A Mine of Faults

Translated from the Original Manuscript

By

F. W. Bain

Was it a Swoon or the Wine in her Eyes? Ha! the whole World is one Azure Abyss.

G. P. Putnam's Sons New York and London The Knickerbocker Press 1910

COPYRIGHT, 1910 BY F. W. BAIN

The Knickerbocker Press, New York

DEDICATION

sic barbare vertendum.

uxor-mater-amica-soror-dea-filia-concham vas infirmius hanc, helleborose, vocas?

aut sic

What! this mother-sister-daughter-goddess-wife-secreting Shell This, the weaker vessel, holding Love and Life and Heaven and Hell!

Introduction

Though the old literature of the Hindoos is deficient in the department of politics—it has no history, no orators, no Demosthenes, no Polybius, no Aristotle; for the dialectic of politics appears to have been invented by the divinely discontented Greek—though, I say, it has no politics, it is permeated with policy. The ancients, says Aristotle, wrote politically, but we rhetorically: and his remark is admirably illustrated by e.g. the old Panchatantra, whose author certainly had in him as much policy as Thucydides, although he chose to deliver his wisdom in apologues, rather than in the prosaic and somewhat pedantic photography of actual affairs. The Hindoo term, níti, means, not so much policy, as diplomacy, and so their níti-shastra, or doctrine of policy, refers rather to the clever conduct of affairs in negotiation, than to anything else. And therefore, love-affairs, which we should hardly include under politics, fall in with the Hindoo conception, and in this sense women are, as the Hindoos think, and their annals abundantly testify, at least the equals, in

policy, of men. When the author of Eothen commended certain women of the Ægæan isles for their admirable [Greek: politiue], he was using the term exactly in the sense of níti. And this correlation of diplomacy and love is the substance of the present story, the story of a love-affair, in which, if we may believe a great authority, the poet-king, Bhartrihari, the special quality required and exhibited is craft. The Hindoos in fact resemble women, and women the Hindoos, in this particular, that they are both of them apt to identify policy with craft, and like rivers, generally prefer to reach desired ends by crooked ways: and this is why both of them, though often very dexterous negotiators (like Wellington's "Old Brag," whom he thought superior to Talleyrand), have too much finesse to make really solid statesmen. For intrigue may be good, in war, and it may be good, in love, but it is not good, save in a subordinate and secondary sense, in state-affairs. Nothing durable was ever built upon it. Strength is simple, but cunning is the weapon of the weak: and

there is probably more consummate "policy," i.e. diplomacy and tact, exhibited by women in the conduct of their love-affairs in every century, than has ever been displayed by men on the great stage of politics in the whole of human history.

And though the title of our story, A Mine of Faults, might lead the reader to expect, not without alarm, something geological and mineral, and hard, and stony, it really plays lightly with a somewhat softer substance, which only disconsolate lovers in the depth of their dejection ever venture to compare with rocks or flints—a woman. For here, as usual, the Sanskrit epithet conveys two meanings in one word: being, in one sense, a poetic synonym of the Moon: the maker of eve, the lender of beauty to the dusk: while, according to the other, it means a mine, or inexhaustible store, of blemishes, defects, or faults. And thus, as applied to a particular digit of the moon, that is, a lovely woman, it keeps the mind ambiguously hovering between her lustrous lunar beauty, and her faiblesse:[1] the malicious implication being, that she owes her attraction as much to her weakness as her beauty: a paradox, to which the modern world, anxious about the suffrage, seems disposed to turn at present a deaf ear. Dogmatism, on such a subject, would be dangerous and

unbecoming: yet it would not be easy to deny that her faults and imperfections, even if they do not determine the attraction of the vas infirmius,[2] at least do not diminish, but increase it. Infida, sed pulchra, said the ancient of his mistress: who knows, whether she would have been quite so lovely in his eyes, had she been true? A doubt, or dispute, about possession lends value to the property, in every loser's eyes: and doubtless jealousy, while it diminishes and tarnishes affection, increases charm. And indeed, no philosopher has ever told us exactly what it is that excites the passion of the lover to his "most emphatic she." Take any man you will, and you will find that ninety-nine women in a hundred will leave him unelectrified, unmoved: the next, a very mine of faults, inferior, to every other eye than his, to her ninety-nine ineffectual sisters, will nevertheless act upon him so, that her very presence will send the blood rushing into his face—

Up his cheek the colour sprang, Then he heard,

and for her sake, it may be, he will cast into the fire his family, his friends, his property, his honour, or his life, or whatever else is or is not his to cast. No analysis will discover to you the secret of the charm. And yet, let no man rashly call him mad, for is not every lover mad, and does not this touch of Nature make the whole world kin? Only, each requires somewhat different ingredients, to make up that particular mass of imperfections that appeals to him. Who but a fool would fall in love with faults? Ah! but Nature, or as the old Hindoos would say, the Creator is so cunning; so well he knows how, by some almost imperceptible distinction, some unanalysable curve or touch or grain of composition, nay, by a spot, a fleck, a blemish, an irresistible defect, a "mole cinque-spotted," on the body or the soul, to turn even the sage into a fool. Explain it as we may, it is not perfection that has inspired the great passions of the world. Unless, indeed, anyone should choose to say, that perfection consists precisely in a mass of imperfections—and then he would agree

with the author of this tale: the Moony-Crested God.

Being at Bombay, by accident, a little while ago, I went down to the harbour, as my custom is, to find a boat. But as it happened, such a gale was blowing from the east, that not a boat would come. They were all cowering, as it were, huddled together on the lee side of the quay, dancing madly on the tossing waves, like corks. Here, however, as long ago in the case of the Macedonian Philip, silver arguments prevailed: and at last I put forth "in the teeth of the hard glad weather, in the blown wet face of the sea," with feelings which those only can appreciate who love the sea beyond all earthly things, and live away from it against their will. So, then, we fared on in the eye of the wind, tacking to and fro, and shipping half the water that we met. The race is very strong, in Bombay harbour, at the turn of the tide, in rough weather; we were crossing it aslant, and in the turmoil, our "patron" made a blunder with the tiller, which drew down upon his grey hairs such a storm of execration from his crew, who were baling for dear life, that in his confusion he

lost his head and very nearly ended all. We got across, however, but the violence of the wind made it after all utterly impossible to make the north coast of Elephanta, where the landing-stage is, and therefore I had to land where I could, upon the south.

I wandered through the woody isle, startling equally the monkeys, and the men who were constructing a new battery on the apex of the hill; who, taking my method of arrival, with the weather, into view, were strongly inclined, as I imagine, to consider me a Russian spy.[3] But finally that came about, which I had foreseen: when I reached the cave, for once I had it to myself. The weather had effectually protected it from all intrusion but my own: and those bands of pleasure seekers, who make it a place of horror and defilement, and desecrate its holy solitude, were missing. About it, and in it, was no noise whatever but the noise of the wind.

I went into the cave, and sat down, at the feet of Deity, close beside the shrine. It was growing late, for we had taken long to come, and dusk was beginning to settle over its dark interior recesses, making its projections stand out strongly in the gloom. Just before me was the Marriage of Shiwa and Párwatí, dim and huge, upon the wall: the gigantic figure of the Great God, holding by the hand, to lead her round the sacred fire, the Daughter of the Mountain, whose attitude is a triumph of artistic skill: coy, bashful, and reluctant, with averted head, she seems as though unwilling to place her hand in his, to gain whom she had endured so many self-inflicted tortures. And a little way off, in the darkness, I could just discern the colossal Trimúrti, the three-headed bust of Shiwa, whose central countenance is filled with such majestic, beautiful, immense repose: divine, immortal calm. And all round me stood about, here and there, huge Dwarapálas, Pisháchas, grinning Kirttmukhas demons and lesser deities, satellites and servers and ministers of the Moony-Crested God.

And as I sat, so little, among those great Shadows, with the darkness growing deeper, in the silence, was it fancy, or did they whisper to one another: Who is this strange white-faced unbeliever, who sits alone among us, as if half out of devotion, yet without the flowers, and the water, and the camphor, and the lamps, and the mantras, and all the other customary rites?

And I said in a whisper: O Moony-Crested, be not angry: for surely I was thy worshipper of old, in some forgotten former birth. And even now, is there among thy dusky millions, even one, who has so sincere a regard for thy dead divinity, and for that of thy delicious little snowy bride, as I? And at least I worship with true devotion the digit of the moon, that shines in thy tawny tangled hair.

So I made peace with those old ghosts, and we sat together in the darkness, and their Lord put a thought into my heart, as I gazed at him, while Bombay seemed to have faded away into another world.

And then, after a while, I got up: and I bowed to my Companions, and went away. The wind had dropped, and blew us gently home. Night had fallen, before we reached the quay: lights and shadows came and went on the quiet water, dimpling round the tired boat. I stepped out, and disappeared in the motley crowd of English ladies, native coolies, Christians, pagans, Musulmans, Parsees, negroes, Arab horse-dealers, British sailors, and all the other national ingredients that it takes to make Bombay.

MAHABLESHWAR, May, 1909.

[1] There is yet a third application, to the book itself, indicative of the modesty of the author, with respect to the merits of his production.

[2] The ordinary Sanskrit term for woman is the exact equivalent, and may possibly be the origin, of this mediæval label, in which we detect homage and fear lurking under the disparagement.

[3] As I subsequently gathered from my friend, the gallant officer in control, I ought to have been shot, hanged, or otherwise destroyed, for being there at all.

CONTENTS

An Instrument of Policy

A Diplomatic Interview

A Cordial Understanding

An Instrument of Policy

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.