Chapter XV.
On Indian philosophy in general see Garbe’s useful little book, Philosophy of Ancient India, Chicago, 1897; F. Max Müller, Six Systems of Indian Philosophy, London, 1899. Garbe, Sānkhya Philosophie, Leipsic, 1894; Sānkhya und Yoga in Bühler’s Encyclopædia, Strasburg, 1896 (complete bibliography); Sānkhya-kārikā, text with comm. of Gauḍapāda, ed. and trans. by Colebrooke and Wilson, Oxford, 1837, reprinted Bombay, 1887; ed. in Benares Sansk. Ser., 1883; trans. Ballantyne (Bibl. Ind.); Sānkhyapravachana-bhāshya, ed. by Garbe, Harvard, 1895, trans. into German, Leipsic, 1889; Aniruddha’s comm. on Sānkhya Sūtras, trans. by Garbe, Bibl. Ind., Calc., 1888–92; Sānkhya-tattva-kaumudī, ed. with Eng. trans., Bombay, 1896, trans. by Garbe, Munich, 1892; Çankara’s Rājayogabhāshya, trans. Madras, 1896; Svātmārāma’s Haṭhayogapradīpa, trans. by Walther, Munich, 1893; Haṭhayoga Gheranda Sanhita, trans. Bombay, 1895. On fragments of Panchaçikha cf. Garbe in Festgruss an Roth, ff., Stuttgart, 1893; Jacobi on Sānkhya-Yoga as foundation of Buddhism, Journ. of Germ. Or. Soc., 1898, p–15; Oldenberg, Buddha, 3rd ed. Mīmāṃsā-darçana, ed. with comm. of Çabara Svāmin (Bibl. Ind.), Calc., 1887; Tantravārttika, ed. Benares, 1890; Çlokavārttika, fasc. i., ii., ed. with comm., Benares, 1898; Jaiminīya-nyāya-mālā-vistara, ed. in Ānand. Ser. 1892. Arthasaṃgraha, as introd. to Mīmāṃsā, ed. and trans. by Thibaut, Benares, 1882. Most important book on Vedānta: Deussen, System des Vedānta, Leipsic, 1883; Deussen, Die Sūtra’s des Vedānta, text with trans. of Sūtras and complete comm. of Çankara, Leipsic, 1887. Brahma Sūtras, with Çankara’s comm., ed. in Ānand. Ser., 1890–91; Vedānta Sūtras, trans. by Thibaut in Sacred Books, vol. xxxiv., Oxford, 1890, and xxxviii., 1896. Panchadaçī, ed. with Eng. trans., Bombay, 1895. On date of Çankara cf. Fleet in Ind. Ant., xvi. 41–42. Vedānta-siddhānta-muktāvalī, ed. with Eng. trans. by Venis, Benares, 1890. Vedāntasāra, ed. Jacob, with comm. and notes, Bombay, 1894, trans. 3rd ed., London, 1892. Bhagavadgītā with Çankara’s comm., Ānand. Ser., 1897, trans. in Sacred Books, vol. viii., 2nd ed., Oxford, 1898; by Davies, 3rd ed., 1894. Nyāya Sūtras in Vizianagram Sansk. Ser., vol. ix., Benares, 1896. Nyāyakandalī of Çrīdhara, ibid., vol. iv., 1895. Nyāya-kusumānjali (Bibl. Ind.), Calc., 1895. Vaiçeshika-darçana, ed. with comm., Calc., 1887. Saptapadārthī, ed. with comm., Benares, 1893; text with Latin trans. by Winter, Leipsic, 1893. Tarkasaṃgraha, ed. J. Vidyāsāgara, Calc., 1897; ed. with comm., Bombay Sansk. Ser., 1897; text and trans. by Ballantyne, Allahabad, 1850. Sarvadarçana-saṃgraha, ed. by T. Tarkavāchaspati, Calc., 1872; trans. by Cowell and Gough, 2nd ed., London, 1894.
Chapter XVI.
M’Crindle, Ancient India as Described by Classical Authors, 5 vols., especially vol. v., Invasion of India by Alexander, London, 1896. Weber, Die Griechen in Indien, in Transactions (Sitzungsberichte) of the Roy. Prussian Acad., Berlin, 1890. Sylvain Lévi, Quid de Græcis veterum Indorum monumenta tradiderint, Paris, 1890; also La Grèce et l’Inde (in Revue des Etudes Grecques), Paris, 1891. Goblet d’Alviella, Ce que l’Inde doit à la Grèce, Paris, 1897; also Les Grecs dans l’Inde, and Des Influences Classiques dans la Culture Scientifique et Littéraire de l’Inde, in vols. xxxiii., xxxiv. (1897) of Bulletin de l’Académie Royale de Belgique. L. de la Vallée Poussin, La Grèce et l’Inde, in Musée Belge, vol. ii. p–152. Vincent A. Smith, Græco-Roman Influence on the Civilisation of Ancient India in Journal of As. Soc. of Bengal, 1889–92. O. Franke, Beziehungen der Inder zum Westen, Journ. of Germ. Or. Soc., 1893, p–609. M. A. Stein in Indian Antiquary, vol. xvii. . On foreign elements in Indian art see Cunningham, Archæological Survey of India, vol. v. p ff.; Grünwedel, Buddhistische Kunst, Berlin, 1893; E. Curtius, Griechische Kunst in Indien, p–243 in vol. ii. of Gesammelte Abhandlungen, Berlin, 1894; W. Simpson, The Classical Influence in the Architecture of the Indus Region and Afghanistan, in the Journal of the Royal Institution of British Architects, vol. i. (1894), p–115. P. 413: On the Çakas and Kushanas, see Rapson, Indian Coins, p and 16, in Bühler’s Encyclopædia, Strasburg, 1898. On the relation of Indian to Greek fables, cf. Weber in Indische Studien, vol. iii. ff. Through the medium of Indian fables and fairy tales, which were so popular in the Middle Ages, the magic mirror and ointment, the seven-league boots, the invisible cap, and the purse of Fortunatus (cf. Burnell, Sāmavidhāna Brāhmaṇa, preface, p. xxxv), found their way into Western literature. For possible Greek influence on Indian drama, cf. Windisch, in Trans. of the Fifth Oriental Congress, part ii., Berlin, 1882. On chess in Sanskrit literature, cf. Macdonell, Origin and Early History of Chess, in Journ. Roy. As. Soc., 1898. On Indian influence on Greek philosophy, cf. Garbe in Sānkhya und Yoga, . L. von Schroeder, Buddhismus und Christenthum, Reval, 2nd ed., 1898. P. 422–23: It seems quite possible to account for the ideas of the Neo-Platonists from purely Hellenic sources, without assuming Indian influence. On the relation of Çakuntalā to Schiller (Alpenjäger) and Goethe (Faust), cf. Sauer, in Korrespondenzblatt für die Gelehrten und Realschulen Württembergs, vol. xl. p–304; W. von Biedermann, Goetheforschungen, Frankfurt a/M., 1879, p ff. (Çakuntalā and Faust). On Sanskrit literature and modern poets (Heine, Matthew Arnold), cf. Max Müller, Coincidences, in the Fortnightly Review, New Series, vol. lxiv. (July 1898), p–162.
Kalidasa: His Life and Writings by Arthur W. Ryder
I
Kalidasa probably lived in the fifth century of the Christian era. This date, approximate as it is, must yet be given with considerable hesitation, and is by no means certain. No truly biographical data are preserved about the author, who nevertheless enjoyed a great popularity during his life, and whom the Hindus have ever regarded as the greatest of Sanskrit poets. We are thus confronted with one of the remarkable problems of literary history. For our ignorance is not due to neglect of Kalidasa’s writings on the part of his countrymen, but to their strange blindness in regard to the interest and importance of historic fact. No European nation can compare with India in critical devotion to its own literature. During a period to be reckoned not by centuries but by millenniums, there has been in India an unbroken line of savants unselfishly dedicated to the perpetuation and exegesis of the native masterpieces. Editions, recensions, commentaries abound; poets have sought the exact phrase of appreciation for their predecessors: yet when we seek to reconstruct the life of their greatest poet, we have no materials except certain tantalising legends, and such data as we can gather from the writings of a man who hardly mentions himself.
One of these legends deserves to be recounted for its intrinsic interest, although it contains, so far as we can see, no grain of historic truth, and although it places Kalidasa in Benares, five hundred miles distant from the only city in which we certainly know that he spent a part of his life. According to this account, Kalidasa was a Brahman’s child. At the age of six months he was left an orphan and was adopted by an ox-driver. He grew to manhood without formal education, yet with remarkable beauty and grace of manner. Now it happened that the Princess of Benares was a blue-stocking, who rejected one suitor after another, among them her father’s counsellor, because they failed to reach her standard as scholars and poets. The rejected counsellor planned a cruel revenge. He took the handsome ox-driver from the street, gave him the garments of a savant and a retinue of learned doctors, then introduced him to the princess, after warning him that he was under no circumstances to open his lips. The princess was struck with his beauty and smitten to the depths of her pedantic soul by his obstinate silence, which seemed to her, as indeed it was, an evidence of profound wisdom. She desired to marry Kalidasa, and together they went to the temple. But no sooner was the ceremony performed than Kalidasa perceived an image of a bull. His early training was too much for him; the secret came out, and the bride was furious. But she relented in response to Kalidasa’s entreaties, and advised him to pray for learning and poetry to the goddess Kali. The prayer was granted; education and poetical power descended miraculously to dwell with the young ox-driver, who in gratitude assumed the name Kalidasa, servant of Kali. Feeling that he owed t
his happy change in his very nature to his princess, he swore that he would ever treat her as his teacher, with profound respect but without familiarity. This was more than the lady had bargained for; her anger burst forth anew, and she cursed Kalidasa to meet his death at the hands of a woman. At a later date, the story continues, this curse was fulfilled. A certain king had written a half-stanza of verse, and had offered a large reward to any poet who could worthily complete it. Kalidasa completed the stanza without difficulty; but a woman whom he loved discovered his lines, and greedy of the reward herself, killed him.
Another legend represents Kalidasa as engaging in a pilgrimage to a shrine of Vishnu in Southern India, in company with two other famous writers, Bhavabhuti and Dandin. Yet another pictures Bhavabhuti as a contemporary of Kalidasa, and jealous of the less austere poet’s reputation. These stories must be untrue, for it is certain that the three authors were not contemporary, yet they show a true instinct in the belief that genius seeks genius, and is rarely isolated.
This instinctive belief has been at work with the stories which connect Kalidasa with King Vikramaditya and the literary figures of his court. It has doubtless enlarged, perhaps partly falsified the facts; yet we cannot doubt that there is truth in this tradition, late though it be, and impossible though it may ever be to separate the actual from the fanciful. Here then we are on firmer ground.
King Vikramaditya ruled in the city of Ujjain, in West-central India. He was mighty both in war and in peace, winning especial glory by a decisive victory over the barbarians who pressed into India through the northern passes. Though it has not proved possible to identify this monarch with any of the known rulers, there can be no doubt that he existed and had the character attributed to him. The name Vikramaditya — Sun of Valour — is probably not a proper name, but a title like Pharaoh or Tsar. No doubt Kalidasa intended to pay a tribute to his patron, the Sun of Valour, in the very title of his play, Urvashi won by Valour.
King Vikramaditya was a great patron of learning and of poetry. Ujjain during his reign was the most brilliant capital in the world, nor has it to this day lost all the lustre shed upon it by that splendid court. Among the eminent men gathered there, nine were particularly distinguished, and these nine are known as the “nine gems.” Some of the nine gems were poets, others represented science — astronomy, medicine, lexicography. It is quite true that the details of this late tradition concerning the nine gems are open to suspicion, yet the central fact is not doubtful: that there was at this time and place a great quickening of the human mind, an artistic impulse creating works that cannot perish. Ujjain in the days of Vikramaditya stands worthily beside Athens, Rome, Florence, and London in their great centuries. Here is the substantial fact behind Max Müller’s often ridiculed theory of the renaissance of Sanskrit literature. It is quite false to suppose, as some appear to do, that this theory has been invalidated by the discovery of certain literary products which antedate Kalidasa. It might even be said that those rare and happy centuries that see a man as great as Homer or Vergil or Kalidasa or Shakespeare partake in that one man of a renaissance.
It is interesting to observe that the centuries of intellectual darkness in Europe have sometimes coincided with centuries of light in India. The Vedas were composed for the most part before Homer; Kalidasa and his contemporaries lived while Rome was tottering under barbarian assault.
To the scanty and uncertain data of late traditions may be added some information about Kalidasa’s life gathered from his own writings. He mentions his own name only in the prologues to his three plays, and here with a modesty that is charming indeed, yet tantalising. One wishes for a portion of the communicativeness that characterises some of the Indian poets. He speaks in the first person only once, in the verses introductory to his epic poem The Dynasty of Raghu.1 Here also we feel his modesty, and here once more we are balked of details as to his life.
We know from Kalidasa’s writings that he spent at least a part of his life in the city of Ujjain. He refers to Ujjain more than once, and in a manner hardly possible to one who did not know and love the city. Especially in his poem The Cloud-Messenger does he dwell upon the city’s charms, and even bids the cloud make a détour in his long journey lest he should miss making its acquaintance.2
We learn further that Kalidasa travelled widely in India. The fourth canto of The Dynasty of Raghu describes a tour about the whole of India and even into regions which are beyond the borders of a narrowly measured India. It is hard to believe that Kalidasa had not himself made such a “grand tour”; so much of truth there may be in the tradition which sends him on a pilgrimage to Southern India. The thirteenth canto of the same epic and The Cloud-Messenger also describe long journeys over India, for the most part through regions far from Ujjain. It is the mountains which impress him most deeply. His works are full of the Himalayas. Apart from his earliest drama and the slight poem called The Seasons, there is not one of them which is not fairly redolent of mountains. One, The Birth of the War-god, might be said to be all mountains. Nor was it only Himalayan grandeur and sublimity which attracted him; for, as a Hindu critic has acutely observed, he is the only Sanskrit poet who has described a certain flower that grows in Kashmir. The sea interested him less. To him, as to most Hindus, the ocean was a beautiful, terrible barrier, not a highway to adventure. The “sea-belted earth” of which Kalidasa speaks means to him the mainland of India.
Another conclusion that may be certainly drawn from Kalidasa’s writing is this, that he was a man of sound and rather extensive education. He was not indeed a prodigy of learning, like Bhavabhuti in his own country or Milton in England, yet no man could write as he did without hard and intelligent study. To begin with, he had a minutely accurate knowledge of the Sanskrit language, at a time when Sanskrit was to some extent an artificial tongue. Somewhat too much stress is often laid upon this point, as if the writers of the classical period in India were composing in a foreign language. Every writer, especially every poet, composing in any language, writes in what may be called a strange idiom; that is, he does not write as he talks. Yet it is true that the gap between written language and vernacular was wider in Kalidasa’s day than it has often been. The Hindus themselves regard twelve years’ study as requisite for the mastery of the “chief of all sciences, the science of grammar.” That Kalidasa had mastered this science his works bear abundant witness.
He likewise mastered the works on rhetoric and dramatic theory — subjects which Hindu savants have treated with great, if sometimes hair-splitting, ingenuity. The profound and subtle systems of philosophy were also possessed by Kalidasa, and he had some knowledge of astronomy and law.
But it was not only in written books that Kalidasa was deeply read. Rarely has a man walked our earth who observed the phenomena of living nature as accurately as he, though his accuracy was of course that of the poet, not that of the scientist. Much is lost to us who grow up among other animals and plants; yet we can appreciate his “bee-black hair,” his ashoka-tree that “sheds his blossoms in a rain of tears,” his river wearing a sombre veil of mist:
Although her reeds seem hands that clutch the dress To hide her charms;
his picture of the day-blooming water-lily at sunset:
The water-lily closes, but With wonderful reluctancy; As if it troubled her to shut Her door of welcome to the bee.
The religion of any great poet is always a matter of interest, especially the religion of a Hindu poet; for the Hindus have ever been a deeply and creatively religious people. So far as we can judge, Kalidasa moved among the jarring sects with sympathy for all, fanaticism for none. The dedicatory prayers that introduce his dramas are addressed to Shiva. This is hardly more than a convention, for Shiva is the patron of literature. If one of his epics, The Birth of the War-god, is distinctively Shivaistic, the other, The Dynasty of Raghu, is no less Vishnuite in tendency. If the hymn to Vishnu in The Dynasty of Raghu is an expression of Vedantic monism, the hymn to Brahma in The Birth of the War-
god gives equally clear expression to the rival dualism of the Sankhya system. Nor are the Yoga doctrine and Buddhism left without sympathetic mention. We are therefore justified in concluding that Kalidasa was, in matters of religion, what William James would call “healthy-minded,” emphatically not a “sick soul.”
The Sanskrit Epics Page 1006
