I
_Hail to the Lord of the Moony Tire, whose throat derives its blue less
from the Kalakuta which he drank but once to save the world, than from
the cloud of colour that rests for ever like a ring around his neck,
formed of dark glances from the shadowy eyes of the Daughter of the
Snow, permanently fixed with indelible affection[1] on his face!_
Long ago, as the God of gods was playing in the evening on the edge of
an awful precipice in Himálaya with his wife, it happened, that, all at
once, that lotus-eyed Daughter of the Snowy Mountain fell into a brown
study. And Maheshwara, by his magic power, penetrated her thoughts.
Nevertheless, after a while, making as if he did not know, he enquired
of her politely: Of what is my beloved thinking, with such intense
abstraction? And hearing him speak, Párwatí started, and blushed, and
hesitated. And presently she said: I was but thinking of my Father.[2]
And then, the Great God smiled. And he said, looking at her with
unutterable affection: O thou Snowy one, I see, that thou also art but
a mine of faults. Thou hast not told me the literal truth! For thou
wast thinking, that thy own eyes resembled that great blue chasm in
yonder ice, but that the eyes were superior. And it was true. Then
Párwatí blushed again, while the god watched her with attention. And
after a while, she said: Why didst thou say, that I also am a mine of
faults? Then said Maheshwara: Every woman is a mine of faults, and
thou art thyself a woman, although a goddess, being, as it were, Woman
incarnate, the very type and pattern of them all. And it is very well.
For if women had no faults, half their charm would disappear. For,
_apropos_, thou hast already blushed twice, which thou wouldst not have
done, at all, but for thy feminine preoccupation about thy own
incomparable beauty, which led thee to compare thy lotus-eyes with the
blue mountain ice, to its inferiority, and for thy shame, which led
thee to endeavour to hide from me thy self-approval by telling me a
fib. And thy blush is an ornament to thee, which I love to look at,
resembling as it does the first kiss of early Dawn on thy father's
snowy peaks.
And then, that lovely one blushed in confusion for the third time,
deeper than before. And again she said: But why is every woman a mine
of faults? Then said her lord: I could tell thee many instances to
prove it, had I leisure: but as it is, just now, I have not time. And
the goddess exclaimed: Out upon thee! Thou dost only tease me. What
is Time to thee? Do I not know that thou thyself art Time itself? And
she began to coax and wheedle and caress him, to gain her end, knowing
her own power, and certain of success.
So then, after a while, Maheshwara said: See now, if even I, who am a
god, even among gods, am utterly unable to resist the feminine cajolery
incarnate in thy form, what are the miserable mortal men below to do,
against it? Come, then, I will humour thee, by telling thee a tale.
But first, I must provide against the mischief that would otherwise
come about, by reason of my delay on thy account. For I can remedy the
ill, which thou dost overlook, preferring thy own amusement to the
business of the three worlds: but it is otherwise with men, who,
cajoled and befooled by thy sisters in witchery below, often lose
golden opportunities.
And then, by his magic power, he suspended the operation of the three
worlds, so that everything, animate and inanimate, fell as it were
suddenly into a magic sleep, and all action stopped, remaining
suspended on the very brink of coming into being, like a mountain
waterfall suddenly turned to ice. And he said: When the story is told,
I will release things from the spell, and all will go on just as it
would have done before. For time, uncounted, is the same as none at
all. And then, he turned towards his wife, and said: And now, where
shall we sit, to tell and hear? Then she said: I will listen on thy
lap, as thou roamest through the air, for so I love to listen to thy
tales.
And Maheshwara took her in his arms. And as they floated in space, she
laid her head upon his breast, and played with his rosary of skulls,
drinking his ocean-story[3] with the shell of her little ear.
* * * * *
And he said: There lived of old, in the northern quarter, two kings,
who were neighbours, and hereditary enemies; and one was of the race of
the Moon, and the other of the Sun; and one was king of the hill
country, and the other, king of the plains. And the name of the one
was Mitra, and that of the other, Chand.[4] And as fate would have it,
King Mitra was a man of peace, and a lover of songs and pictures, and
poetry, and ease. And he married a beautiful wife, whom he loved
better than his own soul, and lived with her deliciously until at last
she died, leaving him with a broken heart and nothing to console him
except her recollection, as it were incarnate in a daughter who
resembled her exactly in everything but years. But on the contrary,
Chand was a lover of war. And he spent his whole life in fighting
everlasting battles with all surrounding kings, never resting for a
moment: and he reduced them, one by one, to submission and obedience,
bending down their stubborn heads till their crowns were reflected all
together in a ring in the jewels of his toes as they humbly knelt
before him, like a crown composed of crowns: for his military skill was
like his stature, gigantic. And he married unwillingly, only for the
sake of continuing the line of his descent; and having once obtained a
son, he turned his back upon his wife, and went away, leaving her
behind him, alone in his capital, and carrying away with him his son,
whom he brought up in his camp, making him a warrior, and teaching him,
both by continual precept and his own example, utter contempt for every
peaceful occupation, and above all, for women. And so he went on, year
by year, until at last, when his son was eighteen, and still
unmarried,[5] for his father kept putting off his marriage, saying:
What is the need of hurry? a necessary evil is better still deferred:
King Chand was suddenly killed, in the field of battle. And he just
had time to murmur to his son: Follow in my footsteps: recollect my
lessons: guard the kingdom: conquer the regions, and above all, beware
of women: when Death took him, as it were, by the throat while he was
speaking, and he set out instantly along the Great Road.
So, then, when his son, who was named after his father, had performed
his father's obsequies according to the rites, he continued to live,
exactly as his father had, before. And after a while, his ministers
came to him one day, and said: Maháráj, this is well, that the son
should continue to run, like a wheel, in the rut his father made. But
still there is a difference, between thee and thy father, which escapes
thy observation. Then said Chand: What is that? And they said: He
carried about with him everywhere, a son. And Chand said: Ha! so he
did. Then said his ministers: It is high time that thy marriage also
took place: and then in due time, the parallel between thy father and
thyself will be exact, and thou wilt resemble him as closely as the
moon resembles his own image in the water.
And then, Chand laughed, and he exclaimed: As if it were necessary to
get married, in order to obtain a son! And his ministers said: It is
absolutely necessary. For a son that is truly a son can be begotten
only of a wife truly a wife, led by thee around the sacred fire.
Then said Chand: Ye are all mere fools. For if I choose, cannot I
adopt a son, as many of my ancestors have done before me? And this is
by far the better way. For who can tell beforehand what his own
begotten son will be like? For many times a bad son has issued from
the loins of a good father. But he who chooses a son, like one that
chooses a horse, knows what he is doing: since he takes him for his
qualities, visible and sure, out of all that he can find. And in this
way, the object is attained, without having recourse to the expedient
of a wife.
Then said his ministers: O King, if all men were to follow thy example,
the world would come to an end. For even adopted sons cannot be
adopted, until they are begotten. And if thou wilt not marry, others
must: or else thy plan is impossible and vain.
Then said Chand: Let the others all do exactly as they please, and so
will I: for I at least will be an exception to this universal rule of
marriage. For if women, as it seems, are indispensable, in this matter
of procuring sons, I see no other use in them whatever. What is a
woman but a mine of faults? For she cannot fight, and is destitute of
valour; and she is absolutely nothing whatever but a man deprived of
his manhood, a weakling, a coward, and a dwarf, and as it were, a
misincarnation of impotence, accidentally formed by the Creator in a
moment of fatigue, or forgetfulness, or hurry, or it may be, out of
irony and sport: for there is absolutely nothing whatever worth doing,
which a woman can do: nor can she do anything whatever, which a man
cannot do far better than herself. And linked to a man, what is she,
but a load, and as it were, a fetter or a chain to him, and like a very
heavy burden tied to the leg of one running in a race? And therefore,
I see no use in her at all, but very much the contrary. For in
addition to her incapacity, she is as it were endowed by the Creator
with a multitude of positive defects: for she is everlastingly shedding
tears, and scolding, and what is utterly intolerable, never stops
talking about absolutely nothing, so that the mere presence of a woman
is a curse. Moreover, she is as fickle and inconstant and capricious
as the wind, and less to be trusted than a cobra; and over and over
again, women have deceived and betrayed even their own husbands, both
in love and war. But the very worst of all is, that they love a man
less, in exact proportion to his worth, preferring almost anyone, no
matter what he be, who flatters and courts and overvalues them, to even
a hero who does not, abandoning, like flies, everything, to flock to
that honey which alone attracts them, and demanding the sacrifice of
everything noble to their craving appetite for frivolity and sweets.
Therefore for my part I will live, never having anything whatever to do
with any one of them: nor shall any jackal of you all persuade me to
put off the natural colour I was born with, and by plunging into the
vat of matrimony, come out dyed all over an intolerable blue.[6]
And hearing him speak, his ministers looked at one another, laughing in
their sleeves. And they said to one another, behind his back: How well
does this young lion roar, repeating by rote, as if he were a parrot,
exactly what the old one taught him! For what, forsooth! does he know
of woman, who has hardly been allowed to see were it even so much as
her shadow? Truly, he resembles a young black bee, kept in ignorance
of flowers and their honey, and taught to call it poison, conceitedly
lecturing older bees, his brothers, about what he does not understand.
But we shall see, whether, in due time, we shall not have the laugh on
our side. And in the meanwhile, always provided he is not killed like
his father, beforehand, his error is, at any rate, an error on the
better side. For many a young king-bee, in his position, would long
ago have rushed into the opposite extreme, rifling every lotus within
his reach, till he died of intoxication and exhaustion and excess. But
as for him, lucky will that lotus be, that first succeeds in opening
his eyes to what a lotus really is: for he will give her, not the dregs
of his satiety, but real devotion springing from an uncontaminated
well, pure and delicious, of which no one has ever been allowed to
drink before. And in the meantime, we will wait, in expectation of the
change, which is certain to arrive.
So they waited: but time went on, and Chand still continued as before,
thinking only of battle, and observing the _brahmachari_[7] vow, just
as if there were no such thing as a woman in the world.
Then said Párwatí softly to her lord: Sure I am, that the god of the
flowery bow[8] would have punished him severely for his presumption,
had he only heard him so outrageously vituperating his sworn allies and
darling weapons as thou sayest.
And Maheshwara said: O Daughter of the Snow, he was punished,
sufficiently, as thou wilt learn in due time. For few indeed are the
young men or women that the Bodiless god overlooks, seeing that of all
of us, he is by far the most jealous in exacting homage to his
divinity, as if he doubted it himself, and greedy of extorting from
everyone acknowledgment, like a woman uncertain of the affection of her
lover, insatiably craving to hear its avowal, over and over again, from
his lips. And yet, perhaps the greatest punishment of all would have
been, to leave him alone: since of all my creatures, those are most to
be pitied, whom love utterly neglects, leaving them as it were in a
night to which there never comes a dawn. And who knows this better
than thyself, by reason of thy own extraordinary torture,[9] before I
had to burn Love's body for his own presumption, with fire from my eye.
But now, hush! and lie still, and listen to the remainder of the tale.