_May the kindly three-eyed god[2], who stained his throat deep-purple
by the draught of deadly poison which he swallowed for the preservation
of the world, preserve you. May the Elephant-faced One[3] sweep away
with his trunk all impediments to my thoughts, and may Wání[4] inspire
into my mind for every thought its proper word._
There lived formerly, in a certain country, a king, called
Súryakánta[5]. And his armies, guided by Valour and Policy, had
penetrated in all directions to the shore of the ocean, and his
intellect had gone to the further shore of all the sciences, so that
one thing only was unknown to him, woman, and the love of woman. He
was, as it were, the very incarnation of the spirit of misogyny,
beautiful exceedingly himself, to scorch with the hot rays of his glory
the despairing hearts of all fair women who might chance to cast eyes
upon him, yet himself cold as snow to their own melting glances. And
as time went on, his ministers became full of concern for the future of
the kingdom, for they said: The King has no son, and if he should die,
everything will go to ruin for want of an heir. So they took counsel
among themselves, and sending for them wherever they could find them,
they threw in his way temptations in the form of beautiful women,
raining on him as it were showers of the quintessence of all the female
beauty in the world. But all was of no avail: for no matter what shape
it took, the celestial loveliness of those ladies made no more
impression on the King's mind than a forest leaf falling on the back of
a wild elephant. Then the ministers fell into despair, exclaiming:
Truly there is a point at which virtues become vices. It is well for a
King to avoid the wiles of women; but out on this woman-hating king!
the kingdom will be undone for him. And they took counsel again among
themselves, and made representations to the King, exhorting him to
marriage. But he would not listen to anything they could say. So
being at their wits' end, they caused it to be bruited about without
the King's knowledge, by means of their spies, that they would give a
crore[6] of gold pieces to any one who could produce a change in the
mind of the King, and inspire him with an inclination for marriage.
But though many charlatans presented themselves and performed
incantations and other such devices, no one could be found able to
effect the desired end. On the contrary, the King's hostility to the
other sex increased so much, that he punished every woman who came
within the range of his sight by banishing her from the kingdom. And
in their fear lest the kingdom should be wholly deprived of its women,
the ministers had to place spies about the King, who ran before him
wherever he went, and made all the women keep out of his way. And this
task was as difficult as standing on the edge of a sword, for all the
women in the kingdom were drawn to see him by love and curiosity as if
he were a magnet[7] and they so many pieces of iron.
Then one day there came to the capital a certain painter[8]. And he,
as soon as he arrived, made enquiries as to the wonders of that city.
Then the people told him: The greatest wonder in our city is our King,
Súryakánta, himself. For though he is a king, nothing will induce him
to have anything to do with women, from the peacock of whose beauty he
flies as if he were a snake. And yet he is himself like a second god
of love, so that here is the marvel: that one whom the Fish-bannered
god[9] has created as a sixth weapon to cleave the hearts of the female
sex should have no curiosity to exert his power. Should the sun refuse
to warm, or the wind to blow? But when the painter heard this he
laughed, and said: I possess a charm that would act like the sun upon
its gem[10]. And one of the spies of the ministers heard him, and went
and told them of his arrival and his brag. And they immediately
summoned that painter and questioned him, telling him the whole state
of the case, and promising him the reward if he could make his words
good. And the painter said: Contrive that the King shall send for me,
and leave the rest to me.
So the ministers went and told the King: Sire, there has arrived in
your capital a painter, whose equal in skill is not to be found in the
three worlds. And when the King heard it he was delighted, for he was
himself skilled in the art of painting and all other arts; and he
caused the painter to be brought into his presence. But he, when he
came, was amazed at the extraordinary beauty of the King, and he
exclaimed: O King, you have caused me to obtain the fruit of my birth
in bestowing on me the priceless boon of a sight of your incomparable
beauty. And now only one more thing remains. I implore your Majesty
to let me make a copy of it, in order that in future I may never be
without it. For the sun warms even when reflected in a poor mirror.
Then the King said: Show me first specimens of your skill. But beware
that you show me no women, otherwise it will be worse for you. So the
painter showed him a collection of pictures of all the countries in the
world, but among them he had secretly placed the portrait of a woman.
And as the King was turning over the pictures, one by one, he suddenly
came upon that portrait. But the moment he looked at it, he fell to
the ground in a swoon.
Then the painter laughed, and said to the ministers: The cure is
effected: pay the physician his fee. But they replied: We must first
be sure that the patient is really cured. The painter replied: You
will soon find that out. Look to the King, and restore him, and see
what he says when he comes to himself and finds that I am not here.
For in the meanwhile I will go out of the room.
Then the ministers summoned attendants, who fanned the King with
palm-leaves, and sprinkled him with water scented with sandal. And the
King revived, and instantly looking round, exclaimed: The painter, the
painter! The ministers said: Sire, he is gone. But when the King
heard that, he changed colour, and his voice trembled, and he said: If
you have allowed him to escape, I will have you all trampled to death
by elephants before the sun goes down. So they went out quickly and
found the painter, and fetched him in again before the King. And he
fell at the King's feet, saying: May the King forgive me! Alas! my
evil fortune must have mixed up that lady's portrait among my other
pictures, to bring me to destruction. But the King said: O most
admirable of all painters, past, present, or to come, know that you
have conferred a benefit upon me by exhibiting that portrait to me,
which I could not repay even with my whole kingdom. And beyond doubt,
that lady must have been my wife in a previous existence, for emotions
such as these point unmistakeably to a former life. Now then, tell me,
of what land is her father the king? For certain I am, that it is a
portrait, for such beauty as hers could not have been conceived by any
mortal brain. None but the Creator himself could have fashioned her.
Then the painter smiled, and said: O King, be warned by me. Dismiss
this lady from your mind, and think of her no more; otherwise my
carelessness may turn out to have been the cause of your ruin. But the
King said: Painter, no more. Choose, either to tell me who she is, and
be loaded with gold; or not; an I will load you with chains, and
imprison you in a loathsome dungeon, with neither food nor water, till
you do.
Then the painter said: King, since there is no help for it, and your
fate will have it so, learn, that this is the portrait of
Anangarágá[11], the daughter of a brother of the King of the Nagas[12],
who lives by herself in a palace in the forest, two months' journey
from here. And what her beauty is, you yourself partly know by
personal experience of the effect which even in a picture it produced
upon you: yet what picture could be equal to the reality? For every
one that sees her instantly falls in love with her, and many swoon
away, as you did, and there are some who have even died. And yet the
Creator, when he made her a casket of beauty so inimitably lovely,
placed within it a heart of adamant, so hard, that it laughs at all the
efforts of the flowery-arrowed god to pierce it. For innumerable
suitors have sought her in marriage, coming from all the quarters of
the world, and she receives them all with scornful indifference, yet
entertains them magnificently for twenty-one days, on this condition,
that every day they ask her a riddle[13]. And if any suitor should
succeed in asking her something that she cannot answer, then she
herself is to be the prize; but if within the stipulated time he fails,
then he becomes her slave, to be disposed of how she will. And no one
has ever yet succeeded in asking her anything she cannot answer; for
she is of superhuman intelligence, and learned in all the sciences; but
of the countless suitors who have tried and failed, some she has sent
away, and others she retains about her person as slaves, pitilessly
showing them every day that beauty which is for ever unattainable to
them, so that their lot is infinitely worse than that of beasts. And
therefore, O King, I warned you, lest the same thing should happen also
to you. O be wise, and shun her, before it is too late. For I think
that no lot can be more wretched than that of those who are doomed to
everlasting regret, for having lost what nevertheless they see ever
before them, as it were within their reach.
Then King Süryakánta laughed aloud, and he said: Painter, your judgment
is not equal to your skill in your own art. For there is a lot
infinitely more miserable, and it is that of one who passes his whole
life in regret for an object which, with daring and resolution, he
might have attained. Let me rather pine for ever miserable in the
contemplation of such beauty, than weakly abandon my chance of enjoying
it. Then the King gave that painter three crores of gold pieces, as
the price of the portrait of the Princess, which he took away from him;
and, after allowing him to paint his own portrait, dismissed him. And
he said to his ministers: Make all ready: for this very night I start
in quest of the Princess Anangarágá. Then his ministers deliberated
together, and said to each other: Certainly, if the King should fail in
his object and never return, the kingdom will be ruined. Yet, the same
will be the case if he remains here, and scorning the society of all
other women, never has a son. Therefore it is better as it is. For of
two evils, the least is a good. Moreover, he may possibly succeed.
So that very night, burning with the fierce fire of impatience, the
King transferred the burden of his government to the shoulders of his
ministers, and set out, with the portrait of his beloved, to win or
lose her. And he would have taken nobody with him. But as he was
preparing to depart, his boon companion, Rasakósha[14], said to him:
Sire, would you go alone? And the King said: My friend, I may fail,
and never return. Why should I drag others with me into the jaws of
destruction? I will go by myself. Then Rasakósha said: King, what are
you about? You leave yourself behind, if you leave me. That half of
you which inhabits your own body is altogether gone upon[15] the
Princess, and wholly intent upon her, so as to think of nothing else:
then how will you baffle her, without that other half of you which
lives in me, and is always ready for your service? And what am I to do
without my better half? And even if you _do_ fail, what will you do
without me? for even prosperity without a friend is tasteless[16]: how
much more adversity! Then the King said: Well, be it so. Come, let us
be off. But Rasakósha said: Did I not say that your mind was
wandering? Would you start on such a perilous adventure, without first
securing the aid of Wináyaka[17]? Who ever succeeded in anything that
neglected him? And the King said: It is true. In my eagerness I had
almost forgotten him. So he praised Ganésha, saying: Hail, O thou lord
of the Elephant Face, whose trunk is uplifted in the dance! Hail to
thee, before whom obstacles melt away like the mists of night before
the morning sun! Hail to thee, aided by whom even the weak triumph
over the strong! Hail to thee, without whom all prudence is vain, and
all wisdom, folly! Hail, O thou whose basket ears flap like banners of
victory in the wind!
Then they set out on their journey. And they fared on day and night
through the forest, full of wild beasts, apes, and Shabaras[18] as the
sea is of jewels: but the King in his preoccupation for many days
neither spoke nor ate nor drank, living only on air and the portrait of
the Princess, which night and day he devoured with his eyes.
Then one day, as they rested at noon beneath the thick shade of a
_Kadamba_[19] tree, the King gazed for a long time at the portrait of
his mistress. And suddenly he broke silence, and said: Rasakósha, this
is a woman. Now, a woman is the one thing about which I know nothing.
Tell me, what is the nature of women? Then Rasakósha smiled, and said:
King, you should certainly keep this question to ask the Princess; for
it is a hard question. A very terrible creature indeed is a woman, and
one formed of strange elements. _Apropos_, I will tell you a story:
listen.
In the beginning, when Twashtri[20] came to the creation of woman, he
found that he had exhausted his materials in the making of man, and
that no solid elements were left. In this dilemma, after profound
meditation, he did as follows. He took the rotundity of the moon, and
the curves of creepers, and the clinging of tendrils, and the trembling
of grass, and the slenderness of the reed, and the bloom of flowers,
and the lightness of leaves, and the tapering of the elephant's trunk,
and the glances of deer, and the clustering of rows of bees[21], and
the joyous gaiety of sunbeams, and the weeping of clouds, and the
fickleness of the winds, and the timidity of the hare, and the vanity
of the peacock, and the softness of the parrot's bosom, and the
hardness of adamant, and the sweetness of honey, and the cruelty of the
tiger, and the warm glow of fire, and the coldness of snow, and the
chattering of jays, and the cooing of the _kókila_[22], and the
hypocrisy of the crane, and the fidelity of the _chakrawáka_; and
compounding all these together, he made woman, and gave her to man.
But after one week, man came to him, and said: Lord, this creature that
you have given me makes my life miserable. She chatters incessantly,
and teases me beyond endurance, never leaving me alone: and she
requires incessant attention, and takes all my time up, and cries about
nothing, and is always idle; and so I have come to give her back again,
as I cannot live with her. So Twashtri said: Very well: and he took
her back. Then after another week, man came again to him, and said:
Lord, I find that my life is very lonely since I gave you back that
creature. I remember how she used to dance and sing to me, and look at
me out of the corner of her eye, and play with me, and cling to me; and
her laughter was music, and she was beautiful to look at, and soft to
touch: so give her back to me again. So Twashtri said: Very well: and
gave her back again. Then after only three days, man came back to him
again, and said: Lord, I know not how it is; but after all, I have come
to the conclusion that she is more of a trouble than a pleasure to me:
so please take her back again. But Twashtri said: Out on you! Be off!
I will have no more of this. You must manage how you can. Then man
said: But I cannot live with her. And Twashtri replied: Neither could
you live without her. And he turned his back on man, and went on with
his work. Then man said: What is to be done? for I cannot live either
with or without her[23].
And Rasakósha ceased, and looked at the King. But the King remained
silent, gazing intently at the portrait of the Princess.
And thus travelling on, day by day, through the forest, at length they
drew near to the palace of the Princess Anangarágá.
[1] Some such benedictory exordium as this is regarded as indispensable
by every Sanskrit author: yet it is remarkable that Kálidás is careless
of the rule; _e.g._ his _Cloud_ and his _Seasons_ begin at once without
any invocation at all.
[2] Shiwa.
[3] Ganésha or Ganapati. See Day 1.
[4] Saraswatí, the goddess of speech.
[5] _i.e._ 'sun-beloved;' the name of a fabulous gem 'sunstone' (cp.
'moonstone'), said to possess magical properties and exhibit them when
acted upon by the rays of the sun.
[6] Ten millions.
[7] A kind of play on the King's name: _lóhakánta_ means a loadstone.
[8] This method of bringing lovers together is part of a Hindoo
story-teller's romantic machinery.
[9] The Hindoo Cupid, who is said to possess five bewildering weapons.
[10] Alluding to the King's name: see n. p. 1. [11] _i.e._ 'the
passion, or the rosy-blush, of love.' (Pronounce the two first
syllables to rhyme with 'among,' with a north-country g.)
[12] These Nagas are beings of serpent nature, but often confounded
with men: _e.g._ in Kathá Saritságara, I. 6, the nephew of the King of
the Nágas is said to be a Brahman. Their women are of inconceivable
loveliness.
[13] Very few of the stories are really riddles, but they all give the
Princess an opportunity of displaying her ready judgment and acumen.
It will also be seen, that owing to the device with which the story
concludes, there are really only nineteen days, instead of twenty-one.
[14] Pronounce _Russakósh_. The name refers to the part he will play
in the story: it means both 'a ball of mercury,' and 'a treasury of
taste, wit, literary sentiments or flavours,' a sort of walking
encyclopædia. The King's companion is a salient figure in Hindoo
drama: he is a sort of Sancho Panza, _minus_ the vulgarity and the
humour.
[15] This colloquialism is an exact facsimile of the Sanskrit
expression.
[16] A play upon his own name.
[17] Ganésha, the god of obstacles and success. See Day 1.
[18] An old name for Bhíls and other wild tribes.
[19] 'A tree with orange-coloured fragrant blossoms.'
[20] The Hindoo Vulcan, sometimes, as here, used for the Creator,
_dhatri_ = Plato's [Greek: demiourgos]. Sanskrit literature is the key
to Plato; much of his philosophy is only the moonlike reflection of
Hindoo mythology.
[21] Hindoo poets see a resemblance between rows of bees and
eye-glances.
[22] The Indian cuckoo. The crane is a by-word for inward villainy and
sanctimonious exterior. The chakrawáka, or Brahmany drake, is fabled
to pass the night sorrowing for the absence of his mate and she for him.
[23] The very echo of Martial.