amiss, how shall they punish us? And will not the day come when I may lift up my hand to the mountains and curse them, saying—‘Be at ease in your careless heavens, O unapproachable Gods,—but I am a man with a soul not to be captured and tamed in earth’s paddock. I demand my rights, though what they are I know not, for I move in a perfumed cloud that blinds me. But I shall know one day.’ ”

She looked up at him in fear that forbade speech.

“I hear the noise of hammers outside the gardens, the cry of the plougher, the song of the maids who come home with cattle from the outer meadows. And I say that these people have lives better than mine, and if I could change I would, for sweet must be their sleep and glad their leisure, but for me life is all idleness and sleep, and their eternity is better than my own. I will ask my father to let me too go out and labour in the glad world outside this prison, that buys its food with happy toil, that I too may know what it is to eat the bread I have earned in contentment.”

Pale with fear Yashodara answered:

“But, lord of my life, how is it known to you that their life is all good? Is it possible to envy what you know not?”

“I know that with them life is eternal as with me and doubtless joy perpetual. But to this they add useful toil that gives us our luxuries. All these fair things about us are made by the hands of free men rejoicing in beauty. And I make nothing. I pass from one enjoyment to another, fettered—a winged bird in a jewelled cage. Are they not happier than I? And you, sweet wife,—what joy have you in comforting the long hours of a slave?”

She kissed his hands with passion, her black hair falling silken about his feet.

“It is I that am the slave, my King—the happy slave of your beauty and nobleness, and what could I ask but to wait eternally upon your pleasure and that of your son.”

He turned his eyes gravely upon her.

“My son?” he said. And she:

“It is true—it is true. And it is because I bear this hope in my bosom that it pierces me like a sword to see your calm averted eyes and know you far away in that strange heaven where I cannot follow. O, my lord, if it be true that you have alien kindred I cannot reach, let your son be of them. Give him all good!”

Then stooping, he drew her head to his breast and put his arm about her and drew her gently until she sat upon his left knee—that throne of the Indian wife, and thus they remained awhile in silence, and his touch was better than speech and his quiet healing as moonlight. Nor did she miss words of love or rejoicing for his calm folded her in the very wings of peace. At long last he spoke:

“My Pearl of Perfectness, we two are one, and of our true oneness springs this new delight. To me the hope is sweeter than all harps touched in the hollow of Heaven, and if you were dear to me before, judge how dear now. But since we are so one, come nearer, share my thought as well as my heart. Does it content you that we should bring into our prison another prisoner and one so dear? Here the days slip by uncounted—a chain of fadeless flowers. Here the river links its long silver thought for ever and ever down the channel from the peaks. Here the bright birds flash by eternally. Will they people the garden to overflowing with their beauty or do they fly away to freer lands as I would if I could? When this garden is full of our children and theirs, what then? Am I the only prisoner or they also? What is the secret my father holds from me?”

But she, trembling, could answer nothing. And again there was silence and only the bright slow dropping of the little spring, and her heart forboded sorrow.

“O day of joy made bitter with fear!” it said within her.

And again he fell into deep cold meditation, and forgot her utterly and his arm relaxed and slipping fell beside him, and she crept from his knee, and he did not know, staring with lost eyes toward the stainless heavens. And for awhile she stood and watched unnoticed, and then crept shuddering away.

And beneath the shade of the neem Siddhartha sat motionless until the rays from the low sun struck high up the tree trunks, and sunset followed, a breath of rose on a rainbow sky, and presently the moon rose unclouded in luminous loveliness and floated to the zenith, and all boughs dropped dew, and the mountains were lost in stars.

Nor did any dare to break his dream.

CHAPTER IV

Thus have I heard.

Time went by, each day sweet as new honey dripping golden from a golden comb, sweet, inexpressibly sweet, and the Princess, moving languidly, trembling with hope mingled with doubt and fear, would tell only her joys to the Maharaja Suddhodana and not her fears. For what help was there in him? He could not strengthen the guarding gates for they were strong and armed men watched by them, nor the walls, for they were high, and observed from watch-towers. And yet, day by day and night by night the spirit of Siddhartha had passed invisible between the swords and unsleeping eyes.

But since the hope of the Princess was made known to him, he shut himself within the great gardens in spirit also. There should no cloud dim the eyes of the mother of his son—flowers must bud and blossom in her heart as about her slender feet, and no thought but peace and security creep into her Paradise. And little by little, as a wild deer glimpsing through the green flies in terror, yet may be slowly won with patience and tenderness till it will browse the rose-leaves in a girl’s hand, so was the fear of the Princess put to sleep, and a low song of joy and immeasurable thankfulness made music in her heart like the summer voice of Rohini after the melting of the snows—when the river is little and peaceful.

And one day the Maharaja came to visit her in the cool chamber of roses looking toward the north and the eternal mountains and found her stringing jade and crystal and amber on a fine golden cord, while ladies sat about her plucking rose petals for paste of roses, and there was a sound of far music in the gardens and looking through the lattice he saw Siddhartha with his best and dearest cousin, the Prince Ananda, shooting with bow and arrow in a wide meadow by the river, and Devadatta and another of the Sakya lords stood by, and the young men laughed and shouted, and their voices came small and clear with distance, so that the heart of the King exulted and he triumphed as he seated himself on the golden and peacock cushions, dismissing the women.

“We have conquered, lovely one!” he said, laughing kindly in his black beard. “What neither I nor all my sages could do your small wise hands have done, for in them the mother of his child holds my son’s heart. I knew—I foretold, it must be so, for he is loving and good and all the pieties of life hold him like bands of iron. You are content?”

And she smiling.

“Noble father, I am content. I have no more ‘And yets’ with which to wound your ear. My lord leaves me neither by night or day, except when I entreat him to try his strength with Ananda and Devadatta and the Sakya lords. And this is wisdom. We strained too tight upon the fetters and they ate into his soul. This freedom among the young lords is well. My noble father, I entreat you to give him what liberty you can, for it is good. Never now do I see him submerged in the cold dreams that stole him from us. Those strange voices call him no more, the hands have ceased to beckon. He is ours—yours and mine and the child’s, and of the child is all his talk and thought. He shall ride with sword and lance and be a King of Kings. So we say—one to the other.”

She looked up with tears of pure joy trembling like shed diamonds on her long black lashes, and the Maharaja, grave with delight, replied:

“So it shall be! What!—the kingdom of Maghada is ruled by a foolish man—the King Bimbisara,—why shall not my son oust him as we gather strength? Ha! are not we too of the Arya—the great fighting people, and may not one elephant subdue another! Daughter, I would have you breathe these things in my son’s ear, and thrill him with hope of great splendours for the child.”

She answered eagerly.

“Father, I have done—I do it. I say each day—‘Give him his inheritance, my lord. Let all good that you gain be his, for he is yours and ours,’ and always he replies: ‘Could I find the whole world’s Pearl it would be for my great father, for you and for the child. Be content, wife, for my heart is with my own people.’ ”

And as she spoke his words the tears of gladness brimmed and fell on the crystals and jade and amber in her golden lap and the Raja clapped his hands together and shouted for joy.

“Ha, ha! we have won him! O auspicious daughter, dip your hands in my treasury and take at your will. What reward is enough for your beauty and wisdom? But now be cautious”—[There he became grave and weighty]—“guard your health and your person as the deposit of a King, and all shall be well. And the day is not far distant when we shall laugh at the sickly foretelling that said if he saw death, pain or old age he would flee into the jungle. What! Shall not my son have strength to face the common lot of man like a great King! But not yet—not yet! We will go warily.”

And the wise Princess saw that beneath his triumph he was not even yet wholly reassured. But she herself was content.

So when Siddhartha returned flushed and gay from riding and shooting by the parks of Rohini with the great bow in his hand and quiver at his shoulder, a glittering glorious young warrior, she clung about him shining with bliss so that it appeared that visible rays surrounded her as they do the Dawn Maiden when she, standing, flings her golden arrows about the world from the peaks of Himalaya. And with his arms about her in their chamber of marble he said:

“And is my dove content? And is life good?” and she replied:

“Most utterly content. If life is good to my lord it is delight to me. But you, O, heart’s dearest—and are you not content? See how the world is white with blossom dropping perfumed dew, and the blue birds flash through them, and there is piping and singing and the flutter of wings through all the happy gardens and the humming of black bees mad for honey. And this morning as I walked with Gautami the slender-waisted, close, close hidden in the jasmin flowers I found a small nest—small and heart-holding and in it four blue jewels of eggs warm from the mother’s breast—warm as love and home, and blue as the skies, and I looked and said—‘One, two, three, four. This is a prophecy. These are the three sons and the one daughter I shall bear to my lord. First—three sons, one by one, and then a daughter so lovely that all Kings of the earth shall desire her, and the three strong brothers shall guard her beauty—that is fit only for the enjoyment of the King of the Three Worlds! And we will hide this lovely one in the heart of the gardens until he comes. Now, since I have seen this portent, four there must be. Less there cannot. But possibly more!’ ”

And she leaned back, flashing the sunshine of her eyes in his, and he laughed back holding her by the two hands, half dazzled with her beauty and gladness.

“This is life,” he said—“and the cold dreams are gone. They rose like mists from Rohini in autumn mornings—and in the rising of the sun they disperse. And the coming of my son has driven them into the night where they belong.”

Therefore great gladness reigned in the House of Gardens and doubt was forgotten, and in his pride, willing to make his son more free and yet security more secure, the Maharaja made another and most beautiful garden across the city where Siddhartha might take his pleasure if he wearied of the Gardens of Rohini, and the Princess approved this with her wisdom, saying: “We must stretch the tether, lest the bird guess he is not free to fly into the distances.”

And this was a most exquisite garden, with great pools and lakes where white cranes stood meditating all day among blue lotus blossoms—the very essence of the blue of the waters, and it was made a Paradise where none might take life or harm the creatures of earth or air or water, and the wild swans floated as pure and fearless upon those lakes as upon the bosom of holy Manasa in the sky-uplifted bosom of the mountains, and the deer were not shy but walked beside men, and with great eyes, silent though full of speech, told them the hidden histories of their wild hearts.

And on a certain day Siddhartha sent a message to his father.

“Great father, if my Paradise is ready, give me permission to drive through the city to-morrow that I may enjoy it with my cousins Ananda and Devadatta and the Sakya lords.”

And the answer returned was “To-morrow,” and that night Siddhartha passed with his wife Yashodara in a pavilion of Chinese silks with blue and gold dragons by the banks where Rohini wandered among her reeds singing a little song of sleep, and as the orange sunset faded into grey a few large stars came out, and swam in immeasurable deeps above them. And she said, holding his hand:

“How beautiful—how beautiful is the coming of the night with all the stars caught like bees in her net of blue,—and is it not strange, O lord of my life, to think that long ages after we and our love are forgotten other lovers shall sit by this little river and see the night glide down the mountains scattering stars about the world like seeds of light. Shall we see, shall we know, in those cold other lives they promise?”

And he in great astonishment:

“Forgotten? In what age to come shall you not still be loveliest and gentlest, Queen of the whole earth for beauty? Then, as now, shall men come to happy Kapila because the city holds the most beautiful as the shell its pearl. How should we be forgotten?”

And for a moment cold fear crept by her like the silent passing of a snake, compelling her to remember that the truth was shut from those dear eyes, light of her life,—and she brushed it from her and said laughing.

“True—who should forget us? I dream sometimes that of all names in the world my lord’s shall be greatest, uplifted, splendid, like that great star throbbing upon the topmost peak of all, and men shall bow down and do homage to it not only in the land of the Sakyas and in Maghada and Kosala, but in the wide great world among strange people who send us their treasures but whose very names we cannot utter.”

“And you have dreamed this, beloved? And how?”

“I have dreams that beat in my ears and their sound goes over the mountains, north and south and east and west. And the sun is dimmed with fumes of incense offered to a great King. And I see golden palaces like the sands of all the rivers for number, with my lord sitting throned beneath them in gold—palaces innumerable, and flowers cast in heaps to exhale their perfume. And all this in my lord’s honour. This have I dreamed four times.”

And he said, slowly:

“It is my dream also. Certainly the Gods come in dream. But who can say? See, beloved, how the night, mother of men, brings us her dark reposes lulling all things to sleep. There is no moon, but strange spirits as white as moonbeams moving among the trees. Sing low to me, beloved, sing low. I would not see their eyes—they look upon me with thoughts I cannot read. Sing to me—fill my eyes with the love in yours. Sing!”

And she took her sitar of ebony and ivory and sang softly as Rohini that made a silver music at their feet.

But there was a seal upon her lips that she might not sing of love though love was beside her, for the awe of the mountains was heavy on them and the listening of night. Therefore she sang these words, but no louder than a bee hovering about a flower.