THE DESCENT OF THE SUN.
[Sanskrit script]
(The illusion of a waking dream.)
Like a Digit of the Moon
In the Shadow of the Earth
Spirit undergoeth Swoon
In the Vestibule of Birth;
Dreameth transitory trouble,
Weareth Hues of Heaven, hurled
Hither, thither, as a Bubble
On the Ocean of the World.
[Illustration: Crescent moon]
[_vide n. p._ xv.]
THE
DESCENT OF THE SUN
[Sanskrit script]
_A CYCLE OF BIRTH_
TRANSLATED FROM THE ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT.
BY
F. W. BAIN
[Sanskrit script]
'_and in a dream I saw a lotus fallen from heaven_'
THIRD EDITION.
James Parker and Co.,
31 BEDFORD-STREET, STRAND, LONDON;
AND 27 BROAD-STREET, OXFORD.
1906.
[Illustration: Title page]
_First Edition_, 1903.
_Second Edition_, 1903.
_Third Edition_, 1906.
DEDICATED
TO
MARGARET.
INTRODUCTION.
Here is a fairy tale which I found in an old Hindoo manuscript.
As the title shows, it is a solar myth. Literally translated, its
name is: _The glory of the Going Down of the Sun_. But this is only
the exoteric, physical envelope of the inner, mystical meaning, which
is: _The Divine Lustre[1] of the Descent_ (Incarnation) _of Him Who
took Three Steps_: i.e. Wishnu, or the Sun, the later Krishna, or
Hindoo Apollo. And this epithet of the Sun is explained by the
well-known passage in the Rig-Weda (I. 22. 17[2]), '_Three steps did
Wishnu stride: thrice did he set down his foot._' A mythological
expression for the rise, the zenith, and the set of the Sun. But the
old magnificent simplicity of the Rig-Weda was perverted by
subsequent Pauranik glosses; and Wishnu, according to the new legend,
was said to have cheated his adversary, Bali, by striding, in his
Dwarf Incarnation, over the three worlds. In our title, a different
turn is given to the old idea, which we may express by saying that
the steps commence, not with the rise, but the set of the Sun: his
Going Down, his mysterious period of Darkness, his Rising again.
This is the inverted Race, or Cycle of the Sun, which so much
exercised the mind of primitive man, and seemed to be a symbol of the
mystery of Birth and Death.
And ours is a strange story; which seemed to the translator not
unworthy of being clothed in an English dress, containing as it did
so much in little bulk that, as the French say, _donne à penser_.
Absolutely Hindoo in its form and spirit, it is for an Englishman
full of associations, and instinct with that philosophical mythology,
scraps and fragments of which are familiar to him in the story of the
Fall and the poetry of Milton, in many an old fairy tale, in some
touches of Pythagoras and Plato, and some old religious legends.
_Lux in tenebris_: a dazzling light, in the most profound darkness:
the night of the sun: a heavenly body, doomed to put on mortality and
suffer for a period in this lower world of darkness, birth and death:
in some such ways as these we may express its central idea. But for
the reader not acquainted with Sanskrit it may be worth while to
point out that there runs throughout it a veiled allegory which he
would not be apt to detect, to the teaching of the Sánkhya Philosophy
of Kapila, (who is older than Thales;) according to which it is the
duty of PURUSHA, the archetype of the spirit of man, the Primæval
Male, to hunt for and pursue PRAKRITI, the feminine personification
of material Nature, the Eternal Feminine, till he finds her: when
instantly she disappears 'like an actress[3].' In this respect, the
story somewhat recalls the _Gita-Gowind_ of Jayadewa, which according
to one school of interpreters, deals with the Soul, personified as
the lovely Rádhá, in its search after the Divine. For among the
Hindoos, the earthly and the heavenly love are always confounded.
And let not anyone suppose, that the lesson embodied in these pages
is obsolete or dead in the India of to-day. I wrote the last lines
of this translation late one evening, and I walked out in the dusk to
the bridge across the river, about half a mile away. There was not a
breath of air. It was a night as still as that which long ago Medea
chose on which to work her spells: nothing moved save the twinkling
stars; all below was plunged in sleep, every tree a picture, every
leaf seemed carved in stone: only, every now and then, a flying fox
burst screeching from a branch. And as I stood upon the bridge, I
could hear a faint din of tom-toms coming from the distant city of
the Peshwas. I looked westwards, up the river. The sun had set,
leaving behind it a ruddy glare which faded higher up the sky into
the darkness: and exactly on the confines of the colours, in that
bath of _nilalohita_, that _purple-red_, which is a favourite epithet
of the god Shiwa, hung, like a thing in a dream, the lovely streak of
the new moon, one day old. All was reflected in the still mirror of
the broad sheet of water formed by the river _Bund_, or dam.
I turned round. On the eastern side, below the bridge, the river
runs in disconnected pools. All was buried in dark and gloom. But
about two hundred yards away, on the right bank, there was a red spot
and leaping flames. They were burning on the bank a corpse, whose
former owner had died of plague. For here in Poona it is now, as it
was of old in the days of Homer, [Greek: aieì dè puraì nekúon kaíonto
thameiaí ....]
Suddenly a voice said behind me: They burn well on a cold night. I
looked round. Beside me stood a Hindoo, whose real name I do not
think it lawful to mention. His white clothes were stained and
splashed all over with red, for the Holi festival had left its mark
on him.
Why, Wishwanáth, I said, what are you doing here? Or have you come,
like me, merely _dekhne ke wáste_, to see the sun set, and 'eat air'?
Wishwanáth cast a careless glance at the sky. Yes, he said, it looks
well from here: but then I have seen it so often. It was a new moon
yesterday.
And very soon it will be old. Look, Wishwanáth, here is a strange
thing. See, there on that side is the moon, following the sun to
rest in a bath of fire, and they will both appear to-morrow all the
better for it. But now, look down there. There is another thing
passing away in the fire. But how will it be with _that_?
And I pointed to the burning pyre on the other side.
The Hindoo looked steadily at it for a moment, and then at me. It
will be just the same, he said.
What! you think that _that_ will come back again, like sun and moon?
He did not answer for a moment. Then he said slowly, in a low voice,
as if speaking rather to himself than me: How should it not return?
_na jáyate mriyate wa kadáchit_[4].
I looked at him, but said nothing. He continued to gaze steadily at
the burning pyre, in silence, and I did the same. The flames were
dying down: their work was done.
Metempsychosis, transmigration, everlasting incarnation and
re-incarnation of the immortal soul in body after body, birth after
birth: all Hindoo literature is but the kaleidoscopic reiteration of
this one identical idea, whose beauty is such that no logic will ever
destroy it or oust it in favour of another. For the Sanskrit
language is a kind of shrine, consecrated to the embodiment and
immortalisation of this philosophical myth. The Hindoos are
possessed by it; it is their hereditary heirloom, _Kramágatam_, the
legacy from an immemorial past: it is all that they have left. And
nations, like the characters in our story, cling desperately, in
periods of degradation and eclipse, to all that reminds them of a
former state of ideal prosperity, which lingers in their literature
and echoes in their souls, like dim recollections of a forgotten
paradise, or faint reminiscences of a former birth. Distance lends
enchantment, and time effaces detail, and endows stern realities with
dreamy beauty; and thus a rugged stony past fades gradually into a
picture, blue, soft, and unutterably beautiful, like some low barren
island, seen far away in the haze, over a hot and glittering sea.
POONA,
_March_ 21, 1903.
[1] _Shrí_ also means a Sacred Lotus, and it is the name of the
twelfth Digit of the Moon: thus indicating the position of this story
in the series to which it belongs: for an account of which, and the
manuscript, I may refer the reader to the preface to her predecessor
_Shashiní_, entitled _A Digit of the Moon_.
[2] Cp. also I. 154, 155, and elsewhere. It should be observed that
learned doctors differ as to the interpretation of the _three
strides_: but this is not the place to examine their views.
[3] From this point of view, the period of Night would be the reign
of _Tamas_, one of the three great categories of that philosophy: the
Quality of _Darkness_, as opposed to _Light_, _Ignorance_, as opposed
to _Knowledge_, _Evil_, as opposed to _Good_, the World _Below_, as
opposed to the World _Above_.
[4] From the Bhagwad-Gitá: IT _is never born and never dies_.
CONTENTS.
SUNSET.--An Evil Eye
NIGHT.--A Sleep and a Dream
DAWN
[_Note_.--As the story belongs, by its title, both to Sun and Moon,
it should be observed, that the Night and the two Twilights, Dusk and
Dawn, apply to both in opposite ways. The Moon rises when the Sun
sets, reigns over the Night when he is buried in Darkness, and either
sets or vanishes when he is risen in his light. For the Moon is the
type of Night, or this lower world (_ihaloka_), but the Sun, of Day,
that is, of the other.]
NIGHT.
I. A Lotus of the Day
II. By Beat of Drum
III. An Eclipse of the Sun
IV. Inspiration
V. Nightwalker
VI. A Lotus of the Night
VII. The Silver Swans
VIII. The Land of the Lotus
IX. Recognition
X. Separation
XI. The Lord of the Beasts
XII. The Other Body
XIII. A Light in Darkness
XIV. Illusion
XV. The Dead of Night
XVI. Before Dawn
Sunset
AN EVIL EYE.
The Descent of the Sun.
INVOCATION.
_O glorious and infinite Spirit of Peace, Lord of Ascetics, who
whirling round in thy wild dance dost lend as it were its colour to
the sky, in whose mirror are seen reflected the blueness of thy
throat and the silver digit of the moon in the matted tufts of thy
tawny hair: thee we adore. And we worship the ever victorious trunk
of the Elephant of Elephants, whose fierce glare consumes the
innumerable hosts of opposing obstacles, as a forest fire shrivels
the blades of dry grass_[1].
Long ago, on the slopes of Himálaya, there lived a young King of the
Spirits of the Air, named Kamalamitra[2]; for he was a portion of the
Sun. And he worshipped the husband of Umá[3]. And he turned his
back on the pleasures of the senses, and went afar off, and dwelt
alone, among the icy peaks and snowy plateaux that lie around Kailás.
And there he remained, living at first upon leaves, and then upon
smoke, and finally upon air, performing penances of appalling
severity, till after a hundred years[4] that Lord of Creatures was
moved to compassion. And he appeared to him, in the twilight of
evening, in the guise of an ascetic, but in stature like a tall tree,
with the new moon in his hair, and said: I am pleased with thy
devotion, so now I grant thee a boon: ask. Then the young King bowed
before him, and said: Blessed One, let me continue in this
contemplation of thee: that is enough. Then said Maheshwara: This is
well said: nevertheless, ask of me some boon. Then said Kamalamitra:
Since it is so, and I must absolutely choose, then give me a wife,
whose eyes, like these hills and this sky, shall be full of the dusky
lustre[5] of thy throat and thy moon, as if, insatiate of gazing at
thee, they had become, not transitory mirrors, but pictures
permanently stained with thy glory. For so shall she be a medium of
devotion between me and thee.
Then the moon-crested God was pleased. But he looked into the
future, by his magic power of divination, and saw what was coming.
And he said slowly: Eyes such as these will be dangerous, not only to
others, but also to their owner. Nevertheless, I have given thee a
boon: thou shalt have thy desire.
Then he disappeared, and Kamalamitra returned home rejoicing. And by
the favour of the deity all the emaciation and fatigue of his
penances left him, and he became strong as Bhima and beautiful as
Arjuna[6]. And he arrived at his palace on the evening of the next
day, and went into the garden to repose, as the sun was going down.
And as he went, he looked before him, and suddenly he saw a woman,
floating on a pool of white lotuses, in a boat of sandal, with silver
oars. And her glances fell on those snowy flowers, and turned their
tint to blue, for her eyes were lowered: and she was resting her chin
on one hand as she lay, and with the other dropping one by one into
the water the petals of a lotus red as blood. And the round curve of
her hip stood up like a sand bank, and was mirrored again in the
silent water below. And her lips moved, for she was counting the
petals as they fell.
And Kamalamitra stood still, holding his breath, and gazing at her,
fearing to move, for he thought it was a dream. Then all at once she
looked up and saw him, and smiled, bathing him with the colour of her
eyes. And it seemed to Kamalamitra that he stood in a pool of colour
formed by the essence of all the blue lotuses in the world. And then
suddenly he remembered the boon of the God who is clothed with
heaven[7], and he exclaimed: Surely thou art my own wife, sent me by
the God who keeps his promises, and none other. For yesterday I
gazed at his glory, and now I am gazing at thy two eyes, and it is
the same. And if it be so, by what name shall I call thee? Then she
said: My name is Anushayiní[8], and for what purpose did the Creator
form these eyes, but to reflect the image of their lord?
Then Kamalamitra, having thus obtained her from the deity, took
possession of his lovely little wife, and thereafter remained with
her in the region about Kailás, utterly bewildered and intoxicated by
constantly gazing at those mirrors of deity, her two great eyes. And
he plunged into their sea, and was drowned in it, and the whole world
seemed to him to be made of lotus blue[9]. And like a vessel filled
to the brim and running over, he was so overflowing with delight in
her beauty, and the pride of having so unique a specimen of womankind
all to himself, that he could not contain his emotion, but sought
relief in going about everywhere talking about her, and trying to get
everybody to acknowledge, what he thought himself, that all other
women in the world were absolutely nothing in comparison with his own
wife. Alas! a woman is one thing, and emancipation quite another.
So it happened, that on a day, when he was disputing about her with
one of his friends, and abusing him, for not readily admitting all
his own eulogies of his wife, that friend of his suddenly burst out
laughing, and exclaimed: For all things there is a cure, even for
snake-bite there is a cure, but there is no cure, for one who has
been bitten with a woman's beauty. Know, O thou infatuated lover,
that the golden glamour of our Other Half, Man's ectype, Woman, is
not like a simple musical theme, but one infinitely various,
containing ten thousand notes, and stirring like a churning stick all
the emotions in the ocean of the soul of man. And however beautiful
may be thy wife's eyes, still eyes are only eyes, and a woman is not
all eye, but something more. For one woman witches us, like a
waterfall, with the music of her bubbling laughter, and another
entrances us, like a forest-pool, with the peace of her shadowy
silence. And one entangles us, like Yama[10], in the nectar-nooses
of her hair, while another pierces us, like Manobhawa[11] with the
archery of her poisoned eyes. And one enflames us, like the Sun, in
the fever-fire of sick desire, while another soothes us, like the
Moon, by the camphor of her dewy kisses. And like oxen, we are
goaded, by the biting sting of one woman's evil, and like elephants,
we are tamed, by the subtle spell of another's purity; and like
birds, we are decoyed, by the lure of the bower of one girl's arms,
and like bees, we hover and sip, around the honey of another's lips,
and like snakes, we wind and coil[12] round the slender stem of one
girl's waist, and like weary travellers, we long to sleep on the
living pillow of another's bosom. Then Kamalamitra broke in
impatiently: Away with the fascinations, of all the women in the
three worlds, past, present, or to come! Could they unite to form
the very body of the god of love, yet the eyes of Anushayiní, alone,
would, like the eye of the enemy of Kaudarpa[13], reduce them to
ashes. Aye! those eyes, with their blue irresistible invitation,
would succeed in corrupting sages, where Menaká, Tilottamá[14] and
the rest had failed.
Then his friend laughed in derision, and said: Boasting is useless,
and in words, all men can do everything, and every woman is another
Rambhá[15]. Babble no more of her beauty, but come, let your paragon
of a wife put her power to the proof. For hard by here, in the wood
on the hillside, is an aged Sage, named Pápanáshana[16], whose
austerities terrify even the gods. He would be an admirable
touchstone for the eyes of this wonderful wife of yours, whose beauty
exists, like a bubble, only on the stream of your words.
And then, stung by the taunt, Kamalamitra exclaimed in wrath: Fool!
if she does not turn him from his asceticism as easily as amber draws
after it stubble and grass, I will cut off my own head and cast it
into the Ganges. Then his friend laughed again, and said: Do nothing
rash, thou art not Daksha[17]: once gone, thy head can never be
restored. But Kamalamitra hurried away to find Anushayiní. And he
found her in the garden by the lotus pool, and told her of his brag,
and said: Come instantly, and make the experiment, and vindicate the
power of those wonderful eyes of thine, and my own faith in them,
without delay. For I burn to convict that foolish sceptic of his
folly, by ocular demonstration.
Then Anushayiní said slowly: Dear husband, thou wert angry, and
therefore indiscreet, and I fear, lest by doing evil we may bring on
ourselves punishment. For expiation follows guilt, as surely as
Orion treads on the heels of Rohini[18]. There is sin and danger in
this rash experiment. And now it will be better for us not to
venture upon the verge of a precipice, over which we may both fall,
into irreparable disaster.
But as she spoke, her eyes rested on Kamalamitra, and bewildered him,
and destroyed the persuasion of her words. For he heard nothing that
she said, but was full of the blindness of passion, and more than
ever convinced of the omnipotence of her beauty. And so, seeing that
she could not turn him from his will, Anushayiní gave in, and yielded
to him as to her deity. Nay, in the interior of her heart she
rejoiced, to find that she could not dissuade him, for she was filled
with curiosity herself, to see whether in truth her beauty would
prevail over the ascetic, though she trembled for the consequences.
Alas! where beauty, and curiosity, and youth, and self-will, and
intoxication combine, like a mad elephant, where is the cotton thread
of self-control?
Then those two lovers kissed each other passionately, like travellers
who have been separated for a year. And yet they knew not that they
were doing so for the last time. And then they went together to the
forest, to find that old ascetic. And hand-in-hand they rambled
about, like a pair of Love's arrows in human form[19], till they
penetrated to the very heart of that wood. And there on a sudden
they came upon that old sage, and saw him standing, plunged in
meditation, motionless as a tree. And round him the ants had built
up their hills, and his beard and hair trailed from his head, like
creepers, and ran down along the ground, and were covered with
leaves: and over his withered limbs played a pair of lizards, like
living emeralds. And he looked straight before him, with great eyes
that mirrored everything, but saw nothing, clear and unfathomable and
still, like mountain tarns in which all the fish are asleep.
And Kamalamitra and Anushayiní looked at him awhile in silence, and
then at each other, and trembled, for they knew that they were
staking their souls. But as he wavered, the thought of his friend's
derision came back into Kamalamitra's mind, and filled him with
anger. And he said to Anushayiní: Advance, and let this old
_muni_[20] see you, and I will mark the result.
So Anushayiní went forward, obeying his command, and stepped over the
leaves with feet lighter than themselves, till she stood in front of
the sage. And when she saw that he did not move, she raised herself
on tiptoe to look into his eyes, saying to herself: Possibly he is
dead. And she looked into those eyes, and saw there nothing save two
images of herself, like two incarnations of timidity, that seemed to
say to her as it were: Beware! And as she stood there, trembling in
the swing of uncertainty, Kamalamitra watched her with ecstasy, and
laughed to himself; and said: Certainly that old _muni_ is no longer
alive, for otherwise she would have reached his soul through the door
of his eyes, were it down in the lower world.
So as they stood there, waiting, gradually that old sage came to
himself: for he felt that his meditations were being disturbed by
something or other. And he looked, and saw Anushayiní standing
before him like the new moon at the close of day, a pure form of
exquisite beauty[21], a crystal without a flaw, tinged with the
colour of heaven. And instantly, by the power of his own mystical
meditation, he divined the whole truth, and the exact state of the
case. And he cast at that wayward beauty a glance, sorrowful as that
of a deer, yet terrible as a thunderbolt: and immediately courage
fled from her soul, and strength from her knees, and she sank to the
ground with drooping head, like a lotus broken by the wind.
But Kamalamitra rushed forward, and caught her in his arms. Then as
they stood together, the old ascetic spoke and cursed them, saying
slowly: Irreverent lovers, now shall that beauty which occasioned
this insolence meet with its appropriate reward. Descend now, ye
guilty ones, into mortal wombs, and suffer in the lower world the
pangs of separation, till ye have purged away your guilt in the fire
of human sorrow.
Then hearing the doom of separation, wild with grief they fell at his
feet, and implored him, saying: Fix at least a term to the curse, and
a period to our pain. And he said again: When one of you shall slay
the other, the curse shall end.
Then those two unhappy lovers looked at each other in mute despair.
And they drew in that instant from each other's eyes a deep draught
of the nectar of mutual contemplation, as if to sustain them in their
pilgrimage over the terrible sea of separation, saying as it were to
each other, but in vain[22]: Remember me! Then all of a sudden they
disappeared and went, like flashes of lightning, somewhere else.
But Maheshwara, from his seat on Kailás, saw them go, for as fate
would have it, he chanced to be looking in that direction. And
grasping the whole truth by mystical intuition[23], he remembered his
boon to the Spirit of the Air, and he said to himself: Now has the
future which I foresaw become the present[24], and the blue eyes of
Anushayiní have produced a catastrophe. But I must not leave her
lovely body to the play of chance, for it has in it something of my
own divinity. And Kamalamitra, after all, was not very much to
blame. For he was bewildered by my glory, reflected in her eyes. So
I am the culprit, who is responsible for this state of affairs: and
so I must look after this pair of lovers. Moreover, I have a mind to
amuse myself with their adventures[25].
So after considering awhile, that Master Yogi took a lotus, and
placing it on the earth in a distant sea, it became an island. And
he made in it, by his magic power, an earthly copy of a heavenly
type, of a nature known to himself alone, for the future to unfold.
And having completed his arrangements, he allowed the chain of events
to take its course.
But the old sage Pápanáshana, when those two lovers had disappeared,
remained in the forest alone. And their images forsook the mirror of
his eyes, and faded away from his mind, like the shadow of a cloud
travelling over the surface of a great lake, and vanished, and were
utterly forgotten.
[1] For Ganesha's trunk is usually smeared with vermilion. The other
deity is, of course, Shiwa. [2] '_The lover of the lotus_,' i.e. the
Sun. _Mitra_ is also one of his names. [_Kam-_ rhymes with _drum_.]
[3] i.e. Shiwa. Umá is his wife.
[4] This is a sort of Hindoo _façon de parler_: it must not be
supposed to make him any the older.
[5] _nila_. As this colour is the keynote of the story, it should be
observed, that it is a deep, intense blue, inclining to black,
essentially associated in Hindoo literature with the moon-crested
God, peacocks, and the lotus.
[6] Characters in the Mahábhárata.
[7] _digambara_.
[8] '_a devoted wife_.' But the word has another technical
philosophical significance: it connotes evil, clinging to the soul by
reason of sin in a former birth, and begetting the necessity of
expiation in another body.
[9] _Kuwalayamayamjagat_. When I was young, sings Bhartrihari, the
whole world seemed to me to be made of woman (_nárimayam_).
[10] Death, who is represented with a noose (_pásha_).
[11] Love, whose weapon is his bow.
[12] There is here an untranslateable play on the word _bhoga_: which
means both the coil of a snake and enjoyment.
[13] Alluding to the legend that Shiwa annihilated the god of love,
who was endeavouring to inflame him, by a fiery glance from his third
eye. Love's sacred fire met in this case, for once, with an element
more potent than his own.
[14] The legend of S. Antony is but a western echo of the stories of
these nymphs, whom the jealous gods employed as weapons to destroy
the virtue of sages whose accumulated asceticism was becoming
_mountainous_ and dangerous. Like the Devil, and long before him,
they baited the hook with a pretty woman.
[15] See the Rámayan, book 1.
[16] '_destroyer of guilt_.'
[17] Whose true head was cut off and replaced by that of a ram.
[18] An astronomical simile: the ninth and tenth signs of the lunar
zodiac.
[19] They were not human, but semi-divine; still, it is impossible to
express the idea of incarnation except in terms of humanity.
[20] '_man of silence_,' which, according to Kalidas and Bhartrihari,
is the golden rule whether for fools or sages.
[21] _Suskamásheshá_: an incomparable expression, meaning, as applied
to the thin streak of the new moon at dusk, that everything of it was
gone, except its beauty: _venustas, et prœterea nihil_!
[22] Because the former birth is always forgotten. But see the
sequel.
[23] This power of gods and ascetics of a high order, frequently
alluded to, reposes upon _yoga_, i.e. intense concentration, which is
the secret of Pátanjali. There is a kernel of truth in it, after all.
[24] _Time_ is another name of Shiwa.
[25] The whole creation, according to Manti (i. 80) is the sport of
the deity.
Night
A SLEEP AND A DREAM.
I.
A Lotus of the Day
But Anushayiní[1], when she disappeared in the forest, fell down to
earth like a falling star, and entered the womb of the favourite wife
of the King of Indirálaya[2], and was born after the manner of
mortals as his daughter. And at that moment she lit up the birth
chamber with the radiance diffused from her body, which put the lamps
to shame. And the nurses and waiting women were astonished, for
wonderful to say! the lids of the child's eyes were fringed with long
black lashes, looking like rain-clouds hanging low to hide the rising
moon. And suddenly those lashes rose like a curtain, and there came
from beneath them a flood of blue colour, which pervaded the room
like the odour of camphor and sandal-wood made visible to the eye,
and overcame the senses of all that stood by, till they were within a
little of swooning away. And like men lying on their backs and
gazing into the depths of the sky, they felt as it were enveloped in
the colour of heaven, and lost their perception of mundane affairs.
For though they knew it not, they were looking at the reflection of
the glory of the moon-crested god.
So they all stood round in silence, watching the child's eyes. And
at last, the King, and his ministers, and his physicians and
astrologers, drew a long breath, and looked at each other in
amazement. And the prime-minister said: King, this is a wonderful
thing. For these eyes are the eyes, not of a child, but of a
sage[3], or rather, of a god. And surely this is no mere mortal
maiden, but rather some deity, or portion of a deity, smitten by a
curse, and doomed thereby to descend for a period into this lower
world, to expiate awhile sins committed in a former birth. For such
things often come about, And beyond a doubt your Majesty is
favoured, in being chosen by the deity to be the means of his
incarnation. Then hearing this speech of his minister, whose words
were always suited to the events, the King was excessively delighted.
And he celebrated the birth of his daughter with extraordinary
magnificence, and gave gold and villages to Brahmans and the poor.
And taking counsel with his astrologers and Brahman sages skilled in
names and their applications, he gave to his daughter the auspicious
name of Shrí[4]. For he said: Her eyes are like lotuses, and like
the pools in which they dwell: and surely they are the very echo of
the eyes of the Goddess of Beauty when she rose from the sea, and lay
in her blue lotus cradle, lapped by the foam of which she was
composed, and gazing at the wondering waves with eyes that mocked
them, and robbed them of their hue.
Then time passed away, and the years with the seasons followed each
other like caravans over the desert, and old age and grey hair came
and took up their dwelling at the wrinkled root of the King's ear.
And meanwhile Shrí grew from a child into a girl, and at length the
dawn of her womanhood broke. And like the horns of the waxing moon,
her limbs rounded and swelled into the very perfect orb of supreme
loveliness, and she became as it were the very salt of the sea of
beauty[5], inspiring in all who drank of it insatiable thirst, and an
intolerable craving for the water of the blue lakes of her eyes. And
at last there came a day when the King her father looked at her, and
said to himself: The fruit is ripe: and now it is time that it were
plucked and eaten.
So he went to the apartments of the women, to find her mother, his
principal Queen, Madirekshaná[6]. But when she learned the object of
his coming, the Queen said: _Aryaputra_[7], it is useless. For our
daughter will not even listen to the word husband, much less undergo
the thing. The King said: What is this? Should the cornfield refuse
the plough, or a maiden refuse to be married? Is she not now of ripe
age, and does not a grown-up maiden in the house bring upon herself
and her relations infamy in this world and the next? Madirekshana
said: Speak to her yourself, and persuade her to it if you can. For
of her own accord she told me, that her marriage was a thing not to
be thought of, even in a dream.
So the King sent for his daughter, to question her himself.
And after a while, Shrí came in, undulating as she moved like a
swan[8], and swaying like a flower waving in the wind: for her waist
could be grasped by the fist, and her bosom was glorious, like the
swell of an ocean wave. And like a child she smiled at her father[9]
with parted lips and half-shut eyes, casting before her through the
net of their lashes the magical charm of the colour of a wet lotus:
and her girdle jingled as if with joy, while the flashing jewels with
which she was covered all over changed colour, as if with envy at
being outshone by the play[10] of her eyes. And the old King looked
at her with pride and wonder and delight: and he laughed to himself,
and said: Wonderful is the cunning of the Creator, and
incomprehensible the mystery of a woman's beauty! For I am old, and
I am her father, and yet I feel before her like a domestic servant in
the presence of a ruler of the world. Surely she would drive a young
man into madness and ecstasy. And did the Creator, forsooth! form
this incarnation of the intoxication of woman to no purpose? Surely
she is a husband's ideal correlative in human form! And then he said
to her: My daughter, it is high time that you were married: for an
unmarried daughter is a scandal in her father's house.
Then said Shrí: Dear father, do not speak thus. Let me live and die
a maiden, for I do not wish to be married[11]. The King said:
Daughter, what is this that you are saying? Is not a husband the
very object of your birth? Shrí said: Do not even dream of a husband
for me. And there is a reason for this: for I am different from
other maidens. And hearing this, the King was perplexed. And he
looked at Shrí under his brows, and said to himself: She speaks
truth. Certainly this daughter of mine, if she be mine[12], is not
like other maidens. For who ever saw her equal in beauty, or who
ever heard of a maiden objecting to be married[13]? Or was my
minister right, and is she really some deity in disguise?
So day after day he continued to urge her and argue with her. But at
last, finding that his efforts to move her were as vain as if he were
trying to pierce a diamond with a cotton thread, he exclaimed in
dismay: Surely my crimes in a former birth were numerous and
appalling, seeing that their fruit is a daughter, whose obstinate and
unintelligible prejudice against a husband runs counter to the nature
of woman, and will be the means of destroying my salvation. Then at
last Shrí said: Dear father, do not be angry, and I will tell you the
truth. Know that I, too, wish for a husband, but only for one
husband, and no other. Then said the King: And who, then, is that
husband? Shrí said: I do not know. But he will come to claim me,
from the Land of the Lotus of the Sun[14]. And where, said the King,
is the Land of the Lotus of the Sun? Shrí said: I cannot tell. But
in a dream I saw a lotus fall from heaven, and I heard a divine voice
saying to me: Do not hurry, but wait: for there shall come to you a
husband, from the Land of the Lotus of the Sun. For he was your
husband in a former birth, and you shall know him by a sign. Then
the King said: And what is the sign? Shrí said: I may not tell, for
it is known only to the Deity and me. But now, either abandon my
marriage, or if you can, find me a man who has seen the Land of the
Lotus of the Sun, of caste becoming a king's daughter, and he shall
be my husband. For him only will I marry, and none other.
And when the King heard this, he was astonished, and sat silent,
looking at Shrí. And he said to himself: This is a strange story,
and the conduct of this mysterious daughter of mine is inscrutable.
What is this Land of the Lotus of the Sun? Is it a fancy, the
capricious dream of a girl? Or does the dream really point to a
previous existence? And he thought for a while, and then he said
again: Perhaps it is better to do as she says, and endeavour to
discover a man who has seen that Land. For where is the harm? For
even if he is found, there will always be time to consider. And,
moreover, in this way it may be that she will obtain a husband,
whereas she will certainly not get married in any other. Better that
she should get a husband, no matter how, no matter who, than remain a
maiden to destroy us all.
Then he dismissed his daughter, and summoned his chamberlains, and
said to them: Get criers, and send them through the city, and let
them proclaim by beat of drum: That any high caste man, who has seen
the Land of the Lotus of the Sun, shall share my kingdom, and marry
my daughter. And his chamberlains wondered at hearing the order.
But they went immediately, and told the criers the order of the King.
[1] That is, her soul, as distinguished from her body: that part of
her which, according to Plato and the Bhagwad-Gitá (more logical than
modern theologians) _is never born and never dies_.
[2] _The home of Shrí_, i.e. a blue lotus, which is so called because
the goddess Shrí appeared floating in one at the creation.
[3] _shánta_: one who has quelled the passions and attained peace.
Of such, Shiwa is the chief. But the minister drew his bow at a
venture, and knew not how he hit the mark.
[4] Hence the name of the city, above.
[5] Beauty and salt, in the original, are denoted by the same word.
[6] That is, 'a woman with sweet seductive eyes.'
[7] A pretty term employed by ladies in addressing their lords: 'son
of an _arya_, a gentleman.' It has no English equivalent.
[8] The old Hindoos had a special admiration and a special term
(_hansagaminí_) for a woman who walked like a swan.
[9] There is here an untranslateable play on the word kamalahása,
which means both _the opening of a lotus bud_, and an _irresistible
smile_.
[10] _wyatikara_, a word expressive of the _varying_ lustre or
_wavering_ coruscation of jewels.
[11] cf. Callimachus: dós moi partheníen aión ion, appa, phylássein.
[12] This touch arises from the beautiful word for a daughter,
átmajá, i.e. _she that is born from yourself_.
[13] A case, perhaps, not absolutely unknown in the west: though
beauty, like a fortress, must always like to be flattered by a siege.
But in the land of the Hindoos, marriage is like being born or dying,
a matter of course, a thing necessary, inevitable, essential, _quod
semper, quod ubique, quod ab omnibus_.
[14] There is, in the original here, a _nuance_ not susceptible of
direct translation. According to the Hindoos, lotuses are divided
into those of the Day and Night, whose lovers are the Sun and Moon.
The Lotus in question is a Sun-lotus '_between the Twilights_,' i.e.,
buried in night, and deprived of the presence of the Sun. An
allusion to the title of the story is thus introduced. But all this
cannot be expressed in English, as it can in Sanskrit, by a single
word.
II.
By Beat of Drum
So the criers went through the streets of the capital, beating drums
and crying aloud: _Whatsoever high-caste man has been to the Land of
the Lotus of the Sun, let him come to the King: he shall share the
King's kingdom, and marry the King's daughter_. And hearing the
proclamation, all the citizens and strangers in the city marvelled as
they listened. For the fame of the beauty of the King's daughter had
gone out into the three worlds. And buzzing like bees, they thronged
around the criers, and ran up and down, everybody asking everybody
else: What is this Land of the Lotus of the Sun? Where is it, or who
has seen it? And a great uproar arose in the streets of the city,
and they were full of noise and shouting: and the news was carried
into the neighbouring kingdoms, and immediately crowds of people
poured into Indirálaya from every part of Málwá and the Deckan and
the North, and every quarter of the world, and together with the
merchants and the working castes, who all abandoned their ordinary
business, gathered in knots and stood about, asking eagerly for news
of that Lotus Land, and its nature, and its locality, and its
peculiarities. But no one could be found who had ever even heard of
it, much less seen it. So day by day the proclamation sounded in the
streets: and all day long the city was full of the din of shouting
criers and beaten drums, and all night long sleep fled from the eyes
of the citizens, as if in disgust at the noise that they made by day.
But all was in vain: for not a man could they find, nor did anyone
come forward to say: I have seen that Lotus Country: give me the
reward.
And at last the citizens became enraged, alike with the King, and his
daughter, and the Land of the Lotus, and themselves. And seeing
this, the old King fell sick with anxiety: and he said to himself: My
pretty daughter is as cunning as she is beautiful, and beyond a doubt
this is some trick devised by her, to appease me, and avoid her
bugbear of a husband, and befool us all. And now I fear that in
their fury my subjects may break out into revolt, and refuse to pay
taxes, or depose me. Out on my daughter and her blue eyes, and the
cunning of women and their crooked hearts! Is there any such land in
the world, as this Land of the Lotus of the Sun, of which in all my
dominions, haunted by merchants and strangers from every quarter of
the earth, no one has ever even so much as heard?
III.
An Eclipse of the Sun
Now Kamalamitra, when he was separated from Anushayiní by the curse
of the ascetic, fell down to earth, and was born as the son of a King
of the Solar Race in a distant country. And his father gave him the
name of Umra-Singh[1], for the astrologers said: He will live on
earth like a lion, and run over it like his rival in the sky. And
when he grew up, there was no one in that country who could match him
in riding, or wrestling, or swordsmanship, or any other martial
exercise: so that the people said of him: He looks like the very soul
of the nature of a Kshatriya that has assumed a body suited to its
deeds. Surely he is an incarnation of Kumára[2], come down to earth
for the destruction of the King's enemies. And the women flocked
around him like flies about honey, for their hearts were trampled to
pieces, like lotuses, by the wild-elephant of his glorious youth, and
their souls were intoxicated with the nectar of the beauty of his
figure, and followed him about like captives chained in rows. But
Umra-Singh laughed at them all, and even outdid the moon-crested
god[3], in that he drank continually the deadly poison of the ocean
of their seductions, without even staining his throat.
Then one day his father said to him: Come, now, I have arranged your
marriage with the daughter of my most powerful enemy: so shall we
become friends by the method of conciliation. Umra-Singh said: Find
another bridegroom, for I have married my sharp sword. So his father
was annoyed, and said: What is this folly, and whence can I procure
another bridegroom? But Umra-Singh was silent. And three times his
father repeated his words. Then after a while, Umra-Singh said:
Bridegroom or no bridegroom, I will not marry anybody but the lady of
my dream. Then said his father: Who, then, is this lady of your
dream? Umra-Singh said: I do not know. But every other month, on
the last day of the dark fortnight, there comes to me in a dream a
vision of a woman, floating on a pool of white lotuses, in a boat of
sandal with silver oars. But who she is I cannot tell, and her face
I can never see, for it is always turned away.
Then his father began to laugh, and deride him. But Umra-Singh cared
no more for the stream of his derision than Maheshwara for the Ganges
when it fell on his head. Then his father said: Dismiss this
delusion, and prepare for the wedding: for I have arranged the
ceremonies, and appointed the day. But Umra-Singh laughed, and said:
Marry her thyself: for I tell thee, I will not marry anybody, but the
lady of my dream. Then his father flew into a rage, and summoned his
guards, and threw the prince[4] into prison, saying to himself: He
shall stay there, with his dream to keep him company, till he learns
to obey. But Umra-Singh persuaded his gaolers to let him escape, for
the subjects loved him more than his father. And he fled away by
night into another country, abandoning his royal position for the
sake of his dream.
And then he went from city to city, and from one country to another,
eluding the pursuit of the agents sent after him by his father to
bring him back, till at last he came to Indirálayá. And he dived
into a disreputable quarter of that city, like a frog into a well,
and remained there disgusted with life and his relations, plunging
into dissipation to drown his grief, and surrounded by gamblers and
outcasts, counting the whole world as a straw, supporting himself on
his own courage, and his dream. And little by little all he had
melted away like snow in the sun of his generosity, or was swallowed
up by the ocean of greedy gamblers, among whom he scattered it with
an open hand, asking, like his ancestor[5], nothing in return. And
at last, being reduced to extremity, clad in garments worn and
ragged, which like clouds vainly obscuring the Lord of the Day, could
not hide, but rather increased, the beauty of his form, with nothing
left to eat or drink, he determined to abandon the body. So taking
down his sword from the wall, and holding it in his hand, he went out
of his wretched lodging, saying to himself: Death is better than
dishonour and insignificance, hunger and the loathing of life: for
what is death but the beginning of another life, which cannot be
worse than this one, be it what it may? And who knows but that I may
meet her in the next life whom I dream of in this? For she who is
but a dream now, may be a reality in another birth, and I may
discover that lotus pool, waiting for me in another life. Therefore
now I will go outside the city wall, and find some deserted garden,
and there I will cut off my own head, and offer it up to Durgá as a
sacrifice.
And as he stood at the door of the house, pondering which way he
should go, there fell on his ear, for the hundredth time, the sound
of the beating of drums. And he listened, and heard the criers
crying: _Whatsoever high-caste man has been to the Land of the Lotus
of the Sun, let him come to the King: he shall share the King's
kingdom, and marry the King's daughter_. And Umra-Singh laughed, and
said to himself: What! are they still looking for a man, who has seen
the Land of the Lotus of the Sun? And how, then, did they know that
there was such a land to be seen?
And then on a sudden he started, as if he had been bitten by a snake.
And he struck his hand on his sword, and exclaimed: Ha! But if
nobody has ever seen that land, and no one knows anything about it,
then, if one should come and say: Lo: I have seen it: who could
discern whether he was speaking the truth or telling a lie? For who
can compare the description with a reality which neither he nor
anyone else ever saw? So what is to hinder me from going to the King
and saying: I have seen that Lotus Land, and now, give me the reward?
For here I am, about to put myself to death; and what greater evil
can befall me at the hands of the King, even though he should
discover the deceit? And yet, how can he? For who knows what that
land is like, or even where it is? But if, on the contrary, I get
credit, then I shall obtain, not only this far-famed daughter, for
whom I care nothing, but also the resources of his kingdom; and with
them I can equip an army, and go and compel my father to restore me
to my position. So where is the harm? or rather, is it not pure
gain, and no loss, to make the attempt and abide the result, whether
I live or die?
Then instantly, without hesitation, he went up to the criers, and
said to them: Cease your crying, and take me to the King, for I have
seen that Lotus Land. But the criers, when they heard what he said,
could not believe their ears, and almost abandoned the body from
excess of joy. For they were almost dead from exhaustion, and
continual shouting all day long. And they danced like peacocks at
the sight of the first cloud in the rainy season, and caught him in
their arms, holding him as if they were afraid he would escape, to
carry him away, like a precious jewel, to the King. And the news ran
through the city like fire in a dry wood: There has been found a man
who has seen the Land of the Lotus of the Sun. And a vast crowd of
people ran from every street, and pressed around him, and accompanied
him to the palace, and stood before it, tossing like the sea, while
the guards took him in to the King.
But when the King heard the news, he wept for joy. And Umra-Singh
seemed in his eyes like a draught of nectar, and like the fulfilment
of all his desires in bodily form. And he said to him: O thou
unspeakably delightful son-in-law that shall be, hast thou really set
eyes on that accursed Land of the Lotus of the Sun? And Umra-Singh
said boldly: Yes, I have seen it, and I know it well. Then
immediately the King in his impatience ran himself to his daughter's
apartments, and exclaimed: The bridegroom is found, by the favour of
the Lord of Obstacles. Here is a Rajpoot who has seen the Land of
the Lotus of the Sun. So prepare for the marriage without delay.
Then said Shrí: Dear father, there is no hurry in this matter. And
how do you know that this man is speaking the truth, or is not,
rather, some impostor, who only wishes to secure me and half your
kingdom, by falsely asserting that he has seen, what in fact he never
has seen. For the world is full of such crafty rogues, who go about,
like cranes, fishing in the wealth of Kings, like pools. Bring him
therefore first to me, to examine him; and thereafter we shall see,
whether it is time to prepare the marriage ceremonies, or not.
So the King said: Be it so. And he sent for Umra-Singh, and brought
him into the presence of Shrí.