The wise will not attach themselves unto women; for women
sport with the hearts of those who love them, even as with
ravens whose wing-feathers have been plucked out.... There
is honey in the tongues of women; there is nought in their
heart save the venom halahala.... Their nature is mobile as
the eddies of the sea; their affection endures no longer
than the glow of gold above the place of sunset: all venom
within, all fair without, women are like unto the fruit of
the goundja.... Therefore the experienced and wise do avoid
women, even as they shun the water-vessels that are placed
within the cemeteries....
In the "Panchopakhyana," and also in that "Ocean of the Rivers
of Legend," which is called in the ancient Indian tongue
"Kathasaritsagara," may be found this story of a Brahman and his
Brahmani:
...Never did the light that is in the eyes of lovers shine more
tenderly than in the eyes of the Brahman who gave his life for the
life of the woman under whose lotus-feet he laid his heart. Yet what
man lives that hath not once in his time been a prey to the madness
inspired by woman? ...
He alone loved her; his family being loath to endure her presence--for
in her tongue was the subtle poison that excites sister against
brother, friend against friend. But so much did he love her that
for her sake he abandoned father and mother, brother and sister, and
departed with his Brahmani to seek fortune in other parts. Happily his
guardian Deva accompanied him--for he was indeed a holy man, having
no fault but the folly of loving too much; and the Deva, by reason of
spiritual sight, foresaw all that would come to pass.
As they were journeying together through the elephant-haunted forest,
the young woman said to her husband: "O thou son of a venerable man,
thy Brahmani dies of thirst; fetch her, she humbly prays thee, a little
water from the nearest spring." And the Brahman forthwith hastened to
the running brook, with the gourd in his hand; but when he had returned
with the water, he found his beloved lying dead upon a heap of leaves.
Now this death was indeed the unseen work of the good Deva.
So, casting the gourd from him, the Brahman burst into tears, and
sobbed as though his soul would pass from him, and kissed the beautiful
dead face and the slender dead feet and the golden throat of his
Brahmani, shrieking betimes in his misery, and daring to question the
gods as to why they had so afflicted him. But even as he lamented,
a voice answered him in syllables clear as the notes of a singing
bird: "Foolish man! wilt thou give half of thy life in order that thy
Brahmani shall live again?"
And he, in whom love had slain all fear, answered untremblingly to
the Invisible: "Yea, O Narayana, half of my life will I give unto her
gladly." Then spake the Invisible: "Foolish man! pronounce the three
mystic syllables." And he pronounced them; and the Brahmani, as if
awaking from a dream, unclosed her jewel-eyes, and wound her round arms
about her husband's neck, and with her fresh lips drank the rain of his
tears as the lips of a blossom drink in the dews of the night.
So, having eaten of fruits and refreshed themselves, both proceeded
upon their way; and at last, leaving the forest, they came to a great
stretch of gardens lying without a white city--gardens rainbow-colored
with flowers of marvelous perfume, and made cool by fountains flowing
from the lips of gods in stone and from the trunks of elephants of
rock. Then said the loving husband to his Brahmani: "Remain here a
little while, thou too sweet one, that I may hasten on to return to
thee sooner with fruits and refreshing drink."...
Now in that place of gardens dwelt a youth, employed to draw up water
by the turning of a great wheel, and to cleanse the mouths of the
fountains; and although a youth, he had been long consumed by one of
those maladies that make men tremble with cold beneath a sky of fire,
so that there was little of his youthfulness left to him excepting
his voice. But with that voice he charmed the hearts of women, as the
juggler charms the hooded serpent; and, seeing the wife of the Brahman,
he sang that she might hear.
He sang as the birds sing in the woods in pairing time, as the waters
sing that lip the curves of summered banks, as the Apsarases sang in
other kalpas; and he sang the songs of Amarou--Amarou, sweetest of all
singers, whose soul had passed through a century of transmigrations
in the bodies of a hundred fairest women, until he became the world's
master in all mysteries of love. And as the Brahmani listened, Kama
transpierced her heart with his flower-pointed arrows, so that,
approaching the youth, she pressed her lips upon his lips, and
murmured, "If thou lovest me not, I die."
Therefore, when the Brahman returned with fruits and drink, she coaxed
him that he should share these with the youth, and even prayed him
that he should bring the youth along as a traveling companion or as a
domestic.
"Behold!" answered the Brahman, "this young man is too feeble to bear
hardship; and if he fall by the wayside, I shall not be strong enough
to carry him." But the Brahmani answered, "Nay! should he fall, then
will I myself carry him in my basket, upon my head"; and the Brahman
yielded to her request, although marveling exceedingly. So they all
traveled on together.
Now one day, as they were reposing by a deep well, the Brahmani,
beholding her husband asleep, pushed him so that he fell into the
well; and she departed, taking the youth with her. Soon after this
had happened, they came to a great city where a famous and holy king
lived, who loved all Brahmans and had built them a temple surrounded
by rich lands, paying for the land by laying golden elephant-feet in
lines round about it. And the cunning Brahmani, when arrested by the
toll-collectors and taken before this king--still bearing the sick
youth upon her head in a basket--boldly spake to the king, saying:
"This, most holy of kings, is my dearest husband, a righteous Brahman,
who has met with affliction while performing the good works ordained
for such as he; and inasmuch as heirs sought his life, I have concealed
him in this basket and brought him hither." Then the king, being filled
with compassion, bestowed upon the Brahmani and her pretended husband
the revenues of two villages and the freedom thereof, saying: "Thou
shalt be henceforth as my sister thou comeliest and truest of women."
But the poor Brahman was not dead; for his good Deva had preserved his
life within the well-pit, and certain travelers passing by drew him up
and gave him to eat. Thus it happened that he presently came to the
same village in which the wicked Brahmani dwelt; and, fearing with an
exceeding great fear, she hastened to the king, and said, "Lo! the
enemy who seeketh to kill my husband pursueth after us."