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

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?

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—

“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.”