“This has the sound of wisdom, yet wisdom it is not. There is an answer—there is a way, but I have not found it. It may be that it cannot be found—that there is no such thing. Yet, better the search than dully to agree with necessity. And as for these women—To me they are no enticement, and if I would I cannot. Under their fair faces I see the skull and they mop and mow like apes in the face of Horror. If the Gods have thus made the world it is a folly and a brutality and they are more foolish than men who must abide their cruelties, and if they have not made it and all is chance we sink in the slough lit only by the flicker of dying dreams. Leave me, Udayi the smooth-tongued. I would be alone.” And the courtier crept silently away under green shades, treading lightly on turf and blossoms, thanking destiny that he was not as Siddhartha but could lift the brimming cup and drain it to the dregs, savouring every sparkle. And in his heart he mocked him, laughing at his weakness—he whose name is now remembered only because one day he spread out his folly before the Perfect One! But the Prince, bending his great brows upon life and death, sat beneath the jambu tree, feet folded, hands laid upon his knees in perfect immobility. And he thought: “Hollow compliance and a protesting heart! Is this life? Is there a better? Great are the concerns of life and death. So great, so awful that the poor race of mankind struggles only to forget for a brief moment what it can never comprehend. For all about us are seen injustices that were a King to commit his miserable people would rise and hurl him from his bloody throne. And we are told of the priests that the Gods have committed these crimes and yet are worthy of worship and honour. No—rather is it the propitiation of fiends who will torture us if they have not the servility of our praises while we die for their pleasure. And the good suffer and the evil flourish, and to the rich man is given more riches and to the poor more toil even exceeding their strength. Now indeed all that was hidden from me bursts upon my mind as when a flash of lightning tears the dark, and things I put aside for want of comprehension shriek aloud in my ears. Why am I clothed in jewels, why is my father generous and good, and my wife the fairest and most loving of women, when at this moment were my eyes opened they would behold men dying for bread that the least of my jewels would buy, with none to tend or pity them. And what are my deserts more than theirs? And why are some evil and some good as it were by nature? O cruel Gods who, lapt in far-off pleasures, care nothing for our agonies, and let fall your good things on the wicked and evil things on the good—yourselves perhaps the sport of chance, if indeed you are at all!” And these thoughts and many like them, black and miserable, stormed about him in the wreckage of the world.