Hindu literature Part 72

"Il est beau en effet. Sa taille est haute, mais quelques-uns la trouveraient mince; sa chevelure noire est bouclee et tombe jusqu'a la nuque; ses yeux noirs sont profonds et bien fendus; le front est n.o.ble; la levre superieure, couverte par une moustache naissante et noire, est parfaitement modelee; son menton a quelque chose de severe; son teint est d'un blanc presque feminin, ce qui denote sa haute naissance."

In this description we seem to recognize some Surya or Soma of Hindoo mythology, and the final touch, meaningless as applied to a European, reminds us that in India whiteness of skin has always been a sign of aristocratic birth, from the days when it originally distinguished the conquering Aryas from the indigenous race of the Dasyous.

As a literary composition "Mlle. D'Arvers" deserves high commendation.

It deals with the ungovernable pa.s.sion of two brothers for one placid and beautiful girl, a pa.s.sion which leads to fratricide and madness.

That it is a very melancholy and tragical story is obvious from this brief sketch of its contents, but it is remarkable for coherence and self-restraint no less than for vigor of treatment. Toru Dutt never sinks to melodrama in the course of her extraordinary tale, and the wonder is that she is not more often fantastic and unreal.

But we believe that the original English poems will be ultimately found to const.i.tute Toru's chief legacy to posterity. These ballads form the last and most matured of her writings, and were left so far fragmentary at her death that the fourth and fifth in her projected series of nine were not to be discovered in any form among her papers. It is probable that she had not even commenced them. Her father, therefore, to give a certain continuity to the series, has filled up these blanks with two stories from the "Vishnupurana," which originally appeared respectively in the "Calcutta Review" and in the "Bengal Magazine." These are interesting, but a little rude in form, and they have not the same peculiar value as the rhymed octo-syllabic ballads. In these last we see Toru no longer attempting vainly, though heroically, to compete with European literature on its own ground, but turning to the legends of her own race and country for inspiration. No modern Oriental has given us so strange an insight into the conscience of the Asiatic as is presented in the story of "Prehiad," or so quaint a piece of religious fancy as the ballad of "Jogadhya Uma." The poetess seems in these verses to be chanting to herself those songs of her mother's race to which she always turned with tears of pleasure. They breathe a Vedic solemnity and simplicity of temper, and are singularly devoid of that littleness and frivolity which seem, if we may judge by a slight experience, to be the bane of modern India.

As to the merely technical character of these poems, it may be suggested that in spite of much in them that is rough and inchoate, they show that Toru was advancing in her mastery of English verse. Such a stanza as this, selected out of many no less skilful, could hardly be recognized as the work of one by whom the language was a late acquirement:--

"What glorious trees! The sombre saul, On which the eye delights to rest-- The betel-nut, a pillar tall, With feathery branches for a crest-- The light-leaved tamarind spreading wide-- The pale faint-scented bitter neem, The seemul, gorgeous as a bride, With flowers that have the ruby's gleam."

In other pa.s.sages, of course, the text reads like a translation from some stirring ballad, and we feel that it gives but a faint and discordant echo of the music welling in Toru's brain. For it must frankly be confessed that in the brief May-day of her existence she had not time to master our language as Blanco White did, or as Chamisso mastered German. To the end of her days, fluent and graceful as she was, she was not entirely conversant with English, especially with the colloquial turns of modern speech. Often a very fine thought is spoiled for hypercritical ears by the queer turn of expression which she has innocently given to it. These faults are found to a much smaller degree in her miscellaneous poems. Her sonnets seem to me to be of great beauty, and her longer piece, ent.i.tled "Our Casuarina Tree," needs no apology for its rich and mellifluous numbers.

It is difficult to exaggerate when we try to estimate what we have lost in the premature death of Toru Dutt. Literature has no honors which need have been beyond the grasp of a girl who at the age of twenty-one, and in languages separated from her own by so deep a chasm, had produced so much of lasting worth. And her courage and fort.i.tude were worthy of her intelligence. Among "last words" of celebrated people, that which her father has recorded, "It is only the physical pain that makes me cry,"

is not the least remarkable, or the least significant of strong character. It was to a native of our island, and to one ten years senior to Toru, to whom it was said, in words more appropriate, surely, to her than to Oldham,

"Thy generous fruits, though gathered ere their prime, Still showed a quickness, and maturing time But mellows what we write to the dull sweets of Rime."

That mellow sweetness was all that Toru lacked to perfect her as an English poet, and of no other Oriental who has ever lived can the same be said. When the history of the literature of our country comes to be written, there is sure to be a page in it dedicated to this fragile exotic blossom of song.

EDMUND W. GOSSE.

_London, 1881_.

BALLADS OF HINDOSTAN

JOGADHYA UMA

"Sh.e.l.l-bracelets ho! Sh.e.l.l-bracelets ho!

Fair maids and matrons come and buy!"

Along the road, in morning's glow, The pedler raised his wonted cry.

The road ran straight, a red, red line, To Khirogram, for cream renowned, Through pasture-meadows where the kine, In knee-deep gra.s.s, stood magic bound And half awake, involved in mist, That floated in dun coils profound, Till by the sudden sunbeams kissed Rich rainbow hues broke all around.

"Sh.e.l.l-bracelets ho! Sh.e.l.l-bracelets ho!"

The roadside trees still dripped with dew, And hung their blossoms like a show.

Who heard the cry? 'Twas but a few, A ragged herd-boy, here and there, With his long stick and naked feet; A ploughman wending to his care, The field from which he hopes the wheat; An early traveller, hurrying fast To the next town; an urchin slow Bound for the school; these heard and pa.s.sed, Unheeding all--"Sh.e.l.l-bracelets ho!"

Pellucid spread a lake-like tank Beside the road now lonelier still, High on three sides arose the bank Which fruit-trees shadowed at their will; Upon the fourth side was the Ghat, With its broad stairs of marble white, And at the entrance-arch there sat, Full face against the morning light, A fair young woman with large eyes, And dark hair falling to her zone, She heard the pedler's cry arise, And eager seemed his ware to own.

"Sh.e.l.l-bracelets ho! See, maiden see!

The rich enamel sunbeam kissed!

Happy, oh happy, shalt thou be, Let them but clasp that slender wrist; These bracelets are a mighty charm, They keep a lover ever true, And widowhood avert, and harm, Buy them, and thou shalt never rue.

Just try them on!"--She stretched her hand, "Oh what a nice and lovely fit!

No fairer hand, in all the land, And lo! the bracelet matches it."

Dazzled the pedler on her gazed Till came the shadow of a fear, While she the bracelet arm upraised Against the sun to view more clear.

Oh she was lovely, but her look Had something of a high command That filled with awe. Aside she shook Intruding curls by breezes fanned And blown across her brows and face, And asked the price, which when she heard She nodded, and with quiet grace For payment to her home referred.

"And where, O maiden, is thy house?

But no, that wrist-ring has a tongue, No maiden art thou, but a spouse, Happy, and rich, and fair, and young."

"Far otherwise, my lord is poor, And him at home thou shalt not find; Ask for my father; at the door Knock loudly; he is deaf, but kind.

Seest thou that lofty gilded spire Above these tufts of foliage green?

That is our place; its point of fire Will guide thee o'er the tract between."

"That is the temple spire."--"Yes, there We live; my father is the priest, The manse is near, a building fair But lowly, to the temple's east.

When thou hast knocked, and seen him, say, His daughter, at Dhamaser Ghat, Sh.e.l.l-bracelets bought from thee to-day, And he must pay so much for that.

Be sure, he will not let thee pa.s.s Without the value, and a meal.

If he demur, or cry alas!

No money hath he--then reveal,

Within the small box, marked with streaks Of bright vermilion, by the shrine, The key whereof has lain for weeks Untouched, he'll find some coin--'tis mine.

That will enable him to pay The bracelet's price, now fare thee well!"

She spoke, the pedler went away, Charmed with her voice, as by some spell; While she left lonely there, prepared To plunge into the water pure, And like a rose her beauty bared, From all observance quite secure.

Not weak she seemed, nor delicate, Strong was each limb of flexile grace, And full the bust; the mien elate, Like hers, the G.o.ddess of the chase On Latmos hill--and oh, the face Framed in its cloud of floating hair, No painter's hand might hope to trace The beauty and the glory there!

Well might the pedler look with awe, For though her eyes were soft, a ray Lit them at times, which kings who saw Would never dare to disobey.

Onwards through groves the pedler sped Till full in front the sunlit spire Arose before him. Paths which led To gardens trim in gay attire Lay all around. And lo! the manse, Humble but neat with open door!

He paused, and blest the lucky chance That brought his bark to such a sh.o.r.e.

Huge straw ricks, log huts full of grain, Sleek cattle, flowers, a tinkling bell, Spoke in a language sweet and plain, "Here smiling Peace and Plenty dwell."

Unconsciously he raised his cry, "Sh.e.l.l-bracelets ho!" And at his voice Looked out the priest, with eager eye, And made his heart at once rejoice.

"Ho, _Sankha_ pedler! Pa.s.s not by, But step thou in, and share the food Just offered on our altar high, If thou art in a hungry mood.

Welcome are all to this repast!

The rich and poor, the high and low!

Come, wash thy feet, and break thy fast, Then on thy journey strengthened go."

"Oh thanks, good priest! Observance due And greetings! May thy name be blest!

I came on business, but I knew, Here might be had both food and rest Without a charge; for all the poor Ten miles around thy sacred shrine Know that thou keepest open door, And praise that generous hand of thine: But let my errand first be told, For bracelets sold to thine this day, So much thou owest me in gold, Hast thou the ready cash to pay?

The bracelets were enamelled--so The price is high."--"How! Sold to mine?

Who bought them, I should like to know."

"Thy daughter, with the large black eyne, Now bathing at the marble ghat."

Loud laughed the priest at this reply, "I shall not put up, friend, with that; No daughter in the world have I, An only son is all my stay; Some minx has played a trick, no doubt, But cheer up, let thy heart be gay.

Be sure that I shall find her out."

"Nay, nay, good father, such a face Could not deceive, I must aver; At all events, she knows thy place, 'And if my father should demur To pay thee'--thus she said--'or cry He has no money, tell him straight The box vermilion-streaked to try, That's near the shrine,'" "Well, wait, friend, wait!"

The priest said thoughtful, and he ran And with the open box came back, "Here is the price exact, my man, No surplus over, and no lack.

How strange! how strange! Oh blest art thou To have beheld her, touched her hand, Before whom Vishnu's self must bow, And Brahma and his heavenly band!

Here have I worshipped her for years And never seen the vision bright; Vigils and fasts and secret tears Have almost quenched my outward sight; And yet that dazzling form and face I have not seen, and thou, dear friend, To thee, unsought for, comes the grace, What may its purport be, and end?