And the Daughter of the Snow said: But what was she doing with such a multitude of lovers at all?
And Maheshwara said: Thou art like Shatrunjaya himself, biased against her by the insinuations of Haridása, and the discreditable behaviour of that little liar Chaturiká, who betrayed her as well as others, and by the idle talk of the people, which she rightly compared herself to the croaking of so many frogs. For low people always put the very worst interpretation upon the actions of kings, and especially of queens, of whom all the time they know less than nothing, exactly as she said. And Shatrunjaya's opinion of her wavered, in spite of all his worship, being coloured by the scandal that he heard, so that he saw her through its mist, as strangers always do. And if she had too many lovers, it was all the fault of the Creator, who endowed her with such fascination, combined with the kindness of her heart: since she blamed herself for their misery, and could not bear to send them away without making them as it were some reparation for her crime of being beautiful beyond all resistance. And this was her only fault.
Then said the Mountain-born, with emphasis: I hate her: for a woman should confine herself to one.
And Maheshwara said, looking at her with affection: Ah! Snowy One, thou art right, and thou art wrong. For not every woman is a counterpart of thee. And moreover, to be rigidly inaccessible[39] is terribly hard, when a woman is as she was, a very incarnation of bewildering intoxication, and kind into the bargain. For then she resembles a fortress, besieged night and day and mined everlastingly by innumerable hosts absolutely determined to get in; and sleepless indeed must be the garrison that guards it; and often it yields of sheer weariness and fatigue, unable any longer to endure the strain. And Táráwalí was absolutely right when she said that her lovers drove her, against her inclination, into the reputation of a lady of many lovers, since they were all so infatuated by the very sight of her that they never let her alone. For love that really finds its object will face ten thousand deaths to reach it, and is very hard to repel. And it laughs in utter scorn at arguments, and bribes, and barriers, and dangers, and refusals, bent with a burning heart upon one thing only, to reach its goal, dead or alive, no matter which. And when a woman is an incarnation of that object, she moves the whole world with her little finger, and is fatal, and raised into a category above all ordinary rules. And Táráwalí was moreover in a peculiar position, for her husband had thrown her away of his own accord, so that she actually belonged to nobody but herself, and injured herself alone, if she could not always help yielding when a lover pushed her terribly hard, by touching her heart like Shatrunjaya in the matter of his dream. And very few indeed are the women who would not have done the same, for he was a great musician, and a man among men, and very young. And very rare indeed is the woman who is qualified to censure her. For most women keep their wheel upon the track, either because nobody ever tries to make them leave it, or simply for fear, either of being punished, or of other women's tongues. And not one in a crore could have resisted half the pressure that Táráwalí had to bear, for the very greatest of a winning woman's charms is exactly the one which she possessed in supreme perfection, her soft and delicious willingness to oblige and please, and place all the sweetness of her personality at the absolute disposal of her lover, as Shatrunjaya understood at the very first sight of her: a thing so utterly irresistible, that when it is combined, as it was in her, with intelligence masculine in its quality, its owner sweeps away every man's reason like a chip in a flood. And there was a special reason for Táráwalí's intelligence.
And the goddess said: What was the reason? And the Moony-crested god said: It was the necessary consequence of the actions of a former birth. For in the birth before, she was a man, doomed by gati[40] to become a woman in the next, by reason of a sin. And she said again: What sin? Then said Maheshwara: Ask me another time, O thou cajoler: for it is a long story, and now I have no more leisure: since I must go and bestow the favour of my presence on a ceremony performed by a pious devotee who has built me a new temple at Wáránasi. And canst thou guess who it is?
And the Daughter of the Snow said: How in the world can I guess his name, of whom I never heard before?
And the Moony-crested god said: It is not a he, but a she: being no other than Táráwalí herself, in yet another birth. And she is still only a woman, for she has not yet succeeded in raising herself by merit into the condition of a man. And it may be long before she succeeds. For it is easy to sink, but it is hard for any creature to rise into a status of being superior to its own, and the women who emerge into manhood are very rare. For the goodness that is synonymous with real existence[41] is only to be found in those who have behind them the accumulated effort and desert of ages, standing on a peak loftier by far than any of thy father's snowy summits, which cannot be attained in any single birth by no matter what exertions or austerities. But when once any being has attained it, emancipation dawns, touching it into colour more beautiful by far than any tints the rising sun has ever thrown on newly fallen mountain snow.
FOOTNOTES:
[37] A very beautiful story in the MS., which has not yet seen the light. The opinion of the deity is corroborated by that very clever woman, Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, who says in one of her letters from Constantinople that if women went without clothes, the face would hardly count at all. Nearly all of them would gain immensely by wearing a permanent veil, but the pretty ones would never consent to it.
[38] Purusha is the philosophical term for the Primordial Male, of which Prakriti is the female antithesis. The god is combining Goethe and Swinburne: the "eternal feminine" and the "holy spirit of man."