natural sense of rectitude, which had yielded reluctantly, even to the
command of Akbar, maintained a constant intercourse with him by means
of an intelligent mute, who, hovering in the vicinity of Benares,
sometimes in the disguise of a fisherman, sometimes as a coolie, was a
continual spy upon all his movements; and once in every month, when the
moon was in her dark quarter, Govinda met him secretly, and exchanged
communications with his brother.
The Brahman Sarma was rich; he was proud of his high caste, his spiritual
office, and his learning; he was of the tribe of Narayna, which for a
thousand years had filled the offices of priesthood, without descending
to any meaner occupation, or mingling blood with any inferior caste.
He maintained habitually a cold, austere, and dignified calmness of
demeanour; and flattered himself, that he had attained that state of
perfect indifference to all worldly things, which, according to the
Brahminical philosophy, is the highest point of human virtue; but,
though simple, grave, and austere in his personal habits, he lived
with a splendour becoming his reputation, his high rank, and vast
possessions. He exercised an almost princely hospitality; a hundred
mendicants were fed morning and evening at his gates. He founded and
supported colleges of learning for the poorer Brahmans, and had numerous
pupils, who had come from all parts of India to study under his direction.
These were lodged in separate buildings. Only Govinda, as the adopted
son of Sarma, dwelt under the same roof with his Gooroo, a privilege
which had unconsciously become most precious to his heart: it removed
him from the constrained companionship of those he secretly despised,
and it placed him in delicious and familiar intercourse with one, who
had become too dearly and fatally beloved.
The Brahman had an only child, the daughter of his old age. She had
been named, at her birth, Priyamvada; (or _softly speaking_;) but her
companions called her Amra, the name of a graceful tree bearing blossoms
of peculiar beauty and fragrance, with which the Camdeo (Indian Cupid)
is said to tip his arrows. Amra was but a child when Govinda first
entered the dwelling of his preceptor; but as time passed on, she
expanded beneath his eye into beauty and maturity, like the lovely
and odoriferous flower, the name of which she bore.
The Hindoo women of superior rank and unmixed caste are in general
of diminutive size; and accordingly the lovely and high-born Amra was
formed upon the least possible scale of female beauty: but her figure,
though so exquisitely delicate, had all the flowing outline and rounded
proportions of complete womanhood. Her features were perfectly regular,
and of almost infantine minuteness, except her eyes: those soft oriental
eyes, not sparkling, or often animated, but large, dark, and lustrous;
as if in their calm depth of expression slept unawakened passions, like
the bright deity Heri reposing upon the coiled serpent. Her eyebrows
were finely arched, and most delicately pencilled; her complexion, of a
pale and transparent olive, was on the slightest emotion suffused with
a tint, which resembled that of the crimson water-lily as seen through
the tremulous wave; her lips were like the buds of the Camalata, and
unclosed to display a row of teeth like seed-pearl of Manar. But one of
her principal charms, because peculiar and unequalled, was the beauty
and redundance of her hair, which in colour and texture resembled black
floss silk, and, when released from confinement, flowed downwards over
her whole person like a veil, and swept the ground.
Such was Amra: nor let it be supposed, that so perfect a form was allied
to a merely passive and childish mind. It is on record, that, until the
invasion of Hindostan by the barbarous Moguls, the Indian women enjoyed
comparative freedom: it is only since the occupation of the country by
the Europeans, that they have been kept in entire seclusion. A plurality
of wives was discouraged by their laws; and, among some of the tribes
of Brahmans, it was even forbidden. At the period of our story, that
is, in the reign of Akbar, the Indian women, and more particularly the
Brahminees, enjoyed much liberty. They were well educated, and some
of them, extraordinary as it may seem, distinguished themselves in
war and government. The Indian queen Durgetti, whose history forms a
conspicuous and interesting episode in the life of Akbar, defended her
kingdom for ten years against one of his most valiant generals. Mounted
upon an elephant of war, she led her armies in person; fought several
pitched battles; and being at length defeated in a decisive engagement,
she stabbed herself on the field, rather than submit to her barbarous
conqueror. Nor was this a solitary instance of female heroism and mental
energy: and the effect of this freedom, and the respect with which they
were treated, appeared in the morals and manners of the women.
The gentle daughter of Sarma was not indeed fitted by nature either to
lead or to govern, and certainly had never dreamed of doing either. Her
figure, gestures, and movements, had that softness at once alluring and
retiring, that indolent grace, that languid repose, common to the women
of tropical regions.
"All her affections like the dews on roses,
Fair as the flowers themselves; as soft, as gentle."
Her spirit, in its "mildness, sweetness, blessedness," seemed as
flexible and unresisting as the tender Vasanta creeper. She had indeed
been educated in all the exclusive pride of her caste, and taught to
regard all who were not of the privileged race of Brahma as _frangi_
(or impure;) but this principle, though so early instilled into her mind
as to have become a part of her nature, was rather passive than active;
it had never been called forth. She had never been brought into contact
with those, whose very look she would have considered as pollution; for
she had no intercourse but with those of her own nation, and watchful
and sustaining love were all around her. Her learned accomplishments
extended no farther than to read and write the Hindostanee tongue. To
tend and water her flowers, to feed her birds, which inhabited a gaily
gilded aviary in her garden, to string pearls, to embroider muslin, were
her employments; to pay visits and receive them, to lie upon cushions,
and be fanned asleep by her maids, or listen to the endless tales of her
old nurse, Gautami, whose memory was a vast treasure of traditional
wonders--these were her amusements. That there were graver occupations,
and dearer pleasures, proper to her sex, she knew; but thought not of
them, till the young Govinda came to disturb the peace of her innocent
bosom. She had been told to regard him as a brother; and, as she had
never known a brother, she believed, that, in lavishing upon him all the
glowing tenderness of her young heart, she was but obeying her father's
commands. If her bosom fluttered when she heard his footsteps; if she
trembled upon the tones of his voice; if, while he was occupied in the
services of the temple, she sat in her veranda awaiting his return,
and, the moment he appeared through the embowering acacias, a secret
and unaccountable feeling made her breathe quick, and rise in haste
and retire to her inner apartments, till he approached to pay the
salutations due to the daughter of his preceptor; what was it, what
_could_ it be, but the tender solicitude of a sister for a new-found
brother? But Govinda himself was not so entirely deceived. His boyhood
had been passed in a luxurious court, and among the women and slaves
of his brother's harem; and though so young, he was not wholly
inexperienced in a passion, which is the too early growth of an eastern
heart. He knew why he languished in the presence of his beautiful
sister; he could tell why the dark splendour of Amra's eyes pierced his
soul like the winged flames shot into a besieged city. He could guess,
too, why those eyes kindled with a softer fire beneath his glance: but
the love he felt was so chastened by the awe which her serene purity,
and the dignity of her sweet and feminine bearing shed around her; so
hallowed by the nominal relationship in which they stood; so different,
in short, from any thing he had ever felt, or seen, or heard of, that,
abandoned to all the sweet and dream-like enchantment of a boyish
passion, Govinda was scarcely conscious of the wishes of his own heart,
until accident in the same moment disclosed his secret aspirations to
himself, and bade him for ever despair of their accomplishment.
On the last day of the dark half of the moon, it was the custom of
the wise and venerable Sarma to bathe at sunset in the Ganges, and
afterwards retire to private meditation upon the thousand names of God,
by the repetition of which, as it is written, a man insures to himself
everlasting felicity. But while Sarma was thus absorbed in holy
abstraction, where were Govinda and Amra?
In a spot fairer than the poet's creative pencil ever wrought into a
picture for fancy to dwell on--where, at the extremity of the Brahman's
garden, the broad and beautiful stream that bounded it ran swiftly to
mingle its waves with those of the thrice-holy Ganges; where mangoes
raised their huge twisted roots in a thousand fantastic forms, while
from their boughs hung suspended the nests of the little Baya birds,
which waved to and fro in the evening breeze--there had Amra and Govinda
met together, it might be, without design. The sun had set, the Cistus
flowers began to fall, and the rich blossoms of the night-loving Nilica
diffused their rich odour. The Peyoo awoke to warble forth his song, and
the fire-flies were just visible, as they flitted under the shade of the
Champac trees. Upon a bank, covered with that soft and beautiful grass,
which, whenever it is pressed or trodden on, yields a delicious perfume,
were Amra and Govinda seated side by side. Two of her attendants, at
some little distance, were occupied in twining wreaths of flowers. Amra
had a basket at her feet, in which were two small vessels of porcelain.
One contained cakes of rice, honey, and clarified butter, kneaded by her
own hand; in the other were mangoes, rose-apples, and musk-melons; and
garlands of the holy palasa blossoms, sacred to the dead, were flung
around the whole. This was the votive offering, which Amra had prepared
for the tomb of her mother, who was buried in the garden. And now, with
her elbow resting on her knee, and her soft cheek leaning on her hand,
she sat gazing up at the sky, where the stars came flashing forth one
by one; and she watched the auspicious moment for offering her pious
oblation. But Govinda looked neither on the earth, nor on the sky.
What to him were the stars, or the flowers, or the moon rising in dewy
splendour? His eyes were fixed upon one, who was brighter to him than
the stars, lovelier than the moon when she drives her antelopes through
the heavens, sweeter than the night-flower which opens in her beam.
"O Amra!" he said, at length, and while he spoke his voice trembled even
at its own tenderness, "Amra! beautiful and beloved sister! thine eyes
are filled with the glory of that sparkling firmament! the breath of the
evening, which agitates the silky filaments of the Seris, is as pleasant
to thee as to me: but the beauty, which I see, thou canst not see; the
power of deep joy, which thrills over my heart like the breeze over
those floating lotuses--oh! _this_ thou canst not feel!--Let me take
away those pearls and gems scattered among thy radiant tresses, and
replace them with these fragrant and golden clusters of Champac flowers!
If ever there were beauty, which could disdain the aid of ornament, is
it not that of Amra? If ever there were purity, truth, and goodness,
which could defy the powers of evil, are they not thine? O, then, let
others braid their hair with pearls, and bind round their arms the
demon-scaring amulet, my sister needs no spells to guard her innocence,
and cannot wear a gem that does not hide a charm!"
The blush, which the beginning of this passionate speech had called up
to her cheek, was changed to a smile, as she looked down upon the mystic
circle of gold, which bound her arm.
"It is not a talisman," said she, softly; "it is the Tali, the nuptial
bracelet, which was bound upon my arm when I was married."
"_Married!_" the word rent away from the heart of Govinda that veil,
with which he had hitherto shrouded his secret hopes, fears, wishes, and
affections. His mute agitation sent a trouble into her heart, she knew
not why. She blushed quick-kindling blushes, and drooped her head.
"Married!" he said, after a breathless pause; "when? to whom? who is
the possessor of a gem of such exceeding price, and yet forbears to
claim it?"
She replied, "To Adhar, priest of Indore, and the friend of Sarma. I was
married to him while yet an infant, after the manner of our tribe." Then
perceiving his increasing disturbance, she continued, hurriedly, and
with downcast eyes:--"I have never seen him; he has long dwelt in the
countries of the south, whither he was called on an important mission;
but he will soon return to reside here in the sacred city of his fathers,
and will leave it no more. Why then should Govinda be sad?" She laid her
hand timidly upon his arm, and looked up in his face.
Govinda would fain have taken that beautiful little hand, and covered
it with kisses and with tears; but he was restrained by a feeling of
respect, which he could not himself comprehend. He feared to alarm her;
he contented himself with fixing his eyes on the hand which rested on
his arm; and he said, in a soft melancholy voice, "When Adhar returns,
Govinda will be forgotten."
"O never! never!" she exclaimed with sudden emotion, and lifting towards
him eyes, that floated in tears. Govinda bent down his head, and pressed
his lips upon her hand. She withdrew it hastily, and rose from the
ground.
At that moment her nurse, Gautami, approached them. "My child," said
she, in a tone of reproof, "dost thou yet linger here, and the auspicious
moment almost past? If thou delayest longer, evil demons will disturb and
consume the pious oblation, and the dead will frown upon the abandoned
altar. Hasten, my daughter; take up the basket of offerings, and walk
before us."
Amra, trembling, leaned upon her maids, and prepared to obey; but when
she had made a few steps, she turned back, as if to salute her brother,
and repeated in a low emphatic tone the word "_Never!_"--then turned
away. Govinda stood looking after the group, till the last wave of their
white veils disappeared; and listened till the tinkling of their silver
anklets could no longer be distinguished. Then he started as from a dream:
he tossed his arms above his head; he flung himself upon the earth in
an agony of jealous fury; he gave way to all the pent-up passions, which
had been for years accumulating in his heart. All at once he rose: he
walked to and fro; he stopped. A hope had darted into his mind, even
through the gloom of despair. "For what," thought he, "have I sold myself?
For riches! for honour! for power! Ah! what are they in such a moment?
Dust of the earth, toys, empty breath! For what is the word of the Great
King pledged to me? Has he not sworn to refuse me nothing? All that is
most precious between earth and heaven, from the mountain to the sea,
lies at my choice! One word, and she is mine! and I hesitate? Fool! she
_shall_ be mine!"
He looked up towards heaven, and marked the places of the stars. "It is
the appointed hour," he muttered, and cautiously his eye glanced around,
and he listened; but all was solitary and silent. He then stole along
the path, which led through a thick grove of Cadam trees, intermingled
with the tall points of the Cusa grass, that shielded him from all
observation. He came at last to a little promontory, where the river we
have mentioned threw itself into the Ganges. He had not been there above
a minute, when a low whistle, like the note of the Chacora, was heard.
A small boat rowed to the shore, and Sahib stood before him. Quick
of eye and apprehension, the mute perceived instantly that something
unusual had occurred. He pointed to the skiff; but Govinda shook his
head, and made signs for a light and the writing implements. They were
quickly brought; and while Sahib held the lamp, so that its light
was invisible to the opposite shore, Govinda wrote, in the peculiar
cipher they had framed for that purpose, a few words to his brother,
sufficiently intelligible in their import, though dictated by the
impassioned and tumultuous feelings of the moment. When he had finished,
he gave the letter to Sahib, who concealed it carefully in the folds of
his turban, and then, holding up the fingers of both hands thrice over,
to intimate, that in thirty days he would bring the answer, he sprung
into the boat, and was soon lost under the mighty shadow of the trees,
which stretched their huge boughs over the stream.
Govinda slowly returned; but he saw Amra no more that night. They met
the next day, and the next; but Amra was no longer the same: she was
silent, pensive; and when pressed or rebuked, she became tearful and
even sullen. She was always seen with her faithful Gautami, upon whose
arm she leaned droopingly, and hung her head like her own neglected
flowers. Govinda was almost distracted: in vain he watched for a moment
to speak to Amra alone; the vigilant Gautami seemed resolved, that they
should never meet out of her sight. Sometimes he would raise his eyes to
her as she passed, with such a look of tender and sorrowful reproach,
that Amra would turn away her face and weep: but still she spoke not:
and never returned his respectful salutation farther than by inclining
her head.
The old Brahman perceived this change in his beloved daughter; but not
for some time: and it is probable, that, being absorbed in his spiritual
office and sublime speculations, he would have had neither leisure nor
penetration to discover the cause, if the suspicions of the careful
Gautami had not awakened his attention. She ventured to suggest the
propriety of hastening the return of his daughter's betrothed husband;
and the Brahman, having taken her advice in this particular, rested
satisfied; persuading himself, that the arrival of Adhar would be a
certain and all-sufficient remedy for the dreaded evil, which in his
simplicity he had never contemplated, and could scarcely be made to
comprehend.
A month had thus passed away, and again that appointed day came round,
on which Govinda was wont to meet his brother's emissary: even on
ordinary occasions he could never anticipate it without a thrill of
anxiety,--now every feeling was wrought up to agony; yet it was necessary
to control the slightest sign of impatience, and wear the same external
guise of calm, subdued self-possession, though every vein was burning
with the fever of suspense.
It was the hour when Sarma, having risen from his mid-day sleep, was
accustomed to listen to Govinda while he read some appointed text.
Accordingly Govinda opened his book, and standing before his preceptor
in an attitude of profound humility, he read thus:
"Garuna asked of the Crow Bushanda, 'What is the most excellent of
natural forms? the highest good? the chief pain? the dearest pleasure?
the greatest wickedness? the severest punishment?
"And the Crow Bushanda answered him: 'In the three worlds, empyreal,
terrestrial, and infernal, no form excels the human form.
"'Supreme felicity, on earth, is found in the conversation of a virtuous
friend.
"'The keenest pain is inflicted by extreme poverty.
"'The worst of sins is uncharitableness; and to the uncharitable is
awarded the severest punishment: for while the despisers of their
spiritual guides shall live for a thousand centuries as frogs, and
those who contemn the Brahmans as ravens, and those who scorn other
men as blinking bats, the uncharitable alone shall be condemned to the
profoundest hell, and their punishment shall last for ever.'"[24]
Govinda closed his book; and the old Brahman was proceeding to make an
elaborate comment on this venerable text, when, looking up in the face
of his pupil, he perceived that he was pale, abstracted, and apparently
unconscious that he was speaking. He stopped: he was about to rebuke
him, but he restrained himself; and after reflecting for a few moments,
he commanded the youth to prepare for the evening sacrifice: but first
he desired him to summon Amra to her father's presence.
At this unusual command Govinda almost started. He deposited the sacred
leaves in his bosom, and, with a beating heart and trembling steps,
prepared to obey. When he reached the door of the zenana, he gently
lifted the silken curtain which divided the apartments, and stood for a
few moments contemplating, with silent and sad delight, the group that
met his view.
Amra was reclining upon cushions, and looking wan as a star that fades
away before the dawn. Her head drooped upon her bosom, her hair hung
neglected upon her shoulders: yet was she lovely still; and Govinda,
while he gazed, remembered the words of the poet Calidas: "The water-lily,
though dark moss may settle on its head, is nevertheless beautiful; and
the moon, with dewy beams, is rendered yet brighter by its dark spots."
She was clasping round her delicate wrist a bracelet of gems; and when
she observed, that ever as she placed it on her attenuated arm it fell
again upon her hand, she shook her head and smiled mournfully. Two
of her maids sat at her feet, occupied in their embroidery; and old
Gautami, at her side, was relating, in a slow, monotonous recitative,
one of her thousand tales of wonder, to divert the melancholy of her
young mistress. She told how the demi-god Rama was forced to flee
from the demons who had usurped his throne, and how his beautiful and
faithful Seita wandered over the whole earth in search of her consort;
and, being at length overcome with grief and fatigue, she sat down in
the pathless wilderness and wept; and how there arose from the spot,
where her tears sank warm into the earth, a fountain of boiling water
of exquisite clearness and wondrous virtues; and how maidens, who make
a pilgrimage to this sacred well and dip their veils into its wave with
pure devotion, ensure themselves the utmost felicity in marriage: thus
the story ran. Amra, who appeared at first abstracted and inattentive,
began to be affected by the misfortunes and the love of the beautiful
Seita; and at the mention of the fountain and its virtues, she lifted
her eyes with an expression of eager interest, and met those of Govinda
fixed upon her. She uttered a faint cry, and threw herself into the arms
of Gautami. He hastened to deliver the commands of his preceptor, and
then Amra, recovering her self-possession, threw her veil round her,
arose, and followed him to her father's presence.
As they drew near together, the old man looked from one to the other.
Perhaps his heart, though dead to all human passions, felt at that
moment a touch of pity for the youthful, lovely, and loving pair who
stood before him; but his look was calm, cold, and serene, as usual.
"Draw near, my son," he said; "and thou, my beloved daughter, approach,
and listen to the will of your father. The time is come, when we must
make ready all things for the arrival of the wise and honoured Adhar.
My daughter, let those pious ceremonies, with which virtuous women
prepare themselves ere they enter the dwelling of their husband, be duly
performed: and do thou, Govinda, son of my choice, set my household
in order, that all may be in readiness to receive with honour the
bridegroom, who comes to claim his betrothed. To-morrow we will
sacrifice to Ganesa, who is the guardian of travellers: this night
must be given to penance and holy meditation. Amra, retire: and thou,
Govinda, take up that fagot of Tulsi-wood, with the rice and the flowers
for the evening oblation, and follow me to the temple." So saying, the
old man turned away hastily; and without looking back, pursued his path
through the sacred grove.