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enables lovers to find one another. An impulse leads him to embrace
the vine before him and it changes to Urvasi. A son is afterward born
to her, but she sends him away before the king knows about it, and has
him brought up secretly lest she be compelled to return at once to
heaven. But Indra sends a messenger to bring her permission to remain
with the king as long as he lives.
III. MALAVIKA AND AGNIMITRA
Queen Dharini, the head wife of King Agnimitra, has received from her
brother a young girl named Malavika, whom he has rescued from robbers.
The queen is just having a large painting made of herself and her
retinue, and Malavika finds a place on it at her side. The king sees
the picture and eagerly inquires: "Who is that beautiful maiden?" The
suspicious queen does not answer his question, but takes measures to
have the girl carefully concealed from him and kept busy with dancing
lessons. But the king accidentally hears Malavika's name and makes up
his mind that he must have her. "Arrange some stratagem," he says to
his viduschaka, "so I may see her bodily whose picture I beheld
accidentally." The viduschaka promptly stirs up a dispute between the
two dancing-masters, which is to be settled by an exhibition of their
pupils before the king. The queen sees through the trick too late to
prevent its execution and the king's desire is gratified. He sees
Malavika, and finds her more beautiful even than her picture--her face
like the harvest moon, her bosom firm and swelling, her waist small
enough to span with the hand, her hips big, her toes beautifully
curved. She has never seen the king, yet loves him passionately. Her
left eye twitches--a favorable sign--and she sings: "I must obey the
will of others, but my heart desires you; I cannot conceal it." "She
uses her song as a means of offering herself to you," says the
viduschaka to the king, who replies: "In the presence of the queen her
love saw no other way." "The Creator made her the poisoned arrow of
the god of love," he continues to his friend after the performance is
over and they are alone. "Apply your mind and think out other plans
for meeting her." "You remind me," says the viduschaka, "of a vulture
that hovers over a butcher's shop, filled with greed for meat but also
with fear. I believe the eagerness to have your will has made you
ill." "How were it possible to remain well?" the king retorts. "My
heart no longer desires intimacies with any woman in all my harem. To
her with the beautiful eyes, alone shall my love be devoted
henceforth."
In the royal gardens stands an asoka tree whose bloom is retarded. To
hasten it, the tree must be touched by the decorated foot of a
beautiful woman. The queen was to have done this, but an accident has
injured her foot and she has asked Malavika to take her place. While
the king and his adviser are walking in the garden they see Malavika
all alone. Her love has made her wither like a jasmine wreath blighted
by frost. "How long," she laments, "will the god of love make me
endure this anguish, from which there is no relief?" One of the
queen's maids presently arrives with the paints and rings for
decorating Malavika's feet. The king watches the proceeding, and after
the maiden has touched the tree with her left foot he steps forward,
to the confusion of the two women. He tells Malavika that he, like the
tree, has long had no occasion to bloom, and begs her to make him
also, who loves only her, happy with the nectar of her touch.
Unluckily this whole scene has also been secretly witnessed by
Iravati, the second of the king's wives, who steps forward at this
moment and sarcastically tells Malavika to do his bidding. The
viduschaka tries to help out his confused master by pretending that
the meeting was accidental, and the king humbly calls himself her
loving husband, her slave, asks her pardon, and prostrates himself;
but she exclaims: "These are not the feet of Malavika whose touch you
desire to still your longing," and departs. The king feels quite hurt
by her action. "How unjust," he exclaims,
"is love! My heart belongs to the dear girl, therefore
Iravati did me a service by not accepting my
prostration. And yet it was love that led her to do
that! Therefore I must not overlook her anger, but try
to conciliate her."
Iravati goes straight to the first queen to report on their common
husband's new escapade. When the king hears of this he is astonished
at "such persistent anger," and dismayed on learning further that
Malavika is now confined in a dungeon, under lock and key, which
cannot be opened unless a messenger arrives with the queen's own seal
ring. But once more the viduschaka devises a ruse which puts him in
possession of the seal ring. The maiden is liberated and brought to
the water-house, whither the king hastens to meet her with the
viduschaka, who soon finds an excuse for going outside with the girl's
companion, leaving the lovers alone. "Why do you still hesitate, O
beauty, to unite yourself with one who has so long longed for your
love?" exclaims the king; and Malavika answers: "What I should like to
do I dare not; I fear the queen." "You need not fear her." "Did I not
see the master himself seized with fear when he saw the queen?" "Oh,
that," replies the king, "was only a matter of good breeding, as
becomes princes. But you, with the long eyes, I love so much that my
life depends on the hope that you love me too. Take me, take me, who
long have loved you." With these words he embraces her, while she
tries to resist. "How charming is the coyness of young girls!" he
exclaims.
"Trembling, she tries to restrain my hand, which is
busy with her girdle; while I embrace her ardently she
puts up her own hands to protect her bosom; her
countenance with the beautiful eyelashes she turns
aside when I try to raise it for a kiss; by thus
struggling she affords me the same delight as if I had
attained what I desire."
Again the second queen and her maid appear unexpectedly and disturb
the king's bliss. Her object is to go to the king's picture in the
water-house and beg its pardon for having been disrespectful, this
being better, in her opinion, than appearing before the king himself,
since he has given his heart to another, while in that picture he has
eyes for her alone (as Malavika, too, had noticed when she entered the
water-house). The viduschaka has proved an unreliable sentinel; he has
fallen asleep at the door of the house. The queen's maid perceives
this and, to tease him, touches him with a crooked staff. He awakes
crying that a snake has bitten him. The king runs out and is
confronted again by Iravati. "Well, well!" she exclaims, "this couple
meet in broad daylight and without hindrance to gratify their wishes!"
"An unheard-of greeting is this, my dear," said the king. "You are
mistaken; I see no cause for anger. I merely liberated the two girls
because this is a holiday, on which servants must not be confined, and
they came here to thank me." But he is glad to escape when a messenger
arrives opportunely to announce that a yellow ape has frightened the
princess.
"My heart trembles when I think of the queen," says Malavika, left
alone with her companion. "What will become of me now?" But the queen
knows her duty, according to Hindoo custom. She makes her maids array
Malavika in marriage dress, and then sends a message to the king
saying that she awaits him with Malavika and her attendants. The girl
does not know why she has been so richly attired, and when the king
beholds her he says to himself: "We are so near and yet apart. I seem
to myself like the bird Tschakravaka;[277] and the name of the night
which does not allow me to be united with my love is Dharini." At that
moment two captive girls are brought before the assemblage, and to
everyone's surprise they greet Malavika as "Princess." A princess she
proves to be, on inquiry, and the queen now carries out the plan she
had had in her mind, with the consent also of the second queen, who
sends her apologies at the same time. "Take her," says Dharini to the
king, and at a hint of the viduschaka she takes a veil and by putting
it on the new bride makes her a queen and spouse of equal rank with
herself. And the king answers:
"I am not surprised at your magnanimity. If women are
faithful and kind to their husbands, they even bring,
by way of serving him, new wives to him, like unto the
rivers which provide that the water of other streams
also is carried to the ocean. I have now but one more
wish; be hereafter always, irascible queen, prepared to
do me homage. I wish this for the sake of the other
women."
IV. THE STORY OF SAVITRI
King Asvapati, though an honest, virtuous, pious man, was not blessed
with offspring, and this made him unhappy.[278] He curbed all his
appetites and for eighteen years lived a life of devotion to his
religious duties. At the expiration of these years Savitri, the
daughter of the sun-god, appeared to him and offered to reward him by
granting a favor. "Sons I crave, many sons, O goddess, sons to
preserve my family," he answered. But Savitri promised him a daughter;
and she was born to him by his oldest wife and was named after the
goddess Savitri. She grew up to be so beautiful, so broad-hipped, like
a golden statue, that she seemed of divine origin, and, abashed, none
of the men came to choose her as his wife. This saddened her father
and he said:
"Daughter, it is time for you to marry, but no one comes to
ask me for you. Go and seek your own husband, a man your
equal in worth. And when you have chosen, you must let me
know. Then I will consider him, and betroth you. For,
according to the laws, a father who does not give his
daughter in marriage is blameworthy."
And Savitri went on a golden chariot with a royal retinue, and she
visited all the groves of the saints and at last found a man after her
heart, whose name was Satyavant. Then she returned to her father--who
was just conversing with the divine sage Nârada--and told him of her
choice. But Nârada exclaimed: "Woe and alas, you have chosen one who
is, indeed, endowed with all the virtues, but who is doomed to die a
year from this day." Thereupon the king begged Savitri to choose
another for her husband, but she replied: "May his life be long or
short, may he have merits or no merits, I have selected him as my
husband, and a second I shall not choose." Then the king and Nârada
agreed not to oppose her, and she went with her father to the grove
where she had seen Satyavant, the man of her choice. The king spoke to
this man's father and said: "Here, O royal saint, is my lovely
daughter, Savitri; take her as your daughter-in-law in accordance with
your duty as friend." And the saint replied: "Long have I desired such
a bond of relationship; but I have lost my royal dignity, and how
could your daughter endure the hardships of life in the forest?" But
the king replied that they heeded not such things and their mind was
made up. So all the Brahmans were called together and the king gave
his daughter to Satyavant, who was pleased to win a wife endowed with
so many virtues.
When her father had departed, Savitri put away all her ornaments and
assumed the plain garb of the saints. She was modest, self-contained,
and strove to make herself useful and to fulfil the wishes of all. But
she counted the days, and the time came when she had to say to
herself, "In three days he must die." And she made a vow and stood in
one place three days and nights; on the following day he was to die.
In the afternoon her husband took his axe on his shoulder and went
into the primeval forest to get some wood and fruits. For the first
time she asked to go with him. "The way is too difficult for you,"
said he, but she persisted; and her heart was consumed by the flames
of sadness. He called her attention, as they walked on, to the limpid
rivers and noble trees decked with flowers of many colors, but she had
eyes only for him, following his every movement; for she looked on him
as a dead man from that hour. He was filling his basket with fruits
when suddenly he was seized with violent headache and longing for
sleep. She took his head on her lap and awaited his last moment.
All at once she saw a man, in red attire, of fearful aspect, with a
rope in his hand. And she said: "Who are you?" "You," he replied, "are
a woman faithful to your husband and of good deeds, therefore will I
answer you. I am Yama, and I have come to take away your husband,
whose life has reached its goal." And with a mighty jerk he drew from
the husband's body his spirit, the size of a thumb, and forthwith the
breath of life departed from the body. Having carefully tied the soul,
Yama departed toward the south. Savitri, tortured by anguish, followed
him. "Turn back, Savitri," he said; "you owe your husband nothing
further, and you have gone as far as you can go." "Wherever my husband
goes or is taken, there I must go; that is an eternal duty." Thereupon
Yama offered to grant any favor she might ask--except the life of her
husband. "Restore the sight of the blind king, my father-in-law," she
said; and he answered: "It is done already." He offered a second favor
and she said: "Restore his kingdom to my father-in-law;" and it was
granted, as was also the third wish: "Grant one hundred sons to my
father, who has none." Her fourth wish, too, he agreed to: that she
herself might have a hundred sons; and as he made the fifth and last
wish unconditional, she said:
"Let Satyavant return to life; for, bereft of him, I
desire not happiness; bereft of him I desire not
heaven; I desire not to live bereft of him. A hundred
sons you have promised me, yet you take away my
husband? I desire this as a favor; let Satyavant live!"
"So be it!" answered the god of death as he untied the string.
"Your husband is released to you, blessed one, pride of
your race. Sound and well you shall take him home, live
with him four hundred years, beget one hundred sons,
and all of them shall be mighty kings."
With these words he went his way. Life returned to the body of
Satyavant, and his first feeling was distress lest his parents grieve
over his absence. Thinking him too weak to walk, Savitri wanted to
sleep in the forest, surrounded by a fire to keep off wild beasts, but
he replied:
"My father and mother are distressed even in the
daytime when I am away. Without them I could not live.
As long as they live I live only for them. Rather than
let anything happen to them, I give up my own life, you
woman with the beautiful hips; truly I shall kill
myself sooner."
So she helped him to rise, and they returned that very night, to the
great joy of their parents and friends; and all the promises of Yama
were fulfilled.
V. NALA AND DAMAYANTI
Once upon a time there was a king by the name of Nala, a man handsome
as the god of love, endowed with all the virtues, a favorite of men
and women. There was also another king, named Bhima, the Terrible. He
was renowned as a warrior and endowed with many virtues; yet he was
discontented, for he had no offspring. But it happened that he was
visited by a saint, whom he entertained so hospitably that the Brahman
granted him in return a favor: a daughter and three sons were born to
him. The daughter, who received the name of Damayanti, soon became
famed for her beauty, her dignity, and her gracious manners. She
seemed, amid her companions, like lightning born in a rain-cloud. Her
beauty was so much vaunted in the hearing of King Nala, and his merits
were so much extolled in her presence, that the two conceived an
ardent passion for one another, though they had never met. Nala could
hardly endure his yearnings of love; near the apartments of the women
there was a forest; into that he retired, living in solitude. One day
he came across some gold-decked geese. He caught one of them and she
said to him: "Spare my life and I promise to praise you in Damayanti's
presence in such a way that she shall never think of any other man."
He did so, and the goose flew to Damayanti and said: "There is a man
named Nala; he is like the celestial knights; no human being equals
him. Yes, if you could become _his_ wife, it would be worth while that
you were born and became so beautiful. You are the pearl among women,
but Nala, too, is the best of men." Damayanti begged the goose to go
and speak to Nala similarly about her, and the goose said "Yes" and
flew away.
From that moment Damayanti was always in spirit with Kala. Sunk in
reverie, sad, with pale face, she visibly wasted away, and sighing was
her only, her favorite, occupation. If anyone saw her gazing upward,
absorbed in her thoughts, he might have almost fancied her
intoxicated. Often of a sudden her whole face turned pale; in short,
it was plain that love-longing held her senses captive. Lying in bed,
sitting, eating, everything is distasteful to her; neither at night
nor by day does sleep come to her. Ah and alas! thus her wails
resound, and over and over again she begins to weep.
Her companions noted these symptoms and they said to the king:
"Damayanti is not at all well." The king reflected, "Why is my
daughter no longer well?" and it occurred to him that she had reached
the marriageable age, and it became clear to him that he must without
delay give her a chance to choose a husband. So he invited all the
kings to assemble at his court for that purpose on a certain day. Soon
the roads were filled with kings, princes, elephants, horses, wagons,
and warriors, for she, the pearl of the world, was desired of men
above all other women. King Nala also had received the message and set
out on his journey hopefully. Like the god of love incarnate he
looked. Even the ruling gods heard of the great event and went to join
the worldly rulers. As they approached the earth's surface they beheld
King Nala. Pleased with his looks, they accosted him and said: "We are
immortals journeying on account of Darnayanti. As for you, go you and
bring Damayanti this message: 'The four gods, Indra, Agni, Yama,
Varuna, desire to have you for a wife. Choose one of these four gods
as your wedded husband.'"
Folding his hands humbly, Nala replied:
"The very same affair has induced me to make this
journey: therefore you must not send me on this errand.
For how could a man who himself feels the longing of
love woo the same woman for another?"
But the gods ordered him to go at once, because he had promised to
serve them before he knew what they wanted. They endowed him with
power to enter the carefully guarded apartments of the princess, and
presently he found himself in her presence. Her lovely face, her
charmingly moulded limbs, her slender body, her beautiful eyes,
diffused a splendor that mocked the light of the moon and increased
his pangs of love; but he resolved to keep his promise. When the young
maidens beheld him they could not utter a word; they were dazed by the
splendor of his appearance, and abashed, the beautiful virgins. At
last the astonished Damayanti began to speak and said with a sweet
smile:
"Who are you, you with the faultless form, who increase
the yearnings of my love? Like an immortal you came
here, O hero! I would like to know you better, noble,
good man. Closely guarded is my house, however, and
most strict in his orders is the king."
"My name, gracious maiden, is Nala," he replied.
"As messenger of the gods have I come. Four of
them--Indra, Agni, Varuna, Yama--would like you as
bride, therefore choose one of them as husband, O
beauty! That I entered unseen is the result, too, of
their power. Now you have heard all; act as seems
proper to you."
As he spoke the names of the gods Damayanti bowed humbly; then she
laughed merrily and said:
"Follow you the inclination of your heart and be kind
to me. What can I do to please you? Myself and all that
is mine belongs to you. Lay aside all diffidence, my
master and husband! Alas, the entire speech of the
gold-swans, my prince, was to me a real firebrand. It
was for your sake, O hero, that all these kings were in
reality called together so hastily. Should you ever, O
my pride, be able to scorn me, who is so devoted to
you, I shall resort on your account to poison, fire,
water, rope."
"How can you," retorted Nala,
"when gods are present in person, direct your desires
toward a mortal? Not so! Let your inclination dwell
with them, the creators of the world. Remember, too,
that a mortal who does something to displease the gods
is doomed to death. Therefore, you with the faultless
limbs, save me by choosing the most worthy of the gods.
Hesitate no longer. Your husband must be one of the
gods."
Then said Damayanti, while her eyes were diffused with anguish-born
tears: "My reverence to the gods! As husband I choose you, mighty
ruler on earth. What I say to you is immutable truth." "I am here now
as messenger of the gods, and cannot, therefore, plead my own cause.
Later I shall have a chance to speak for myself," said Nala; and
Damayanti said, smiling, while tears choked her voice:
"I shall arrange that you as well as the gods are
present on the day of my husband-choice. Then I shall
choose you in the presence of the immortals. In that
way no blame can fall on anyone."
Returning to the gods, Nala told them just what happened, not omitting
her promise that she would choose him in presence of the gods. The day
now was approaching when the kings, who, urged by love-longings, had
assembled, were to appear before the maiden. With their beautiful
hair, noses, eyes, and brows, these royal personages shone like the
stars in heaven. They fixed their gaze on the maiden's limbs, and
wherever the eyes first rested there they remained fixed immovably.
But the four gods had all assumed the exact form and appearance of
Nala, and when Damayanti was about to choose him she saw five men all
alike. How could she tell which of them was the king, her beloved?
After a moment's thought she uttered an invocation to the gods calling
upon them to assume the characteristics by which they differ from
mortals. The gods, moved by her anguish, her faith in the power of
truth, her intelligence and passionate devotion, heard her prayer and
forthwith they appeared to her free from perspiration, with fixed
gaze, ever fresh wreath, free from dust; and none of them, while
standing, touched the floor; whereas King Nala betrayed himself by
throwing a shadow, by having dust and perspiration on his body, a
withered wreath, and eyelids that winked.
Thereupon the big-eyed maiden timidly seized him by the hem of his
garment and put a beautiful wreath on his shoulders. Thus did she
choose him to be her husband; and the gods granted them special
favors.[279]
According to Schroeder, the Hindoos are "the romantic nation" among
the ancients, as the Germans are among the moderns; and Albrecht Weber
says that when, a little more than a century ago, Europe first became
acquainted with Sanscrit literature, it was noticed that in the
amorous poetry of India in particular the sentimental qualities of
modern verse were traced in a much higher degree than they had been
found in Greek and Roman literature. All this is doubtless true. The
Hindoos appear to have been the only ancient people that took delight
in forests, rivers, and mountains as we do; in reading their
descriptions of Nature we are sometimes affected by a mysterious
feeling of awe, like a reminiscence of the time when our ancestors
lived in India. Their amorous hyperbole, too, despite its frequent
grotesqueness, affects us perhaps more sympathetically than that of
the Greeks. And yet the essentials of what we call romantic love are
so entirely absent from ancient Hindoo literature that such amorous
symptoms as are noted therein can all be readily brought under the
three heads of artificiality, sensuality, and selfishness.
ARTIFICIAL SYMPTOMS
Commenting on the directions for caressing given in the _Kama Soutra_,
Lamairesse remarks (56):
"All these practices and caresses are conventional rather
than natural, like everything the Hindoos do. A bayadčres
straying to Paris and making use of them would be a
curiosity so extraordinary that she would certainly enjoy a
succčs de vogue pour rire."
Nail-marks on various parts of the body, blows, bites, meaningless
exclamations are prescribed or described in the diverse love-scenes.
In Hindoo dramas several of the artificial symptoms--pure figments of
the poetic fancy--are incessantly referred to. One of the most
ludicrous of them is the drops of perspiration on the cheeks or other
parts of the body, which are regarded as an infallible and inevitable
sign of love. Urvasi's royal lover is afraid to take her birch-bark
message in his hand lest his perspiration wipe away the letters. In
Bhavabhuti's drama, _Malati and Madhava_, the heroine's feet perspire
so profusely from excess of longing, that the lacquer of her couch is
melted; and one of the stage directions in the same drama is:
"Perspiration appears on Madayantika, with other things indicating
love."
Another of these grotesque symptoms is the notion that the touch or
mere thought of the beloved makes the small hairs all over the body
stand erect. No love-scene seems to be complete without this detail.
The drama just referred to, in different scenes, makes the hairs on
the cheeks, on the arms, all over the body, rise "splendidly," the
author says in one line.[280] A Hindoo lover always has twitching of
the right or left arm or eye to indicate what kind of luck he is going
to have; and she is equally favored. Usually the love is mutual and at
first sight--nay, preferably _before_ first sight. The mere hearsay
that a certain man or maiden is very beautiful suffices, as we saw in
the story of Nala and Damayanti, to banish sleep and appetite, and to
make the lover pale and wan and most wretched. Sakuntala's royal lover
wastes away so rapidly that in a few days his bracelet falls from his
attenuated arm, and Sakuntala herself becomes so weak that she cannot
rise, and is supposed to have sunstroke! Malati dwindles until her
form resembles the moon in its last quarter; her face is as pale as
the moon at morning dawn. Always both the lovers, though he be a
king--as he generally is--and she a goddess, are diffident at first,
fearing failure, even after the most unmistakable signs of fondness,
in the betrayal of which the girls are anything but coy. All these
symptoms the poets prescribe as regularly as a physician makes out a
prescription for an apothecary.
A peculiar stare--which must be sidelong, not direct at the
beloved--is another conventional characteristic of Hindoo amorous
fiction. The gait becomes languid, the breathing difficult, the heart
stops beating or is paralyzed with joy; the limbs or the whole body
wither like flower-stalks after a frost; the mind is lamed, the memory
weakened; cold shivers run down the limbs and fever shakes the body;
the arms hang limp at the side, the breast heaves, words stick in the
throat; pastimes no longer entertain; the perfumed Malayan wind crazes
the mind; the eyelids are motionless, sighs give vent to anguish,
which may end in a swoon, and if things take an unfavorable turn the
thought of suicide is not distant. Attempts to cure this ardent love
are futile; Madhava tries snow, and moonlight, and camphor, and lotos
roots, and pearls, and sandal oil rubbed on his skin, but all in vain.
THE HINDOO GOD OF LOVE
Quite as artificial and unsentimental as the notions of the Hindoos
concerning the symptoms of love is their conception of their god of
love, Kama, the husband of Lust. His bow is made of sugar-cane, its
string a row of bees, and his arrow-tips are red flower-buds. Spring
is his bosom friend, and he rides on a parrot or the sea-monster
Makara. He is also called Ananga--the bodiless--because Siwa once
burned him up with the fire that flashed from his third eye for
disturbing him in his devotions by awakening in him love for Parwati.
Sakuntala's lover wails that Kama's arrows are "not flowers, but hard
as diamond." Agnimitra declares that the Creator made his beloved "the
poison-steeped arrow of the God of Love;" and again, he says: "The
softest and the sharpest things are united in you, O Kama." Urvasi's
royal lover complains that his "heart is pierced by Kama's arrow," and
in _Malati and Madhava_ we are told that "a cruel god no doubt is
Kama;" while No. 329 of Ilâla's love-poems declares:
"The arrows of Kama are most diverse in their
effects--though made of flowers, very hard; though not
coming into direct contact, insufferably hot; and
though piercing, yet causing delight."
Our familiarity with Greek and Roman literature has made us so
accustomed to the idea of a Cupid awakening love by shooting arrows
that we fail to realize how entirely fanciful, not to say whimsical,
this conceit is. It would be odd, indeed, if the Hindoo poets had
happened on the same fancy as the Greeks of their own accord; but
there is no reason to suppose that they did. Kama is one of the later
gods of the Indian Pantheon, and there is every reason to believe that
the Hindoos borrowed him from the Greeks, as the Romans did. In
_Sakuntala_ (27) there is a reference to the Greek women who form the
king's body-guard; in _Urvasi_ (70) to a slave of Greek descent; and
there are many things in the Hindoo drama that betray Greek influence.
Besides being artificial and borrowed, Kama is entirely sensual. Kama
means "gratification of the senses,"[281] and of all the epithets
bestowed on their god of love by the Hindoos none rises distinctly
above sensual ideas. Dowson (147) has collated these epithets; they
are: "the beautiful," "the inflamer," "lustful," "desirous," "the
happy," "the gay, or wanton," "deluder," "the lamp of honey, or of
spring," "the bewilderer," "the crackling fire," "the stalk of
passion," "the weapon of beauty," "the voluptuary," "remembrance,"
"fire," "the handsome."[282]
The same disregard of sentimental, devotional, and altruistic elements
is shown in the Ten Stages of Love-Sickness as conceived by the
Hindoos: (1) desire; (2) thinking of her (his) beauty; (3) reminiscent
revery; (4) boasting of her (his) excellence; (5) excitement; (6)
lamentations; (7) distraction; (8) illness; (9) insensibility; (10)
death.[283]
DYING FOR LOVE
The notion that the fever of love may become so severe as to lead to
death plays an important role in Hindoo amorous sophistry. "Hindoo
casuists," says Lamairesse (151, 179), "always have a peremptory
reason, in their own eyes, for dispensing with all scruples in
love-affairs: the necessity of not dying for love." "It is
permissible," says the author of _Kama Soutra_, "to seduce another
man's wife if one is in danger of dying from love for her;" upon which
Lamairesse comments:
"This principle, liberally interpreted by those
interested, excuses all intrigues; in theory it is
capable of accommodating itself to all cases, and in
the practice of the Hindoos it does thus accommodate
itself. It is based on the belief that the souls of men
who die of ungratified desires flit about a long time
as manes before transmigrating."
Thus did the wily priests invoke the aid even of superstition to
foster that national licentiousness by which they themselves profited
most. Small wonder that the _Hitopadesa_ declared (92) that "there is
perhaps in all the world not a man who covets not his neighbor's
wife;" or that the same collection of wise stories and maxims should
take an equally low view of feminine morals (39, 40, 41, 54, 88);
_e.g._ (in substance): "Then only is a wife faithful to her husband,
when no other man covets her." "Seek chastity in those women only who
have no opportunity to meet a lover." "A woman's lust can no more be
satisfied than a fire's greed for wood, the ocean's thirst for rivers,
death's desire for victims." Another verse in the _Hitopadesa_ (13)
declares frankly that of the six good things in the world two of them
are a caressing wife and a devoted sweetheart beside her--upon which
the editor, Johannes Hertel, comments: "To a Hindoo there is nothing
objectionable in such a sentiment."
WHAT HINDOO POETS ADMIRE IN WOMEN
The Hindoo's inability to rise above sensuality also manifests itself
in his admiration of personal beauty, which is purely carnal. No. 217
of Hâla's anthology declares:
"Her face resembles the moon, the juice of her mouth
nectar; but wherewith shall I compare (my delight) when
I seize her, amid violent struggles, by the head and
kiss her?"
Apart from such grotesque comparisons of the face to the moon, or of
the teeth to the lotos, there is nothing in the amorous hyperbole of
Hindoo poets that rises above the voluptuous into the neighborhood of
esthetic admiration. Hindoo statues embodying the poets' ideal of
women's waists so narrow that they can be spanned by the hand, show
how infinitely inferior the Hindoos were to the Greeks in their
appreciation of human beauty. The Hindoo poet's ideal of feminine
beauty is a wasp-waist and grossly exaggerated bust and hips.
Bhavabhuti allows his heroine Malati to be thus addressed (by a
girl!):
"The wind, sandal-cool, refreshes your moon-face, in
which nectar-like drops of perspiration appear from
your walking, during which you lifted your feet but
slowly, as they wavered under the weight of your
thighs, which are strong as those of an elephant."
Usually, of course, these grotesquely coarse compliments are paid by
the enamored men. Kalidasa makes King Pururavas, crazed by the loss of
Urvasi, exclaim:
"Have you seen the divine beauty, who is compelled by
the weight of her hips to walk slowly, and who never
sees the flight of youth, whose bosom is high and
swelling, whose gait is as the swan's?"
In another place he refers to her footsteps "pressed in deeper behind
by the weight of the beloved's hips," Satyavant has no other epithet
for Savitri than "beautiful-hipped." It is the same with Sakuntala's
lover (who has been held up as an ancient embodiment of modern
ethereal sentiment). What does he admire in Sakuntala? "Here," he
says, "in the yellow sand are a number of fresh footsteps; they are
higher in front, but depressed behind by the weight of her hips." "How
slow was her gait--and naturally so, considering the weight of her
hips." Compare also the poet's remarks on her bodily charms when the
king first sees her.[284] Among all of the king's hyperbolic
compliments and remarks there is not one that shows him to be
fascinated by anything but the purely bodily charms of the young girl,
charms of a coarse, voluptuous kind, calculated to increase _his_
pleasure should he succeed in winning her, while there is not a trace
of a desire on his part to make _her_ happy. Nor is there anything in
Sakuntala's symptoms rising above selfish distress at her uncertainty,
or selfish longing to possess her lover. In a word, there is no
romantic love, in our sense of the word, in the dramas of the most
romantic poet of the most romantic nation of antiquity.[285]
THE OLD STORY OF SELFISHNESS
It might be maintained that the symptoms of true affection--altruistic
devotion to the verge of self-sacrifice--are revealed, at any rate, in
the _conjugal_ love of Savitri and of Damayanti. Savitri follows the
god of death as he carries away her husband's spirit, and by her
devotion and entreaties persuades Yama to restore him to life; while
Damayanti (whose story we did not finish) follows her husband, after
he has gambled away all his kingdom, into the forest to suffer with
him. One night, while she sleeps, he steals half of her only garment
and deserts her. Left alone in the terrible forest with tigers and
snakes, she sobs aloud and repeatedly faints away from fear. "Yet I do
not weep for myself," she exclaims; "my only thought is, how will you
fare, my royal master, being left thus all alone?" She is seized by a
huge snake, which coils its body around her; yet "even in this
situation she thinks not so much of herself as she bewails the fate of
the king." A hunter saves her and proceeds to make improper advances,
but she, faithful to her lord, curses the hunter and he falls dead
before her. Then she resumes her solitary roaming in the gloomy
forest, "_distressed by grief for her husband's fate_," unmindful of
his cruelty, or of her own sad plight.
It is needless to continue the tale; the reader cannot be so obtuse as
not to notice the _moral_ of it. The stories of Savitri and of
Damayanti, far from exemplifying Hindoo conjugal devotion, simply
afford fresh proof of the hoggish selfishness of the male Hindoo. They
are intended to be _object-lessons_ to wives, teaching them--like the
laws of Manu and the custom of widow burning--that they do not exist
for their own sakes, but for their husbands. Reading the stories in
the light of this remark, we cannot fail to note everywhere the subtle
craft of the sly men who invented them. If further evidence were
needed to sustain my view it would be found in the fact related by F.
Reuleaux, that to this day the priests arrange an annual
"prayer-festival" of Hindoo women at which the wife must in every way
show her subjection to her husband and master. She must wash his feet,
dry them, put a wreath around his neck, and bring offerings to the
gods, praying that _he_ may prosper and live long. Then follows a meal
for which she has prepared all _his_ favorite dishes. And as a climax,
_the story of Savitri is read_, a story in which the wife lives only
for the husband, while he, as he rudely tells her--after all her
devotion--_lives only for his parents_!
If these stories were anything else than slyly planned object-lessons
calculated to impress and subjugate the women, why is it that the
_husband_ is never chosen to act the self-sacrificing part? He does,
indeed, sometimes indulge in frantic outbursts of grief and maudlin
sentimentality, but that is because he has lost the young woman who
pleased his senses. There is no sign of soul-love here; the husband
never dreams of devoting his life to her, of sacrificing it for her
sake, as she is constantly exhorted to do for his sake. In a word,
masculine selfishness is the keynote of Hindoo life. "When in danger,
never hesitate to sacrifice your goods and your wife to save your
life," we read in the _Hitopadesa_ (25); and No. 4112 of Boehtlingk's
_Hindu Maxims_ declares bluntly that a wife exists for the purpose of
bearing sons, and a son for the purpose of offering sacrifices after
his father's death. There we have masculine selfishness in a nutshell.
Another maxim declares that a wife can atone for her lack or loss of
beauty by faithful subjection to her husband. And in return for all
the devotion expected of her she is utterly despised--considered
unworthy of an education, unfit even to profess virginity--in a word,
looked on "as scarcely forming a part of the human species." In the
most important event in her life--marriage--her choice is never
consulted. The matter is, as we have seen, left to the family barber,
or to the parents, to whom questions of caste and wealth are of
infinitely more importance than personal preferences. When those
matters are arranged the man satisfies himself concerning the
inclinations of the chosen girl's _kindred_, and when assured that he
will not "suffer the affront of a refusal" from _them_ he proceeds
with the offer and the bargaining. "To marry or to buy a girl are
synonymous terms in this country," says Dubois (I., 198); and he
proceeds, to give an account of the bargaining and the disgraceful
quarrels this leads to.
BAYADČRES AND PRINCESSES AS HEROINES
Under such circumstances the Hindoo playwrights must have found
themselves in a curious dilemma. They were sufficiently versed in the
poetic art to build up a plot; but what chance for an amorous plot was
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